“Do you really think she can find someone?” Her hand was trembling, and I was relieved to see her put down the cheese knife.
“You’ve met Mother,” I said. “You know what she’s like when she takes on a project. So brace yourself. You’re about to become a project.”
Molly’s smile was finally starting to look genuine.
“Thanks,” she said. “You have no idea how great that would be.”
“I’ve got to run.” I tucked my notebook back into my pocket. “How about if you put my order together—and yes, double it, not because I think you’re going out of business but because just looking at your booth makes me realize I was being way too conservative when I made my list. I’ll drop back later to pick it up and give you a check. And I can let you know what Mother says.”
She nodded, and I could see that above the smile she was blinking rapidly. Fighting back tears. If we’d been alone, I’d have hugged her, but that would probably make the tears spill over, and I knew here in the crowded vendor hall she’d want to hold it together.
“Later,” I said, and headed for the exit. I felt curiously more cheerful after learning about Molly’s problem, perhaps because unlike the thefts and vandalism, I felt I knew exactly what to do to solve it.
If only all the day’s problems would be this easy.
Chapter 7
Outside, I hurried over to the gate and supervised the opening. I was relieved to see that in spite of the overcast weather, a decent number of people were lined up outside, impatiently waiting to buy their tickets for this first day of the Un-fair. Yesterday’s weather had been abysmal, mainly because the remnants of a passing hurricane had dumped three inches of water on us. If I weren’t involved in the fair, I might have waited out today’s chance of thunderstorms, but here were several hundred people eager to come to the fair. Not bad at all for a Thursday, with only a few competitions scheduled and the Midway, with its rides and games, not opening for two more hours.
But just as the gates opened, I found myself wondering if one of those smiling, eager faces belonged to a chicken thief. A pumpkin smasher. A despoiler of exquisite quilts. I stopped myself from scowling—no sense scaring off the paying customers—but I found myself studying the people as they began to trickle in.
The family groups were probably harmless. No petty criminal worth his salt would encumber himself with toddlers already demanding hot dogs and cotton candy, boys begging to be taken on the rides, or girls pleading to go see the horses. But I had to work harder at not frowning when I spotted men, alone or in pairs.
They could have any number of innocent reasons for coming, I reminded myself. They could be farmers, looking to buy or sell livestock or just check out the competition. They could be coming to see the latest tractors and combines on display. They could be craving barbecue or fried chicken or any of the dozens of foodstuffs on sale throughout the fair. They could be here for the entertainment, which ranged from our minor Nashville luminary to Rancid Dread, an inexplicably popular local heavy metal band.
They could even be spies for one of the other counties or private groups trying to field their own entries in the competition to steal the thunder from the newly restored official state fair.
Nothing I could do about spies any more than chicken thieves. I headed back to the arts and crafts barn so I could find Mother and make good on my promise to Molly. I paused just inside the doorway where the building’s volunteer monitor was sitting and craned my neck to see if I could spot Mother.
“She’s over in the wine pavilion,” the volunteer said. “Your mother, I mean, if that’s who you’re looking for.”
I thanked her and began picking my way through the gathering crowds to the wine pavilion. We’d originally planned to have the wine competitions in the same barn as the rest of the food and craft exhibits, but a few weeks before the opening of the fair our registrar had reported, with a note of panic in her voice, that we already had enough wine bottles, pies, quilts, preserves, carvings, paintings, sculptures, sweaters, photographs, and other arts and crafts to fill the barn, and entries were still pouring in. We’d solved that problem by erecting an enormous tent and christening it the “wine pavilion.” With the help of the ladies of the Caerphilly Garden Club, Mother had decorated it. One end resembled a Mediterranean villa, with tile, pottery, fountains, iron tables and chairs, well-aged barrels, and vintage riddling racks. Midway through the tent the style made a graceful, nearly seamless transition toward the neoclassical, with red brick, white columns, and Chinese railings, echoing Monticello and evoking Thomas Jefferson, founder and secular patron saint of Virginia’s wine industry. And of course, scattered throughout were several tons of potted foliage. The winemakers loved it.