“Effie,” Cooper says as we approach, “I’d like you to meet Flip Flapjack. He owns the All-American Diner here on Main Street. He’s an old friend of my dad’s from way back. We’re practically family.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” Flip says, extending a meaty hand that engulfs mine in a surprisingly gentle grip. His voice carries a warm rumble, like he’s spent decades calling out orders in a busy kitchen. “I’ve heard a lot about Cooper’s famous girlfriend.”
I have a feeling he meantinfamous.
“All good things, I hope,” I reply, though given my track record with corpses, I’m not entirely sure that’s possible.
“Mostly.” Flip grins, and there’s something genuine about his smile that makes me want to like him despite the fact that he’s now officially a person of interest in my unofficial murder investigation. “Though Cooper might have undersold your talent for being in interesting places at interesting times.”
Great. I don’t solve crimes—I personally collect them. Okay, so I’ve solved a few, too.
“Flip has been serving the best burgers in three counties for about thirty years,” Cooper explains, scratching Watson behind the ears as the dog nudges his hand.
“Forty next month,” Flip corrects with a touch of pride. “Started when I was fresh out of the service. Figured if I could cook for a bunch of half-starved soldiers, I could handle hungry truckers and locals.”
“What branch?” I ask, filing away the military information for future reference.
“Army,” Flip replies, then his expression sobers. “I did a couple of tours overseas before I decided I’d had enough excitement for one lifetime.”
There’s something in his tone that tells us those tours involved more than just cooking, but before I can probe further, Watson barks and tilts his head toward Larry’s body, as if reminding us why we’re all standing around making small talk.
“Terrible thing about Larry,” Flip says, following Watson’s gaze. “Can’t say I’m surprised, though. That man had a talent for making enemies.”
“Did you know him well?” I ask, keeping my tone even despite the fact that I watched them having what appeared to be a rather heated discussion just minutes before Larry’s demise.
“Well enough.” Flip shrugs. “He came into my diner a few months back, ordered a burger, then spent twenty minutesexplaining everything I was doing wrong. Wrote a review that basically called my foodan assault on American culinary traditions.”
Cooper’s eyebrows rise slightly. “That must have been frustrating.”
“You could say that,” Flip replies with a chuckle that doesn’t register with his face. “Though I figured karma would catch up with him eventually. I just didn’t expect it to be this quick.”
Watson whines, sensing the undercurrents of the conversation, and I find myself wondering exactly what Flip and Larry were discussing in their pre-death argument. Unfortunately, admitting I witnessed it would make me look more suspicious than I already do, so I decide to zip it for now.
Coop nods my way, like he could read my mind.
For those just joining our regularly scheduled family dysfunction, Cooper’s real name is Cupertino Knox Lazzari, which makes him part of the Lazzari crime family—the sworn enemies of my own Canelli clan. It’s sort of a Romeo-and-Juliet situation that would be romantic if it didn’t involve the very real possibility that our relatives might actually try to kill each other at family gatherings. We’ve been navigating this particular minefield for months now, and so far, nobody has ended up in cement shoes, so I’m calling it a win.
“Well, well, well,” comes a voice that could charm birds from trees or money from wallets with equal efficiency. “What have we here?”
I turn to see my Nona Jo making her grand entrance, somehow having materialized from thin air with the timing of a woman who has a sixth sense for drama. She’s traded her usual house dress for what looks like a festive red and white ensemble that makes her look like Mrs. Claus’s slightly scandalous very much older sister. Her gray hair is teased to impressive heightsand held in place with enough hairspray to withstand a category 5 hurricane.
“Nona Jo,” I sigh, “there’s been an accident?—”
“I can see that, my favorite chaos coordinator,” she interrupts, but her eyes aren’t on Larry’s body.
Wait… did she just call me a chaos coordinator?
At least I’m her favorite. Niki’s chaos coordination ranks right up there with mine. So that says something.
Her gaze snaps to Flip and stays there—sharp, focused, and absolutely not missing a thing. “But I don’t believe I’ve been properly introduced to this handsome gentleman.”
Watson’s tail starts wagging faster, as if he recognizes the beginning of one of Nona Jo’s legendary flirtation campaigns—and those legendary treats she keeps in her pockets.
Nona Jo has never left the house without a handful of biscotti within easy reach. Dentures be darned, she’s not missing out on those crunchy Italian cookies.
“Ma’am,” Flip says, removing his trucker hat with old-fashioned courtesy that immediately earns him points in Nona Jo’s book. “Flip Flapjack, at your service.”
“Well, aren’t you just delicious,” Nona Jo purrs, extending her hand like she expects him to kiss it. “I’m Josephine Canelli, but you can call me Jo. All the handsome men do.”
