Chapter 12
The Harmony & Hemp Festival at Moonbeam Meadows looks like Woodstock collided with a farmers’ market and decided to sell crystals.
We’re standing at the entrance to what can only be described as organized chaos with a side of patchouli. Tie-dyed tents dot the field like psychedelic mushrooms, while the air shimmers with enough incense smoke that I’m afraid might alter our cognitive states.
The scent of hemp, organic granola, and what I’m pretty sure is medicinal marijuana mingles with the distant aroma of festival food that promises to align your chakras while it feeds your face.
A band called Earth Mother’s Children is performing on the main stage, their music a hypnotic blend of drums, flutes, and what sounds like someone having a very spiritual experience with a tambourine.
Scattered around the field are people in flowing clothes practicing yoga on colorful mats, their poses ranging from enlightened warrior to confused pretzel.
Some enterprising vendors have tried to blend Fourth of July themes with the hippie aesthetic, resulting in cosmic independence tie-dyed American flags and booths advertising Freedom Through Consciousness workshops.
There’s even a smoothie stand selling patriotic peace drinks in tri-colored layers, though I’m pretty sure the red is beet juice and the blue is spirulina—both of which feel like a personal attack.
Watson surveys this scene, bewildered, like he’s not entirely sure what planet he’s landed on. His flag bandana, which looked perfectly fine at the craft store, now makes him look like a tiny conservative protester who’s wandered into the wrong rally.
Really wrong rally.
“Madonna Mia,” Aunt Cat breathes, adjusting her sequined tracksuit as she takes in the sea of hemp clothing and crystal jewelry. “It’s like nobody here has ever met a hairbrush.”
“And they haven’t been to Hairway to Heaven,” I say. That would be the name of the beauty shop my mother works at and her sister owns. If I had a few business cards, I might have been able to drum up some decent clientele for them.
Carlotta pauses to take in a group of men with elaborate man buns and colorful tattoos covering their arms. “Look at all this man-candy on the loose! They all look very spiritually developed to me.”
Among other things.
“I wonder if they do private meditation sessions,” Niki muses, watching an athletic-looking instructor demonstrate something called the Transcendent Tree Pose to a group of admirers—or students. Probably both.
“Focus,” I remind them, though I’ll admit, the guy demonstrating the Cosmic Warrior pose has some impressive spiritual development himself. “We’re here to question Sunshine about a murder, not shop for enlightenment. Or hot men in yoga pants.”
Watson barks, reminding everyone that he’s the only one maintaining any semblance of investigative priorities.
We make our way through the festival, dodging barefoot people carrying crystals, avoiding eye contact with anyone offering to read our auras, and trying not to trip over the meditation circles that seem to spring up randomly throughout the field.
“There it is!” Niki points toward a tie-dyed food booth decorated with enough peace signs to negotiate a small war. “Groovy Grub!”
Sunshine Crumpet looks completely in her element behind her organic food setup, wearing a flowing hemp dress that makes her previous tie-dyed chef’s duds look conservative.
Her purple space buns have been replaced by long hair adorned with a flower crown that looks like it was assembled by very artistic fairies.
Multiple crystal necklaces catch the afternoon light, and her vegetable tattoos now seem like perfectly reasonable fashion choices.
“Oh wow!” she calls out as we approach, her face lighting up at the sight of us. “It’s you ladies from the lake! What brings you to our little consciousness festival?”
Watson immediately gravitates toward her booth, his nose twitching at the scents of organic dog treats displayed in a hemp-woven basket. He knows what side his snacks are buttered on.
“We were just in the neighborhood,” I reply, pretending to examine her menu of consciousness raising wraps and enlightenment smoothies. “We thought we’d check out the festival. It’s all so very cosmic.”
“Isn’t it amazing?” Sunshine beams, handing Watson a treat that he accepts with far too much glee.
Let’s hope they agree with him. “The energy here is so pure, so aligned with the universe’s natural harmony.
Plus, there’s lots of pot.” She nods as if that’s a plus.
And judging by Carlotta’s expression, that’s a selling point.
Before I can figure out how to steer the conversation toward murder, Aunt Cat wanders off toward something called an aura photography booth, where a bearded man who looks like Santa’s hippie brother is promising to capture people’s spiritual energy on film. And maybe steal their souls.
“I bet my aura is red, white, and blue, honey!” I hear her announce to the photographer, who immediately waggles his brows.
Good grief.
Carlotta drifts toward a chakra balancing with sacred stones station, where a woman with waist-length hair is placing crystals on various clients while explaining their energetic blockages.
“My chakras feel very out of alignment,” Carlotta declares. “Or I’m blocked. Like really blocked. The kind that requires a toilet, patience, and a prayer. Can you fix that?”
Niki, meanwhile, has been recruited for a cosmic consciousness yoga session by an instructor whose smile suggests he’s offering more than just spiritual guidance.
“Figures,” I mutter to Watson, who’s working his way through what appears to be his third organic treat. Here’s hoping it doesn’t give him the runs. “Leave it to my traveling circus to get distracted by crystals and auras when I need backup.”
“Your friends seem very energetic.” Sunshine laughs while watching Aunt Cat interrogate the aura photographer about the spiritual significance of sequins.
What is it with those women and sparkles?
“Energetic, yes. That’s one way to put it,” I agree, pretending to be fascinated by her display of enlightenment energy bars. “Speaking of energy, that whole thing at the lake really threw off everyone’s vibe, didn’t it? Such a shock about Larry.”
Sunshine’s flower crown seems to wilt slightly. “Larry Rocket was a poison to the entire food community,” she says with a sigh. “That man destroyed lives for sport.”
Tell me something new.
Watson sits at attention, clearly sensing that things are about to take a turn toward homicide.
“That’s pretty harsh,” I say, hoping to egg her on to continue.
“You want to know who really hated Larry? Flip Flapjack,” Sunshine says, her voice dropping to an angry whisper. “Larry didn’t just write bad reviews about Flip’s diner. He destroyed Flip’s son’s entire restaurant chain with fake reviews and planted evidence of health violations.”
I blink. “Flip has a son?”
She nods. “Flip’s son had a restaurant empire, too,” Sunshine continues, her crystals jangling as she gestures with her hands.
“He had three upscale dining establishments in Boston. Larry manufactured a scandal that cost the kid everything. He left town in disgrace, and Flip’s been carrying that grudge ever since. ”
Watson gives a soft woof, sensing that we’ve just uncovered something important.
“But that’s not even the worst of it,” Sunshine continues, leaning across her organic food display like she’s about to get to the juicy part. “If you really want to talk motives, you should have a little chat with your friend Julia, too.”
I inch back. “What about Julia?”
“Julia Washington isn’t even her real name,” Sunshine hisses. “And those authentic colonial recipes she’s so proud of? They’re a complete fabrication. Larry said he caught her using processed ingredients, artificial preservatives, and modern flavor enhancers in everything she makes.”
My stomach drops. “But she said—”
“Oh, who cares what comes out of her mouth. She’s been lying about everything for years,” Sunshine interrupts.
“Her family history, her recipes, even her supposed connection to Martha Washington. From what I hear, it’s all fake.
Larry said he had enough evidence to destroy her completely—from food inspector violations, to false advertising, to health department citations.
She would have lost everything if he exposed her for the fraud she is. ”
Watson barks sharply, and I turn to see why he’s suddenly alarmed. Across the festival, all hell is breaking loose.
Aunt Cat is having what appears to be a philosophical argument with the aura photographer, her voice carrying across the field. “My patriotism is perfectly fine, thank you very much! I don’t need crystals to unblock my red, white, and blue chakras!”
“Ma’am, your aura shows serious blockages in your freedom centers,” the photographer insists, holding up what looks like a very colorful Polaroid. “Without proper crystal treatment, your patriotic energy could become toxic.”
“TOXIC?” Aunt Cat shrieks. “I’ll show you toxic!”
Carlotta isn’t doing any better.
“These rocks are duller than my second husband!” she shouts at the chakra healer. “I want my money back! My chakras feel worse!”
“The stones are responding to your negative energy,” the healer explains patiently. “Perhaps if you released your attachment to material sequins—”
“DON’T YOU DARE INSULT MY SEQUINS!”
Across the field, Niki has attempted something called the Transcendent Tree Pose and is now tangled in her own limbs while three other participants groan nearby.
I think we’re going to need a medic.
“Gravity isn’t spiritual, it’s physics,” she’s arguing with the instructor, who’s lecturing her about respecting the sacred space she’s in with silence.
Good luck with that one.
“Your disruptive energy is disturbing the cosmic flow,” the instructor tells my sister in an ill-fated move.
“My disruptive energy?” Niki squawks. “Your poses are physically impossible! I’m not a contortionist!”
Maybe not. But according to at least six of her exes, she can bend when she wants to.
Watson looks between the three separate disasters and barks as if he’s requesting immediate evacuation. I’m so with him on that.
A festival security guard, a guy in a hemp shirt with a peace sign badge, is running between the incidents looking like he’s reconsidering his career in conflict resolution.
“Ladies, please!” he pleads. “This is a harmony festival! Can’t we all just find our inner peace?”
“I’ll find your inner peace,” Aunt Cat threatens, wielding her purse like a weapon. “Right after I realign this photographer’s chakras with my fist!”
Other festivalgoers are choosing sides, with some supporting the cosmic harmony position and others rallying behind what one man calls Italian-American spiritual rights.
That’s my cue.
“I have to go,” I tell Sunshine, scooping up Watson before he gets drafted into whatever this is. “Thanks for the enlightenment.”
“Be careful with Julia!” Sunshine calls after me. “Someone who lies about everything might lie about murder!”
Good to know.
I spend the next ten minutes extracting the lunatics I came with from this party. By the time we reach the car, Aunt Cat is muttering about hippie nonsense, Carlotta is convinced her sequins have been spiritually violated, and Niki is banned from all future yoga sessions for cosmic disruption.
Watson has somehow acquired a hemp collar from a sympathetic vendor and is wearing it like he’s made a series of better life choices than I have.
He probably has.
“Well,” I say as we drive away from Moonbeam Meadows with its clouds of incense and frazzled auras, “that was educational.”
“Those people are crazier than we are,” Aunt Cat declares, “and I once bedazzled a casket.”
That is crazy indeed. Also, Aunt Cat would do just about anything for those she loves. Including bedazzle a casket.
And at the rate the bodies are dropping, we all might need to get fitted for a casket soon enough.
We head back toward Honey Hollow and take a moment to process what Sunshine revealed. Flip’s son. Julia’s fake identity. A web of lies and revenge that makes Larry’s death look less like random food poisoning—if that’s indeed what did him in—and more like carefully planned payback.
Watson curls up in Niki’s lap, exhausted from his manipulative efforts and organic treat sampling.
I glance back at the three roaming catastrophes I’m traveling with and sigh.
There’s a killer out there somewhere.
And after today, I’m not even sure they’re the biggest problem.