to Ian that Millicent loves water
balloons?"
Less than an hour later, Quin arrived at the fairgrounds. As he meandered around looking for the
Trouble Tarts booth, he was still surprised that
when he'd emerged from the bathroom earlier
none of the Troublemakers had remained behind
to question him further. Usually they were worse
than hounds baying at a fox when it came to gossip.
Maybe his story had held up better than he'd
thought?
At last, he discovered the Trouble Tarts booth
just past a tent with a huge sign of a crystal ball
and the word psychic written in squiggly print.
Discretely, beneath the sign was a placard stating:
"$3.00/reading, all proceeds benefit the Littlemouth Sheriff's Department Benevolence Fund."
Seemed like a good cause, he thought, making
a mental note to have his fortune told later. Somehow, he suspected it might involve travel, falling
in love with a dark-headed stranger, and coming
into a small sum of money.
His mother manned the Trouble Tarts booth,
busily slicing pies and putting each piece on a paper plate. She looked up when she heard him put
the cardboard box on the table she'd set up behind
her. "There you are."
Quin nodded, shoving his hands into his jeans
pockets.
She handed him a long apron saying, "Put this
on to protect your clothing. You'd be surprised
how messy handling pies can be."
"I'm just the delivery man. I'm not handling any
pies."
"Don't stand there and argue. We're counting
on you to help increase our revenues. Everyone in
town will want to meet Littlemouth's most famous
citizen, and they'll have to buy a slice of pie to
get at you. Irma has big plans for the money this
booth is going to raise."
Quin knew better than to argue with his mother.
If he didn't readily agree to her demands, she'd
find some way to blackmail him into it. He didn't
have the energy to defend himself today, not after
his encounter with Ian the night before. "How long
will I have to do this?"
"We're booked to work at the Ladies Auxiliary
sale for the next few hours."
"Hours? How long is this going to take?" Quin
grabbed his side and rubbed his ribs, all the while trying to keep a smile off his face and to look
pitiful.
"Stella should be here before too long. She can
help you. Besides, you'll probably sell out of pies
before lunchtime. There's only six dozen of them."
She must have caught on that he was brimming
with good health. Otherwise, she'd have him back
in bed and be feeding him more chicken soup before he could have finished a sentence.
Six dozen pies meant seventy-two pies. At six
slices per pie ...
Three hundred, four hundred? More? Quin's
mental multiplication failed him. He grimaced, figuring that however many slices that equaled, it was
more pie than he wanted to deal with. Somehow,
his mother's estimate of his pie-selling abilities
seemed optimistic, even for her. Narrowing his
eyes, he wondered what exactly she was up to.
She blew him a kiss and darted away, before he
had a chance to stop her.
By ten o'clock, he'd managed to sell three
dozen pies by telling everyone he'd personally
made the pie. Of course, he'd long since lost track
of which were the four pies he'd sliced apples for,
but it was for a good cause, the Littlemouth Library, and each slice sold would get him out of
the booth faster. Thankfully, a number of people
had bought entire pies, or he'd be at this all week.
He shuddered as The Gargoyle approached his booth with a sour-grapes expression pursing her
lips. As far as he was concerned, however, that
seemed to be her natural expression. "Enjoying the
fair, Mrs. Gordon?"
"Enjoying it as much as I could expect to." She
stood on the opposite side of the table, ogling his
pies. "I heard you made these pies personally?"
Quin shrugged. "Some of them."
Pointing to the pie he was serving slices from,
she asked, "Did you make that one?"
Expecting a quick sale, he grinned proudly.
"Sure did."
"How about
balloons?"
Less than an hour later, Quin arrived at the fairgrounds. As he meandered around looking for the
Trouble Tarts booth, he was still surprised that
when he'd emerged from the bathroom earlier
none of the Troublemakers had remained behind
to question him further. Usually they were worse
than hounds baying at a fox when it came to gossip.
Maybe his story had held up better than he'd
thought?
At last, he discovered the Trouble Tarts booth
just past a tent with a huge sign of a crystal ball
and the word psychic written in squiggly print.
Discretely, beneath the sign was a placard stating:
"$3.00/reading, all proceeds benefit the Littlemouth Sheriff's Department Benevolence Fund."
Seemed like a good cause, he thought, making
a mental note to have his fortune told later. Somehow, he suspected it might involve travel, falling
in love with a dark-headed stranger, and coming
into a small sum of money.
His mother manned the Trouble Tarts booth,
busily slicing pies and putting each piece on a paper plate. She looked up when she heard him put
the cardboard box on the table she'd set up behind
her. "There you are."
Quin nodded, shoving his hands into his jeans
pockets.
She handed him a long apron saying, "Put this
on to protect your clothing. You'd be surprised
how messy handling pies can be."
"I'm just the delivery man. I'm not handling any
pies."
"Don't stand there and argue. We're counting
on you to help increase our revenues. Everyone in
town will want to meet Littlemouth's most famous
citizen, and they'll have to buy a slice of pie to
get at you. Irma has big plans for the money this
booth is going to raise."
Quin knew better than to argue with his mother.
If he didn't readily agree to her demands, she'd
find some way to blackmail him into it. He didn't
have the energy to defend himself today, not after
his encounter with Ian the night before. "How long
will I have to do this?"
"We're booked to work at the Ladies Auxiliary
sale for the next few hours."
"Hours? How long is this going to take?" Quin
grabbed his side and rubbed his ribs, all the while trying to keep a smile off his face and to look
pitiful.
"Stella should be here before too long. She can
help you. Besides, you'll probably sell out of pies
before lunchtime. There's only six dozen of them."
She must have caught on that he was brimming
with good health. Otherwise, she'd have him back
in bed and be feeding him more chicken soup before he could have finished a sentence.
Six dozen pies meant seventy-two pies. At six
slices per pie ...
Three hundred, four hundred? More? Quin's
mental multiplication failed him. He grimaced, figuring that however many slices that equaled, it was
more pie than he wanted to deal with. Somehow,
his mother's estimate of his pie-selling abilities
seemed optimistic, even for her. Narrowing his
eyes, he wondered what exactly she was up to.
She blew him a kiss and darted away, before he
had a chance to stop her.
By ten o'clock, he'd managed to sell three
dozen pies by telling everyone he'd personally
made the pie. Of course, he'd long since lost track
of which were the four pies he'd sliced apples for,
but it was for a good cause, the Littlemouth Library, and each slice sold would get him out of
the booth faster. Thankfully, a number of people
had bought entire pies, or he'd be at this all week.
He shuddered as The Gargoyle approached his booth with a sour-grapes expression pursing her
lips. As far as he was concerned, however, that
seemed to be her natural expression. "Enjoying the
fair, Mrs. Gordon?"
"Enjoying it as much as I could expect to." She
stood on the opposite side of the table, ogling his
pies. "I heard you made these pies personally?"
Quin shrugged. "Some of them."
Pointing to the pie he was serving slices from,
she asked, "Did you make that one?"
Expecting a quick sale, he grinned proudly.
"Sure did."
"How about
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