“Move it, truck,” Donna bellowed. “Don’t call anybody. Let’s figure out what’s going on before we drag the rest of the family into this.”
“Good plan.” I hit the gas, following the familiar winding road around the lake toward the Clumsy Penguin. The wipers squeaked against the windshield as the headlights bounced off the wet pavement.
When I finally pulled into the parking lot, Donna was just getting out of her SUV. She slammed the door, and we both ran through the rain toward the entrance.
Inside, the place was loud, full of that humid warmth that comes from fried food and spilled beer. Luanne waved frantically from the far end of the bar. We hurried over.
Sure enough, Nana O’Shea stood confidently behind the bar, shaking a bag of chicken wings in flour and spices like she owned the place. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair was slightly off-center, and she was humming a tune that might’ve been “Danny Boy.”
Nonna sat on a stool on the customer side, chewing on a maraschino cherry. “Girls. How nice of you to join us.” Her eyes were bright and her words just a touch slurred.
“Oh, crap,” I muttered, looking over the bar. “Nana, what are you doing?”
Luanne threw her hands up, exasperated. “I’ve asked her to move out from behind the bar several times.”
Nana didn’t even look up. “This is a much better way to coat the wings, dear. Especially with the green accents to celebrate the holiday. Watch.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Luanne backed away.
“Nana,” I said, moving closer.
She looked up, smiling widely. “Oh, hello, Anna. And Donna too. How nice of you to join us.”
She must not have heard Nonna say the exact same thing seconds earlier. Her cheeks glowed crimson, and her green eyes appeared bloodshot.
Donna leaned in and whispered, “They’re hammered.”
I nodded grimly, watching Nana proudly dust her hands and reach for another bag of wings.
We were going to need divine intervention, or a gallon of coffee, to get those two out of there alive.
“How much have you had to drink?” Donna asked, her voice tight.
“Oh, not much,” Nonna said, reaching over to pat Donna’s arm and nearly falling off the stool in the process.
Donna lurched forward and caught her. “Whoa.”
“Thank you,” Nonna said, smiling proudly, as if she’d just executed a flawless ballet move.
Across the bar, Nana sighed. “I am getting hungry. How about you, Elda?”
“Yes,” Nonna said. “Are you about done shaking those?”
Luanne looked like she wanted to sink through the floor. “Excuse me, but Mrs. O’Shea, we can’t serve food prepared by anybody but us in this establishment.”
“That’s just silly,” Nana said, her Irish lilt strong enough to make the words bounce. “This is the proper way to coat the wings.”
The air inside the bar was thick with flour, beer, and hot oil. The ceiling fan did its best to stir the scent, but it only managed to spread it. The crowd, half stunned and half entertained, murmured in low disbelief. Somewhere, a jukebox song about Irish whiskey played faintly, and the absurdity of it all pressed down like humid air before a storm.
The front door creaked open, letting in a light breeze that carried the smell of rain and exhaust. I didn’t bother to look up. I should have.
“Excuse me, ladies,” a familiar voice said.
I jerked around to see Zippy O’Bellini standing far too close. Of course it was him. He looked the same as before in his perfect suit, slick shoes, and not a hair out of place.
“There you are, you lowdown son of a butthead,” Nonna blurted.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. We really needed to work on her insults.
