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 with compliments 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….
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 selling natural remedies that 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 to naturally eliminate Larry 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.
“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.