“Just keep them from destroying the place,” I tell them, untangling Watson’s leash from the streamers. “And try not to let anyone get arrested before the Fourth. We have a booth to run.”
“No promises,” Niki says, moving like someone who’s broken up more fights than a professional referee. Which, to be fair, she has—though most of those involved her bed and some questionable role-playing choices.
Watson looks up at me, clearly voting for the kitchen and its promising smells over whatever crisis is about to unfold in the dining room.
“Come on, boy,” I tell him, making my way through the maze of red vinyl booths toward the kitchen. “Let’s go have a little chat with our friend Flip about corn pudding, dead food critics, and exactly what he was discussing with Larry Rocket before the man took his final bite.”
Watson wags his approval of this plan because it involves heading toward the source of all those incredible food smells rather than staying in the dining room where senior citizens are about to engage in combat.
Behind us, I hear Nona Jo declare something in Italian that definitely counts as fighting words, followed by Loretta’s response in English that feels one step away from a felony.
Some investigations happen in quiet rooms with proper procedures and paperwork. Others happen in diners while your family keeps two senior citizens from going to war over a man who just wants to flip burgers in peace.
I’m starting to think my investigative career has taken another interesting turn.
CHAPTER 17
The kitchen of Flip’s All-American Diner smells like heaven, if heaven had a really good short-order cook and an unlimited supply of bacon grease.
I lean against the pass-through window between the kitchen and dining room with Watson at my feet, giving us a perfect view of the escalating warfare between Nona Jo and Loretta while staying close enough to the grill to interrogate the man who might hold the key to Larry Rocket’s murder.
Flip Flapjack stands at the grill like a man determined not to notice his diner is hosting the opening rounds of a very uncivil war. He’s older, short and stocky in a way that lets us know he samples his own cooking. His gray handlebar mustache twitches, and sweat beads on his forehead despite the fans working overtime.
Through the pass-through, I can see the dining room drama unfolding like a very expensive reality show that involves a woman’s prison and a shank.
Nona Jo and Loretta are circling each other like cage fighters, while Aunt Cat tries to play peacekeeper by inserting herself between them. Carlotta is attempting to distract Loretta withcompliments about her hair, and Niki is frantically texting what I assume are emergency backup requests.
Either that or she’s trying to keep up with all the dating apps she’s on. It’s basically a full-time job for her at this point.
Flip’s in his usual apron over a white T-shirt and jeans, hands working the grill with muscle memory alone. He won’t look up. Won’t make eye contact. And the way his spatula shakes has nothing to do with flipping burgers and might have everything to do with what’s coming his way.
“Busy night,” I say, watching Nona Jo grab a napkin dispenser while Loretta swings her purse like a wrecking ball.
“We’re always busy the night before the Fourth,” Flip says, not looking up as he flips liberty burgers with a little too much force. “Folks want comfort food before the fireworks.”
Watson stations himself near the grill, clearly hoping Flip’s nerves might lead to dropped bacon. But his attention keeps drifting to the dining room, where Aunt Cat is now physically restraining Nona Jo.
“Speaking of fireworks,” I say, nodding toward the chaos where Carlotta has started throwing dinner rolls as a distraction, “looks like you’ve got some excitement going on.”
A loud crash from the dining room makes Flip wince and nearly drop his spatula—something expensive just went down.
“Those ladies are going to destroy my place,” he mutters. “Forty years I’ve been running this diner, and I’ve never seen anything like those Italian women.”
Through the pass-through, I watch Niki dive under a table to retrieve what looks like a star-spangled napkin holder turned projectile.
“Italian women can be passionate,” I say, watching him. “Especially when it comes to matters of the heart.”
Flip’s mustache twitches again as he glances toward the dining room, already tallying the damage while Loretta hurls holiday coasters like throwing stars.
“You know,” I continue, keeping my voice casual while Watson investigates something deeply suspicious near the walk-in cooler, “I heard you knew Larry Rocket pretty well. That must have been quite a shock, what happened at the festival.”
The spatula clatters against the grill hard enough to make Watson’s ears perk.
“Larry Rocket?” Flip says, and there’s a bitterness in his voice usually saved for people you never forgive. “That man ruined everything he touched.”
“Sounds like there was some bad blood,” I say, watching Aunt Cat try to use a decorative Liberty Bell as a peace offering while Nona Jo brandishes a fork like a tiny trident. Good luck with that.
You’d have better luck getting the Pope to wear a dress. Wait a minute….
