“Deal. But you have to take me to see my grandfather.”
Angelina nodded as she moved toward the door. “I will. Of course. I’ll, uh, talk to his nurse and arrange a time for tomorrow, okay?”
With no other option offered, Charlotte agreed.
With a tight smile, Angelina left.
Chapter Sixteen
At quarter to six in the morning, a line of cars and trucks pulled into T.K.’s driveway, led by Ban and his father Foliage, who arrived in Targetville’s only rainbow-painted Volkswagen Bug. Foliage hit the horn and it played an abbreviated version of Give Peace a Chance.
By the time all the vehicles had parked, nineteen cars filled the driveway, spilling over into the empty plot of land beside the tomato field.
“I’ve brought the protesters!” announced Foliage, unfolding himself from the Bug.
It was the first time in his life Frank didn’t mind seeing a bunch of hippies show up to a party.
He spotted Bob walking toward him with Declan at his side.
“Where’s Charlotte?” he asked when they were close enough.
Declan shrugged. “She had to run to the East Coast.”
Frank chuckled. “Bet you’re happy it cleared up your day for this.”
“Oh sure. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He looked at his watch. “We were going to show up at seven but Bob couldn’t sleep and asked me to come get him at five.”
Frank laughed and glanced over at Foliage, who’d started rallying his people with a bullhorn.
“Let me guess—he’s the guy with the rainbow Bug?” asked Declan, following his stare.
Frank nodded. “Yep. Last time I saw him this happy he was lobbying against the mind-altering rays of the Target’s anti-theft beeper system.”
Elizabeth, the Tomato Queen, walked through her front door to be greeted by a gaggle of women with picnic baskets in various sizes.
“What’s going on?” she called to Frank.
“There are men coming to tear up T.K.’s field. We’re not going to let them.”
Elizabeth gaped but she didn’t ask for more information. Frank assumed she knew something about her field’s impending doom-by-corporation, but knowing T.K. he guessed he hadn’t wanted to worry his wife with details.
Men with shotguns milled about T.K.’s yard talking to each other as if it were just another day defending their compound from tax collectors. Foliage’s ready-made protest group had apparently grown to include both hippies and homesteaders. It struck Frank as an odd combination, but he imagined they both loved protesting in their own way.
Frank caught Mac’s eye and motioned him over.
“Hey, do me a favor. Try and keep the guys with guns away from the guys with the hemp shirts.”
Mac’s forehead furrowed. “Huh?”
“Keep the hippies away from the militia guys.”
“Aw, they’re all here to help Elizabeth.”
Mac offered him a goofy grin and Frank could tell he’d helped himself to a few more breakfast beers. He tried to speak a little slower.
“They’re all on the same page now, but there are a few hot-button topics I don’t want them sharing deep thoughts with each other. They could go from protesting for T.K.’s farm to protesting against each other in a heartbeat.”
Mac mulled this for a moment. “Yeah, I see what you’re saying.”
“Good. Get Tommy to help you. Be casual.”
Mac eased out a flat hand as if he were slipping it between two mattresses. “Casual. Cool. Totally cool. I can do that.”
Frank frowned. Yep. He definitely had a few more beers.
Mac toddled off and Frank surveyed the crowd, half of which were bouncing homemade signs with slogans like “Hell no, Tomatoes Won’t Go!”
Bob wandered over. “How was your evening?”
“Uncomfortable and wet.” Frank nodded at the crowd. “How did this happen?”
“Ban told his dad what was going on and Foliage did the rest. Clubsoda spent all night making the posters for the hippie group.”
“And the militia boys?”
“Not sure. Someone caught wind we were protesting government interference and they were in like Flynn.”
“But we’re not. We’re protesting a corporation.”
Bob shrugged. “Same thing to them.”
Frank stroked his mustache with his index finger. “I wonder if this is going to get out of hand.”
“Nothing to wonder about, Frank.” Bob grinned. “There’s no way this is going to end well.”
Chapter Seventeen
Charlotte spent the rest of the evening staring at Siofra’s postcards. She called up a turkey sandwich for dinner that cost more than her entire sushi lunch and ate it in front of her laptop, typing search after search about the locations from which the postcards arrived.
Apparently, bonding with the shifty concierge didn’t get you discounts on room service.
Her previous evening investigating the leak in her ceiling exacted a final toll on her eyelids around eight p.m. and she crawled into bed with the intention of taking a quick nap.
She awoke in the dark.
The deafening silence told her she’d slept longer than she’d intended. Gone were the occasional voices floating down the hall and the crunching of tires on stone in the parking lot. Crickets refused to sing. It almost felt as if sound was being taken out of her ears. She had to admit, she liked not hearing the tinkle of her Pineapple Port neighbor’s wind chime for once.
Twisting her wrist to wake up her watch, she stared at the glowing numbers signifying five o’clock in the morning.
Well, I certainly can’t complain about the bed.
It had been the first evening in a long time when Abby hadn’t pushed a paw into her nose, mouth or stomach. No wonder she’d slept so soundly.
Charlotte sat up and turned on the bedside table lamp to illuminate the room and the pile of postcards still strewn across the covers beside her.
Everything she’d discovered about those mysterious missives spilled back into
