Chapter 22
The aftermath of catching a killer at a Fourth of July festival apparently involves more congratulations than an Olympic medal ceremony and twice the chaos.
Lottie, Lily, and Suze come rushing over like a trio of fairy godmothers who’ve just heard their favorite princess caught the dragon—their faces flushed with excitement and what I suspect is a healthy dose of adrenaline from witnessing the most dramatic arrest in Honey Hollow history.
“Effie!” Lottie squeals, pulling me into a hug enthusiastic enough to wring the remaining lake water out of my sundress. “I can’t believe you caught the killer—in the lake—with fireworks going off! It was like a movie!”
“A very wet, very violent movie,” I say, grinning despite myself because there’s something satisfying about solving a murder even if it did result in an impromptu swim with a homicidal hippie.
“You were amazing,” Lily adds, her eyes bright with an excitement that suggests she’s already planning to tell this story at every social gathering for the next decade. “The way you figured it all out, confronted her, fought her off—it was all very Nancy Drew meets James Bond.”
“With better hair,” Suze says—then eyes my soaked, tangled mess. “Well, usually better hair. Right now, you look as if you’ve been through a blender, but that’s understandable given the soaking wet circumstances.”
Watson, basking in the attention like a furry celebrity, picks that moment to shake himself, sending lake water flying in every direction and reminding everyone he, too, risked life and limb, and maybe tail.
“And Watson!” Lottie coos, dropping to her knees to praise him like the furry hero he is. “You are such a good boy! Such a brave, smart boy for barking and alerting Cooper and Noah!”
Watson’s tail goes into overdrive, and he immediately flips onto his back for belly rubs—because heroism, like everything else, should be rewarded properly.
“Oh my goodness, I almost forgot!” Lottie jumps up, pulsating with excitement. “Effie, we won! The booth contest—we won!”
“Wait, what?” I blink at her, still processing the whole nearly-drowned-by-a-murderous-hippie situation.
“Mayor Nash announced it right before you went all action hero in the lake,” Lily explains, grinning ear to ear. “We were voted the most festive booth. We actually pulled it off!”
“The hardware store is already talking about filing a formal complaint,” Suze adds with a touch of satisfaction. “Apparently, they think our booth was excessively decorated and created an unfair visual advantage. Which is just code for we’re jealous and petty.”
“They can cry into their hammers,” Lottie says smugly. “Our booth was a masterpiece, and Effie’s decorating genius is now officially award-winning.”
I look at the three of them—my boss, my coworkers, my friends—and feel a weird swell of pride that has nothing to do with catching killers and everything to do with winning a contest with enough glitter to fill Honey Lake.
“So not only did I solve a murder,” I say, “but I also won us a bunch of fancy kitchen equipment?”
“Best employee ever,” Lottie declares. “And I’m splitting the gift certificate four ways. We all earned this.”
The cheers that go up could rival the fireworks.
“And I think this calls for some time off,” Lottie announces, brushing dog hair from her festival apron with the authority of a woman making an executive decision. “Effie, you officially have the rest of the night to yourself. Go home, get dry, celebrate not dying.”
“We’ll handle the booth and the cleanup,” Lily volunteers, which is incredibly generous considering the amount of glitter involved in our over-the-top display. They might need a shovel. “Suze and I can get everything packed up and loaded.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, though I’m already imagining a hot shower and dry clothes that don’t smell like lake water and hippie perfume.
“Absolutely,” Suze confirms, already moving toward our booth like a professional disaster manager. Which, given our track record, is basically her job description. “You’ve had enough excitement for one evening. Go enjoy your victory.”
The last fireworks pop in the distance as families start packing up, the air still thick with barbecue smoke and patriotic pride.
Somewhere, a brass band drifts through “America the Beautiful,” and the whole thing feels like the closing scene of that proverbial movie I just inadvertently starred in.
That’s when I spot them.
Mayor Nash and Uncle Jimmy, standing near the Colonial Kitchen truck, deep in what looks like a very polite conversation—complete with relaxed smiles and the kind of body language that says business is being handled.
Municipal takeovers and criminal enterprises come to mind.
Watson notices, too, and immediately perks up, his tail wagging as if he’s just spotted his second-favorite human—after Cooper, of course.
“All right, boy,” I murmur, following my furry wingman toward what promises to be either a very interesting conversation or a disaster of epic legal proportions.
Uncle Jimmy looks exactly like a man who could order dessert or a hit with equal ease—his silver hair is perfect, his clothes are expensive, and his presence impossible to ignore.
“I appreciate your understanding about the fireworks situation,” Uncle Jimmy says as we get close enough to eavesdrop without appearing to eavesdrop, which is a skill every Italian family teaches early and often.
“Not a problem at all,” Mayor Nash replies, all small-town charm. “I believe in supporting local entrepreneurs, especially ones who provide such spectacular displays of patriotism.”
Watson announces us with a single bark and immediately sits at the mayor’s feet like a campaign prop.
“Well, hello there, handsome,” Mayor Nash says, bending down to scratch Watson behind the ears like a politician who knows the value of being photographed with adorable animals. “Heard you were quite the hero tonight.”
Uncle Jimmy’s gaze shifts to me, sharp and assessing. “Effie, sweetheart. Perfect timing.”
My brain immediately kicks into overtime, processing the conversation I just overheard and the possibilities it presents for solving my current Uncle Jimmy problem without actually having to commit municipal homicide.
“Mayor Nash,” I say with my sweetest smile, the one I learned from watching Aunt Cat manipulate men into doing exactly what she wants. “I couldn’t help but overhear something about fireworks. Uncle Jimmy’s been in that business for years.”
“Among other things,” Uncle Jimmy agrees smoothly, his eyes gleaming with either amusement or approval of my conversational direction.
“It would be such a shame if someone were to report any irregularities in his business practices,” I continue, watching Mayor Nash’s expression.
“Especially when there are other irregularities happening in town that people might find equally interesting to discuss. With certain people. Like Carlotta. And those other women you keep company with.”
Here’s hoping I’ve got the leverage right.
Mayor Nash’s face cycles through several colors before settling on one that suggests he’s just realized he’s being blackmailed by someone who knows entirely too much about his extracurricular activities. And everyone knows Carlotta is a career-ending event waiting to happen.
“I think we understand each other perfectly,” he says after a moment, his politician’s smile never wavering even though his eyes say he’s just been cornered by a very polite shark.
I bare my pearly whites to prove his point.
Watson gives a quick bark, which I’m choosing to interpret as relief that I won’t be solving this problem with a firearm just to bring doggy food to the table.
“Wonderful,” Uncle Jimmy says with a lethal wink. “I do appreciate working with reasonable people, Harry. You’re a credit to public service.”
“Well,” Mayor Nash says, straightening and giving Watson one final pat, “I should head home. I’ve got that budget meeting first thing in the morning.
” He starts to walk away, then turns back with a grin that suggests his sense of humor is still intact despite being maneuvered into ignoring illegal fireworks sales.
“Jimmy, have you ever considered running for city council?” he asks.
“I think you’d be a natural at politics. ”
Uncle Jimmy chuckles. “I’ll stick to private enterprise. Less paperwork, more creative freedom.”
Mayor Nash disappears into the crowd of departing festivalgoers, and Uncle Jimmy turns to me with a look that’s equal parts approval and mild concern for the future of my soul.
“That was well done, sweetheart,” he says, adjusting his expensive watch as if his evening has just improved considerably. “I’m glad Harry gets to live to see another day.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, even though I already know I’m not going to like the answer.
“Because now that I know he’s been two-timing my girl Carlotta, I’m going to kill him myself,” Uncle Jimmy replies with a cheerful tone of discussing weekend plans rather than premeditated revenge. “But first, I think I’ll make his life miserable for a while. It’s much more satisfying that way.”
I swallow hard.
He gives Watson a final pat and strolls off like a man who’s just wrapped up a productive evening and is looking forward to future chaos. And future felonies.
Watson and I watch him go, both of us processing the fact that I may have just saved the mayor’s life…temporarily.
“Well,” I say, glancing down as Watson sniffs the ground as if he’s gathering evidence, “at least I didn’t have to shoot anyone tonight. That feels like a win.”
Some Fourth of July celebrations end with peaceful reflection. Mine ends with blackmail, a murder arrest, and the promise of future municipal problems courtesy of my crime boss uncle.
I’m starting to think my family’s definition of patriotism might be slightly more creative than most people’s, and I’m oddly okay with that.