Chapter 20
Darkness settles over Honey Lake, and the twinkle lights take over as if they’ve been waiting all day for their moment.
The festival shifts from afternoon chaos into evening magic, with lights reflecting off the water like fallen stars.
Families spread quilts across every patch of grass, coolers packed with enough beer and snacks to survive a small siege, while anticipation builds for the fireworks—promising to be bigger and louder than my Uncle Jimmy’s temper when someone crosses him.
Just thinking about Uncle Jimmy sharpens my upcoming deadline, and the idea of taking out the mayor makes my stomach churn.
Maybe dancing on tables isn’t such a bad plan B.
The air smells like everything good about summer—grilled burgers and hot dogs, citronella fighting a losing battle against mosquitoes, and that warm, lake-soaked evening air that feels like happiness with a side of fried food and controlled explosions.
Distant booms echo across the water as someone tests fireworks early, making kids squeal and dogs bark as if this is all perfectly normal.
Children race around with sparklers that violate several safety regulations, their parents trailing behind with the resigned expressions of people who’ve accepted that a trip to the emergency room is part of the holiday.
Food trucks wind down their dinner service, gearing up for the dessert rush for people who want sugar while they watch things blow up in the sky.
Watson bounds up to our booth, his bandana hanging on for dear life, but his enthusiasm fully intact. He’s clearly had the time of his life on festival patrol—charming hot dogs out of unsuspecting vendors and collecting enough belly rubs to last a week. There’s never anything new with him.
“There’s my boy,” I coo, dropping to my knees for the full Watson welcome, which involves enough face licking to qualify as a spa treatment and tail wagging that could take out a small child.
Cooper appears behind him like a holiday mirage, and my brain briefly forgets how to function because the man looks criminally good in the evening light.
His wavy brown hair is slightly mussed, his polo clings in all the right places, and the way the festival lights catch his blue-green eyes makes me want to drag him behind the nearest food truck for activities that are definitely not family-friendly.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, and my knees do a mean wobble at the sight of him. “Miss me?”
“Like a fish misses water,” I say, stepping closer until I catch his cologne mixed with summer air and whatever chaos he’s been wrangling all day. “How’s security duty treating you?”
“Quiet so far,” he murmurs, his hand finding my waist and pulling me closer as if he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Though I have to say, watching you in that dress all day has been seriously testing my professional focus.”
I glance down at my dress—a navy sundress dotted with tiny white stars.
It’s soft, light, and swings just enough to make me feel cute without trying too hard.
The hem hits above my knees, the halter shows off my shoulders, and the whole thing walks a fine line between wholesome and questionable decision pending.
And I wouldn’t mind making a questionable decision with Coop later tonight, either.
“This old thing?” I say innocently, doing a little twirl that sends the skirt flaring—and gives Cooper a preview of what’s underneath—which, unfortunately, includes more than just my favorite lace underwear.
The twirl also reminds me that Buttercup, my trusty Glock, is strapped to my thigh like the world’s most dangerous garter.
Cooper has no idea I’m packing heat along with my chaotic charm, and something tells me now isn’t the moment to mention his girlfriend is armed and slightly unhinged—or worse, that he does know and is just rolling with it.
“Well, that old thing is going to be the death of me,” Cooper growls, his eyes tracking the movement of the fabric as if he’s filing it away for later.
Have I mentioned he’s a smart man?
“Speaking of death,” I murmur, pressing closer until we’re practically sharing the same air space, “did the toxicology report come back on the pudding?”
Cooper hesitates—just long enough to tell me I’m not going to like the answer.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “It came back. The sample was loaded with pentobarbital.”
My stomach drops. “So that means Julia did it?”
“No,” he says, firm. “That means I need to investigate and figure this out.” He holds my gaze. “I being the keyword.”
I make a face. “Any chance you’ll be free after the fireworks for some private celebrating?”
Cooper’s hands find my waist, pulling me closer, and that’s when his fingers accidentally brush against the hard outline of Buttercup through the fabric of my dress. His eyes go wide, and he takes a half-step back like he just realized I carry more than breath mints.
“Is that a gun under your dress, or are you just happy to see me?” he asks, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that’s equal parts suspicious and incredibly sexy.
“Let’s go with I’m just really, really happy to see you?” I aim for innocent and land somewhere in the general vicinity of criminally unconvincing.
That frown on Cooper’s face tells me he’s not buying my act for even half a second.
“Effie.”
“Okay, fine,” I concede. “Maybe it’s possible I might be carrying a small personal protection device,” I admit, trying to make it sound like the most reasonable thing in the world.
“You know, it’s sort of like my own festival security.
There are a lot of people around. And you can never be too careful. ”
“Effie,” Cooper repeats, shaking his head as if he’s coming to terms with dating a woman who treats firearms as picnic accessories. “Why are you packing heat at what is essentially a Fourth of July bake sale?”
Before I can come up with a reasonable explanation that doesn’t involve Uncle Jimmy’s deadline or my unfortunate side hustle as a reluctant assassin, Cooper’s phone buzzes with the insistence of official business.
He checks the screen, and his expression shifts from romantic concern to professional in a blink—faster than Watson spotting a dropped hot dog.
“Duty calls,” he sighs, showing me the text that appears to be from the sheriff. “Routine meeting at basecamp in the parking lot. Probably just coordination for crowd control during the fireworks, but—”
“But you have to go,” I finish for him, trying not to let my disappointment show. “I get it. Public safety comes first.”
He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, and plants a kiss on me that tastes like naughty promises.
My toes curl inside my sandals, my brain briefly powers down, and for a second, I forget my own name—along with the small, very loaded detail strapped to my thigh.
“Save me a spot for the fireworks,” he murmurs against my lips. “I’ll find you as soon as this meeting’s over. And hold your fire, would you?”
“Very funny. I’ll be the one trying not to get arrested for public indecency,” I promise, watching him walk away with a swagger that never fails to make me look.
Watson gives a soft woof, apparently disappointed that Cooper’s departure means the end of potential treats, then immediately perks up when he spots someone dropping nachos near the Colonial Kitchen truck.
I’m heading back toward our booth when I spot her—Julia Washington, struggling with what appears to be a bin large enough to house a bowling ball. She’s muttering to herself in the way people do when they think nobody’s watching.
She’s heading toward the back of her covered wagon food truck, which is parked in a slightly secluded area near the tree line where the festival lights don’t quite reach and the crowd noise fades to a distant hum.
It’s the sort of place where conversations don’t get overheard.
Exactly what I’m looking for.
“Julia!” I call, jogging over with Watson trotting beside me. “Need some help with that?”
She startles like someone caught doing something they shouldn’t, which immediately sets off every amateur sleuth alarm I own. Her usually perfect colonial dress is wrinkled, her bonnet askew, and her expression says she’s having a day she’d like to return for a refund.
“Oh! Effie,” she manages, trying to pull herself together while clearly struggling with the weight of whatever’s in that bin. “I’m fine, really. Just cleaning up from the dinner service.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, grabbing one end before she can protest. “This thing weighs more than my dog after a particularly successful day of snacking.”
Together we carry it toward her truck, and I can’t help noticing the bin is packed with enough supplies to feed a small army—along with several ramekins she uses for her famous corn pudding.
“Busy day?” I ask as we set it down near the back of her wagon.
“The busiest,” she sighs, then quickly corrects herself. “But good busy. It’s been very profitable. The festival has been wonderful for business.”
We’re standing in the shadow of her truck now, away from the main festival chaos. She’s reorganizing containers that don’t need reorganizing—nothing but busy hands and nervous energy.
“Julia.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “We need to talk about what happened to Larry Rocket.”
She freezes. Doesn’t look up.
“I’ve been putting some things together,” I say. “About the corn pudding. About your recipes. About what Larry was planning to do.”
Now she looks at me, her expression unreadable.
I take a breath.
“Julia… did you kill him?”
The words hang in the air between us like smoke from the distant grills, and Julia’s reaction is immediate. Her face goes white, her hands fly to her chest, and she takes a step backward that makes her bump into the side of her truck.
“What?” She gasps, her voice high and shocked. “Effie, that’s insane! I would never... Larry was—I didn’t kill anyone!”
“The pentobarbital,” I continue, watching her carefully. “Flip saw you buying it from that sketchy veterinary supplier. It’s the same drug that killed Larry. The same drug they found in a sample of your corn pudding.”
“You don’t understand,” Julia says, her hands shaking as she fumbles with her bonnet.
“I wasn’t buying that medication for myself.
Mrs. Henderson down the road—she has a farm, and her old horse was suffering.
Tumors everywhere. The vet bills were astronomical, and she couldn’t afford humane euthanasia, so I… I helped her.”
She takes a shaky breath, tears pooling in her eyes. “I picked up the medication because she was too embarrassed to do it herself. Too proud to admit she couldn’t afford proper care. But I never used it for anything else. I swear.”
Watson lets out a soft growl at the stress in her voice, then immediately glues himself to my legs like I’m the designated emotional support human—which, apparently, I am.
“There was someone,” Julia whispers. “They seemed harmless at the time. Curious. But the questions they asked…”
She trails off, her eyes widening as if she’s just realized something important.
“Who?” I ask urgently. “Who was asking questions?”
“I can’t.” Julia shakes her head frantically. “I won’t accuse someone without proof. But Effie, be careful. If someone was willing to kill Larry and let me take the blame, they won’t hesitate to hurt anyone else who gets in their way.”
With that, she hurries off toward the front of her truck, leaving me in the shadows with Watson and a head full of puzzle pieces that suddenly refuse to stay where I put them.
The first fireworks explode overhead, painting the sky in violent reds and blues that ripple across the lake like it’s been set on fire.
But I barely notice the spectacular display because my brain is busy processing what Julia just told me, and suddenly all the pieces of this particular puzzle are clicking into place with a clarity that makes me wonder how I missed it before.
I think I know who killed Larry Rocket.
Someone’s been playing a long game, and I’ve been dancing to their tune—with a gun strapped to my thigh and a deadline that’s getting way too close.
Fireworks explode overhead while my brain calculates exactly how screwed I am.
Land of the free, home of the brave.
And apparently, the occasionally homicidal.