Chapter 16
The late afternoon sun hits Main Street just right, turning everything soft and golden like it belongs in a Norman Rockwell painting.
Except Norman Rockwell never painted two Italian crime families mobilizing outside a fifties diner where at least one senior citizen is about to throw down over a man.
Aunt Cat and Carlotta appear as if they’ve been summoned, both wearing enough freedom gear to run a political rally—subtlety has never been their thing.
“This better be good,” Aunt Cat grouses, adjusting her purse strap like she’s gearing up for battle. “I was in the middle of buying sparkler earrings for tomorrow.”
“Trust me,” Niki says, practically vibrating as we head down Main Street like the world’s most inappropriately dressed SWAT team. “This is going to beat any fireworks show you’ve ever seen.”
Watson trots beside us, his flag bandana fluttering, nose working overtime.
Every storefront we pass is decked out for the Fourth—flags, bunting, and enough star-shaped decorations to make the night sky jealous.
The hardware store has a banner screaming Patriotic Paint Sale—Red, White & Blue Your World! while the flower shop window is packed with arrangements that took “land of the free” a little too seriously. Even the dry cleaners has gotten involved with a sign promising Freedom from Stains!
Pity no one in Honey Hollow can offer freedom from murder. Homicide doesn’t seem to care what time of year it is.
Flip’s All-American Diner sits in the middle of it all like the crown jewel of Fourth of July excess.
The chrome and neon building is draped in enough flags to outfit a small military base, with star-shaped lights blinking from every surface.
A vintage sign declares Home of the Liberty Burger, glowing brighter than it needs to.
“Well,” Carlotta says, looking it over. “Good taste clearly took the day off.”
Watson barks in agreement, though he’s probably reacting to the smells drifting out of the diner—grilled onions, bacon, and what I’m pretty sure is apple pie. He’s drooling.
Honestly, same.
We push through the front door like we’re conducting a raid, and the entire diner turns to stare.
Inside, it’s pure Americana—red vinyl booths, black-and-white checkered floors polished to a shine, and a jukebox in the corner pumping out classics that make you want to buy a Chevrolet and move to suburbia.
The walls are covered in enough vintage Americana to stock a museum—old Coca-Cola ads, Route 66 signs, James Dean staring moodily into the distance, and more flag-themed décor than should legally exist in one place.
Behind the chrome and vinyl counter, the pie case is packed with every Fourth of July dessert imaginable, including something called Founding Fathers cream pie that looks like it could take you out.
Watson goes into full sensory overload, tail whipping as he tries to process the smell of every American comfort food at once. His leash snags on a string of streamers from a nearby booth, leaving him looking as if he decorated himself for the Fourth.
The servers wear flag aprons over white shirts, and the menu boards lean hard into the theme—Declaration of Independence burgers, star-spangled fries, Liberty Bell onion rings in handwriting that assures us someone takes themed dining very seriously.
But what really catches my attention isn’t the over-the-top décor—or the fact that Watson has somehow acquired a small American flag and is carrying it around like a very festive retriever.
It’s the standoff in the center of the diner, drawing every eye like the best dinner theater in town.
Nona Jo stands near the counter like a tiny Italian general preparing for battle. At four foot nine and built like a perfectly round warning sign, she’s not physically imposing—but the expression on her face could intimidate a grizzly bear.
Her gray hair is teased into the signature beehive she’s worn since the Kennedy administration, while her face wears a scowl that’s been perfected through years of Italian curses and family disappointments.
She’s wearing her vintage black cocktail dress with the traditional lace collar, and rings glitter on every finger like tiny brass knuckles catching the fluorescent lights.
Her hands are planted firmly on her hips in the classic confrontation pose every Italian grandmother has mastered by the age of sixty.
Facing her across the checkered battlefield is Loretta Saltimboca, and she looks fully prepared to burn this place to the ground over a man.
Her flame-red hair has been teased into a towering monument to Aqua Net. She’s in leopard print again—at this point, it’s a lifestyle—paired with stilettos that click like a countdown.
Her makeup is spackled on, and she’s jabbing the air at Nona Jo with nails that look as if they’ve drawn blood before.
They both look ready to flip a table and ruin lives. Never a good sign.
“I was here first, you red-headed ho!” Nona Jo shouts, loud enough to rattle every hearing aid in Honey Hollow.
“Age before beauty, old woman.” Loretta shoots back, her voice reaching a pitch that makes every dog within a three-mile radius perk up, and Watson cower in fear.
I suspect Loretta has that effect on most of the male species.
The other diners pretend to eat their patriotic burgers and freedom fries while missing absolutely nothing. A family with small kids has angled their table for a better view, half-covering their eyes like that’s going to help.
It won’t.
It’s their ears they should be muffling. Italian women really do have creative expletives on lockdown.
I’m about to step in when something in the kitchen catches my eye—and suddenly I’m almost glad we came.
“This is perfect,” I mutter to my assembled intervention team. “You handle those witches. I just spotted my suspect.”
Through the service window, I spot Flip Flapjack flipping burgers like his life depends on it while pointedly ignoring the brewing war in his dining room.
His gray handlebar mustache twitches, and his vintage apron reads Kiss the Cook—which felt like a good idea before his restaurant became ground zero for a senior citizen dating war.
“You want us to handle Nona Jo?” Aunt Cat asks, looking like I’ve just asked her to wrestle a small but dangerous wildcat.
“And Loretta?” Carlotta adds, eyeing the stiletto-wearing menace with professional respect. “That woman’s got claws, and she knows how to use them.”
“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.