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Todd’s hands lingered on my shoulders before sliding down my arms.
    “Are you all right, Cherry?”
    I swallowed the tightness in my throat and folded my arms across my chest. “Of course I am.” I scanned Todd before returning my gaze to the pony rides. “Since we’re done here, would it suit you to walk around for a minute? I want to check out those cook-off booths, especially where Eloise ate.”
    “Sure.” He made two long strides toward the food booths before glancing over his shoulder. “You coming?”
    That’s what I always liked about Todd. He’s so agreeable. And loyal. Like I said, the Labrador of ex-boyfriends.
    “You think you want to make yourself decent first?” I asked.
    He glanced down at his bared chest. Leaning over into his favorite muscleman pose, he brought his fists together and flexed his shoulders and arms. He continued with a series of poses, ending with an upraised arm bicep flex. The evening sun streaked his glistening body in gold and amber. Stick Todd in the English countryside instead of rural Georgia, and John Constable would have loved to catch that light effect in one of his landscape paintings (if Constable had considered Guns of Steel at Sunset a worthy subject).
    “You don’t think the concessions want to see my pipes?” He grinned, striking another pose.
    “I think,” I swallowed and folded my arms over my thumping chest, “they’ve got enough distractions today.”
     

FIVE

    We wandered through the cook-off area, watching the contestants pack up their stations.
    “I wish I could remember which booth gave Eloise all that stew,” I said.
    Todd pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and examined it. “Team Cotton Pickin’ Good?” His eyes flicked over the signs hanging from the various competitors’ canopies.
    “How did you know?”
    “There were a bunch of tickets laying in a chair,” Todd said sheepishly. “I was fixing to get me something after I finished putting away your tent. They’re all for Cotton Pickin’ Good. I thought at a cook-off you got tickets to try all the booths.”
    “One of Eloise’s students gave her free tickets to their stew stand,” I swallowed the knot in my throat. “Poor Eloise. Brought low by her love for Brunswick Stew. Let’s check out this Cotton Pickin’ joint.”
    The Cotton Pickin’ Good booth stood on the periphery of the stands, one of the few tents that didn’t bustle with activity. A young man with a neck tattoo and gaping plug earrings stood behind the tent, slowly packing utensils into a box.
    He looked up as we approached. “We’re closed.”
    “Already? What happened?” I asked.
    “Got shut down by some official dudes. But we would have closed anyway. Lewis, our cook, is in the hospital.” His nose wrinkled. He tossed a dirty knife into the box. “I’m supposed to head over there after I clean up. Even when he gets sick, I’m stuck doing Lewis’s dirty work.”
    I latched on to that bit of information like a terrier on a squirrel. “He caught food poisoning, too?”
    “I don’t know.” The kid grabbed a roll of paper towels, jumped, and slam-dunked the towels into the box. “My mom is freaking out. I don’t think she’d freak out over food poisoning. Probably tell him to take Pepto and quit whining.”
    I glanced at Todd, but he was examining the mess in the box. Probably looking for leftovers.
    “Marion’s sick, too,” said the teen as he half-heartedly lobbed salt and pepper shakers in the box. A bag of Vidalia onions followed.
    I flinched at the mess someone would have to unpack and tried to concentrate on the mysterious sickness inflicted on Team Cotton Pickin’ Good. One that may or may not be food poisoning. “Who else is sick?”
    “Marion. Lewis’s wife.” The kid swept a jar of pickle slices off the counter into the open box below. It hit a pot with a clang. I bit my lip imagining pickle juice soaking into the cardboard.
    “I feel bad about that,” the kid said. “Don’t