Chapter 2
I’m standing in the middle of Honey Hollow’s Taste of America Festival, looking at Cooper Knox, my devastatingly handsome detective—and have I mentioned hot?—boyfriend, who is making his way around the lake with the purposeful stride of a hot cop who takes festival security very seriously.
His wavy brown hair catches the sun, and he’s traded his usual detective attire for jeans and a navy polo that makes his blue-green eyes pop.
He’s flanked by two other figures I recognize immediately—Mayor Harry Nash, Honey Hollow’s perpetually cheerful leader, dressed in a red golf shirt and khakis with a flag pin roughly the size of a dinner plate, and Lottie Lemon, my boss and the undisputed queen of baked goods and, possibly, homicide investigations.
Lottie’s caramel-colored hair is swept into a ponytail secured with a flag-themed scrunchie, and she’s wearing a stars-and-stripes sundress that somehow manages to look elegant instead of ridiculous.
They’re deep in conversation about something that has Lottie gesticulating wildly with what appears to be a clipboard covered in star-spangled stickers.
Cooper spots me and waves, that crooked smile hitting like sunshine after a storm. My stomach does a little flip that has nothing to do with bacon grease.
“I’ll be back,” I tell the girls, untangling Watson’s leash from my ankles. “Try not to let Niki proposition any customers while I’m gone. Or make a grab for anyone’s sausage.”
“I make no promises,” Niki calls after me, already eyeing a group of firefighters setting up a safety station near the lake, all wearing T-shirts that showcase public-service muscles that should come with a Scoville heat rating.
I make my way over to Cooper’s little group with Watson prancing beside me like he’s leading a parade. His Uncle Sam hat has slipped completely sideways, giving him the look of a very patriotic pirate who’s had one too many rum punches. Which, honestly, is not that far off base.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Cooper says, his eyes crinkling in that way that makes me forget basic motor functions. “I see you’ve mastered the art of decorative lighting.”
“I like to call it abstract holiday décor,” I reply, gesturing back at our disheveled booth, where the upside-down banner flutters like a flag of surrender. “It’s very avant-garde. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m sure it’s brilliant,” Mayor Nash says, far too enthusiastic for a man running on caffeine and optimism alone.
He’s a decent-looking man in his fifties with graying hair, a serious dad bod, and a smile that wins elections and maybe even bake-off contests with equal ease.
“Lottie, your employees are as creative as you are.”
“Don’t encourage her.” Lottie laughs. “Effie’s creativity tends to lean toward the chaotic.”
“I prefer charmingly unpredictable,” I say, watching Watson attempt to retrieve his fallen hat without stepping on it.
“Is that what we’re calling it?” Cooper teases, reaching down to rescue the hat before Watson can turn it into a chew toy. “That was a very creative use of bunting back there, and I have a feeling Watson handled most of the artistic direction.”
“He does have an eye for design,” I say, watching my furry sidekick wag his approval while Cooper plops the hat back into place. “You should see what he can do on my front lawn in the morning.”
And in the afternoon. And at night.
A chorus of groans erupts.
“What?” I laugh. “Too early for a little potty humor?”
“Potty talk aside,” Mayor Nash says with a chuckle, “I’m looking forward to trying everything the festival has to offer.
” He consults what appears to be a laminated schedule covered in grease stains from previous food festivals.
“Especially that Rocket fellow’s gourmet revolution.
Though, between you and me, I’m not sure what makes a hot dog revolutionary beyond the price tag. ”
“My father is a simple man with simple tastes,” Lottie says, giving his arm a little tweak. She only found out he was her biological father a few years back, so this whole dad thing is still new. “His idea of gourmet is adding ketchup and mustard.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the classics,” Mayor Nash says, patting his belly like a man who takes his condiments seriously. “Although I suppose, as head judge in the food truck competition, I should keep an open mind about culinary innovation.”
Cooper’s phone buzzes with the insistence of official business, and he checks the screen with a frown.
“Duty calls,” he says, angling the phone so I can see the text—something that reads more like a military directive than a message. “Sheriff Turner wants me to start lake patrol. Apparently, there are concerns about festival security.”
“What kind of security concerns?” I ask, though knowing Honey Hollow, it’s probably someone worried about aggressive geese or unauthorized pontoon boats disrupting the celebration.
But then again, Lottie Lemon is here, and everyone knows that wherever Lottie goes, the Grim Reaper follows.
And lately? He’s been eyeing me, too.
“The dangerous kind of security concerns—the kind that involve making sure nobody drowns in holiday enthusiasm,” Cooper replies, stepping closer until I catch his cologne mixed with sunscreen and summer air.
He kisses me, and my toes curl inside my star-spangled sneakers, along with my ability to remember why public displays of affection used to embarrass me.
Okay, fine. They never did. I’m always up for a good public smooch.
“Try to stay out of trouble while I’m gone,” he murmurs against my lips, and I frown.
“Me? Trouble?” I flutter my lashes at him. “I’m just here to sell cupcakes and look festive.”
“Famous last words,” he mutters, then turns to Watson with mock seriousness. “You’re in charge of keeping her out of trouble, buddy. I’m counting on you.”
Okay, fine. He’s dead serious.
Watson barks and raises his paw like he’s taking an oath.
“I should get going, too,” Mayor Nash says, checking his watch with the efficiency of a man running on a tight schedule. “I promised to make the rounds and glad-hand with all the vendors before the opening ceremony at four.”
“Translation: he wants to sample everything before the judging officially starts,” Lottie says with a laugh that suggests she’s watched her father’s appetite derail many a diet. I’m pretty sure her baked goods have played a part.
“It’s called thorough preparation,” Mayor Nash insists with a wink. “A good leader always does his research.”
“I’m a strong believer in culinary research myself.”
They head off toward the food trucks, Mayor Nash already eyeing a funnel cake stand as if he’s on a mission of national importance.
I watch Cooper walk away, admiring the way his jeans fit and thinking that maybe—just maybe—this festival might actually be a peaceful, murder-free event where my biggest concern is stopping Watson from eating someone’s abandoned corn dog.
And then I remember who I am.
And what town I’m standing in.
I’m about to head back to the booth and shove a cookie into my pie hole when I spot a couple of familiar troublemaking faces cutting through the crowd like two sequined nukes locked on target.
And guess who that target is.
Aunt Cat and Carlotta are making their approach with a determined stride, as if they’ve been planning this moment since they got dressed this morning. And they probably have.
They’re wearing matching aggressively American tracksuits that could be seen from Washington, D.C., complete with bedazzled eagle pins and enough red, white, and blue sequins to outfit an entire army of Vegas showgirls.
Aunt Cat, a woman in her seventies with teased hair that defies both gravity and common sense, is carrying what she claims is a picnic basket—though knowing her, it could contain anything from potato salad to evidence that needs disposing of.
Carlotta, equally bedazzled and sporting a beehive that adds six inches to her already impressive height, has an oversized purse covered in flag patches that’s definitely big enough to hide a small body. I wouldn’t put it past her to try.
The sight of them sends my stomach dropping faster than the stock market on Black Tuesday.
“Sweetie!” Aunt Cat calls, waving enthusiastically enough to make me think she might actually be bringing good news. Or better yet, no news at all. But I’m not that lucky. “We brought potato salad for the booth!”
“And deviled eggs,” Carlotta adds with a cackle that could wake the dead in three counties. “Nothing says America like eggs from hell!”
I frown at the thought. If this conversation is going where I think it is, hell might be a destination I’ll be all too familiar with one day soon.
They boot-scoot their way over, and something about their expressions—equal parts excitement and mischief—makes my stomach clench with a familiar dread that usually precedes complications. The kind that start with a small request from a mob boss and snowball into a homicide.
“So, honey,” Aunt Cat says, setting down her suspicious picnic basket with a thunk that suggests it contains something significantly heavier than potato salad—like bullets, “are you ready for some fireworks this week?”
“Only if they take place in the sky, and I have nothing to do with the fact they detonated.”
“Speaking of things that go bang…” Carlotta gives me one of her looks—the kind that makes me want to hide behind Watson and his adorable hat.
“We were just wondering if you had any special projects coming up,” Aunt Cat continues, her voice dropping to what she thinks is a whisper but is actually loud enough to be heard on the lunar surface.
“Something with a real explosive finale!” Carlotta grins. “It’s time to get creative with the fireworks, if you know what I mean.”
Do I ever.
My blood turns to ice water despite the afternoon heat. No. Not today. Not during what was supposed to be a nice, normal festival where my biggest concern was keeping our booth banner from doing a belly flop and my sister from getting arrested for mishandling a sausage.
Aunt Cat “accidentally” drops her purse near my feet, and an all too familiar red envelope with Uncle Jimmy’s distinctive wax seal tumbles out, landing on the grass like a tiny incendiary device designed to explode my peaceful afternoon.
“Oops,” she says, not sounding remotely sorry about her butterfingers or my impending doom. Or, more to the point, the impending doom of others.
Carlotta immediately creates a distraction by pointing at Sunshine’s tie-dyed bus and declaring, “Now that’s what I call a baby-making bus! Looks like Woodstock on wheels! Anyone got a stash they’re willing to part with? Sharing is caring!”
“Good grief,” I mutter. “You’re both determined to get us arrested.”
And me, with an impending felony, no less.
I snag the envelope, trying hard to pretend my hands aren’t doing the jitterbug, and Watson lets out a low, suspicious whine—like he knows Uncle Jimmy’s mail never brings cookies, just chaos.
“Go ahead, hotshot.” Aunt Cat leans in, barely holding it together, like she’s two seconds away from bursting if I don’t see what’s inside already. “Open it. We’re dying to know who’s going to bite the big one in time for the Fourth!”
With all the enthusiasm of volunteering for my own doom, I rip open the envelope. Uncle Jimmy’s neat little handwriting greets me from the cream-colored paper—polite, proper, and absolutely up to no good.
Mayor Harry Nash—make it look patriotic.
Deadline: July 4th.
Bonus if it happens during fireworks.
Extra bonus for creativity.
—J
I stare at the paper, my brain refusing to process what I’m reading while the sounds of the festival carry on around me—children laughing, grills sizzling, someone’s boom box blasting “Born in the U.S.A.” at a volume that guarantees I’ll be hearing it in my sleep.
Mayor Nash. The man I just had a pleasant conversation with about the merits of mustard versus ketchup. Lottie’s father. The guy who’s about to spend the next week judging funnel cakes and making terrible dad jokes about independence and liberty.
And I’m supposed to kill him.
Watson looks up at me with concerned brown eyes, his Uncle Sam hat sitting crooked on his head like a tiny accusation, and I swear he knows—our nice, quiet Fourth of July just took a sharp turn into chaos.
“Well, Watson,” I rasp, crushing the paper in my fist while Mayor Nash demolishes a red, white, and blue monstrosity that looks like a funnel cake and a cupcake made a series of regrettable choices, “looks like our peaceful Fourth of July just burst into flames—and I haven’t even touched a sparkler yet. ”