Read Online Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos by Donna Andrews - Free Book Online

to look inconspicuous, as if we're just out for a stroll."
    Of course, in his white-and-gold uniform, Michael had never looked less inconspicuous in his Me, but we fit in. Every few steps Michael would salute a squad of soldiers or we'd exchange good morrows with some costumed civilians, but luckily we didn't run into anyone who wanted us to stop and talk. And, as I suspected, the two women headed straight for the far end of the fair, where I'd assigned the less-accomplished craftspeople.
    "Bingo," I muttered, as they entered a blacksmith's booth in the last aisle.
    "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