Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos(5)

„What's wrong?“ Eileen asked.

„Mrs. Waterston's upset about something.“

„Mrs. Waterston's always upset about something,“ Eileen said. „Don't worry. I'm sure it's not your problem.“

Probably not, but that wouldn't stop Mrs. Waterston from making it my problem. I'd worked like a dog to make the craft fair successful. I'd twisted crafters' arms to participate. Begged, browbeaten, or blackmailed friends and relatives to show up and shop. Harassed the local papers for publicity.

And it worked. We'd gotten a solid number of artists, and their quality was far better than we had any right to expect for a fair with no track record, especially considering the requirement for colonial costume. Most of the best crafters were old friends, some of whom had passed up prestigious, juried shows to help out. I hoped Mrs. Waterston understood the craft scene well enough to appreciate that without my efforts, she'd have nothing but amateurs selling dried flower arrangements and crocheted toilet paper covers.

And wonder of wonders, with a little last-minute help from Be-Stitched, they were all wearing some semblance of authentic colonial costume. And by the time the barriers opened and the crowd already milling around outside began pouring in, I'd have all the anachronisms put away, if I had to do it myself.

So why was Mrs. Waterston frowning?

„Miss me?“ came a familiar voice in my ear, accompanied by a pair of arms slipping around my waist.

„Always,“ I said, turning around to greet Michael more properly. I ignored Eileen, who had developed a maddening habit of sighing and murmuring „Aren't they sweet?“ whenever she saw us together.

„So, shall I set the rest of this stuff up?“ Michael asked, eventually.

„Please,“ I said, and stood back to give him room. Maybe I'd be set up on time after all, and could take a last run around the grounds to make sure everything was shipshape.

I caught Amanda sneaking a pair of glasses out from under her apron and shook my finger at her, in imitation of Mrs. Waterston. She stuck out her tongue at me, put the glasses on, and watched with interest while Michael shed his ornate, gold-trimmed coat, rolled up the flowing sleeves of his linen shirt, and began hauling iron. Then she looked over at me and gave me a thumbs-up.

„What on Earth is that!“

Mrs. Waterston's voice. And much closer than I expected. Though not, thank goodness, quite in our booth. Not yet, anyway. Still, I started; Amanda ripped her glasses off so fast that she dropped them; and Eileen began nervously picking at her dress and hair.

Michael alone seemed unaffected. I wondered, not for the first time, if he was really as oblivious to his mother's tirades as he seemed. Maybe it was just good acting. Or should I have his hearing tested?

„Put that thing away immediately!“

Eileen and Amanda both looked around, startled, to see what they should put away. Michael continued calmly trying to match up half a dozen pairs of andirons on the ground at the front of the booth. I peered around the corner to see who or what had incurred Mrs. Waterston's displeasure.

„Oh, no,“ I groaned.

„What's wrong?“ Michael said, putting down an andiron to hurry to my side.

„Wesley Hatcher, that's what,“ I said.

„Who's that?“ he asked.

„The world's sneakiest reporter,“ I said, „And living proof that neither a brain nor a backbone are prerequisites for a career as a muckraking journalist. Wesley,“ I called out, as a jeans-clad figure retreated into our booth, hastily stuffing a small tape recorder into his pocket. „If you're trying to hide, find someplace else.“

Wesley turned around, wearing what I'm sure he meant as an ingratiating smile.

„Oh, hi, Meg!“ he said. „Long time no see.“

Actually, he'd seen me less than two hours previously, when he'd tried to get me to say something misquotable for a snide story on how craftspeople overcharged and exploited their customers. With any other reporter, I'd have seized the opportunity to give him the real scoop on the insecure and underpaid lives so many craftspeople led. But I knew better than to talk to Wesley. I'd made the mistake of talking off the record to him years ago, when he was earning his journalistic reputation as the York Town Crier's most incompetent cub reporter in three centuries. Like the rest of the county, I'd been puzzled but relieved when he'd abandoned our small weekly paper, first for a staff job with the Virginia Commercial Intelligence, a reputable state-business journal, and then, returning to character, for the sleazy but no doubt highly paid world of the Super Snooper, a third-rate tabloid. Why couldn't he have waited until Thanksgiving to come home and visit his parents?

„So, got any juicy stories for me?“ Wesley asked.