winner out to dinner. Cheapskate that he is, Uncle Frank catered the meal himself, serving chili dogs, shakes,
and fries. The only other time Uncle Frank suffered defeat was when straight-line winds whipped through the fairgrounds in
'93 and the poor unfortunate mini-freeze ended up on the porch of the old administration building. Apart from that, Uncle
Frank has retained his soft-serve king title.
This year a new horseshoe-pitching venue was scheduled to be erected before the next fair. Devotees of the sport, both Uncle
Frank and Luther Daggett wanted dibs on the project as this year's ultimate prize—and to see their name front and center on
the new and much improved horseshoe pitching facility. Uncle Frank had talked of nothing else for weeks.
"We can't let our guard down for a minute, people," he had stressed at a church picnic three weeks earlier. "That Luther Daggett
will do anything to take the prize this year," he said. "Anything. That guy has a set on him the size of those coconut-covered
pink marshmal-low snowballs Tressa likes so much." Unfortunately for Uncle Frank, the minister had chosen that moment to stroll
by, leaving Uncle Frank in the unique position of trying to convince the good reverend he'd been discussing a set of new frozen
taste treats.
I thought about that conversation, and about how it might relate to the cockroach caper at the emporium the night before.
What better way to sway the contest in your favor in a bug way—I mean big way—than to contaminate the competitor's premises with hordes of hideous, dirty, disgusting, business-busting bugs? So there
was another person besides Frankie who stood to benefit from a dramatic dip in Uncle Frank's cone sales: Luther Daggett d/b/a
Cone Connection.
"You okay?" Joe's question brought me out of my mental musings. "A donut didn't go down cockeyed, did it? The way you were
wolfing them down, it's no wonder."
I shook my head. "Just thinking," I said.
"Ah, that explains it," Joe responded. I gave him one of my often-practiced but never mastered one-eyebrow-raised looks and
he went on. "The slightly wrinkled brow. The somewhat pained expression—like the one I get when I haven't included enough
fiber in my diet."
I winced. I reckoned my intense concentration look needed some work.
"So, is the bet on again this year?" Joe asked. I nodded.
"And the stakes are higher than ever," I said. The knot in my stomach had almost nothing to do with a large coffee and a jumbo
order of mini donuts.
CHAPTER 5
I left Joe finishing up his donuts and coffee and trying to figure out where he'd have the best chance of running into my
grandma by accident. This was so cute, I thought; what modern-day romance needed was less in-your-face aggression and more
sneaky subterfuge.
"Stay put," I told Joe, sharing the benefit of my vast experience in the matter. "I guarantee she'll hit Dottie's first thing.
That is, if she's clever enough to lose her assigned keeper for the day." My bets were on Hellion Hannah all the way. My grandma
has an independent streak so big it can be seen by the astronauts in space. And the lure of Dottie's donuts among my family
was legend.
"I reckon we'll be down your way for a cold refresher later on," Joe warned me. "And between the two of us we could mind the
store if you wanted to take a little break."
I hoped he didn't detect the sudden dilation of my pupils or the hoarseness in my voice as I bid him adieu.
Just the thought of the dynamic duo doling out dairy gave me acid reflux.
I jogged the last block to the ice cream stand, the coffee sloshing around in my stomach with each step. I gave myself a mental
head slap. Why had I swilled all that coffee when I was about to be cooped up for five hours selling root beer and soda pop?
I hurried up to the Dairee Freeze satellite stand and stopped when I saw the side door ajar. I frowned. I'd locked that door
last night. I knew I had. I'd taken special
and fries. The only other time Uncle Frank suffered defeat was when straight-line winds whipped through the fairgrounds in
'93 and the poor unfortunate mini-freeze ended up on the porch of the old administration building. Apart from that, Uncle
Frank has retained his soft-serve king title.
This year a new horseshoe-pitching venue was scheduled to be erected before the next fair. Devotees of the sport, both Uncle
Frank and Luther Daggett wanted dibs on the project as this year's ultimate prize—and to see their name front and center on
the new and much improved horseshoe pitching facility. Uncle Frank had talked of nothing else for weeks.
"We can't let our guard down for a minute, people," he had stressed at a church picnic three weeks earlier. "That Luther Daggett
will do anything to take the prize this year," he said. "Anything. That guy has a set on him the size of those coconut-covered
pink marshmal-low snowballs Tressa likes so much." Unfortunately for Uncle Frank, the minister had chosen that moment to stroll
by, leaving Uncle Frank in the unique position of trying to convince the good reverend he'd been discussing a set of new frozen
taste treats.
I thought about that conversation, and about how it might relate to the cockroach caper at the emporium the night before.
What better way to sway the contest in your favor in a bug way—I mean big way—than to contaminate the competitor's premises with hordes of hideous, dirty, disgusting, business-busting bugs? So there
was another person besides Frankie who stood to benefit from a dramatic dip in Uncle Frank's cone sales: Luther Daggett d/b/a
Cone Connection.
"You okay?" Joe's question brought me out of my mental musings. "A donut didn't go down cockeyed, did it? The way you were
wolfing them down, it's no wonder."
I shook my head. "Just thinking," I said.
"Ah, that explains it," Joe responded. I gave him one of my often-practiced but never mastered one-eyebrow-raised looks and
he went on. "The slightly wrinkled brow. The somewhat pained expression—like the one I get when I haven't included enough
fiber in my diet."
I winced. I reckoned my intense concentration look needed some work.
"So, is the bet on again this year?" Joe asked. I nodded.
"And the stakes are higher than ever," I said. The knot in my stomach had almost nothing to do with a large coffee and a jumbo
order of mini donuts.
CHAPTER 5
I left Joe finishing up his donuts and coffee and trying to figure out where he'd have the best chance of running into my
grandma by accident. This was so cute, I thought; what modern-day romance needed was less in-your-face aggression and more
sneaky subterfuge.
"Stay put," I told Joe, sharing the benefit of my vast experience in the matter. "I guarantee she'll hit Dottie's first thing.
That is, if she's clever enough to lose her assigned keeper for the day." My bets were on Hellion Hannah all the way. My grandma
has an independent streak so big it can be seen by the astronauts in space. And the lure of Dottie's donuts among my family
was legend.
"I reckon we'll be down your way for a cold refresher later on," Joe warned me. "And between the two of us we could mind the
store if you wanted to take a little break."
I hoped he didn't detect the sudden dilation of my pupils or the hoarseness in my voice as I bid him adieu.
Just the thought of the dynamic duo doling out dairy gave me acid reflux.
I jogged the last block to the ice cream stand, the coffee sloshing around in my stomach with each step. I gave myself a mental
head slap. Why had I swilled all that coffee when I was about to be cooped up for five hours selling root beer and soda pop?
I hurried up to the Dairee Freeze satellite stand and stopped when I saw the side door ajar. I frowned. I'd locked that door
last night. I knew I had. I'd taken special
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