Chapter 8
Twenty minutes later, we pull into what looks like a full-blown time warp where the Civil War is alive and thriving—complete with enough period costumes to outfit a movie set and a level of historical commitment that might actually fool my high school history teacher into thinking we’ve been transported in a time machine.
The Battle of Hollyhock: A Civil War Remembrance Festival sprawls across a field that looks like it was specifically designed for reenacting America’s bloodiest conflict.
Canvas tents dot the massive acreage like military mushrooms, and as we roll down the windows, the air hits us—woodsmoke, roasting meat, and what I’m pretty sure is authentic nineteenth-century body odor from people who take their historical immersion very seriously.
“According to Julia’s Instagram,” Niki announces, scrolling through her phone while Watson pants excitedly in the backseat, “she’s here with her Colonial Kitchen setup, serving authentic battlefield cuisine to hungry reenactors.
She even posted a picture of herself in full period dress about an hour ago. ”
“Spicy pickle in a pickle jar!” Aunt Cat breathes, pressing her face against the passenger window like a kid in a candy store. I’m not even going to ask what that euphemism means. “Would you look at all those men in uniform! It’s like Christmas morning for my ovaries!”
She’s not wrong. Everywhere we look, there are men dressed as Union and Confederate soldiers, their wool uniforms somehow managing to look both historically accurate and surprisingly attractive.
Blue and gray jackets fitted to show off shoulders that suggest these particular soldiers spend more time at the gym than the average Civil War participant, brass buttons gleam in the afternoon sun, and there’s enough facial hair to supply a barbershop convention.
Watson barks with excitement as we park, his nose pressed against the window as he processes the overwhelming array of new scents. His flag bandana flutters in the breeze from the air conditioning, making him look like a very festive navigator ready for adventure.
“Hot honey on a buttered biscuit,” Carlotta gasps, adjusting her rearview mirror to get a better look at a group of cavalrymen leading their horses past our car. “Those tight pants should be illegal! I think I just pulled something, and I’m sitting down!”
The cavalrymen in question are wearing form-fitting riding pants that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, paired with high boots that make them look like they stepped out of a romance novel cover.
Their sabers catch the sunlight as they move, creating little flashes of light that only add to their swashbuckling appeal.
“Focus, ladies,” I mutter, though I’ll admit, the view isn’t exactly terrible. “We’re here to investigate a murder, not audition as extras for a historical bodice-ripper.”
“Why can’t we do both?” Niki asks, already applying lip gloss like she’s preparing for battle herself. “I’ve always had a thing for men in uniform. Something about all that discipline and authority. You know me, I like a little hair-pulling now and again.”
Watson whines and woofs, eager to explore this new environment full of interesting smells and potential treat sources.
We climb out of the car and immediately get swept into the controlled chaos of living history.
A group marches by with tiny flutes and drums that look like they came from a toy set but sound like they’re trying to wake the Civil War dead.
Cannon smoke drifts across the field from a demonstration that sounds like someone’s declaring actual war.
The women are just as impressive as the men around here, dressed in full period costume with corsets that create hourglass figures that suggest both historical accuracy and some serious damage to their ribcages.
Their long skirts swish as they walk, bonnets frame faces that look like they stepped out of old photographs, and they carry themselves like women wearing enough fabric to upholster a small sofa.
“Wow,” Niki whispers, watching a group of Southern belles glide past us like gravity is optional. “How do they make walking in those dresses look so easy? And more importantly, how do they get their waists that small? Are we talking corsets or full-on historical torture devices?”
“Corsets are full-on historical torture devices, honey,” Aunt Cat explains with authority as if she’s experimented with historical undergarments herself.
“It pushes everything up where it needs to be and cinches everything in where it shouldn’t be.
You’d be surprised how effective it is for getting male attention. ”
And how effective it is in getting someone to pass out.
Watson immediately launches into an inspection tour of the festival, with his nose working overtime to process a scent lineup that includes period cooking, horse manure, and whatever they use to make those wool uniforms smell like they’ve been aging in a museum since the 1800s.
“Look at those shoulders,” Carlotta sighs, pointing at a group of artillerymen who are demonstrating how to load a cannon with an efficiency that assures us they really enjoy things that go boom. “I bet they could lift a woman right off her feet. You know, for historical accuracy.”
“That’s because modern men don’t have to carry sixty-pound packs of ammunition across battlefields,” I point out, but I’m talking to deaf ears. Aunt Cat and Carlotta are already drifting toward the artillery demonstration like moths to a very masculine flame.
“I wouldn’t mind being carried off by one of those cavalry hotties,” Niki muses, watching a particularly well-built soldier adjust his horse’s bridle, which suggests he knows how to handle more than livestock. “Do you think they give riding lessons?”
I shoot her a look because we all know what she’s looking to ride.
Watson trots beside us, tail wagging as he takes in the spectacle of humans dressed up and pretending to shoot each other with antique weapons. His face says he has no idea what’s happening—but he’s fully on board as long as snacks are part of the situation.
“Excuse me, miss,” comes a voice with a distinctly Southern drawl that could melt butter fifty feet away. “Are you here for the battle demonstration?”
I turn to see what appears to be Colonel Rhett Butler’s younger, more athletic brother approaching us.
He’s wearing a Confederate officer’s uniform that fits him like it was tailored by someone who understands exactly how fabric should interact with well-developed chest muscles.
He’s wearing a funny looking hat that resembles a funnel, his dark hair is slicked back in period style, and he’s got a mustache that looks as if he spends serious time grooming it.
Aunt Cat makes a sound that’s somewhere between a purr and a whimper. Funny how quick she came back.
“Actually, we’re looking for someone,” I reply, trying to maintain eye contact despite the fact that his uniform jacket is doing interesting things for his shoulders. “Julia Washington? She has a food truck here?”
“Ah, the lovely Miss Washington.” He smiles, touching the brim of his hat with old-fashioned courtesy that makes Carlotta fan herself with her hand.
“You’ll find her near the sutlers’ row, just past the medical tent.
Fair warning, though: there’s a skirmish about to start, so you might want to take cover. ”
“What’s a sutler?” I ask, unashamed of my lack of colonial knowledge.
“A general store,” he says with a wink.
“I’ll take cover with you any day, Colonel,” Aunt Cat says with a wink right back that says a whole lot more than she’s putting into words.
“Ma’am, it would be my honor to protect such a beautiful lady,” he replies with a gallant bow that makes all three women sigh simultaneously.
I didn’t sigh. But then I’ve got Coop.
Before I can ask what he means by take cover, a bugle sounds across the field, followed immediately by what sounds like the entire Union army charging toward us with bloodcurdling war cries.
Oh. I bet this special brand of chaos has something to do with it.
Watson’s ears flatten against his head, and he presses closer to my legs as dozens of men in blue uniforms come running across the field, waving rifles and shouting battle cries with the enthusiasm usually seen at sporting events or Black Friday sales.
“This way, ladies!” the Confederate officer shouts, grabbing Aunt Cat’s arm and pulling her toward what appears to be a supply tent. “Best to let the Yankees pass!”
“I don’t mind getting caught by a few Yankees,” Niki mutters as she eyes the approaching soldiers with far too much appreciation. “Some of them look very... Let’s just say vigorous.”
Suddenly, we’re caught in the middle of what I can only describe as organized historical chaos. Union soldiers rush past us with their bayonets glinting in the sun, while Confederate defenders emerge from behind trees and tents to ambush them in a way that would make any mob boss proud.
Watson decides this is either the best game ever or the beginning of the end, and starts barking like he’s been personally invited to participate, making a valiant attempt to chase soldiers who are clearly very committed to their weekend hobby.
“Watson, no!” I call, but he’s already bounded toward a group of Union soldiers who’ve taken position behind a wooden fence. “You can’t participate in the Civil War!”
“Take that, you Rebel scum!” shouts a soldier who looks suspiciously like my dentist, Dr. Chatterley, as he aims his musket at a Confederate who’s clearly my neighbor, Mr. Rodriguez, from three houses down.
“Oh wow,” I muse with a newfound horror.
“That Dr. Chatterley is looking mighty fine in blue,” Carlotta points out, shading her eyes to get a better view. “Who knew my root canal magician had such nice biceps?”
“Death to tyrants!” Mr. Rodriguez shouts, clutching his chest and collapsing behind a hay bale with a level of theatrics that feels a little ambitious for a summer afternoon. Also, I’m moved to call a medic.
Niki lets out a low whistle. “Mr. Rodriguez is freaking hot. Do we have his number?”
Uniforms really are her weakness.
Watson barks approvingly at the performance, then immediately goes to investigate whether Mr. Rodriguez is actually injured and might need comfort in the form of enthusiastic face licking.
“Girls, this way!” Carlotta calls from somewhere to my left, where she appears to have been adopted by a group of Confederate cavalry officers who are treating her like their personal mascot. “These gentlemen are going to protect us! And they have serious equipment!”
Good grief. The innuendos never end with her. Or with Niki. Or Aunt Cat.
Okay, fine. I appreciate a good innuendo now and again myself.
I spot Aunt Cat surrounded by Union soldiers who seem to have completely forgotten there’s a battle happening.
She’s posing for pictures while they take turns explaining their regimen with an enthusiasm that feels a lot less about history and a lot more about landing her in a tent.
Little do they know they don’t have to try that hard.
“Boys, tell me more about these uniforms,” Aunt Cat coos, running her hand along a soldier’s brass buttons. “Are they as hard to get out of as they look?”
Niki, meanwhile, has somehow made herself useful to a group of reenactors loading medical supplies into a wagon, all while asking very specific questions about their uniforms that feel severely unrelated to the task at hand.
“So when you say this cracker is called hardtack,” Niki says to a particularly attractive medic, “are we talking break-a-tooth hard or just hard enough to keep things interesting?”
“This is insanity,” I mutter to Watson, who’s now inspecting a cannon that may be loaded with blanks but sounds like it could take out a small building. “We came here to question a murder suspect, not accidentally enlist.”
Watson woofs his agreement, then immediately gets distracted by a soldier who’s eating what appears to be that hardtack cracker and might be convinced to share.
The battle rages around us with enough smoke, noise, and dramatic death scenes to satisfy even the most demanding history buff.
Men fall with theatrical groans, officers wave swords while shouting orders, and somewhere in the distance, a brass band plays period music with enough gusto to resurrect the entire Confederacy.
I’m trying to navigate through the controlled chaos when I spot her.
Julia Washington stands near her Colonial Kitchen food truck, which she’s somehow managed to transform into a period-appropriate general store complete with wooden signs advertising Authentic Battlefield Victuals—I take it that means food—and Mrs. Washington’s Renowned Cornbread.
She’s wearing a full Civil War-era dress in deep blue with white trim, her graying hair tucked neatly under a bonnet that makes her look like she stepped out of a time machine.
But what catches my attention isn’t her historically accurate costume—it’s the way she’s standing perfectly still in the middle of all this chaos, watching the battle with an intense focus that says she’s either really into Civil War history or she’s thinking about how she poisoned a man less than twenty-four hours ago and hasn’t been caught.
Okay, so my brain is working in overdrive. Let’s face it, I’d love to pin the murder on her and call it a homicidal day.
Watson barks because he’s spotted our target, too.
“Come on, boy,” I say, scooping him up before he can get recruited into the Confederate Navy or whatever maritime reenactment might be happening near the creek. “It’s time to go investigate our first victim.”
I correct myself mentally as we head toward Julia’s setup. Suspect. Not victim. Although in my experience, the line between those two categories tends to be surprisingly flexible.
“Julia Washington, here we come,” I mutter.
Some murder investigations begin in sterile interrogation rooms. Others begin in the middle of a Civil War battle, where your biggest challenge is avoiding getting dramatically shot by your dentist while trying to question someone about corn pudding.
I’m starting to think my life might be slightly more complicated than average.