Sneak Peek!
Yankee Doodle Deadly
Book Description:
This Fourth of July, someone is going out with a BANG!
Fireworks aren’t the only thing exploding this Fourth of July, I’m trading my sparklers for bullets.
*Includes RECIPE!*
Chapter 1
Effie
The scent of bacon grease and patriotic pride hangs thick over Honey Lake, creating an olfactory assault that screams America! louder than a bald eagle riding a monster truck.
Patriotic bunting flutters from every conceivable surface, the snap of fabric mixing with the sizzle of grills and the cheerful chaos of a small town in full celebration mode.
Speakers crackle through a liberty-themed playlist that’s been cycling the same twelve songs since noon, and the lake sparkles under the July sun like nature’s own sequined blanket.
My name is Eufrasia Margarita Canelli, but people just call me Effie—unless they’re really mad at me or trying to get my attention at a family gathering. Then it’s Eff you.
I’m five-foot-five of chaos wrapped in determination, with dark, medium-length hair that refuses to cooperate in humidity, dark eyes that have seen more dead bodies than any living person should, and a talent for stumbling into trouble that usually ends with someone calling the coroner.
Oh—and I moonlight as an assassin for my Uncle Jimmy’s crime family.
Long story short: I got laid off, faced moving back in with my parents, and Uncle Jimmy offered me two career paths—strip club or homicide. I chose the one with better benefits and less glitter. My success rate is admittedly terrible, but hey, nobody’s perfect.
Right now, I’m locked in mortal combat with what appears to be the most vindictive string of twinkle lights in existence at Honey Hollow’s inaugural “Taste of America” festival.
It’s exactly one week until the Fourth of July, and every resident within a fifty-mile radius has descended on Honey Lake like locusts with coolers and lawn chairs. Food trucks circle the lake like covered wagons preparing for the world’s most delicious battle, their holiday decorations competing to blind passersby with the most aggressive display of national pride.
The lights I’m dealing with have somehow tied themselves into a knot that would impress a sailor. Unfortunately, I have no maritime training and even less patience. So I’m out of luck here.
Watson—my golden shepherd mix, whom I share with my boyfriend—is “helping” by wearing a tiny Uncle Sam hat that keeps sliding over one eye while wrapping his leash around my ankles every time he catches a whiff of kettle corn.
“Need backup over here?” My sister Niki calls from behind the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery booth, where she’s arranging cupcakes as if her reputation depends on every sprinkle. Not that it matters. She lost her reputation years ago—and she’s proud of it, too.
Niki’s idea of festival-appropriate attire apparently involves a red bandana top that barely qualifies as clothing, paired with denim shorts so brief they could be classified as a belt. Her dark hair is pulled into pigtails with star-spangled scrunchies, and she’s somehow matched her lipstick to the strawberry frosting on our Stars and Stripes Forever cupcakes.
“I’ve got it under control,” I lie, as the lights somehow manage to strangle both me and our booth’s corner post at the same time.
“Famous last words,” Lily Swanson sings, emerging from behind a tower of Liberty Bell Brownies with flour dusting her shoulder-length brown hair and a smirk playing on her lips. She’s opted for a more sensible approach to Fourth-of-July fashion—a navy T-shirt with tiny white stars and red capri pants that actually cover the necessary body parts. “I give it thirty seconds before you’re completely mummified in twinkle lights.”
Suze Fox appears with a tray of Founding Fathers Fritters, her short blonde-gray hair slightly disheveled and her stocky frame wrapped in a flag-print apron she’s wearing with the enthusiasm of someone attending her own execution.
“I swear, if I see one more flag-themed anything, I’m developing a sudden case of British loyalty,” she crows. “This place looks as if Uncle Sam exploded over every corner of Honey Lake.”
“That’s the spirit of independence talking,” I grunt, finally freeing myself from the lights—only to realize I’ve somehow hung our Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery banner completely upside down.
Perfect. Nothing says professional like advertising ourselves as a cry for help.
“Speaking of spirit,” Niki says with a grin that means trouble, “have you seen the competition? Because holy founding fathers, some of these food truck owners are serving up more than just hot dogs, if you know what I mean.”
“We literally got here an hour ago,” Lily points out, adjusting a display of red velvet whoopie pies shaped like miniature top hats. “How have you already scoped out all the hot men?”
“It’s a gift,” Niki shrugs, gesturing toward the lake where food trucks are setting up in a patriotic parade of culinary chaos. “Check out the guy with the hot dog cart. Those biceps could bench-press a small cannon.”
I follow her gaze across the festival, taking in the ridiculous spectacle that is Honey Hollow’s attempt to out-celebrate every other town in Vermont. Food trucks surround the lake, each one more aggressively themed than the last. A handful are close to our booth and have been calling to my olfactory senses like a siren song.
There’s Rocket’s Red Glare Gourmet, a gleaming silver Airstream that looks like it should be launching into orbit instead of serving overpriced sliders. The owner—a lanky guy with slicked-back black hair, aviator sunglasses, and a leather jacket that screams I peaked in the eighties—is directing setup with the intensity of a space launch.
The Colonial Kitchen resembles a literal covered wagon, complete with wooden wheels and a canvas top stretched over a modified food truck. The owner, a sturdy woman in her fifties with a graying brown bun, is hanging a hand-painted sign advertising Founding Fathers Fried Chicken and Declaration of Independ-ants on a Log.
But the real showstopper is Sunshine’s Groovy Grub—a tie-dyed VW bus that looks like it time-traveled from Woodstock, covered in peace signs and flower-power decals that clash spectacularly with the American flag bunting draped over its serving window. A petite woman with bright purple hair twisted into space buns, multiple piercings, and enough vegetable tattoos to stock a farmer’s market is hanging crystals from the window while burning what smells like patchouli incense.
“I’m getting a secondhand contact high just looking at that thing,” Suze says, arranging apple pie bars that smell like heaven and freedom.
“At least it’s authentic,” I mutter, finally giving up on the banner situation. “Unlike Mr. Top Gun over there, who probably thinks gourmet means adding truffle oil to everything.”
And it sort of does.
“Have you seen the size of that bratwurst cart?” Niki asks, fanning herself with a paper plate. “Those are some seriously impressive sausages.”
I take a moment to scowl at my saucy sister.
“Oh, Niki,” Lily says. “I hate to break it to you, but they’re just regular hot dogs.”
“Honey, there’s nothing regular about those foot-longs,” Niki fires back. “And did you see how he handles that grill? That man has a firm grip and excellent technique.”
Suze exhales. “I need more coffee if I’m going to survive your commentary.”
Watson barks suddenly, his tail kicking into helicopter mode as he spots a familiar figure cutting through the crowd.
My heart does something ridiculous in my chest before my brain even processes who I’m looking at—which pretty much tells me everything I need to know about how this week is going to go.
***I hope you enjoyed this preview! Thank you for reading!****