Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 99604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99604 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 498(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
“Spoon,” I shouted to Donna.
Donna scrambled toward her as I wrapped my arms around Nana’s waist and tried to lift her. She twisted hard, and I lost my balance, tumbling sideways to keep from crushing her.
She landed right back on Zippy with a solid smack that made him grunt. His hand flew to his nose as blood started to trickle.
He rolled, flinging her off. I lunged and grabbed him before he could go after her. “Enough.”
Nonna reared up, eyes blazing, flour coating her hair like a crown. She swung the spoon down on his arm, his leg, his hip—each hit landing with a satisfying thwack.
He tried to kick her away. She hopped back with surprising speed, spoon still raised high. “Ha. Can’t get me, you turdwad.”
Nana tried to roll to her knees, throwing flour in every direction.
The bar remained dead silent except for the sound of my grandmothers’ heavy breathing, the drip of soda from the counter, and the faint Irish music still playing from the jukebox.
Nonna brandished the spoon so hard she lost her balance, the spoon flashing through the air like a misguided saber before gravity won. She tipped over with a startled yelp, and Donna lunged to catch her. Both went down instead, collapsing in a tangle of limbs and righteous fury that landed squarely on top of me.
My breath left in one painful whoosh.
“Get off, ow, someone’s elbow,” I gasped, trying to wriggle free as the pile groaned and shifted. Cormac darted in to help, his expression half panic, half disbelief. He reached for Donna just as Zippy kicked out, his polished shoe catching Cormac in the knee. Cormac let out a guttural sound and dropped sideways, instinctively reaching for Nana and rolling to keep from squishing her.
Somewhere in the chaos, I heard several distinct cracks—wood, glass, maybe bone, maybe ego—and a rising chorus of gasps. Someone shouted to call the cops. Someone else was definitely taking pictures; the camera shutter clicks were sharp and fast, cutting through the noise like firecrackers.
“All right, that’s enough,” a voice barked. The sound cut through the chaos.
I blinked through the powdery haze just as a figure appeared in the doorway. Officer Bud Orlov from the Elk County Sheriff’s Office stood there, hand resting on his holstered weapon, flour settling like snow around him. His expression said he had seen a lot in his career, but probably nothing quite like this.
The room went quiet. Even the fryer seemed to hush.
“Everybody get up. Now,” he said, his tone calm.
Coughing, eyes watering, I pushed myself upright, dragging Nonna with me. Flour streaked her hair, her face, her clothes. She looked like a deranged Christmas cookie.
“I’m pressing charges,” Zippy said, shoving himself to his knees. Clumps of wet, sugary flour fell from his hair and splattered onto the floor.
My stomach dropped. I met Donna’s gaze through the haze of flour and disbelief.
This was not good. Not even close.
Chapter 21
Never in my entire life had I expected to sit in a jail cell between both of my grandmothers. Nana, Nonna, Donna, and I all sat together in a single holding cell at the police station while Zippy and Cormac sat in the adjacent one. The cells in the bigger city weren’t quite as quaint as the ones over in Silverville. Yeah, it was sad I knew that fact.
The place smelled faintly of bleach, metal, and wet wool. Someone nearby had spilled instant coffee, and the sharp tang of it clung to the air. We had wiped off as much of the flour as we could, but clumps still stuck to everyone’s hair, leaving the floor gritty with powder.
Nana and Nonna actually seemed to be getting along. Nothing else about the situation made any sense.
Donna sneezed hard enough to rattle the bars.
“Bless you,” Cormac said from the other cell.
Nana cocked her head. “What was your name again?”
“I am Cormac Coretti, ma’am.”
“Coretti is Italian,” Nonna said, eyeing him.
Nana smoothed flour down her dress. “Cormac is Irish, although he has a quaint British accent.”
Cormac looked from one grandmother to the other, an amused half smile tugging at his mouth. He lounged on a narrow bench beside Zippy, who was still picking flour out of his silver hair with the desperation of a man losing a fight he did not start.
I sat between my grandmothers on one hard wooden bench, while Donna perched on the other side of Nonna. The cell was cold enough to sting, the cement walls painted a dull yellow that made everyone look sickly.
“Do they need to fingerprint me again?” Nana asked, curiosity in her tone. “I mean, they just did it the other day. Can’t they use those prints?”
I brushed more powder off my chin. “If they decide to arrest us, they’ll fingerprint you again.” I took some small comfort in the fact that Bud had locked us in the cells without actually booking us. At least not yet.