Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos by Donna Andrews

her pointy chin and sharp, beady eyes, had looked like an old crone as long as I'd known her. She was wearing some kind of oversized black bonnet, which she pushed back so she could peer up at our faces – the top of her head only came to my shoulder.
    "You're running for sheriff?" Michael asked.
    "You're not registered voters," Mrs. Fenniman said, frowning.
    "I am in Caerphilly," Michael pointed out.
    "Fat lot of good that does me here," Mrs. Fenniman said. "And you, young lady – why the devil do you insist on living up there in the middle of that horrible druginfested city?"
    "Good question," Michael murmured.
    "Actually, I'm pretty far out in the suburbs, you know," I said. "We have more trouble with possums than pushers."
    "We could use more enlightened voters in this county," Mrs. Fenniman said. "Well, if you can't vote here, at least make yourselves useful. Pass these out."
    She thrust a wad of campaign pamphlets at each of us.
    "Oh, and Meg," she added. "You did bring the flamingos, didn't you?"
    "Yes, of course I brought them," I said, wincing.
    "Flamingos?" Michael echoed. "You never did tell me what that was all about."
    "Campaign's keeping me so busy I almost forgot to ask about them," Mrs. Fenniman said. "And when I went by your booth a little while ago, you weren't there, and neither were the birds."
    "I don't have them out in the booth," I said. "They're not period. But I've got them, don't worry. I was planning on bringing them by your house while I was here."
    "That won't work," Mrs. Fenniman said. "I'm so busy campaigning this weekend I'm hardly ever home."
    "After the festival's over, then," I suggested.
    "Don't be silly," she said. "I'll pick them up at your booth later."
    "What's the deal with the flamingos, anyway?" Michael asked.
    "Mrs. Fenniman commissioned me to make a dozen wrought-iron lawn flamingos," I said.
    "Okay," he said, in a tone that suggested he was hoping for a slightly more detailed explanation. With my family, there usually was a more detailed explanation, although he hadn't yet realized that sometimes he was better off not hearing it.
    "It's to get back at the damned yard Nazis," Mrs. Fenniman said.
    "She means the landscaping subcommittee of the Visual Enhancement and Aesthetics Committee of the neighborhood association."
    "Whatever they call themselves," Mrs. Fenniman fumed. "Bunch of meddling busybodies if you ask me. What business is it of theirs what I have on my lawn? I own the place, don't I?"
    "They passed a rule outlawing plastic lawn ornaments," I explained. "Mrs. Fenniman feels they were targeting her plastic flamingo herd."
    "I know they were," she said. "I've filed suit to have the rule overturned, but meanwhile they've gotten an injunction against my flamingos. And that damned idiot of a sheriff is backing them."
    "So you're escalating to wrought-iron flamingos?" Michael asked.
    "The rule specifically permits both iron and stone ornaments," she said. "So it doesn't matter how much they hate 'em; they won't have a leg to stand on. Speaking of legs: you figured out a way to anchor them? I wouldn't put it past the yard police to steal them."
    "Each one has a base," I said. "If you want to set them on the ground, they'll stand up just fine. If you want them anchored, all you have to do is set the base in concrete, and they'd need a backhoe to steal them."
    "But are they pink enough? They have to be bright, bright pink."
    "The enamel matches the last sample I showed you," I said. "I'm not sure it's possible to make them any brighter than that. As it is, they glow in the dark."
    "Really?" Mrs. Fenniman said, brightening. "That's outstanding! The plastic ones never did that."
    "You don't mean mat literally," Michael said.
    "Just wait and see," I said.
    "I'll come by your booth tomorrow to pick them up, then," Mrs. Fenniman said.
    "Just bring your checkbook," I said.
    "Pink, glow-in-the-dark flamingos," Michael mused, as Mrs. Fenniman stumped off, raising a cloud of dust in her