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 Jimmy cry 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.
Main Street is dressed for the Fourth with copious amounts of buntings, flags, and music that, for once, isn’t trying to blow out our eardrums.
The lake catches the last of the sun and throws it back like it has something to prove. Pine trees line the shore, the air finally cooling off, and for a second, I get why people fall for this place.
Then I remember the murder.
Picnic tables dot the shoreline, most already claimed by early arrivals staking territory like it’s a competitive sport. Which, let’s be honest, it is.
Flag-themed tablecloths snap in the breeze, and someone’s strung lights between the trees that are clearly planning a full takeover once it gets dark.
Watson begins his inspection tour of the lakefront, nose working overtime to catalog whatever earlier visitors left behind—dropped hot dogs, spilled sodas, and what I’m pretty sure is potato salad that’s been out longer than medically advisable.
We settle at a picnic table near the water’s edge, the wood still warm from the day’s sun. Cooper unwraps his sandwich like he’s earned it—after surviving family warfare and making it to Italian cured meats, which in my family basically counts as a win.
The lake laps at the shore, peaceful enough to almost make you forget that less than an hour ago, women were using dinner rolls as ammunition and threatening to off each other with breadsticks.
“So,” Cooper says after a bite that makes him close his eyes in bliss, “this is nice. Peaceful. No one throwing anything or threatening anyone with decorations.”
“The night is young,” I point out, already relaxing as Watson settles at my feet like he’s hit his entertainment quota for the evening. “Give them time. They’re probably regrouping at Mangias right now, planning their next insurrection.”
“Speaking of family drama,” Cooper continues, his detective instincts clearly still working despite the romantic lakeside setting and the way the evening light is doing interesting things to his cheekbones, “I know you’ve been investigating Larry’s murder. Tell me what you’ve got.”
I’m about to launch into my findings when the sound of approaching footsteps makes Watson’s ears perk up like furry radar dishes.
Mayor Harry Nash emerges from the tree line like a man making rounds, wearing a red polo and khakis that say he’s ready to lead a Fourth of July parade single-handedly.
My stomach sinks like a bullet-shaped stone.
This is the man I’m supposed to assassinate in less than twenty-four hours, and he’s strolling up to our lakeside dinner like he’s been personally invited to join the investigation.
Why does my target have to make this so easy?
“Cooper! Effie!” Mayor Nash calls out with cheerful enthusiasm, like he didn’t just miss a full-blown food fight—and has no idea one of us is quietly considering his untimely demise. “Beautiful evening for a lakeside picnic, isn’t it?”
“Mayor Nash,” Cooper replies, standing to shake hands with the man whose death is apparently on Uncle Jimmy’s Independence Day wish list. “Getting ready for the big day tomorrow?”
Bigger than either of them knows.
“Absolutely! Should be our best Fourth of July celebration yet,” Mayor Nash beams with genuine enthusiasm that makes you want to either hug him or warn him to avoid food from strangers. Or me. “The fireworks display alone is going to be spectacular!”
He spots Watson, and my evening gets infinitely more complicated.
“And who’s this handsome fellow?” Mayor Nash asks with the voice of a dog person who volunteers at animal shelters in his spare time.
Before I can intervene—or build some kind of protective barrier between my assassination target and my dog—Mayor Nash scoops Watson into his arms and the two of them kiss each other silly.
“Well, aren’t you just the most adorable pup!” He laughs as Watson melts against him, tail wagging hard enough to propel them both to Mars. “I bet you’re excited for tomorrow’s fireworks, aren’t you, boy?”
Watson responds with the enthusiasm he usually has for bacon and that one spot behind his ears that turns him into a puddle. His flag bandana pairs perfectly with Mayor Nash’s polo, making them look like they’re running for office together on a platform of canine welfare and civic pride.
Great, I muse, watching my dog bond with my assassination target like they’re long-lost relatives reunited at a family barbecue. Now I have to kill someone Watson actually likes. Fantastic.
This job just found a whole new level of complicated—and that’s impressive.
“He loves everyone,” I add weakly, though Watson is currently demonstrating a level of affection he typically rolls out for people who dispense treats on demand and respect the sacred importance of belly rubs.
“Dogs are excellent judges of character,” Mayor Nash says, setting Watson down with clear reluctance. Watson looks up at him like he’s just met his personal hero. “Well, I should let you two get back to your romantic evening. See you tomorrow at the festival!”
He heads off toward town with a spring in his step that makes me feel like the world’s worst person.
Watson watches him go like he’s just been abandoned by his new favorite human and is seriously considering following him home.
“Nice guy,” Cooper observes, settling back at the picnic table while Watson keeps staring in the direction Mayor Nash disappeared, like he’s hoping for a miraculous return—with treats.
“Yeah,” I say, my sandwich suddenly tasting like guilt. “Really nice.”
Too nice to murder for Uncle Jimmy’s mysterious reasons, I add silently, watching Watson still hope the mayor might magically reappear with more face-kissing opportunities.
“So,” Cooper says, unwrapping his sandwich and fixing me with a stare that’s somehow both professional and distractingly attractive, “back to that investigation. What have you learned about our victim and his potential killers?”
I take a bite of my own sandwich to buy time, the prosciutto and mozzarella briefly distracting me from the moral mess I’ve landed in.
For a second, I can almost pretend this is normal—just a lakeside dinner with my boyfriend, not a briefing on murder suspects while I quietly consider assassinating the town’s beloved mayor, who also happens to be Watson’s new best friend.
“Larry Rocket wasn’t just any food truck owner,” I begin, organizing my thoughts while Watson settles back at my feet as if he’s forced to put up with second best. “He was a legitimate food critic before he went mobile—successful enough that his reviews could make or break restaurants and apparently destroy people’s lives for sport. ”
Cooper nods, encouraging me to continue while the lake laps quietly and the first stars blink on overhead.
“I’ve got three main suspects,” I say, trying not to think about the fact that tomorrow I might be one of them if Uncle Jimmy’s timeline holds.
“First up is Julia Washington—except that’s not even her real name.
Flip says she’s Julia Watkins from New Jersey.
The whole Martha Washington family recipe thing?
Completely fake. He says she lifted it from some cookbook she found at a garage sale. Sunshine hinted at the same.”
“Would that be fraud?” Cooper asks, his detective brain trying to categorize the crime.