Page 61 of Fiona and the Fixer

“The new breakfast place makes the best crepes.”

My head popped up from my painting. Even with my multi-beer induced brain fog, I realized this town of snoops could help me with my pickle people snooping. They were better at gathering intel than my entire floor at the field office.

“What about the pickle place on Main?” I asked, glancing around the table. I shook the small jar of rainbow glitter over a bare wet spot like I would salt on french fries. “I was there earlier, and they were all out.”

If there was pickle intel, they knew it.

“They mess with my heartburn, so I steer clear,” Martha said, setting her hand on her t-shirt, right over the words Fartsy.

“I love pickles, but I grab them at the grocery store,” Mindy added, not looking up from her work, which was adding a curling mustache like a dastardly villain. “My six-year-old likes the spears in his lunchbox.”

“They must be good if they’re sold out,” Dottie mused, squirting a dab of glue then another googly eye onto the back of her pumpkin.

Drat. They didn’t know anything! Why? Did they not get up early? Not witness pickle dumping off the side of the mountain? Not recognize these things were red flags for illegal activities happening right under their noses?

I pushed for more but was cut off. “How–”

“Time’s up!” Tammy… or maybe Rosemary called. She stood from the other table and her shrewd and crafty gaze took in the competition. “We’ll bring ours over to your table, Dottie.”

Dottie nodded, sliding her pumpkin over to make some room. “Good. We want impartial judging.” We all stood and moved away from our projects. Together, they were…interesting.

And…strangely fun.

I leaned to Dottie and murmured, “Who are the judges?”

“Randy, the owner. Plus, two other men who happen to be in the bar who are not related, work with, have kids who go to school with someone’s kids, or any kind of connection to any of us on either team so they’re impartial.”

“That must’ve been pretty hard to find,” I mused.

“It was.”

Ten minutes later, Randy, the forty-something bar owner came out of the huddle he and the other judges made. He moved down the table and pointed. “This one is the winner.”

He was pointing at my pumpkin.

Mine.

Glittery Medusa.

“What?” I screeched, putting my hands to my face and probably smearing green paint on my cheeks. I’d never won anything in my life.

Dottie, Martha, and Mindy surrounded me and screamed. I winced but couldn’t help but smile at their enthusiasm. Or drunkenness.

The other team even joined in, although I did hear Rosemary mutterringer.

“Besides the team’s pumpkins out on display, you get the five-dollar prize, honey,” Dottie said.

“I won five dollars?” It’d barely buy a cup of coffee, but it felt like I won the lottery.

She nodded.

My heart was pounding, and I couldn’t stop smiling. “I’ve never won anything before.”

I was strangely happy. Giddy.I won.My ridiculous pumpkin painting had been considered the best, which was ridiculous. Kindergartners could do a better job than all of us. It didn’t matter.

“You also get a sash.”

Someone behind me dropped a yellow strip of fabric over my shoulder as if I’d won the Miss Universe competition. Glancing down, it was clearly handmade, with rickrack sewn on as decorative detail, then in marker with fancy cursive, it readBest Pumpkin Painter.

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