Page 60 of Fiona and the Fixer

I wasn’t so sure about that. “Craft night, though?”

She pulled one more thing from the bottom of the bag. “Yes, craft night. Here’s your shirt.”

I took it from her and looked down at myself. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“Nothing, but tonight it’s a team craft competition. We’re painting pumpkins for Halloween.”

“Painting? I thought people carved them.”

“Halloween’s not for two more weeks. Carved ones go bad too quickly. Plus, critters like to eat them, and we don’t need another family of moose in town snacking like two years ago.”

Okay, then.

“This is a big night. There’s an overall winner who gets a cash prize, plus the winning team will have their pumpkins displayed in front of city hall for the rest of the month.”

It seemed they didn’t skimp on craft night in Coal Springs.

“Eat up. We need to get there early because I don’t want Rosemary Gecker to hoard all the googly eyes.”

Painting pumpkins? Googly eyes? I felt like I was in an alternate universe. Then I unfolded the blue shirt and read the front.

“Team Artsy Fartsy?” I shook my head hard once more. “No way, Dottie. Absolutely not.”

26

FIONA

An hour later,I was in my Artsy Fartsy bright blue t-shirt at Bud’s Bar where this month’s craft night–and competition–was held. It was Buckets of Beer night, which meant there were metal buckets filled with ice and bottles of beer on our worktable.

When we arrived, introductions were made. Team Artsy Fartsy included me, Dottie, Martha, who was a retired high school chemistry teacher, her daughter Mindy, and Mrs. Metcalf, Dottie’s sister, who was out of town. When the other team, the Brush Buffoons, was introduced, I glazed over on their names. Tammy, Rosemary, Marcia, and possibly Denise or Deirdre. With matching hot pink t-shirts, it was hard to separate them. Or it could’ve been the wine, then beer, that was doing that.

After a few appetizers arrived, I finished my beer, and we settled down at newspaper covered tables for the decorating battle.

It didn’t take long to get as much paint on my pumpkin as on myself. I sucked at anything artistic and this simple, zero rules project proved it. Outwardly, I grumbled about this entire experience until Dottie handed me another beer, then I shut up and… had fun.

There were no secrets in Coal Springs. That meant everyone wanted to dig into each other’s lives like it was an Olympic sport, including mine. No one else seemed to mind the level of invasiveness and probing. To me, it was uncomfortable to answer questions about being in the FBI, like having an eye scooped out with a melon baller. I had to weave and dodge around how I got into the profession. No one would be interested in my dysfunctional family and thankfully Dottie hadn’t shared what I’d told her earlier. I also had to avoid the fact that I was on vacation. Or why. Or why I was in Coal Springs. Or the brain tumor.

My life was a gossip lover’s dream, which meant I tried to say not much of anything.

Dottie sat beside me with a scary pumpkin covered in googly eyes. It wasn’t scary in that it would make small children cry, but scary because it was so awful.

Mine was no better.

It could’ve been the zero artistic talent in action. Or it could’ve been because I was halfway to drunk. Mine had a painted-on, big wide smile, a single white snaggletooth, plus green Medusa-esque hair. I wasn’t a fan of the googlyeyes, but I’d discovered an inner-child love of glitter and sprinkled it liberally into the wet paint.

I picked up the whispers of the craft night-ers, expecting them to make fun of me. Instead, I heardFiona’s so talentedandDottie’s been saying such nice things about herplusshe needs to come to wine night next week.

They liked me? Thought I wasgoodat painting? Looking up, I cautiously looked around the group. A few met my gaze and smiled.Reallysmiled. Dottie, beside me, reached out and patted my hand. While I doubted she overheard the same things I did, she somehow knew.

I gave her a real smile because being part of this group felt good, especially when we got to painting and drinking. Since I hadn’t been very forthcoming, the other Artsy Fartsy women broadened the topics of conversation. I let it all drift around me. I let the noise in, absorbing the ridiculouslynormalchatter. There was no talk about arrests or search warrants or evidence collection. These women didn’t deal with bad guys every day. Or ever. The problems they had in their lives were simple. Broken garbage disposal. A kid failing geometry.

No getting shot at. Or being framed. Or hiding from your father so he didn’t remind you how worthless you were. In Coal Springs, life was cheesy rice and T-ball.

“She’s expecting her second baby next month.”

“The garlic bulbs are being planted now. They have to go in the ground in the fall, you know.”

“The hot flashes are the worst. I need two fans at night.”

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