The crowd burst into applause. The guards smacked their lips and reached for more candy. Tara clapped both hands over her mouth to stifle her laughter.

"Okay, I think my work here is done," Mom said hastily. "Tara, let's skedaddle."

She wasn't going to leave me holding the bag-or bowl, as it were. "Mom, may I speak to you for a moment?" I motioned for her to join me behind the table.

"I really need to go pick up your father at the dentist's office, Abigail."

I locked my arm through hers and took her with me, whispering frantically, "What did you put in the candy?"

"Nothing harmful. Just a little beet juice."

"Beet juice!" Tara snorted, doubling over with laughter.

"You told me I'd have amazing results with that candy," I whispered furiously to my niece.

She nodded in agreement, wiping tears from her eyes. Clearly, we had differing definitions of amazing results.

Suddenly, from another aisle we heard a scream, followed by "My teeth are bleeding!"

At that moment, the security guards caught sight of each other. "Hey, man, what's wrong with you?" the first one asked in an alarmed voice. "Your mouth is all b.l.o.o.d.y!"

"Yours is, too!" The second guard wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then stared at the scarlet stain. "What the h.e.l.l is going on here?"

"I think I'm gonna puke," the first guard said, then loped off.

Tara held her ribs as she laughed harder.

His partner pointed at me. "You're in big trouble now." Then he ran off, too, holding a hand over his mouth.

When another horrified wail shattered the air, uneasy murmurs began to spread through the crowd. Hearing whispers of "poisoned candy," I called, "Everyone please calm down. The candy is colored with beet juice. Nothing to be nervous about."

Mom sank onto a chair, a look of extreme mortification on her face.

"Where is she?" a woman cried. Then the two older ladies who'd declined to sign the pet.i.tion came hurrying up to the table. "Look what your candy did to us!"

They bared their teeth, revealing decent sets of chompers, except for their vivid crimson color. Others followed close behind the women, having also partaken of the sweets.

"It's nothing harmful," I a.s.sured them. "All natural, totally washable, beet juice."

After promising ten percent discounts at Bloomers to the irate bunch and sending them off at least partially soothed, I picked up the gla.s.s bowl and handed it to my chagrined mother. "We won't be needing this anymore."

"I feel just awful," Mom said. "I'm so sorry, Abigail."

"You were awesome the way you handled those big apes, Grandma," Tara said.

"Thanks, sweetie," Mom said. She sighed miserably as she set the candy bowl aside. "I don't think I'm cut out to be an artist."

I was so tempted to agree, but no way could I crush what was left of her spirit. "Are you kidding? Come on, Mom. You love creating art."

"That's true, but look what happened with my first batch of candy hearts. Really, whatever possessed me to use red pepper flakes? Do you know your dad thought my mistake was so funny that he put the candy hearts in a gla.s.s jar and set it on the coffee table as a display piece? And now"-she waved her arm in the air-"this fiasco. I just wanted to make the red brighter for your display. I guess I used too much beet juice."

"Okay, so you're not great with candy," I said. "Why not go back to your roots?"

She glanced at me as though I'd grown a horn. "Farming?"

"Your artistic roots, Mom. Your pottery wheel. You always enjoyed throwing clay. Am I right, Tara?"

"Totally. I love to watch you work on your wheel, Grandma."

Mom thought about it for a minute, then sighed. "Maybe you're right. Clay is a safe medium. I felt I'd exhausted the possibilities, but perhaps all I need is some inspiration to get me back in the groove."

Suddenly, Tara's eyes widened in alarm. "Uh-oh. Incoming at two o'clock."

I looked over to see two new guards approaching the table. "You!" one of them said to my mom. "Twenty minutes to pack up and get out."

"It's my booth," I said, rising, "and I didn't do anything illegal. Why do I have to leave?"

The guard laid a piece of paper on the table and tapped a thick fingertip on the lower edge. "That's your signature at the bottom, right?"

I glanced down and saw the rental agreement I'd signed when I paid my fee. "So?"

"So you disrupted the show and caused physical harm to the personnel. In other words, you broke the rules."

My mom's face turned white with shock. "Physical harm? But it was only beet juice."

"You didn't cause any harm, Mom," I a.s.sured her, "except maybe to a couple of egos."

The guard s.n.a.t.c.hed up the paper. "We'll be back in thirty minutes to make sure you're gone."

"Fine," I shouted as they marched away. "Then I want my fee refunded."

"Fat chance," one of them called back.

As I stood there glaring at their double-wide backs, trying to decide if it was worth standing my ground, I noticed people watching us with grins and whispers, pointing to their teeth, no doubt spreading word of the jelly bean debacle. Would anyone take my pet.i.tion seriously now? With a sigh, I pulled a cardboard box from beneath the table and began to stack my brochures inside.

"This is all my fault," Mom said in despair.

"No, it's not," I replied. "The pet.i.tion was my idea. And I guess I did push the envelope a little by bringing it here."

"At least let us help you pack up," Mom said. "Tara, put your phone away, please, until we're finished."

"In a minute," Tara muttered.

"Would you write my name on your pet.i.tion, Abigail?" Mom asked. "And let me know if you're going to hold another rally? I want to be there."

I paused to gaze at her in astonishment. "Really?"

"I did grow up on a farm, you know. Milking cows was one of my daily ch.o.r.es, and I certainly recall how the poor beasts would bellow in pain if I was late getting to them. I can't imagine the kind of suffering they'd have every single moment of their lives with their udders swollen so full they look like gigantic watermelons. What Uniworld is doing is unconscionable, and I'm proud of you for taking a stand."

"Thank you." It wasn't often she encouraged me to be a dissenter. Make that ever.

Tara showed me her cell phone. "Look! Mom says it's okay."

"What's okay?" my mother asked.

"I'm taking Tara to a concert for her birthday," I said.

"Correction," Tara said. "You and Sal are taking me-if you hurry up and buy those tickets."

"Who's Sal?" Mom asked.

I gave Tara a fierce scowl. "You are notgoing to call Marco Sal . . . or Dreamy Eyes, or Hot Pockets, or any other silly name."

"So . . ." She gave my mom a sly smile. "Uncle Marco, then?"

With my materials boxed, I slipped on my navy peacoat, wrapped a green and blue plaid scarf around my neck, and put on my Kelly green wool beret, which Marco said brought out the Irish in my eyes. "Okay, I'm ready. Who wants to carry the flower arrangement?"

My mom was standing across the aisle with Tara, completely absorbed in a display of garden decorations.

"h.e.l.lo. We need to get out of here," I called, glancing at my watch.

"How about a birdbath for the backyard?" Tara asked, pointing to one of the items.

Mom shook her head. "Too common."

I picked up the vase of flowers. "Let's get going before the guards come back."

"I like bright and cheerful and fun," Mom continued, oblivious to my warning.

"Tara, will you grab my book bag?" I asked.

My niece turned around. "What?"

"The canvas book bag with the pet.i.tion inside. Isn't anyone listening?"

"Sorry," Tara said, springing into action. She came to a sudden stop and pointed at my beret. "What is that-thing- on your hat?"

"A brooch," I said, trying to juggle the vase and the box.

"A brooch?" she chortled. "You're wearing a brooch on your hat? Are you, like, the Queen of England or something?"

"May I slip in a reminder here?" I said. "I haven't bought those concert tickets yet."

"Seriously, Aunt Abby, promise me you won't wear that nasty thing to the concert. I'd die of embarra.s.sment."

"Wear what nasty thing?" Mom asked, turning at last.

"Uh-oh," Tara said with an intake of breath. "Darth Vader approaching, stage right, and he's brought the storm troopers."

I glanced up the aisle and saw Nils Raand, accompanied by a half dozen security guards, bearing down on us.

"Let's move it, people," I called. "Time to blow this planet."

CHAPTER THREE.

We didn't stop running until we reached my bright yellow car, where we paused to catch our breath, making white plumes in the frosty air.

"That was cool," Tara said. "We escaped just in the nick of time, like in the movies."

"They wouldn't have dared to touch us," I a.s.sured her. "It was all for show."

"I'm not so sure about that," Mom said as we stowed the supplies in my tiny trunk.

"Trust me, Mom, this isn't the first time Uniworld has tried to unnerve me."

"You never told me they tried to unnerve you," Mom said, a frown creasing her brow.

"Because I knew you'd worry."

"Thank you. Now I'm worried."

"Nothing bad's going to happen. PAR is behind me-Protectors of Animal Rights. Remember when I protested Dermacol Laboratory's use of animals to test their cosmetics last summer? I did that with PAR's help. We closed down a puppy mill last winter. And other PAR groups prevented two Uniworld farm factories from opening last year by rallying local citizens. No one got hurt either time."

"Is PAR organizing the protests here in New Chapel?"

"That's my responsibility."

"But they're here in town working with you?"

"No, but a very competent PAR representative is advising me. Naturally, Uniworld wants to stop the protests, but I refuse to let a few threatening letters scare me off."

Mom gasped. "They've actually threatened you?"

Why didn't I learn to keep my mouth shut? "In a polite way, like, 'please cease and desist.' I'm not dealing with gangsters, you know."

"Can we go now?" Tara asked. "It's, like, zero degrees out here."

"In a minute, Tara," Mom said. "Abigail, I've changed my mind. Let someone else try to stop that farm from opening. You have your whole life ahead of you. I don't want to read in the newspaper one morning that your car was pushed into a ditch."

No matter what the threat was, in her imagination, I always ended up in a ditch.

"That's the problem with our society, Mom. 'Let someone else do it. I'm too busy. I don't want to be bothered.' If everyone said that, we'd have huge, horrible problems, like drugs in our water supply, poisons in our plastic bottles, pesticides in our vegetables-"