Flip’s hands shake as he transfers burgers to a plate. “Bad blood? Lady, that man destroyed my family. My son had three restaurants in Boston—high-end places, real class. Larry manufactured a scandal that cost him everything.”
Watson whines softly at the shift in Flip’s voice and presses against my legs, one eye still on the dining room where Carlotta has started singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” in what might be an attempt to restore order—or start another war.
“That’s terrible,” I say, and I mean it. “But Larry is dead now. Someone made sure of that.”
Flip goes very still, his spatula frozen halfway to the grill. “I didn’t kill him,” he says quietly. “Though I won’t pretend I’m sorry he’s gone.”
“I believe you,” I say—and surprisingly, I do. “But you might know something that could help us figure out who did.”
Another crash from the dining room, followed by Aunt Cat shouting something in Italian that definitely shouldn’t be translated in polite company. Through the pass-through, I spot Niki crawling commando-style between tables, collecting fallen forks and knives before they turn into ammunition.
“Look,” Flip says, finally turning to face me with an expression that says he’s been carrying a heavy burden. “I didn’t like Larry, but I’m not a killer. You want to know who had reason to want him dead? Julia Washington isn’t even her real name.”
Watson’s ears perk at the urgency in Flip’s voice, though he’s clearly still tracking the food fight beyond the pass-through.
“What do you mean?” I ask, watching Loretta launch what looks like a dinner roll straight at Nona Jo’s beehive.
I’ve already heard what Sunshine had to say about good old Julia. I’m curious if Flip lines up. So far they’re on the same track.
“Her real name is Julia Watkins—she’s from New Jersey,” Flip says, lowering his voice. “She’s been lying about the Martha Washington connection for years. It’s all fake. I heard Larry on the phone. He had proof her recipes were lifted from some old cookbook she found at a garage sale.”
My brain works through that while Watson investigates a dropped French fry like it’s evidence, occasionally glancing toward the dining room where Carlotta is now using a serving tray as a shield.
“Is that even fraud?” I ask. “I mean, she’s already playing dress-up. Why not the name, too?”
“She was facing charges—and total collapse,” Flip says with a nod. “Larry was planning to expose her the day after the festival. But that’s not even the worst part.”
He glances around, then leans in. “I saw Julia buying pentobarbital from a shady vet supplier operating out of a van.She said it was for sick farm animals—but she doesn’t have a farm. She lives in a no-pets condo.”
I ease back at that. Pentobarbital could put down a horse. A person would take a lot less.
Watson gives a quick woof, like he has thoughts on someone without animals buying veterinary drugs, just as a salt shaker sails through the dining room.
“Are you sure about this?” I ask.
“Positive. And there’s more.” Flip wipes his hands on his apron, eager now. “That hippie girl, Sunshine? She’s not just some organic vendor. She’s got a chemistry degree from MIT.”
That hits me like a forced chakra alignment. “Chemistry?”
“I’m sure she’d know exactly how to make untraceable poisons from organic compounds,” Flip continues. “Larry caught her sellingnatural remediesthat were actually dangerous. People were getting sick, but she was making a fortune selling sugar pills and herb mixtures to desperate folks.”
Beyond the pass-through, I watch Niki crawl out from under a table wearing a miniature American flag as a hat while Aunt Cat attempts a ceasefire with increasingly desperate hand gestures and a few middle fingers.
I’m shocked the sheriff’s department hasn’t been called by now. They should have been called the second we set foot in this place. But that would mean Coop catching me mid-interrogation, and that never ends well.
On second thought, the authorities can wait.
Watson tilts his head, taking this in along with the sight of Nona Jo wielding a salt shaker like a weapon.
Flip nods my way. “Sunshine threatened tonaturally eliminateLarry if he exposed her operation,” Flip adds. “Those were her exact words.”
Before I can ask for more, the sound of actual warfare erupts from the dining room. Not just shouting—dishes shattering, chairs scraping, and decorations being repurposed as weapons.
From the pass-through, I watch as Loretta grabs an entire centerpiece and hoists it over her head like a very festive battle axe.
“Sweet mother of meatloaf,” Flip breathes, staring toward the dining room. “They’re annihilating everything!”
The sound of sirens cuts through the evening air, getting closer by the second.
