Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos by Donna Andrews Page B

his own.
    I wasn't sure what had happened to set them off, but Mother and Mrs. Waterston definitely looked as if they were squaring off for battle, which in their case didn't get beyond polite sarcasm and veiled insults, but I would still rather not see them get into it.
    I was about to work my way closer to them, to see if I could do anything to distract them, when I sensed someone coming up behind me. I caught a glimpse, out of the corner of my eye, of one of Mrs. Waterston's ubiquitous blue rental coats.
    Not again, I thought.

 
    "So what's the scoop with this Faulkner character?" Wesley Hatcher said stepping a little closer. "Where have I seen him before?"
    "At craft fairs, I suppose," I said, wincing inwardly. "He's a nationally known blacksmith."
    "No, that's not it," he said. "I don't normally waste a lot of time at these things, but I know I've seen him somewhere."
    Unfortunately, he probably had, in a way. Faulk and his prominent patrician father did have a strong family resemblance, and I could imagine how old Mr. Cates would react if he found his family's private life plastered across the front page of the Snooper.
    "I know there's a story there somewhere," Wesley mused.
    "Wesley, could you interrogate me later?" I said. "I have a bit of a headache."
    Which was, I realized, not entirely a lie.
    "Probably oxygen deprivation," Wesley said. "I don't know how you can breathe in that outfit."
    "Wesley – "
    "Although, come to think of it, I can see it every time you do breathe."
    "Very funny."
    "Hey, you don't feel a sneeze coming on, do you? I'd love to see that."
    He had, I realized, inched close enough so that he was now staring down the front of my bodice. He must have had enough alcohol to overcome his previous caution.
    "Wesley, if you drool on me, you'll be the one with the headache," I said, taking a giant step away. "In fact, if you don't go away this minute, I will claim you tried to paw me, and even the people who don't know you will believe it when they see this dress."
    "Spoilsport," Wesley said, but he knew better than to argue with me. He melted into the crowd, heading toward the bar. I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. Maybe I shouldn't have chased Wesley away. At least when he was leering at my cleavage, he wasn't pumping anyone else for information on Tad and Faulk. Maybe I should go after him.
    But no, someone else had already distracted him. Tony-the-louse, who had been standing by the bar, drinking steadily, greeted Wesley's arrival with a bellow of rage.
    "You lousy snoop!" he shouted, and threw his pewter mug at Wesley.
    "Hey!" Wesley said, as the mug bounced off his head. "What do you think you're doing?"
    "If you publish that damned article, I'll rip you in two," Tony said, lurching forward to grab Wesley by the arm.
    "Leave me alone," Wesley said, shaking Tony's grip off while backing away.
    "Cheap, shoddy workmanship!" Tony roared. "Wait till I test one of my pokers on your head! See how shoddy that is!"
    Wesley turned and ran. Tony gave chase, and they careened through the party like billiard balls. Conversation stopped until they broke free of the crowd, and then resumed, as Tony, loping slowly but persistently, disappeared in the direction he thought Wesley had taken.
    I wondered, briefly, if someone should go after them. Probably unnecessary, I decided. Drunk as he was, I didn't think Tony could catch Wesley, much less do him any harm. And judging by the frown on Mrs. Waterston's face, I had every hope she'd declare each of them persona non grata for the rest of the festival. I closed my eyes again and smiled slightly, contemplating the prospect of Wesley getting kicked out of Yorktown, or at least banned from the craft fair.
    "Good job, lady."
    I opened my eyes to see another of Mrs. Waterston's blue rental coats, this one containing Roger Benson. Someone had made the mistake of letting him get his hands on a pewter mug that probably held at least a pint and a half of liquid, and