Owls Well That Ends Well(42)

Of course, I was wary of just towing cars without any posted signs warning of the possibility—just my luck that we’d tow a newly fledged lawyer who wanted practical experience in litigation—but Cousin Sidney happily agreed to tow a few of the family cars back and forth at random intervals, and after his first few passes, I saw people heading for the road, so I figured our tactic was working. I also noticed fewer Grouchos, Nixons, and Draculas in the crowd—apparently people were realizing that the yard sale wasn’t starting up again soon and shedding their unneeded costumes.

“Meg, can I have some money for a funnel cake?”

I looked down to see Eric gazing up at me plaintively, as if the prospect of a funnel cake was the only thing that gave him the strength to continue.

“I’d give you the money, but where on earth are you going to buy a funnel cake?” I asked. “This isn’t the county fair, you know.”

“The funnel cake truck is out front,” he said. “And the Sno-Cone stand, too. Come and see!”

I followed him around to the other side of the house where, indeed, a brightly painted funnel cake truck and a mobile Sno-Cone stand had set up and were dispensing their wares to a long line of customers.

“Can I have one? Please?”

I handed over the money for a funnel cake. Eric looked at it dubiously.

“What about Frankie?” he asked. “Can’t he have one, too?”

“He can’t share yours?”

“He’s our guest!” Eric said. “Wouldn’t it be more polite to let him have his own funnel cake?”

“Okay,” I said. “But you’ll have to hit up someone else for Sno-Cones.”

“Oh, Frankie’s grandma is getting us those,” Eric said. “Thanks, Meg!”

Nice to know I wasn’t the only soft touch in town.

“That was a good idea,” said Dad, who happened to be standing nearby.

“Giving the boys another sugar high?” I said. “Since it’s Rob watching them, not me, I suppose so.”

“No, I meant having the food vendors come out,” Dad said.

“And compete with the family run concession?”

“I don’t think it will hurt,” Dad said. “Your cousins already have more customers than they can keep up with.”

“Maybe I’ll have a funnel cake, then, if it won’t look disloyal,” I said. “I wish I could take credit, but the funnel cake and Sno-Cone people appeared on their own.”

“Probably similar to the way flies and carrion beetles appear on a dead body,” Dad said, nodding. “It only takes minutes for the faint odor of beginning decay to attract scavenger insects.”

“I would have said the way ants find a picnic,” I said. “Maybe I’ll wait on the funnel cake.”

“I think I’ll indulge,” Dad said, and joined the funnel cake line.

You’d think I’d have gotten used to Dad’s metaphors by now, I thought, with a sigh.

I spotted Cousin Rosemary. She’d been one of the people I’d had to turn down when they asked to join the yard sale at the last minute. Apparently she’d brought her stuff anyway, and now that the real yard sale was unavailable, had set up a booth in our front yard, near the Sno-Cones and the funnel-cake, between an aunt selling quilts and Horace’s ex-girlfriend Darlene, who crocheted afghans in remarkably loud colors. I glanced around, and saw that several other card tables had appeared, like mushrooms after a rain. A black market yard sale and craft fair was growing up outside the gates of the one still held captive by the police.

Well, like the food, it would be something else to keep people entertained until we could let them back into the yard sale. And maybe Not-Rosemary was still selling the bath oils and bath salts she’d started making when she discovered aromatherapy. I actually liked some of her bath concoctions. And I realized that she’d hung a sign at the front of her booth with her new name conveniently blazoned across it: ROSE NOIR.

Unless that was the name of her business. I stopped in front of her table.

“Rose Noir,” I said. I figured if that was her new name, she’d think I was greeting her, and if it wasn’t, she’d just assume I was reading her sign.

“Yes—do you like it?” she asked.

“Very nice,” I said, while reaching into my pocket for the notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe.

“I think I’ve finally found a name that really captures the true essence of my nature,” she said.

“Yes, it certainly does,” I said, while scribbling a memorandum to myself: “Note: Rosemary = Rose Noir” and today’s date. “You’re still selling the bath oils, I see.”