Chapter 3
The Taste of America Festival at Honey Lake is in full stars-and-stripes mode, with food trucks forming a semicircle around the pristine water like wagons circling for protection against culinary competitors instead of hostile forces.
The afternoon sun beats down mercilessly, turning the lake into a shimmering mirage that makes the red, white, and blue decorations flutter like desperate flags of surrender.
The pine trees surrounding the water release their sharp, clean scent into the air already thick with the competing aromas of grilled onions, kettle corn, and enough deep-fried everything to clog the arteries of a small nation.
I’m still staring at Uncle Jimmy’s assignment as if it might spontaneously combust and solve my problems when Aunt Cat produces a lighter from somewhere in her sequined depths.
“Hand it over, hon,” she says, wiggling her fingers impatiently. “You know the drill.”
I reluctantly give her the paper, watching as she sets it ablaze with the efficiency of a woman who’s destroyed evidence more times than she’s made Sunday dinner.
The flames lick at Mayor Harry Nash’s name until it curls into ash, then she drops the burning remains and stomps on them with her bedazzled sneakers as if she’s performing some sort of war dance.
Watson tilts his head, watching the mini bonfire with fascination like he’s never seen paper spontaneously combust in a public place. And since he’s my dog, he certainly has. One time too many, at that. His Uncle Sam hat shifts sideways, giving him a quizzical expression.
“There,” Aunt Cat says with satisfaction, grinding the ashes into the grass. “No evidence, no problems.”
“Except for the part where I’m supposed to assassinate the mayor,” I point out, my voice slightly higher than normal.
“Lottie’s father. The man who just complimented our booth setup.
” Not to mention he’s a repeat customer—even if he does eat for free.
Come to think of it, with him gone, Lottie’s profit margins are destined to skyrocket.
“Details.” Carlotta waves dismissively. “Harry Nash has had it coming for years. Do you know how many parking tickets that man’s given me? Plus, he keeps leaving his socks on my bedroom floor.”
I blink. “Your bedroom floor?”
Watson’s ears perk up at my shocked tone, and he looks between us like he’s following a homicidal tennis match.
“We’re on again this week,” Carlotta explains with a shrug. “Though after this morning’s argument about his snoring, we might be off again by dinnertime. It’s hard to say. When someone’s in the morgue, it’s hard to get them to pay for dinner.”
“That’s right. You’re dating my target,” I groan.
“Honey, I’ve been on and off with Harry longer than some people stay married.
” Carlotta chuckles. “Trust me, the man’s practically bulletproof.
I’ve tried to kill him myself at least twice—once with my meatloaf, once that time I accidentally backed over his foot with my car.
Turns out, a bum foot won’t do much but land you on crutches.
I’m still learning the lethal ropes, so to speak. ”
Watson wags his tail, apparently approving of the conversation’s dramatic turn.
Or maybe he just smells the lingering bacon grease in the air.
It’s definitely the latter, but I like to pretend he’s concerned about the things actively giving me an ulcer.
He spots a fallen ice cream cone and takes off to do his thing.
“Parking tickets from your boyfriend are hardly grounds for murder,” I protest. Heaven knows I’ve got a few exes I wouldn’t mind using for target practice. And for the record, they’ve given me things far worse than parking tickets—a few required medication.
“Says you,” Aunt Cat sniffs. “Some of us have standards about municipal overreach.”
Watson, apparently deciding emotional support outranks free ice cream, abandons the fallen cone and hustles over to glue himself to my legs.
His Uncle Sam hat has slid over one eye, giving him the look of a deeply concerned, aggressively patriotic dog who’s pretty sure I’m not handling this well.
He’s not wrong.
“You know what you need?” Niki appears at my elbow, fully committed to her eavesdropping career.
Only these three knuckleheads know about my career in crime—outside of Uncle Jimmy, that is.
“Food. Lots of food. And old-fashioned snooping.” She links her arm through mine with the determination of someone dragging a friend to an intervention.
“Let’s go scope out the competition and stuff our faces with some deep-fried patriotism.
There’s nothing a bad decision on a paper plate can’t fix. ”
“Isn’t that the truth,” I mutter.
Watson immediately perks up at the thought of anything dunked in oil being flung his way, and it sends his tail into full helicopter mode.
“I’m in like sin, girls,” Carlotta declares, adjusting her sequined fanny pack. “Nothing says America like eating until you can’t move.”
“Plus, we need to see what we’re working with,” Aunt Cat adds ominously. “Know your battlefield and all that good stuff.”
Before I can protest that I’m not actually planning to kill anyone—especially not Carlotta’s on-again, off-again boyfriend—they’ve formed a protective formation around me like rhinestone-studded security, and suddenly I’m being escorted to the food trucks against my will.
Watson races ahead like he’s scouting the place for us, his sparkly hat bouncing with each enthusiastic step.
Our first stop is a truck selling patriotic pork skewers—chunks of barbecued pork alternating with red peppers and white onions on blue wooden sticks.
The vendor, decked out in a stars-and-stripes apron, hands over our order like he knows he’s about to change our lives—and not necessarily for the better.
There’s a reason there are twice as many restrooms as usual around the lake this afternoon.
Watson sits at attention, his brown eyes locked on the skewers as if he’s running a zero-blink operation to get me to bow to his furry little whims—and my willpower just packed a bag and left town.
I take a bite and moan. “This is actually pretty good,” I admit, surprised, as the smoky flavor hits my taste buds.
I slip Watson a small piece of pork, which he accepts as if he personally arranged for this outcome.
And he has. The only thing this pooch has mastered is the art of manipulation when it comes to enhancing his dining experience.
“Don’t sound so shocked. Of course, it’s delicious,” Niki says, already eyeing our next culinary target—a stand advertising liberty lobster rolls that smell like heaven mixed with melted butter. “Some of these people actually know what they’re doing when it comes to meat on a stick.”
We acquire the lobster rolls—chunks of sweet meat tossed in herbs and piled into brioche buns painted with red and blue stripes and lots and lots of butter—as we continue our gastronomic tour.
Watson receives a steady stream of accidentally dropped morsels, his tail wagging because he’s just discovered the meaning of life involves following humans around food festivals.
“Check out these freedom fries with a side of independence sauce,” Carlotta announces, returning from a truck painted to look like Mount Rushmore.
The fries are regular potato wedges, but the sauce is a spicy mixture that makes my eyes water in the best possible way.
Watson attempts to investigate the offerings, but I gently redirect his attention to a piece of lobster roll instead. No need to give him spicy food and ruin everyone’s day—especially whoever steps in the aftermath.
“And I’ve loaded up on star-spangled sliders,” Aunt Cat contributes, producing a basket of mini burgers with buns dyed red, white, and blue—I’m guessing there’s been a run on food coloring this week.
She passes them out, and we make quick work of them.
They look like something Dr. Seuss would serve at a Yankee Doodle tea party, but they taste like America should—beef, cheese, and enough grease to lubricate a Chevy Malibu.
Watson’s nose twitches as he processes all the competing food scents, his expression growing increasingly hopeful with each new addition to our feast—and his belly is growing, too, because I can’t deny that cute pooch a single thing.
We’re debating whether the Declaration of Independ-ants corn dogs are worth the inevitable food coma when Niki squeals with the volume of someone spotting a celebrity—or a group of hot men with bare, oiled-up chests. Hot bods are her weakness. It’s honestly impressive how fast she folds.
“Oh my goodness, is that Julia Washington?” She waves frantically at a woman emerging from the covered wagon that’s been converted into a food truck. “Julia! Over here!” Either Julia owes her money or Julia’s a good friend. My sister only has two modes when it comes to women.
Watson barks at Niki’s outburst, then spins in a circle as if he’s trying to locate the emergency snack that requires this level of chaos.
The woman turns, and I get my first good look at Julia Washington.
She’s exactly what central casting would order for a reassuring maternal figure—sturdy build, graying brown hair in a perpetually messy bun secured with what appears to be a pencil, and wire-rimmed glasses that give her the look of everyone’s favorite librarian.
I’d guess she’s in her early fifties, though she has one of those timeless faces that could be anywhere from forty-five to sixty. She’s wearing a colonial-style dress in navy blue with white trim, complete with a bonnet that somehow manages to look authentic instead of ridiculous.
“Niki Canelli!” Julia beams, wiping flour-covered hands on an apron decorated with tiny Liberty Bells. “I haven’t seen you since you got yourself banned from the farmers’ market for that incident with the cucumber vendor.”
So she does know my sister.
Watson immediately gravitates toward Julia, his tail wagging as he detects the promising scents of flour and butter clinging to her apron.
“That was a misunderstanding about organic certification,” Niki replies, giving me the side-eye. “Julia, meet my sister Effie, our Aunt Cat, and our honorary aunt, Carlotta.”
“I do know Carlotta.” The woman’s smile sours.
“But any relatives of Niki’s are good by me,” Julia says warmly, then pauses as she takes in Aunt Cat and Carlotta’s bedazzled holiday getups.
“My, those are certainly some festive outfits you’ve got on.
And Carlotta, I hear congratulations are in order—Charlie’s diner is doing wonderfully. ”
“Thanks, Little House on the Scary Prairie,” Carlotta beams with maternal pride. She also has a talent for gifting people dicey nicknames. “Cha Cha has the Sawyer family business sense, and she happens to have her daddy’s stubborn streak. Of course, she also got my good looks, so it evens out.”
“Charlie runs the Honey Pot Diner,” Niki explains to me as if I just fell out of a coconut tree. “Right next to our bakery. She’s Lottie’s sister and my boss.”
“And one of my good friends,” I add, shooting her a look that asks what she’s been smoking. I may need some later.
“And she’s Mayor Nash’s other daughter,” Niki points out.
Mayor Nash has more kids than I can count, but two of them were born from an affair with Carlotta. That’s the level of lusty chaos we’re dealing with here—on both his part and Carlotta’s. Scandal might as well be her middle name.
Watson positions himself strategically between Julia and me, hoping to maximize his chances of receiving treats from multiple sources. The yummy odds are in his favor.
“Cha Cha is one who didn’t inherit his political ambitions,” Carlotta adds with a cackle. “She’s a smart girl. Politics is messier than the restaurant business, and that’s saying something, seeing as she’s watched a kitchen explode in real time more than once.”
Most likely because Carlotta was at the helm of those blasts. And my Aunt Cat, too.
Julia blinks at Carlotta with a blank expression. Funny thing is, most people give that exact expression when it comes to Carlotta and my Aunt Cat.
“Would you ladies like to try my Founding Fathers fried chicken?” Julia offers, producing a basket of golden pieces that smell as if they were personally blessed by George Washington himself. “And, of course, you’ll have to try my Paul Revere’s patriotic corn pudding. The pudding is nonnegotiable.”
She gestures toward a display of small ceramic ramekins painted with tiny Liberty Bells that match her apron.
“This is what I’m really known for—sweet corn pudding with my secret family spice blend.
The recipe’s been in the Washington family since before the Revolution.
I stake my reputation and my business on it.
I guarantee you’ve never tasted anything like it! ”
I bet I haven’t.
“Oh, I’ve heard about this!” Niki exclaims. “Everyone at the farmers’ market raves about Julia’s pudding.”
“Well, if you’re going to twist our arms,” Carlotta says, accepting a ramekin with a tiny spoon. “I never could resist a family secret.”
“Me neither,” Aunt Cat agrees, digging in immediately. “Mmm, this is divine! What’s in that spice blend?”
Julia’s eyes twinkle. “Now that would be telling! Let’s just say it’s a combination that would make Martha Washington herself gnash her wooden teeth until I fessed up.”
Watson’s nose goes into overdrive, and he sits with perfect posture, hoping his good behavior will be rewarded. It will be.
We’re all sampling the chicken now—which is legitimately amazing—when a commotion erupts from the direction of a gleaming silver food truck that looks like it belongs in a NASA hangar.
Whatever’s going on over there, I should stay out of it.
But I tend to gravitate toward trouble like a moth to a very chaotic flame.
Let’s hope this time, I don’t get burned.