A Mission to the Mustard Museum by Beth Mathison Page B

skill.”
    David sucked in his breath as he angled the car off the freeway. “Are you telling me that it doesn’t take any brainpower to operate a GPS?”
    “Only when the big purple arrow points you in the wrong direction and you have to drag out a paper map.”
    “Hey, that’s only happened a couple of times,” David said. “Well…maybe more than a couple, and that’s only because I haven’t updated the software in a really long time.”
    “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to tease you. I know how you like your electronics. Your big purple arrow is quite exceptional.”
    “You can take that to the bank,” David exclaimed. “I am truly a gadget man.”
    “There’s only one gadget I’m interested in,” Frannie said with a smile. She looked down at her map, blushing.
    “Hey!” David said. “She’s putting the moves on me on the way to the Mustard Museum. I think that Date Mission is already working. Mark the calendar. Gotta love that.”
    Frannie’s smile broadened and she hit him over the head with the map.
    David pulled off the freeway, following the GPS instructions. The museum was on a quiet side street off a main road. The parking lot was packed with cars and buses. Frannie and David pulled their coats around them as they rushed to the front door. Snow swirled around the entrance way, and they welcomed the warm blast of heat from the building.
    “Wow,” David said as they stomped the snow off their feet on a rug. “This is a lot of mustard.”
    The front of the building was dedicated to a retail store. Dozens of shelves held rows of mustard containers. The store was filled with older people, families pushing strollers, and employees in bright yellow shirts. Frannie slipped her hand into David’s, and they walked down the aisles.
    “Holy cow, it’s mustard from Scotland,” David exclaimed, picking up a blue jar. They moved to the next section. “Holy Moly,” he said, louder this time. “This one’s from Singapore. I had no idea they made mustard in Singapore.”
    An older woman, her head wrapped in a colorful scarf, clutched her purse to her chest. She gave David a suspicious look and scurried away.
    “Hey,” Frannie said to David in a stage whisper. “Lower your voice. You’re scaring the mustard customers away.”
    An employee dressed in a full-body mustard costume walked around the open area near the registers. A little girl bumped into the mustard man and looked up at him, her eyes huge. The mustard man gave her a little wave with gloved fingers, and the girl turned around, screaming for her mother.
    “I think the guy in the mustard costume has a corner on the scaring market,” David said. “All I did was offend an old lady.”
    “Sample?” An employee asked, walking up to them with a giant serving tray of pretzels and small pots of mustard.
    “Oh, food!” David said, reaching for a pretzel. “I’m starving. What kind of mustard have we got here?”
    The teenaged girl was dressed in a brown apron that matched the pretzels. Her name tag said “Becky.” “We have classic French Dijon, an Irish specialty wholegrain with whisky, and a stone ground,” she said in a bored tone.
    Frannie grabbed a pretzel and tried the stone ground.
    “Um, Becky,” David said. “This Irish whisky mustard isn’t going to get me snookered, will it?”
    Becky gave him a blank stare.
    “You know, snookered? Because of the Irish whisky.”
    Becky just stared at him.
    David smiled at her and shook his head. “Never mind. Thank you so much for the sample.” He dipped his pretzel lightly in the Irish mustard and Becky hurried off.
    “I think you’re still scaring the mustard people,” Frannie told him. “Including the employees. If you’re not careful, they’re going to kick you out of here. And this stone ground is excellent. If we find Becky again, we can ask her what brand it is.”
    David popped a pretzel in his mouth. He made a face and shivered. “Well, the Irish whisky mustard is