Once Upon a Grind by Cleo Coyle Page B

their mothers?
    The buggy rolled to a halt and Leila jumped out. No greeting, no thanks. The woman simply pushed me aside and grabbed Jeremy’s arm.
    â€œWhat were you thinking?!” she yelled, shaking the boy. “I was worried sick—”
    â€œLeila, stop!” I dived in, pulling the woman off her son. “Penny got lost. They’ve been searching for the dog ever since.”
    Leila’s eyes flashed. For a second, I thought she was going to shake me, too—she even balled her fist.
    Oh, go ahead
,
I thought, balling my own.
Give me a reason.
    It was eleven-year-old Molly who acted like the grown-up. “Stop fighting!” she shouted. “We have to find Penny!”
    The little girl’s eyes filled with tears, and Leila’s maternal instincts finally kicked in. “This policeman will find your dog,” she cooed.
    The officer’s expression was doubtful, and Molly—a detective’s daughter—immediately picked up his negative vibe.
    â€œWe have to find Penny
ourselves
!” she told her mother in a firm voice.
    â€œWe can’t. It’s late and you’re both going home.”
    While Molly and her mother argued, the festival’s attorney climbed out of the electric buggy, resplendent in casual-Saturday lawyer wear—navy blue sports coat, open-necked shirt, nicely pressed jeans, and highly polished loafers. To my surprise, he didn’t approach Leila. Instead, he pulled Matt and me aside.
    In his late forties, Harrison Van Loon (pronounced “Van Loan,” or so he said at last week’s vendors’ planning meeting) lived on the leaner side of trim with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair, a fashionably close-cropped beard, and horn-rimmed glasses through which his intense hazel green eyes were (unfortunately) studying Matt and me with open suspicion.
    â€œFrom your costumes I’m guessing you’re festival staff?” The toothy smile looked friendly, but the tone of voice was disturbingly serious.
    I gave him our names, and he pointed at Matt.
    â€œAllegro? You’re the one Samantha signed up this morning, aren’t you? I told Sam you should have been vetted first. Everyone who works around children has to be vetted. We don’t want the festival to be exposed to legal action . . .”
    This
I knew from the aforementioned vendors’ meeting, where Van Loon had handed out a long list of
do’s
and
don’ts
in dealing with the public (emphasis on the
don’ts
) . . .
    Do be courteous;
don’t
be argumentative;
    Do smile at the children;
don’t
touch the children;
    Do offer children food;
don’t
hand the children food;
    Do hand it first to a parent or caregiver
in loco parentis
 . . .
et cetera, et cetera
,
ad nauseam.
    â€œLook, I signed a bunch of papers,” Matt told the lawyer. “I followed your rules. I didn’t know you wanted DNA samples on top of it all—”
    â€œThere wasn’t time for formalities,” I hastily added. “Samantha was in a bind and Matt volunteered to help out. You should be thanking him.”
    â€œYou say you
found
these kids?”
    â€œWe didn’t
say
we found them. We
found
them.” Matt pointed to the children. “Ask them.”
    He glanced at Molly and Jeremy, who were continuing to argue with their mother. When he turned back, his suspicious lawyer gaze was no longer on Matt. Now he was focused on me.
    â€œExactly how do
you
know these children, Ms. Cosi?”
    â€œThrough their father, an NYPD police detective on assignment with the Justice Department in Washington.”
    Van Loon continued to frown down at me until Matt pointedly added—
    â€œClare is in a
relationship
with the man.”
    â€œOh, I see . . .” Van Loon’s stiff posture instantly relaxed. “I was trying to cognize why I witnessed the hostility toward Ms. Cosi from the children’s