Fool's Puzzle by Earlene Fowler (reading eggs books .TXT) 📕

structure of a regular job. It was my opinion that at twenty-four he was already doing his life, but maybe that was jealousy talking.

Until three months ago, my last official employment had been fifteen years before, serving the graveyard shift at Hogie’s Truckstop Cafe out on old Highway One. I’d had to compete with five people for the job as curator, and though low-paying and possessing no benefits except the freedom of flexible hours and dressing as I pleased, I was proud of it. Although my fossilized degree in American History was a rather dubious qualification, it was something.

Eric, on the other hand, was one of those people who tripped through life letting others clear the path for him, and with his dark, Lord Byron looks and bad-boy smile, he always had someone, usually female, willing to Teflon the way.

Flipping off the radio, I walked across the red-brick patio in back to the hacienda’s old stables, now the co-op studios and museum offices. In the main studio, the activity of the artists reflected the weather, dark and frenzied.

“Benni, when is the other kiln going to be fixed?” called one of the potters, a thin, nervous man whose slick, clay-covered hands deftly pulled an elegant vase skyward from a greenish mass of porcelain. “And the other wheel? There’s a lot of people waiting. And what are you going to do if the rain doesn’t stop?”

“l’ve called three repairmen in Santa Barbara,” I said. “The cheapest wants a hundred bucks just to drive up and look at them. We can’t afford it until we bring in some money.”

His dark, goateed face frowned. “People are depending on this. Can’t you get Constance to spring for it?”

“You know the co-op is supposed to be self-supporting. I can’t go running to Constance every time something breaks.”

He grunted, eyed the vase with a scowl and turned off the wheel.

“I’ll try again,” I said. “And I’m working on the rain angle. Has anyone seen Eric?”

“Last I saw, he was heading toward the woodshop or your office,” a woman at one of the quilt frames said.

“Thanks,” I said and leaned over to inspect the quilt they were working on. “Robbing Peter to Pay Paul?”

The quilters laughed. “Right again,” one of them said.

It was a game we had going the three months I’d worked here. I prided myself on my ability to recognize almost any traditional quilt pattern. It was knowledge I’d picked up from the infamous Aunt Garnet on visits with Dove to Arkansas when I was growing up. I walked down the hallway past the rows of workrooms, stopping briefly to peek into the woodshop. Inhaling the sweet, pine-scented air, I smiled at the rows of primary-colored rocking horses lined up and ready for their future owners, and waved at Ray, the only occupant this early. A big-shouldered man with a red walrus mustache, he was a talented carver of duck decoys and one of the most genial members of the co-op. He waved back and gave me a bushy grin.

Opening the door to my small office, I caught my quarry enthusiastically pounding away on my word processor. His latest venture, a university extension course in writing romance novels, had caused problems between us before.

“Eric,” I said, “we have to get those quilts hung today. You know the pre-showing is Friday night. Can’t you do that on your own time?”

He looked up at me with sleepy, thick-lashed, brown eyes even I had to admit were sexy. “Tell me what you think. ‘Dack’s tongue thrust into her ear like a dental probe. Cassandra melted like fresh butter from her father’s dairy farm into helpless desire. When he pressed his throbbing sword of manhood ...”

“That’s terrible,” I said, groaning. “I can’t believe you actually read that out loud to a classroom of strangers.”

“It must be good,” he said, grinning his two-hundred-watt smile. “Three women have asked me out for coffee after class. I think I’ve found my calling.”

“You’re despicable,” I said, laughing in spite of myself. “You’re just taking that class to hit on women.”

“Nah.” He grinned and winked. “Really, there’s a lot of money in this stuff. Women buy these books like candy. It’s a gold mine.” He went back to tapping. “Sybillia says I have real potential. She’s helping me.”

“Who?”

“My teacher.”

“Her name sounds like a social disease. Anyway, you have a job to do. You can get back to your throbbing swords later.”

“One sword, Benni. He only has one. How long has it been for you, anyway?” He waved me away as if I were a pesky horsefly. “One more page.”

I walked across the room to the outlet. “File it now or I pull the plug on Dack and Cassandra.”

“Just a minute.”

“Now.” I reached for the plug.

“Oh, all right.” He punched the file key on the word processor with a flip of his hand. “If you were nicer to me, I might have considered dedicating the book to you. But now ...” He heaved an exaggerated sigh.

“I’ll try and live with the disappointment. I need you to hang those quilts. Constance will kill us, or rather me, if things aren’t perfect on Friday night.”

He slipped the data disk into the black plastic file on my desk. “Mine has the red label,” he said. “Please don’t read it without my permission.”

“Out.” I pointed toward the museum. “Work.”

“Slave driver,” he said.

“Reprobate.”

His dark eyebrows wrinkled in confusion.

“You want to be a writer,” I said. “Get a dictionary.”

He tossed his head and marched, in what I assumed was an artistic snit, through the door, slamming it with a bang.

I sat down at my desk and contemplated what I should do next. Knowing Dove would ask the next time she called, I made an attempt to locate my cousin Rita. After calling her house without luck, and trying Trigger’s Saloon, where her boss said he hadn’t seen her since night before last, I left it at that, figuring I’d made a semi-valiant effort. She’d wander back around eventually, probably when she