I watch in horrified fascination as Flip actually does kiss her hand, his mustache tickling her knuckles in a way that makes Nona Jo giggle like a teenager.
“The pleasure is all mine, beautiful,” Flip replies with surprising charm. “Though I have to say, a woman like you probably has men lined up around the block.”
“Oh, you flatterer.” Nona Jo bats her eyelashes with enough force to create a small breeze. “I do love a man who knows how to appreciate vintage quality.”
What in the fresh octogenarian hell is happening here?
Although I have to give it to the man, his name evokes images of pancakes drowning in syrup and butter, and his moves are pretty smooth, too.
Cooper and I exchange horrified looks as the two of them begin what appears to be an impromptu courtship ritual right next to a crime scene. Watson looks between them with the fascination of someone watching a nature documentary about strange mating habits. And how I pray they do not start mating or dating.
“This is inappropriate on so many levels,” I mutter under my breath.
“Tell me about it,” Cooper agrees. “There’s a dead body twenty feet away, and they’re acting like they’re at a senior center mixer.”
“So tell me, handsome,” Nona Jo continues, completely ignoring the fact that we’re standing in the middle of an active crime scene, “what brings a distinguished gentleman like yourself to our little festival?”
“Just wanted to check out the competition,” Flip replies with a grin that transforms his weathered face into that of an obvious predator. Okay, so I added that last bit, but the way he’s salivating, it may as well be true. “Although I have to say,” he continues, “the company here is much better than I expected.”
Watson barks, offering his own commentary on the situation, then returns to the serious business of sniffing around for food scraps.
I’m about to suggest that maybe flirting over a fresh corpse isn’t the best timing when Cooper gently pulls me aside, leaving Nona Jo and Flip to continue their bizarre meet and greet.
“I need to ask you something,” Cooper says quietly as his detective voice replaces his boyfriend voice. I know all of Cooper’s voices—and all of his kisses. I prefer the kisses. He nods. “And I need you to be completely honest with me.”
“Shoot,” I reply, though given our location and my secret vocation, that might not be the best choice of words. I’d like to think Cooper is in the dark about my little foray into homicide when it comes to the mob, but let’s just say he’s seen enough evidence to land me in the slammer. We have an unspoken don’t ask, don’t tell policy.
“Do you think Larry died of natural causes?”
I look toward Larry’s body, still clutched in his right hand is a half-eaten ramekin of Julia’s Paul Revere’s patriotic corn pudding.
“With me involved?” I say, echoing his earlier assessment. “I wouldn’t expect anything less than a homicide. You know I’m like a murder magnet with better hair.”
Cooper’s lips twitch in what might be a smile under different circumstances. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
“Besides,” I add, watching as Noah coordinates with the newly arrived backup units, “when was the last time someone just dropped dead from natural causes at a food festival? Especially someone who was arguing with people just minutes before?”
“You noticed that, too?” Cooper’s lips purse as his detective instincts work overtime.
“It was hard to miss,” I say, careful not to mention that I witnessed Flip’s specific argument with Larry. “The guy seemed to have a talent for making enemies. According to Julia Washington, there were quite a few people who wouldn’t shed a tear if he choked on his own pretentious attitude.”
Watson nudges my hand with his cold nose, reminding me that he’s still here and would like to be included in whatever treats might be forthcoming from this conversation. The only treat I want from Coop is a smooch.
“I’m going to need to interview everyone who had contact with Larry before he died,” Cooper says, already mentally organizing his investigation. “That includes you.”
“Lucky me,” I sigh. “I get to be both witness and prime suspect. Again.”
“Look on the bright side,” Cooper says, finally allowing that stubborn smile to surface. “At least this time you weren’t actually holding the murder weapon when I arrived.”
Before I can respond to that backhanded compliment, a commotion erupts near the crime scene tape. We both turn to see what appears to be a catfight brewing between two women, both of whom are arguing loud enough to be heard over the festival’s background noise.
“Back off, grandma!” comes a voice with all the subtlety of an air raid siren. “I already called dibs on the silver fox!”
Cooper’s sister, Loretta Solemina Lazzari, stalks toward our little group with the determination of a woman bent on destruction. Loretta is somewhere in her thirties. Her flame-red hair is teased to heights that says she has a personal vendetta against rationing hairspray. She’s poured herself into a leopard print dress that’s too tight in all the right places and too short in all the wrong ones, paired with heels high enough to require oxygen masks. Her nails are long enough to be classified as weapons, and she’s gesturing with them like they are ten very glamorous switchblades.
“Silver fox?” comes Nona Jo’s indignant response. “Honey, I was collecting Social Security when you were still in diapers! AndIsaw him first!”
Watson’s ears perk up at the rising voices, trying to figure out exactly what they’re fighting over. He sees no meat on a stick.
