I smacked my forehead. I had never heard either of my grandmothers swear like this in my life.
Zippy puffed himself up, though his shirt was still streaked with flour. “You two might be happily married, but your husbands aren’t going to like that you got in a fight over me.”
“A fight over you?” Nana chirped. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Yeah,” Nonna said. “We basted you.”
Nana leaned forward to see Nonna across me. “If we could toss him in an oven, we’d have fried chicken.”
“Fried rodent, you mean,” Nonna said.
“Good one,” Nana said, grinning. She held up a hand, and Nonna reached across me for a high-five. The motion sent a small flurry of leftover flour and spices drifting into my lap. The smell of paprika and grease hung thick in the air.
I glanced at Donna. She raised her eyebrows and gave a tiny shrug.
This was officially too much. I sighed and leaned back against the cold wall. The metal bars hummed faintly when someone down the hall slammed a door. “Hopefully nobody took pictures tonight,” I muttered.
“Oh yes,” Cormac said, his tone far too cheerful. “There were definitely pictures taken, but I didn’t see that reporter anywhere near here.”
“What reporter?” I tried to keep my voice level.
His eyes twinkled. “Jolene O’Sullivan, I believe her name is. She often catches you in… interesting situations.”
This guy really did his homework. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Just a guy looking for treasure,” he said, and his gaze slid toward Donna. If I wasn’t mistaken, she actually blushed.
My grandmothers exchanged a look over my head that could’ve launched a thousand conspiracies.
Before I could ask another question, the outer door jangled open and heavy footsteps echoed through the hall. A moment later, Detective Grant Pierce appeared on the other side of the bars.
He was dressed down in jeans and a gray sweatshirt, his dark blond hair rumpled, and his green eyes radiating barely contained irritation. The smell of rain and coffee clung to him, and I would’ve bet money someone had just dragged him out of bed.
“You got in a food fight at the Clumsy Penguin?” he asked, directing the question squarely at me.
I gulped. “I’m pretty sure I was just an observer on this one.”
“Yes, it’s true,” Nonna said suddenly, standing up and walking toward the bars. “Detective Pierce, it’s good to see you again. This one is my fault.”
“And mine,” Nana added, popping up beside her like they were synchronized swimmers.
I looked at Donna. If those two ever stayed united for more than five minutes, civilization might not survive it. Nana was at least six inches shorter than Nonna, but their posture was identical with straight backs, lifted chins, and twin looks of indignant pride.
Pierce sighed, long and hard, then turned toward the other cell. “Which one of you is Zippy?”
Zippy stood, brushing flour from his sleeves. “That would be me.”
“You’re a lawyer, right?” Pierce asked.
“I am.”
Pierce didn’t look amused. “My officer said you want to press charges.”
Zippy looked at Cormac, then at all of us, then down at the floor. “As an officer of the court, I’ve decided not to press charges.”
“There you go,” Cormac said, standing and clapping him on the back hard enough to make Zippy stumble forward.
Pierce’s expression didn’t change. “What kind of name is Zippy, anyway?”
