Chapter 5
The sound that erupts from the festival crowd isn’t the cheerful chaos of people enjoying food trucks—it’s a high-pitched, collective shriek that usually indicates either a celebrity sighting or someone discovering a dead body.
Since this is Honey Hollow and not Hollywood, I’m betting on the latter.
“Already on it,” comes a familiar voice that makes my stomach do a little flip despite the circumstances.
Cooper appears through the crowd like a detective-shaped solution to absolutely everything, radio in hand, his expression shifting from festivalgoer to cop faster than Watson can spot a dropped hot dog.
He moves with a purposeful stride that parts crowds, and people step aside as if he’s Moses with a badge. And holy Moses, is he ever hot.
Watson plants himself between me and the chaos, his golden fur bristling just enough to say he knows things are about to go very, very wrong for me.
“Everyone back up,” Cooper commands, dropping to one knee beside Larry’s still body. “Give him some space.”
I watch as Cooper checks for a pulse at Larry’s wrist, then his neck, his movements efficient and professional.
The festival noise fades to a worried murmur as everyone holds their collective breath, hoping for some sign of life from the man who was just loudly critiquing every culinary choice here.
Cooper’s expression tells me everything I need to know before he speaks a word.
“He’s gone,” Cooper announces, his voice carrying an authority that’s delivered this news before. He reaches for his radio and calls it in. “Dispatch, this is Detective Knox. We have a Code 10-54 at the Honey Lake Festival. I need the coroner, backup units, and someone to secure this scene. Now.”
The radio crackles with official-sounding responses that make my stomach clench. This is really happening. Again.
Larry Rocket, food critic turned mobile gourmet entrepreneur, is dead, and I’m standing over his body like some sort of culinary angel of death.
Watson whines and presses closer to my legs, his warm weight grounding me as the festival transforms from celebration to a crime scene.
“Geez, Effie,” comes a voice from behind. “Please tell me you didn’t actually trip over another dead body.”
I turn to see Homicide Detective Noah Fox jogging toward us, managing to look both official and unfairly attractive.
He’s got dark hair that requires minimal styling to look perfect, a jawline that could garner a double take from any woman, and the build of a man who takes his physical fitness as seriously as his job.
He’s somewhere in his thirties and carries himself with authority, which explains how he managed to catch Lottie’s attention. She does love her men to hold powerful positions in society. Hence, the judge and the detective she’s romantically linked to.
Face it, Lottie Lemon has the law in her back apron.
For those keeping track at home, Noah is Suze’s son and Lottie’s baby daddy. Suze still hasn’t entirely forgiven Lottie for corrupting her innocent boy, while Noah seems blissfully unaware that his mother has been making voodoo dolls in his likeness since he started dating her boss.
And Suze makes them in Lottie’s likeness, too, but for some reason, those never seem to work. Lottie really does have some supernatural forces working in her favor.
“I didn’t trip over him,” I protest weakly. “He just sort of collapsed. Right in front of me.”
“Of course, he did,” Noah sighs, pulling out his own radio to coordinate with dispatch. “Because Heaven forbid that either you or Lottie have a normal weekend that doesn’t involve someone dropping dead in your immediate vicinity.” He’s not wrong. Heaven does seem to forbid it.
Cooper stands, brushing grass off his knees while maintaining his professional demeanor. “Noah, I need you to help me secure a perimeter. Twenty-foot radius around the body, and we need to start identifying witnesses.”
“On it,” Noah replies, already moving to establish a crime scene boundary, because let’s face it, he’s done this before. Many, many times.
Watson watches with mild alarm, like he’s never seen humans coordinate in an emergency before. Unfortunately for him, this isn’t his first lethal rodeo.
“Effie Canelli!” comes a voice that could shatter glass as easily as bones. “What have you done now?”
I close my eyes and count to three before turning to face the inevitable.
Aunt Cat and Carlotta are pushing through the crowd like two sequined icebreakers, their matching glittery tracksuits catching the afternoon sun and reflecting it back in ways that can cause permanent blindness to everyone in the great state of Vermont.
“I didn’t do anything,” I say defensively, though my track record suggests otherwise. “I was just standing here, innocently eating festival food, when this guy keeled over at my feet.”
“Sure you were, killer.” Carlotta cackles away at my expense, and the expense of the dead guy. “Just standing there, minding your own business, when death came calling. Again.”
“Well, would you look at that!” Aunt Cat claps her hands together. “Our little Effie’s finally giving Lot Lot some competition in the body-finding department!”
Watson barks as if he’s agreeing with this deadly assessment, then immediately looks ashamed of himself for making noise near a crime scene. He’s a good pooch that way.
“I always knew she had it in her,” Carlotta continues, pulling out her phone and snapping a few pictures of Larry’s body. “She takes after the family. You Canellis really know how to make an impression.”
“Do you think she’ll spin this into a business?” Aunt Cat muses. “Death by Dessert with Effie Canelli? Lottie is already making a killing doing the same.”
“Ladies,” Cooper intervenes, trying to maintain order while surrounded by chaos. “This is a potential crime scene. Could you please—”
“Crime scene?” Niki appears beside them like a sassy genie summoned by the promise of homicidal drama.
Her pigtails are slightly disheveled, and she’s clutching what appears to be a half-eaten corn dog like a tiny baton.
I’ll admit, it looks gourmet quality. I’ve always been a sucker for a good corn dog.
“Oh wow, look at that, Effie. You actually found another one! I thought Aunt Cat was exaggerating.” She shakes her head, and her pigtails wobble.
“I’m starting to think you and Lottie should form a support group,” Niki continues with morbid enthusiasm.
“You could call yourselves Body Magnets R Us or something. You could have meetings and sell merch and everything.”
Carlotta nods. “I’d buy some.”
“Me, too,” Aunt Cat agrees.
And I shoot both of those old biddies a look because we all know they’d expect the merch for free.
Watson wags his tail at Niki’s arrival, apparently deciding that familiar faces are preferable to crime scene chaos, even if those familiar faces are providing inappropriate commentary.
Niki gives me the once-over. “Do you think whatever you’ve got that’s knocking people into the next life is contagious?” she adds, taking a deliberate step back. “Should I be standing farther away? I don’t want to catch whatever death magnet disease you’ve got.”
“It’s not a disease,” I protest, though at this point I’m starting to wonder. “It’s just really, really bad luck.” And considering that I do work with Lottie, who has stumbled over more dead bodies than I have fingers and toes to count, it just might be a tad contagious.
“Effie!” Lily’s voice cuts through the crowd as she and Suze come running toward us, both looking like they just witnessed a culinary apocalypse. “Did you find another body?”
Is that the only question people have for me these days?
Lily’s dark hair is escaping from her ponytail, and her holiday-themed T-shirt has somehow acquired what looks like cotton candy residue, suggesting she was enjoying the festival before news of my latest catastrophe reached her.
“Define find,” I say weakly.
“That’s it,” Suze declares, her hands on her hips and her expression suggesting she’s reached the end of her considerable patience. “You and Lottie are officially working for the Grim Reaper. I’m demanding hazard pay.”
Her flag print apron is slightly askew, and her short blonde-gray hair looks like she’s been running her hands through it in frustration. Which, knowing Suze, she has.
“The way I see it,” Suze continues, “either you two are the unluckiest people on the planet or death has you both on speed dial. Either way, I want some sort of bonus for working in the same vicinity as a couple of walking disaster magnets.”
Watson looks between all the arguing humans, trying to understand why everyone’s making so much noise when there are clearly more important things to focus on—like the fact that someone dropped a perfectly good piece of funnel cake about three feet away.
“Now hang on.” Aunt Cat points a bedazzled finger at Suze.
She’s suddenly donned a pair of sparkling red gloves to complete the chaos.
“Our Effie might be new to this whole dead body thing, but she’s got natural talent.
Look at her—she’s already got the positioning down perfect.
Standing right over the corpse like a pro and everything! ”
“It’s all about presentation,” Carlotta agrees sagely. “And our girl’s got stage presence.”
Next, they’ll be giving me flowers for my performance—flowers they stole from the cemetery.
Cooper catches my eye, and his expression suggests he’s wondering how his relatively normal security assignment turned into a crime scene surrounded by what appears to be a chorus of inappropriate commentary.
“If everyone could please step back,” Noah calls out, having successfully established a perimeter around Larry’s body with crime scene tape that somehow appeared from nowhere. The guy probably keeps it in his back pocket. “We need to preserve the integrity of the scene.”
“Integrity.” Niki snorts. “That ship sailed the moment Effie showed up. She’s like a walking crime scene contamination unit.”
She’s not wrong, but must she point it out?
Watson whines and looks up at me with concerned coffee-colored eyes, as if asking whether this is normal human behavior during emergencies. I scratch behind his ears, finally dislodging his Uncle Sam hat in the process.
“Don’t worry, boy,” I murmur. “This is about as normal as it gets around here.”
Through the chaos of the crime scene and nonstop commentary, I notice someone standing near the edge of the crowd—the mystery man who was arguing with Larry just before he collapsed. He’s talking to Cooper now, their conversation too quiet to overhear but animated enough to suggest it’s important.
Watson notices my attention shift and follows my gaze, his ears perking up with interest.
“Come on,” I tell him. “Let’s go see what that’s about.”
As we start moving toward Cooper and the mystery man, I can’t help but think that this festival has taken a decidedly murderous turn.
Some traditions never change—and apparently, neither does my talent for being in the wrong place at exactly the right time.