'What is it?' Michael said.
'Tony Grimes,' I said. 'Fancies himself a blacksmith, the louse.'
'He's not very good?' Michael asked.
'He's not half bad at running a hardware store, which is his day job,' I said. 'As a blacksmith – well, he should stick to selling nails, not making them.'
'That bad, huh.'
'Take a look at his stuff sometime,' I said. 'In fact, take a look right now; I think we'll pay old Tony a visit.'
'Meg,' Michael said. 'You're pretty upset. Why don't we – '
But I was already striding toward Tony's booth.
'It's amazing, Tony,' I said, sweeping my glance around booth. 'Absolutely amazing.'
Tony flinched at my voice, dropped the book he was reading, and hunched his shoulders defensively. He'd have been about my height, if not for that familiar protective stoop, as if he were constantly expecting someone he'd cheated or defrauded to strike him. Apart from that, he was a singularly unremarkable figure, with features so bland even his mother probably had a hard time recalling them when he wasn't around.
The two women I'd followed looked up from the fireplace set they'd been examining. As I suspected, it was a cheap knockoff of the one they'd passed over in my booth.
'Very nice,' I said, picking up the tongs from a similar set and eyeing them critically. 'You've almost got the shape right – a little lopsided, but most people wouldn't notice. Of course, if I were you, I'd paint it; hide all those nasty weld spatters. I doubt if those welds will hold up in the long run, but then, most people aren't looking to use a fancy set like that, are they? It's just for decoration.'
I could see the women looking more closely at the poker and tongs they were holding, and frowning.
'In fact, the only thing I can see really wrong with it is that it's an exact copy of a design I introduced this spring,' I said.
'You'd better watch it,' Tony snapped. 'You could get into trouble, making accusations like that.'
'No, you watch it,' I said. 'What you're doing is a flagrant violation of the copyright laws. I've been talking to a lawyer about what you're doing, and I know a couple of other people have, too.'
Tony swallowed nervously at this remark. And it wasn't exactly a lie. After the last time I'd seen Tony at a craft fair, hawking his badly made imitations, I'd spent a long time bending my brother Rob's ear about the problem. Not that Rob knew anything useful about copyrights – after squeaking through the Virginia bar exam last year, he'd spent most of his waking hours working on his role-playing game and supporting himself by what he called 'legal scut work' for various lawyer uncles.
'There's only so many ways of shaping iron,' Tony said, defensively. 'You get all upset whenever I do anything that's the least bit like what you do, and I keep telling you, it's an example of parallel development.'
Parallel development? Odd turn of phrase for Tony – where had I heard that before?
'Yeah, right,' I said, aloud. 'Come on, Michael, let's get back to my booth.' And we strode out of Tony's booth – now, for some odd reason, much emptier. Not, alas, completely empty. As we reached the end of the lane, I glanced back and saw that Wesley Hatcher had insinuated himself into the booth.
'Damn,' I said. 'Now I'll have to talk to that little weasel to make sure Tony doesn't sell him a phony version of the story.'
'Tony doesn't look too happy,' Michael remarked. 'And look, Wesley's taking pictures. I should think the pictures would speak for themselves.'
'Yes, definitely,' I said. 'Good for Wesley; he's finally found something useful to do with himself. I want to warn Faulk. From the looks of it, Tony has ripped off some of his designs, too. I hope he doesn't explode when he hears.'
'Maybe someone's already told him,' Michael said, as we neared Faulk's booth. 'Sounds like an explosion to me.'
A crowd surrounded Faulk's booth, and we heard arguing voices. We pushed through to find Faulk and Roger Benson squared off, looking as if they were about to come to blows, to the delight of a growing audience. Including Spike, Mrs. Waterston's dog, who was barking with great enthusiasm at both combatants and straining at the leash in his eagerness to jump into the fray. Since he weighed about eight and a half pounds and looked like a black- and-white dust mop, people in the crowd were pointing at him and saying how cute he was. I hoped they'd have the sense to keep their distance.
At the other end of the leash, trying to hide behind a small holly bush, was my brother Rob.
'You had to bring him by here,' I said, frowning.
'Mrs. Waterston dumped him on me.'
'I meant Benson. Did you have to bring him by Faulk's booth after what happened earlier with Tad?'
'I was sort of distracted,' Rob said, nodding his head at Spike.
'Well, go and distract Mr. Benson,' I said. 'Michael, come help me talk to Faulk.'
'Right,' Michael said, squaring his shoulders. Rob rolled his eyes but knew better than to disobey his older sister. We marched into the booth together.
'Mr. Benson,' Rob began, although it was hard to hear him over the barking.
'Faulk, I need to talk to you a minute,' I said. I was trying to pull Faulk away, without much effect, when suddenly I heard a yelp of pain – was that Spike? – followed by an eruption of yells, shrieks, and even louder barking.
'What on Earth?' I muttered.
'You kicked that poor little dog!' a stout woman was shrieking, right in Benson's face. 'I saw it! How dare you!'
'He was going for my ankle,' Benson said. 'And I didn't actually kick him. I just kicked at him. See, he's fine.'
'Time was they'd put a dog down if it bit someone like that,' someone in the crowd said.
'Nonsense! The man started it, kicking the poor little thing,' someone else said.
While the crowd debated whether or not any actual kicking or biting had occurred, Rob was having trouble holding Spike, who had turned into a snarling, growling fury, trembling with the intensity of his desire to dismember Benson. Suddenly, Spike began making choking noises and fell over on his side. Gasps and shrieks went through the crowd. Rob froze and stared down at the small limp figure at his feet.
'Is he dead?' Rob said. 'Mrs. Waterston will kill me if he's dead.'
'Nonsense,' I said, in a low voice. 'He'll be fine. He just pulled too hard against the choke chain and cut off his own wind.' As if to prove me right, Spike stirred slightly, lifted his head, and growled.
'He's coming around; he'll be just fine,' I said, more loudly. 'Happens all the time. I'll take him to the vet to make sure he's okay. You get him' – I indicated Benson with a jerk of my head – 'away from here, and keep him away.'
'Right,' Rob said. He handed me the end of the leash and went over to Benson. The stout woman had backed off to rejoin the ring of hostile faces standing in a semicircle around the entrance to Faulk's booth. Benson was face-to-face with Faulk again.
'You can count on that,' Faulk was saying, in the cold tone I knew meant that Faulk was very, very angry. His hands were clenched into fists, and he was holding one at shoulder level. His shoulder level meant eye level for Benson, and if I were Benson, I'd have thought twice about crossing Faulk.
'Come on, Roger,' Rob said, taking Benson by the shoulder and trying to lead him away. 'Let's get out of here.'
'The hell I will,' Benson said, but he let Rob lead him a few steps toward the entrance of the booth, Faulk following behind, as if to make sure they really left.
But just as Benson reached the entrance, Spike, seeing his prey on the move, suddenly leaped up to bark
