“Did you call the sheriff’s department?” I ask, watching Niki try to wave a tablecloth like a peace flag while dodging flying cutlery.
“Are you kidding?” Flip gestures toward the dining room, where the chaos has hit full scale and Aunt Cat is now using a serving tray as a shield. “I called for backup twenty minutes ago! This is a riot!”
The front door slams open hard enough to rattle the kitchen walls, and Cooper bursts in like an action hero with Noah right behind him, looking ready for urban warfare.
“EVERYBODY FREEZE! Ashford County Sheriff’s Department!” Cooper’s voice cuts through the chaos with the authority of a man who’s professionally trained to deal with public disturbances. Then again, this disturbance involves his sister, and there isn’t enough training in the world for that.
Watson immediately perks up at the sound of Cooper’s voice and trots over with his tail wagging, apparently hoping Cooper might have treats or at least the authority to restore order to this place.
I watch Cooper approach the epicenter of chaos where Nona Jo and Loretta are still circling each other like boxers in a ring while Aunt Cat, Carlotta, and Niki try to form a buffer zone between them.
I grab Watson before he can bolt into the dining room and potentially become a casualty of whatever warfare is happening here.
“We should probably—” I start to say to Flip, but he’s already untying his apron with shaking hands and heading toward the back exit.
“I’m getting out of here before they arrest me as an accessory to whatever this is,” he says, doing just that.
The kitchen doors swing open and Cooper appears, looking like he’s just survived a natural disaster. His hair is mussed, his uniform shirt is smeared with what looks like red frosting, and his expression says he’s just broken up a fight with an armed senior citizen. And I have no doubt he has.
“Effie,” he says, not entirely surprised to find me in the middle of the chaos. “Please tell me you weren’t involved in the glorified food fight.”
“Not me.” I cross my heart like a scout. “I was too busy conducting an interview.” I cringe as I say it. So much for keeping the interrogation to myself. “The warfare was strictly a family initiative. Yours and mine.”
Watson wags his agreement, backing my version of events while clearly hoping Cooper might be carrying emergency bacon.
“An interview,” Cooper repeats, his detective instincts kicking in despite the chaos. “About?”
“Murder,” I say, watching his expression shift from exhausted boyfriend to focused investigator.
Some murder investigations end in dramatic courtroom reveals. Others hit their peak in diners while your family destroys the place with patriotic weaponry.
At least there’s not another body to deal with.
Yet.
CHAPTER 18
The aftermath of what will go down in Honey Hollow history as the Great Food Fight of Flip’s Diner settles into an uneasy peace as Cooper lays down ultimatums with extreme authority. It’s clear he’s reached his limit for family chaos involving flying dinner rolls and weaponized décor.
“Loretta,” he says in a voice gruff enough to make hardened criminals confess to jaywalking, “you’re going home. Now. And if I see you within fifty feet of Flip’s establishment again tonight, I’m arresting you for disturbing the peace and for whatever came flying past my head.”
Loretta opens her mouth to protest, but something in Cooper’s expression—the same look that makes Uncle Jimmy’s associates suddenly remember they have urgent business elsewhere—shuts her up faster than a dessert platter in a room full of New Year’s resolutions.
“Fine,” she huffs, gathering what’s left of her dignity along with her leopard print purse that’s been swung more times than a barstool in a brawl. “But this isn’t over. That old bat started it!”
“Nona Jo,” I say, mustering every ounce of courage to address the tiny Italian hurricane who could make Uncle Jimmycry with a well-placed guilt trip, “maybe it’s time to call it a night? You know, save your energy for tomorrow’s festivities?”
Nona Jo fixes me with a look that could boil pasta from across the room, but after a moment, she nods, regal as ever. “You’re right, Effie. A lady needs her beauty sleep before a big day.” She glances toward Loretta, who’s making her dramatic exit with enough hip action to churn butter. “Unlike some people who need all the help they can get.”
Within minutes, the diner clears of combatants. Aunt Cat, Carlotta, and Niki head for Mangias down the street, muttering about emergency wine therapy and, no doubt, planning their next intervention.
Watson surveys the battlefield like a veteran, his bandana askew but his self-respect intact.
“Are you up for a walk?” Cooper asks, nodding toward the lake that’s visible through the restaurant windows, just a short stroll away from the lingering scent of grilled burgers and bruised egos.
“A walk sounds perfect,” I say, grateful for a chance to decompress somewhere that doesn’t smell like chaos and family drama.
We detour into Mangias long enough to grab a couple of their famous Italian sandwiches—mine piled with prosciutto and fresh mozzarella and Cooper’s stacked with salami and provolone that smells like heaven wrapped in carbs. Watson trots between us, looking heroic and fully committed to the possibility of scraps.
