Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos

suppose they can't help that. Or were you talking about MIT graduates? I admit, I do find them a little vague on the difference between reality and cyberspace, but you know, it's not really Tad's fault. They offered him a better scholarship than Caltech and Carnegie-Mellon.'

'I don't care where he went to school. He's lying.'

'Mr. Benson, I've known Tad for some months, and I've never had any reason to suspect him of lying,' I said. 'I barely met you five hours ago, and already, if I knew where you were staying, I'd call them up and tell them to lock up the silverware. Don't push it.'

'Go ahead, Missy,' he said, taking another step forward and spilling some of his gin and tonic on my skirt. 'If you want to screw up your brother's chances of ever getting his miserable little game published, just keep on the way you're going. If I were you – '

'If I were you, I'd drop it,' I said.

'But – '

'Get the hell out of here,' I hissed.

Benson opened his mouth, then realized, even through the alcohol, how serious I was. He lurched away. I saw him stop by the bar for a refill, then he left the party. Good riddance.

Yes, I was definitely getting a headache. If I were a better person, I would go in search of Faulk and/or Tad; hunt down Mother and keep her away from Mrs. Waterston; mingle with the crowd to show off Mrs. Tranh's handiwork; or do any one of a thousand things to make the party a success. Instead, I snagged another glass of wine from a passing waiter and moved a little farther back into the shadows, hoping no one would notice me.

I could see Michael standing in a small group that included Dad, Mrs. Fenniman, Aunt Phoebe, and Uncle Stanley, within easy reach of the food tables and only a few paces away from the bar. They were all talking animatedly about something. A kamikaze installation of wrought-iron flamingos throughout the neighborhood, perhaps? Probably not. There were bound to be laws against that, and Uncle Stanley was a judge – a federal judge, though. Maybe federal judges didn't care about mere local infractions.

As I watched, Michael stepped toward the bar – a little away from the ffonp, but still close enough to talk to them over his shoulder. I watched as he ferried fresh drinks back to my relatives. I thought of joining them, then decided I was better off where I was. I'd rather be back in the tent, preferably with Michael. I'd have suggested leaving, but I knew that a few more glasses of wine would greatly increase the odds that, when we got there, Michael would be too busy helping me out of my stays to get into a discussion about the state of our relationship.

Someone cleared his throat behind me, and a hand touched my upper arm. I could see that the hand emerged from a sleeve of the now-familiar blue that both Wesley and Benson were wearing.

Okay, I should have stopped to take a deep breath and counted to ten, but I'd had it with these jerks.

'Dammit!' I said, whirling around. 'Just leave me the hell alone, will you? I don't want to – '

I suddenly realized that I was yelling at cousin Horace who, of course, was wearing one of Mrs. Waterston's standard-issue blue coats, like Wesley and Benson and half the men at the party.

'Sorry, sorry,' he was muttering, backing away as if from a rattlesnake.

'I'm sorry, Horace,' I said. 'I thought you were someone else.'

'I usually am,' he said, continuing to back away with a fixed smile on his face.

'Horace! Wait. I – oh, never mind,' I said, as Horace collided with a waiter carrying a food tray and melted into the crowd under cover of the falling hors d'oeuvres. People were staring at me, including several disapproving relatives.

Well, I couldn't blame them. Shouting at poor, harmless Horace had to be a new low, even for me. I don't think I'd have felt any worse if I'd kicked Spike. Actually, Spike sometimes deserved kicking, while poor Horace…

Clearly I was unfit for human company right now. People were turning back to their conversations, and from my place at the edge of the lighted area, I found it easy to slip into the shadows under the trees. No one seemed to notice my absence – not even Michael, still absorbed in his animated discussion with Dad.

Which was okay. I needed some time alone. My mother was fond of remarking how wonderful it was that Meg had grown up from a cantankerous child into such an even-tempered young lady. The first time I heard her say it, I burst out laughing. I felt as if I'd spent half my life searching for ways to control my temper. I'd discovered a lot of great stuff along the way – yoga, for example, and even my ironworking career. Pounding on things with a hammer does wonders to work off anger. But I still thought of myself as a volcano waiting to blow. Although these days I usually managed not to blow until I was by myself, and to get my anger out of my system before going back into the human race again. Which isn't my definition of even-tempered, but I suppose it's better than nothing. Lurking in the shadows wasn't going to do the trick tonight, though. I needed someplace more private where I could pace, mutter, curse, and maybe even kick a few things for good measure.

There was precious little privacy to be found in the tent city where Michael and I were camping. Mother and Dad were hosting the usual motley assortment of relatives, some of whom were sure to be lurking around the house.

The booth. No one would be at the fair grounds this time of night. I could not only get the privacy I needed, but I could even work off some of my temper rearranging my ironwork. And, come to think of it, I would feel better if I collected my cash box and laptop and took them to the tent. Even though I had locked them in the storage cases, I'd actually rather have them with me.

I fished in my pocket and checked the wristwatch I'd hidden there. It was nearly ten; the party was supposed to go on until eleven. I'd have at least an hour to cool down and meet Michael back here at the party.

I slipped away, stopping by the dressing room to collect my haversack from Mrs. Tranh's ladies. The string quartet faded in the distance as I strode down the lane toward the craft-fair grounds. I fumbled in my haversack until I found the laminated badge that identified me as one of the exhibitors and hung it around my neck, just in case I ran into any nitpicking members of the Town Watch, although that seemed unlikely. The last time I'd looked they were all at the party, diligently guarding the buffet tables and the cash bar.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, I thought, as I slipped through the silent lanes, starting at shadows. The party noise seemed far behind now. Even the intermittent boom of the artillery sounded subdued, and the crackle of my footsteps on the straw-covered lane seemed deafening. And then, as I neared the town square –

'Help!' came a cry. 'Can anyone hear me? Help!'

I quickened my steps and got a good grip on my haversack, so I could use it as a weapon if need be, all the while telling myself I was an idiot for not going in search of help. The bag wasn't much of a weapon, and if I actually had to cosh someone with it, I'd probably break my cell phone.

When I reached the square, I stepped on something. A hand. I peered down, and saw Tony-the-louse lying facedown on the gravel.

'Tony!' I exclaimed. I bent down and touched the hand. Still warm. I was about to check for a pulse when a loud snore reassured me that Tony wasn't dead. Only dead drunk.

'Meg? Is that you?'

Wesley's voice. I recognized it now.

'Wesley?' I called. 'What's wrong? Where are you?'

'Over here.'

'Over where? In case you hadn't noticed, it's a little dark out here.'

'Over here in the stocks.'

I ventured further into the square, until I could see the stocks. I could also see Wesley's back, rump, and legs. He was wiggling, trying either to escape from the stocks or to turn and look at me, but his head and arms were pinioned too tightly for either.

I strolled around to the front of the stocks. Wesley, still trying to break free, rattled the padlock that secured the stocks.

'There you are!' he said.

I checked the padlock. It wasn't just for show. Someone had locked it. And the spare key wasn't hanging on the hook beneath the platform where we left it in case of accidents.

'Don't just stand there, get me out,' Wesley said.

'I'd be happy to if I knew where the key was.'

'That idiot Tony has it, of course.'