Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(62)

“Hopscotch owns the Topiary Park.”

“Right,” Jack says. “Incorporated in the British Virgin Islands.”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

“I noticed it on the receipt.” Holly checked the color of her skin in the rearview mirror. It looked . . . grayish green. Maybe she should go home. “Penelope Pratt lives on Hopscotch Hill.”

“Penelope’s not involved in any of this. Although her grandmother was Meek’s sister. So Meek is Penelope’s great-uncle.”

“And the PTA president who’s targeting me—she’s cousins with Penelope. So she must be related to Meek too. They all live on Hopscotch Hill.”

“The homes have been passed down through the family,” Jack said. “But none of that matters. Penelope’s family is prominent in town—but in the clear as far as any of this is concerned. They’re not involved. Bethanny and I share Meek’s account because it’s so large and complex.”

“Okay . . . so who’s the third person?”

“The third account is the account I’m responsible for,” he said. “The reason the company brought us to Primm.”

Someone started rapping their knuckles on Holly’s car window. Ratta-tap-tap!

“Jeez!” She jumped. “Jack. She’s at my window.”

“Who is?”

“The Pink Witch. PTA president. She’s right outside my window. Oh gosh, even her scrapbooking tote is pink.” Holly cupped her hand over the phone so Mary-Margaret couldn’t hear her. “She’s the woman I was telling you about. She’s the one who’s targeting me.”

More knocking.

“I better go. Tell me your person later?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Wish me luck.”

“Wish you luck?”

They hung up. Holly rolled her window down.

“Hip! Hip! Lavender! It’s me, Mary-Margaret.” Mary-Margaret appeared quite chipper. “Why are you sitting in this car? We need to get inside. There’s glitter!” She clapped. “Wait a minute. Whose car is this?” Mary-Margaret looked around. “Is this a rental car? Is that what I smell? It is. I know the smell of something that’s rented.” She leaned in. “Woo! It smells like feet. Never mind. Don’t worry, Lavender. Try not to think about the driver before you. About his feet—or his boogers. Because he probably picked ’em and flicked ’em while he was driving. And now you’re sitting in it. It surrounds you.” Mary-Margaret squirmed and twitched. “That’s so gross. So gross. Epic gross! Lint-from-a-belly-button gross. Bits-of-plaque-that-flick-onto-your-mirror-when-you-floss gross. Steamy-poop-at-the-dog-park gross. Floor-of-a-truck-stop-bathroom gross.” Mary-Margaret’s eyes narrowed. “Floor. Of. A. Truck—”

“I heard you.” Holly focused on her breathing. Inhaling, exhaling. “How are you, Mary-Margaret?”

“I’m fine, Lavender, how are you? Wait. Don’t answer that. Do you have any hand sanitizer? ’Cause I’d squirt a bunch on the steering wheel if I were you. You’re sitting in a booger car.”

She exhausted Holly. She really did.

“It’s not a booger car, Mary-Margaret. It’s a Buick.”





21





Inside the Scrap & Swap


The moment Holly walked into the cafeteria, she was given a clear fourteen-by-fourteen-inch shopping bag from Primm Paper, Primm’s premiere paper-crafts studio located on Pip’s Corner at the south end of the village square. Katie, who introduced herself as the owner of Primm Paper, smiled brightly as she handed Holly the shopping bag.

“I’m so excited to start scrapbooking,” Holly told Katie. “I’ve never done it before and have been meaning to start.”

“I’m hosting a scrapbooking basics class next week if you’d like to join us,” Katie offered.

“I will.” Holly smiled. Bingo! My social calendar is filling up.

Holly was directed to a series of long beautiful tables covered in yellow-and-white-striped tablecloths with chunky black fringe at the bottom. There was an ornately drawn black bumblebee logo from Primm Paper on every table, and at one of the tables, Holly bought her “scrapper’s sticky sack,” containing all the adhesives she’d need to complete the night’s projects. Scrapper’s sticky sack. So cute. Say that ten times fast. Scrapper’s sticky sack. Scrapper’s sticky sack.

Next, Holly paid thirty-six dollars for a ticket to craft her way down the length of the kindergarten table, completing twelve total scrapbook pages at an average cost of three dollars per page. The cost covered her supplies, with a little extra left over to raise funds for the PTA. Thirty-six dollars on scrapbooking, and Jack might lose his job.

There were thirteen cafeteria tables, each dedicated to one of the thirteen grade levels at Primm, kindergarten through twelfth grade. The mom next to Holly, Shanequa, who told Holly she had four children, could buy four tickets—one for each grade. Shanequa planned to scrapbook her way down four tables: kindergarten, fifth, seventh, and twelfth grade.

“So how does this work?” Holly muttered to Shanequa, hoping the antigas medicine she took earlier would last through the event.