Chapter 6
By the time Watson and I reach Cooper and his conversation partner, I’ve gotten a much better look at the man I saw arguing with Larry just before his untimely demise.
Up close, the mystery man is short and stocky with a substantial belly that speaks to years of sampling culinary treats.
His handlebar mustache rides up and down as he speaks.
And despite his round appearance, there’s something about the way he carries himself that says he’s tougher than he looks—like a teddy bear with brass knuckles.
Watson gravitates toward the man, mostly because he looks like a good candidate for treats.
“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 meant infamous.
“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 minutes explaining everything I was doing wrong. Wrote a review that basically called my food an 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 heights and 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.”
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! And I saw 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.
Flip stands between them like a deer in very flattering headlights—visibly overwhelmed, mildly panicked, and still absolutely not mad about the attention.
“Ladies,” he tries to interject, “there’s no need to—”
“Don’t you ladies us,” Loretta Salami snaps, pointing one of her weapon-grade nails in his direction. “I’ve been single for a whole three months, and I deserve some male attention!”
“Three months?” Nona Jo scoffs. “Try three decades, you expired deli special. I waited for the right man to come along because some of us have standards!”
Cooper sighs with a sense of resignation that lets me know he’s witnessed this particular drama before with his not-so-sweet baby sis. “And I thought finding a dead body was going to be the worst part of my day.”
Watson barks once, as if agreeing with Cooper’s assessment, then trots over to investigate whether either of the arguing women might have food hidden in their purses.
I watch the chaos unfold and can’t help but think that between murder investigations and family feuds, this festival is turning into exactly the catastrophe I should have expected.
In Honey Hollow, we don’t simply handle situations—we upgrade them into disasters.