Chapter 9
Iweave through the mock Civil War battlefield, carrying Watson like he’s a furry flag of surrender, dodging dramatically dying soldiers and enough cannon smoke to choke a horse.
“Why, hello there!” Julia calls out as we approach, her face lighting up as she recognizes us. “I believe we met at the lake yesterday, didn’t we? And this must be Watson—I remember that adorable little hat he was wearing! You’re Niki’s sister, aren’t you? That girl is such a delight.”
And now I wonder if she really does know Niki after all.
Watson wags his tail with enough enthusiasm to power a windmill as Julia reaches over to scratch behind his ears. His flag bandana has survived the battle chaos and still makes him look festive and adorable.
“That’s right,” I say, setting him down so he can properly investigate all the fascinating food smells emanating from Julia’s setup. “We were at the festival when... Well, when that unfortunate incident happened.”
Julia’s expression grows somber for a moment.
“It’s terrible what happened to poor Larry.
Such a shock for everyone. You know, Larry wasn’t just any food truck owner—he was a top chef in his own right.
Before he opened that gourmet truck, he was one of the most successful food critics in New England.
He still writes reviews, actually. Or he did up until yesterday.
His opinion could make or break a restaurant.
” She shakes her head sadly, then brightens a notch.
“But life must go on. There’s nothing like a good battle to work up folks’ appetites.
You simply must try some of my offerings.
I made sure it’s all authentic battlefield cuisine, prepared exactly as our brave soldiers would have eaten. ”
She bustles around her wagon, producing a wooden plate piled high with enough food to sustain a small army.
There’s cornbread that smells like heaven mixed with butter, pork that’s been seasoned with something that makes my mouth water, and—my stomach drops—a generous helping of her famous corn pudding.
The same corn pudding Larry Rocket died clutching in his rapidly cooling fingers.
“Oh, you really don’t have to—” I start, but Julia’s already pressing the plate into my hands with determination because clearly, she takes her hospitality very seriously.
“Nonsense! That corn pudding is Martha Washington’s authentic recipe.
I’m a Daughter of the American Revolution.
My lineage goes back eight generations. My great-great-great-grandfather fought at Yorktown.
People don’t follow me for recipes, they follow me because I am the real thing.
My bloodline is my brand. I can’t fake that, and I won’t compromise it. ”
Watson sits at my feet with perfect posture, fully committed to the idea that good behavior equals snacks.
His brown eyes track my fork like it’s the most important development of the day, while I sit there wondering if I’m about to eat the same thing that sent Larry to the great food court in the sky.
Although I highly doubt Julia is ready to conduct a mass poisoning.
I’m guessing that meal was tailored to Larry for very specific reasons. Like, maybe a bad review?
I take a tiny cautious bite of the corn pudding, prepared to detect any hint of poison, arsenic, or whatever deadly substance might be lurking in the sweet corn mixture.
Instead, I get a mouthful of the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted—creamy, sweet, with a hint of something I can’t quite identify that makes my taste buds do a little happy dance.
“Oh my word. This is incredible,” I say, and I’m not lying. If this corn pudding was used as a murder weapon, at least Larry went out with style.
“It should be incredible. It’s been one of my family’s best-guarded secrets for generations,” Julia says, ladling more onto my plate despite my protests. “Seven generations of Washington women have guarded that recipe with their lives.”
Before I can probe further about exactly what makes this corn pudding so special, a Confederate soldier stumbles back and collapses dramatically right next to Julia’s wagon, clutching his chest and moaning about the cursed Yankees.
Julia steps over the corpse without missing a beat and continues serving cornbread to a Union officer who’s trying to maintain his historical character while obviously checking out her period-appropriate cleavage—because apparently some things, like men, haven’t evolved much over the centuries.
Watson approaches the fallen soldier with concern, undecided on whether this is a game or a full-blown emergency. He gives the man’s face a careful sniff, then a tentative lick—just enough to break character and earn a very un–Civil-War chuckle.
“Good boy,” the dead Confederate whispers, scratching Watson’s ears. “You’re the best medic I’ve had all day.”
I’m about to ask Julia more pointed questions about her relationship with Larry when the cavalry literally arrives.
“Ladies!” Aunt Cat’s voice carries across the battlefield with enough volume to be heard over the cannon fire. “I’ve found us some authentic entertainment!”
She appears through the smoke, leading three Confederate officers by what appears to be their collective testosterone.
They’re all tall, dark, and handsome in that way that suggests a Civil War reenactment might be the world’s most effective dating strategy, and they’re hanging on Aunt Cat’s every word like she’s about to reveal the location of buried treasure.
Lord only knows what she’s promised them.
“Tell me more about your cannon,” Aunt Cat purrs, giving his buttons a slow, knowing glide. “It looks impressive. I assume you know exactly how to fire it off when it counts.”
A hard groan escapes from me.
“Yes, ma’am,” the officer stammers, his historical character wavering under Aunt Cat’s assault. “It requires a very firm touch and steady rhythm.”
Good gravy, these men are playing right into her unscrupulous hands.
Watson barks as if commenting on the increasingly obvious double entendres, then returns to the serious business of convincing Julia to share more cornbread—which she happily does.
“Hey, Eff!” Carlotta’s voice booms from the opposite direction. “Come meet my boys!”
She emerges from behind a supply tent with what appears to be half the Union army in tow, all of whom are seemingly competing for her attention.
What in the world? These men are acting like Aunt Cat and Carlotta are catnip. More like witches with a working knowledge of casting one serious spell. Either that or these men really have been out in the battlefield for far too long.
“Ma’am, did you know that the average Civil War soldier carried forty pounds of equipment?” says a private who looks like he moonlights as a fitness instructor.
“That’s nothing,” counters a sergeant with biceps that suggest he’s been lifting more than historical equipment. “Some cavalry units could ride for twelve hours straight without stopping.”
“Twelve hours?” Carlotta fans herself with her hand. “My word, that’s impressive stamina. I do admire a man who can go the distance.”
I’ll bet she does.
Before I can process the full horror of this flirtation campaign, Niki appears with her own entourage of battlefield medics who seem more interested in her than in treating wounded soldiers.
It’s safe to say there’s been a woeful shortage of women at these events.
“They’re teaching me about first aid techniques,” Niki announces, though the medics appear to be demonstrating bandaging procedures that involve an unusual amount of touching.
“It’s a very hands-on learning experience.
I might need mouth-to-mouth resuscitation myself,” she adds with a wink that makes all three medics volunteer simultaneously.
Julia watches this circus with a bewildered look, like she’s not entirely sure if she’s at a historical reenactment or a very patriotic speed dating event.
“Your crew is very committed,” she points out as politely as possible.
They should be committed.
“That’s one way to put it,” I agree, taking another bite of the corn pudding. “You mentioned yesterday that you knew Larry Rocket from the festival circuit.”
“I sure did know him.” Julia’s friendly expression flickers like a candle in the wind.
Her hands pause in their cornbread preparation, and she glances around as if checking for eavesdroppers among the mock battle chaos.
“Larry was difficult to please,” she says as her voice loses some of its hospitality.
“He could be very demanding about authenticity and quality. Being both a top chef and an influential food critic made him... Well, let’s just say his opinions carried a lot of weight. ”
“I bet,” I say, watching her reaction. “He struck me as the type who had strong opinions about food.”
“The man had strong opinions about everything,” Julia mutters, then seems to catch herself. “Not that I should speak ill of the dead, but Larry had a way of making enemies wherever he went. When you can destroy someone’s business with a single review...”
Watson has stationed himself next to Julia’s prep area like he’s been assigned there, clearly banking on the possibility that distraction leads to more cornbread.
“Enemies?” I probe, keeping my voice casual while mentally taking notes.
Julia nods. “He’d been visiting various vendors on the circuit. Making suggestions about how we could improve our operations. For a fee, of course.” She rolls her eyes.
The way she says suggestions makes it clear we’re talking about something significantly less friendly than constructive criticism.
“That must have been frustrating,” I muse. The man sounds like a mob strongman if ever there was one.
“He told me my food was cafeteria slop worthy of prison inmates,” Julia says, and her voice is bitter, her hands are shaking.
“Said he’d write reviews that would destroy my business unless I paid him for consultation services.
And with his reputation, he could do it, too.
One bad review from Larry Rocket could end a career. ”
“That’s terrible,” I say, and I mean it. “What kind of consultation was he offering?”
“The kind where you pay him money, and he doesn’t write scathing reviews that ruin your reputation,” Julia replies, then immediately looks like she regrets revealing so much.
She glances around nervously, then leans closer.
“If you’re really interested in who might have wanted Larry dead, you should talk to that hippie girl with the tie-dyed food truck.
Sunshine something-or-other. She and Larry had some serious bad blood between them.
More than just the usual vendor rivalry, if you know what I mean. ”
“Sunshine Crumpet?” I ask, remembering the purple-haired woman from yesterday’s festival drama.
“That’s the one.” Julia nods, her voice dropping to a whisper. “She’d know more about why someone might want to see Larry permanently out of the food business. Those two had a history.”
Julia fidgets with her apron strings. “Do they know what happened to him? I mean, was it natural causes? A heart attack or something?”
“Right now, the detectives are treating it as a murder,” I offer, and she flinches a little. “Or so rumor has it.”
Mostly because I was present when it happened, and my murder to natural health disasters ratio is way off-kilter.
No need for Julia to know that I’m canoodling with the hot homicide detective night after night. Speaking of which, I’m looking forward to our regularly scheduled canoodling session later. Cooper is very thorough when it comes to his investigative techniques, both professional and personal.
“Murder,” she pants it out like she can’t even say it.
Watson whines, sensing the tension in Julia’s voice, and she absently reaches down to pet him, which seems to calm her nerves.
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” she adds. “Larry made a lot of enemies in this business.”
Before I can press further, a massive cannon explosion rocks the battlefield, sending up enough smoke to hide a small army.
When the air clears, I realize Julia has vanished from behind her wagon, leaving only Watson and me standing among the abandoned cornbread and that suspiciously delicious corn pudding.
Watson barks sharply and trots around to the back of the wagon, his nose working overtime. I follow him to find a wooden crate filled with what appears to be modern spice containers and some bottles that definitely don’t look like they belong in a Civil War sutler’s supply.
One bottle catches my eye—a small vial labeled Natural Corn Sweetener in handwriting that looks suspiciously fresh for something that’s supposed to be a family recipe from Martha Washington’s era.
Okay, so I’m reaching, but again, I’m ready to wrap this up and enjoy the upcoming holiday.
I really need something to work with here.
I scoop up my cute pooch. Now I just need to collect the chaos crew I came with from their respective romantic conquests and figure out exactly what Julia Washington has been putting in her famous corn pudding.
Some murder investigations involve fingerprints and forensic evidence. Others involve cautiously sampling what might be the murder weapon while the happy harlots I came with flirt with historically costumed strangers in the middle of a fake battle.
I’m starting to think my investigative techniques might need some work.