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So that’s how the bazaar was going.

While they walked away from the soap booth, Mrs. Gross, one of Marlowe’s regular customers, passed by. “I was at the auction table earlier. I didn’t know that one of your talents was baking pies. They must be really good.”

“I’m not sure you can call it a talent,” Marlowe said. “I dabble. I’m just a pie dabbler.”

“She’s a smokin’ pie maker,” Grandma said. She could afford to find that comment funny.

“Oh, she must be,” Mrs. Gross agreed with a wave and went on her way.

While Grandma checked out coasters with cute sayings on them at the next booth, Ms. Stone, one of their neighbors, strolled up to them. “Saw your pies,” she told Marlowe with a knowing nod. “Very intriguing.”

“Intriguing?” Marlowe repeated because that didn’t really sound like a normal pie adjective.

Ms. Stone nodded again. “I think I’m a fan, just saying.”

“A fan of my pies?”

“Well, someone clearly is.”

Marlowe watched their neighbor go. Grandma muttered, “I wonder when she started early morning drinking.”

But Marlowe’s worry spiked up. What sort of pies did Jace bring? “Let’s go to the auction table.”

“We’re heading that way,” Grandma said, moving too slowly.

They hadn’t gotten far before a guy she’d gone to school with saw her across the aisle and called, “Hey, Marlowe, what did you put in your pies? Must be some kind of secret ingredient, right?”

“You have no idea,” Grandma said.

Marlowe didn’t know how to respond, and by the time she thought of something to say, the guy had left.

Special ingredient? Intriguing? “We’re not stopping at any more booths until I see those pies.”

“They’re not going to go anywhere,” Grandma replied, but she picked up her pace from a dawdle to a shuffle.

They reached the front of the booths where a small stage and sound system overlooked an open area where a crowd was gathering. Marlowe vaguely remembered that Mrs. Clark had said there would be some musical numbers after she announced the raffle winners, so people were probably coming here for that as well as the raffle announcements.

Several businesses had put together baskets to auction off, and the grand prizes included a set of weights, a three-night stay at the Yellowstone Inn, and an electric bike. Grandma declared that she felt lucky and wandered over to buy some raffle tickets, although Marlowe couldn’t imagine what she would do with any of those prizes.

The auction tables were nearby, and Marlowe headed there to search for the dessert table. She spotted the pies with her name sitting on the end of the table, each with a piece of paper taped in front so people could place their bids in the silent auction.

The pies looked the same as the ones she’d made last night, but they couldn’t be. Jace wouldn’t have put out four smoke-flavored pies. He must’ve baked new ones. She examined them closer and recognized the slightly crooked strip she’d placed on the lattice top of the first pie.

These were the smoke pies.

Why would he… and then her eyes fell on the bidding sheet. His name was written on each one along with a bid of sixty dollars. Since none of the other desserts had a bid of more than twenty-five, he was definitely going to win those.

Ah. That was so sweet. And also explained why people thought she must be a great pie baker, or that Jace was a fan of hers, or in the last case that she’d spiked them with some sort of illegal drugs.

She really hoped that after Jace dropped that much money, his mother wouldn’t ask to sample any of them.

“Marlowe,” someone said, and she turned to see Pastor Curtis walking up to her. He was the pastor of her grandmother’s church, a soft-spoken man with a face that had no doubt once been a choirboy—a natural for a pastor. “I’m glad I ran into you,” he said with a concerned smile. “I was hoping for a chance to talk to you in private.” He glanced over to where Marlowe’s grandmother stood before returning his attention to her and lowering his voice. “I heard some rumors, and I was worried.” He placed his hands together in a gesture that implied voicing those worries made him uncomfortable, and he wanted to do it delicately.

Which meant that some of Jace’s bad girl stories had circulated around town and found their way to the pastor.

She held up a hand to stop him. “Any rumors you heard are really just misunderstandings. I was never a roadie—unless you heard about me being a roadie for a Christian band, and then okay, I guess. I don’t read auras. I’m not a member of the communist party, and the stories of my prison friends have been greatly exaggerated.”

The pastor’s eyebrows rose during this recitation. “I hadn’t heard about any of that. I wanted to talk to you about your grandmother getting stuck on the roof. Is she all right?”