Chapter 18 #2
“I don’t know, but it gets worse. Larry was planning to expose her the day after the festival. That kind of public humiliation would’ve killed her business overnight—maybe buried her in legal trouble, too.”
I take another bite, then add, “But here’s the kicker—Flip says he saw her buying pentobarbital from a shady veterinary supplier operating out of the back of a van.” I pause. “Like a very specialized ice cream truck.”
Cooper blinks.
“She claimed it was for farm animals,” I go on, “but she lives in a condo with a no-pets policy stricter than most international treaties.”
Watson’s ears perk at the mention of animals, then droop when he realizes we’re not talking about anything that might lead to treats or belly rubs.
“Then there’s Sunshine Crumpet,” I continue, watching Cooper’s eyebrows rise at the name like he’s not entirely sure he heard correctly. “The hippie food vendor with the tie-dyed everything and enough crystals to stock a whole Renaissance fair? Turns out, she’s got a chemistry degree from MIT.”
“MIT?” Cooper’s sandwich pauses halfway to his mouth like it’s been frozen by the sheer impossibility of this information.
“She knows how to make untraceable poisons from organic compounds, which is apparently what they teach you at fancy universities these days instead of useful skills like balancing checkbooks or avoiding family drama. Larry caught her selling ‘natural remedies’ that were anything but—dangerous drugs designed to separate desperate people from their money. People were getting sick, and she was making bank off sugar pills and herb mixes sold to folks who trusted her because she had crystals and spoke fluent organic.”
The evening breeze picks up, carrying pine and the distant smell of someone’s barbecue getting a head start on tomorrow. Fireworks pop here and there—test runs for the big show—like little bursts of color against the darkening sky.
“And the third suspect?”
“That’s where it gets complicated,” I sigh, watching Watson try to catch a firefly like persistence alone might turn it into a glowing snack.
“There’s this whole situation with Flip’s son.
He had three upscale restaurants in Boston that Larry torpedoed with fake scandals and bogus health violations.
The kid lost everything and left town in disgrace, which gives Flip plenty of motive. ”
I shake my head. “But I don’t think he did it. He’s got motive, sure, but not the opportunity or the means—and he strikes me as more of a punch-you-in-the-face type than a poison-your-dessert kind of guy.”
A thought hits me.
“Wait,” I say, pausing mid-bite as something occurs to me. “You never told me exactly how Larry died. I mean, I know he was poisoned—but with what?”
Cooper glances around the lake to make sure we’re alone, then leans in. “Pentobarbital. Same stuff they use to euthanize animals, just in a much higher concentration.”
“Well, according to Flip, that’s what Julia was buying from the sketchy vet supplier,” I point out.
“Exactly. But here’s the thing—pentobarbital isn’t exotic. You don’t need a chemistry degree to use it. Any veterinarian, vet tech, or someone who’s worked around farm animals would know how to handle it. Heck, you can look up lethal dosages online.”
Watson looks up at us with far too much hope, like this serious conversation might somehow lead to sandwich scraps.
“So basically, all three of our suspects could’ve done it,” I say, feeling less impressed with my detective work.
“Julia had access, Sunshine has the chemistry background, and Flip…” I shrug.
“He grew up on a farm, right? He’s probably put down his share of sick animals.
” I sigh. “How guilty is the corn pudding looking?”
“The lab is still running samples from it. It was the last thing Larry ate. And he did have a system full of toxins. We should know soon enough. But the corn pudding wasn’t the only thing Larry ate that day.
He sampled food from multiple vendors. The killer could have contaminated anything—a napkin, a spoon, even the air around him if they were clever enough. ”
I frown, watching fireflies dance over the water. “You’re saying Julia stands a chance at innocence?”
“I’m saying we shouldn’t assume the most obvious suspect is always the right one,” Cooper replies. “Sometimes the best killers are the ones who make sure someone else looks guilty.”
Cooper reaches across the table and takes my hand, his fingers warm and a little rough, and just like that, I forget about murder and start thinking about far more interesting activities.
“You’ve done good work, Detective Canelli.”
“Detective Canelli,” I repeat, liking the sound of that more than I should. “It has a nice ring to it. Sounds official. Maybe I should get a badge.”
“Better than your current job title,” he says with a wicked grin that suggests I’m about to make a series of deeply delicious decisions.
Before I can ask what he means by that—because Cooper and I maintain a very careful policy of willful ignorance about my employment with Uncle Jimmy that allows our relationship to function without anyone getting arrested or shot—he leans across the table and kisses me with an intensity that makes the lakeside evening disappear into background noise.
The kiss tastes like Italian seasoning and promises, with an undertone of danger that has nothing to do with the murder investigation.
Cooper’s hand finds the back of my neck, and my brain forgets how to form coherent thoughts—or why I was worried about anything in the first place.
When we break apart, a practice run of fireworks goes off over the lake, reflecting in the water like they’re showing off. Red, white, and blue light up the dark, and for a second, everything feels perfect and uncomplicated.
Which is probably a red flag.
“Tomorrow is the Fourth,” Cooper murmurs against my lips.
“Tomorrow is the Fourth,” I groan, though my mind is already spinning through all the ways this is about to go sideways.
Tomorrow, I need to help Lottie win a booth decorating contest while assassinating the judge who happens to be Watson’s new best friend.
Tomorrow, I need to figure out which of my three suspects actually killed Larry Rocket before they kill someone else or pin it on me.
Tomorrow, families will gather around this very lake to celebrate freedom and independence while I juggle my double life as baker and killer, dog mom and someone who really needs a better life plan.
Watson barks once at a particularly spectacular firework, then settles back at our feet, perfectly content as long as we’re nearby—even if we occasionally discuss murder over Italian sandwiches.
I look out over the lake, fireworks already reflecting off the water, and it hits me that tomorrow I’ll be celebrating America’s independence while trying to solve a murder—and possibly commit one.
Pretty sure that’s not what the Founding Fathers had in mind.
Happy Fourth of July.
I’m out here hunting a killer and possibly being one.
Land of the free, home of the brave… and apparently, the morally complicated.