Chapter 121: Keeping Up Appearances
Piggy’s entrance into the theater today was the only entrance conceivable that could have topped her original one. Harry carried her not just inside the door but all the way back to the backstage area, despite Piggy’s repeated insistence that he put her down at once. If she’d had her feet under her, and her hands were not scraped raw through the now-ruined gloves she wore, Piggy might have cuffed him one to make him obey, but there did not seem to be any real harm in his refusal to follow her orders—just mulishness. At last, Harry deposited her into the midst of her concerned and chattering cast-mates and stood there, looking abashed, until Piggy had pity on him and put her hand lightly on his wrist.
“Thank you, Harry,” Piggy said, with an attempt at dignity over the din around her. “Please go back to your post now.”
Harry walked off meekly, touching his wrist where her hand had lain. She watched him go, wondering what would have happened—what might have happened—if Scribbler had had a moment longer to speak to her. When she spoke to Fleet later, she might find out, and the thought of talking to him—really talking to him—after all this time was…strange. Strange and scary. He knew her so well, knew her weaknesses and strengths, and that made her feel exposed and vulnerable. Piggy shivered a little, and was immediately wrapped in Cordell’s jacket. She tried to shrug it off, tried to insist that she was fine, tried to say anything that could be heard above the din of inquiry. Everyone was crowding around her now, worried, curious, wanting to know what had happened, wanting to know why she had been carried into the theater in Harry’s beefy arms, wanting to know what the newspapers were going to think of all of this—
The thought of newspapers—one newspaper in particular—made her heart sink. What would Fleet have to say about this? What would Fleet write about this? What snarky comment would he make about Kermit not being here to come to the rescue? Scribbler had been her savior this afternoon, but would that extend to protecting her from prying eyes or scurrilous gossip, or would he take advantage of the situation like he had during the better part of last year? The thought was almost too awful to contemplate.
Piggy stopped trying to shrug Cordell’s jacket off, put her face in her tattered gloves and boo-hooed loudly. That silenced her cast-mates’ chatter, but only for a moment, then everyone surged forward to comfort her. Well, almost everyone.
“Poor thing,” said someone, and the sentiment was echoed by the others.
“Bless her.”
“New York is so dangerous for a girl out alone.”
“Piggy—what, um, happened? Are you, you know, okay?” Harrison said, his voice surprisingly gruff. Once Piggy had decided he was just a wolf, and not a louse, they had reached a pretty friendly understanding.
“An awful man tried to mug me,” Piggy cried. This time, the lie practically jumped off her tongue, and her big blue eyes, still wet with tears, gave substance to it. She almost believed it herself.
“Oooh! Did he get your purse, honey? That cute little ruffled one?” That from Darcy.
“One of the nice security guards retrieved it for me. And then a kind stranger happened along and chased the bad guy away.” Like any good actress, Piggy had her lines down pat, but she was biting the inside of her lip to stop its trembling.
“But how—“ Rory began, looking confused and upset, but was cut off before he could say more.
“But…but how did your hands get all scraped up? Aw--and look! Your knees…your cute little knees are all bloody,” said Harrison sadly. Everyone took their focus off Piggy’s face and looked at her legs. Piggy couldn’t decide whether to hug Harrison or swat him, but took advantage of the situation while she decided.
“When he grabbed my purse, Moi did not let go. He tried to run and Moi…I fell and scraped my knees and hands.” She finally looked down at the damage, finally ready to face it, and cringed at the sight of the scraped and bloody skin. She was going to have to wear tights over it tonight—no doubt about it—and that wasn’t going to be fun. “Oh,” she said unhappily, and did not realize she had said it out loud until they chorused a sympathetic response.
“Well, sweetie—your gloves are ruined,” Kristen said, practical in the face of misfortune. “Want me to help you get them off?”
“Oh, yes please,” Piggy said, batting her eyelashes and trying to look helpless. She saw Rory narrow his eyes at her but avoided his gaze determinedly. She held out her hands in an appealing gesture and Kristen and Stacey each took a hand and began to gently pull and tug the gloves from her fingers before the blood dried and made the job more painful. When the gloves came off, Piggy’s faked vulnerability became genuine vulnerability, and she looked in dismay at the flayed skin on her palms. Seeing it, Rory’s face softened as he leaned against the wall and watched her.
“Betty will get you all patched up—she was here just a second ago—Oh Betty! Betty?! She’s ready for you!” The first-aid kit was already there, but no one had dared accost Piggy’s person in the state she was in. The nurse arrived, bustling and efficient, and was pushed to the center of the little knot of performers. All things being all things, Piggy had gotten off easy. The scrapes, while painful, were largely superficial, and Piggy’s skin was healthy and vital. “A couple of days, dearie,” said the nurse kindly, “and you’ll be most healed over.”
Piggy artfully evaded any serious questioning while Betty swabbed and soothed and medicated the lacerated skin. She clucked about Piggy’s knees, but they were not quite as badly scraped as her hands, so a little antiseptic—which smarted like the very dickens!—and some zinc oxide to take the redness out made things much better. Because she didn’t want anyone to think anything truly awful had happened, Piggy did not mention her elbow, which by now was aching dully from where she’d landed on it. No one even suggested the possibility that Piggy wouldn’t go on, which was exactly what she’d hoped by staging such a scene while trivializing what actually had happened. Eventually, Piggy’s nerves caught up with her and she was suddenly desperate to be alone and away from prying eyes. Piggy begged to be allowed to go to her dressing room, pleading for peace and quiet and a chance to pull herself together. The girls walked her as far as the dressing room door, but left her there to compose herself and set her hair to rights.
The door had barely banged shut when it crashed open again, and Piggy looked up to see Rory glaring at her, his huge forearms crossed over his chest.
“What the heck kind of fairy tale was that?” Rory demanded. “You gonna tell me what really happened out there, or not?” If Piggy had been at her best, she would have heard the hurt beneath the anger and been gentle with him, but her own emotional stores were vastly depleted. She had been brushing her tousled hair out of her face but had stopped when Rory came in and now leaned forward so that her hair swung over her cheeks,
“I don’t know what you mean!” Piggy snapped, but Rory refused to follow her attempts at redirection. Her on-stage lover reached out gently and cupped her face in his hand.
“What caused that?” he asked softly, looking at the reddened skin around her mouth and snout. Piggy’s other injuries and boo-hoo-ing had effectively masked the irritated skin around her mouth and snout from the others, but here in the stark light of the dressing-room mirror the damage was blatantly obvious.
Piggy bit her lip and looked away. “Chloroform,” she muttered. Rory shot to his feet and began to pace the room.
“Great jumping Jehosephat! Someone tried to chloroform you?”
Having told some, she decided to tell all. Well, almost all. “Someone tried to…to pignap me. My…someone scared him off.” Rory stopped and goggled at her, shocked by her confession.
“Are you…insane?” he demanded at last. “Are you out of your frog-loving mind? Why would you hide something like that? We need to get security on you, and we need to get it now before—“
But Piggy leapt out of her seat and ran and planted herself in front of him. “No! I don’t want any security!” Her loosely bandaged hands pressed against his abdomen to stop his pacing. It was like pushing against a wall, and Piggy winced. Seeing that, Rory sighed, put his big hands lightly over hers, and stopped trying to go around her.
“Tell me,” he said. “Make me understand so I don’t have to strangle you or rat you out to that frog of yours—“
“Don’t! Please!” Piggy cried suddenly, genuinely tearful. “Don’t Rory—please don’t tell Kermit!” Big wet drops splashed over her lashes and fell on her flushed cheeks.
Dumbfounded, Rory stared. Everything that had happened to her had not made her cry, but the thought of telling Kermit did? What on earth was going on?
“Piggy, honey—that makes no sense whatsoever. Why can’t you tell him? Wouldn’t he want to know?”
“He would want to know,” Piggy said. “He’d come charging up here to protect Moi if he knew any of it!” Her words were fervent but she didn’t meet his eyes.
“So? And that would be bad because….? I thought you wanted to see him.”
“I do,” Piggy cried, wiping savagely at her tears. “I want to see Kermit so much I can barely stand it, but…but he’s…he’s…w-working.” For some reason, this elicited a fresh bout of tears, and Rory stared at her, wondering at the vagaries of the female mind. He put his arms lightly around her until she had managed to stem the flow of tears, then steered her back toward a chair. When she sat, he squatted down beside her and looked up at her with those wolf-puppy eyes, making her think of Kermit, but instead of crying, she smiled suddenly. “Thank you, Rory,” she said, “for understanding.”
“Piggy, honey, I don’t understand you at all. I don’t understand any of this, but I plan to. If you won’t tell that frog of yours, tell me.”
“You…you won’t tell…about the…about everything?” Piggy asked hopefully, but Rory scowled.
“I’m not going to make any promises,” he said grimly. “You’re too good a li—an actress for me to do that. But tell me what’s going on—“
“But I don’t know what’s going on!” Piggy cried. “Some lunatic tries to grab me and I’m supposed to know what’s going on in his mind?”
Rory’s expression was grave. “I’m pretty sure I can guess what’s going on in his mind,” he said. “Do you have any ideas who it could be?”
Piggy shook her head, blond curls bobbing, and there was no mistaking the confusion and fear in her face. As if suddenly realizing how vulnerable she appeared, Piggy squared her shoulders and glared at him. “Some sort of wacko, I suppose?! Someone with a pig fetish?! How the heck should I know?”
Rory fought to hide his smile, secretly pleased to have aroused her anger instead of her fear. Having aroused it, however, he was cautious with his next question.
“Would Kermit know who it was?”
But Piggy’s reaction—once again, surprised him. She looked away, down and to the left, and became flustered. “No,” she murmured. “It’s…I know who he’ll think it is, but it’s…it couldn’t be him.”
Rory wasn’t unschooled in the ways of evasion, but he didn’t know what he was looking at here. He tried to approach the problem askance. “You know the person whom Kermit will suspect isn’t the person who attacked you?” he said, trying to mirror what she’d said to him.
Piggy nodded, glad to not have to repeat it.
“And you know this…how?” Rory steeled himself, but for what he could not guess. He didn’t know if he expected her to smack him, erupt into tears or…something else entirely. She looked everywhere but at him, then to the left and down, her bare hands fretful. The twisting of her hands made her wince and she quit, then looked up and almost met his gaze.
“The…the nice stranger who helped Moi wasn’t a…a stranger.
“A stranger,” Rory finished with her. His voice was somber and he pulled back and looked at her as though he had never seen her before. “Piggy,” he said quietly, and the disappointment in his voice was terrible to endure. “I wouldn’t have thought it of you.”
It had been an emotionally complex day, and it took Piggy a moment to fathom Rory’s meaning, then her eyes flew wide and she shook her head violently.
“Oh! Oh—no no. Rory—it’s not like that! It’s not—he’s not…” She stopped herself, struggling for composure. “I love Kermit,” she said simply, and Rory saw her admission for the simple truth it was.
“Well, then what about the other guy?” Rory said, the frostiness in his voice thawing, but slowly. “How does he feel about you?”
Piggy grew quiet, her brow furrowed adorably. She was thinking, thinking back, thinking back to the beginning, when everything had started with Fleet. She was thinking about the past year—the horrible stories, the raving reviews, the insinuations about her marriage. She was thinking about Fleet’s arm around her waist, the way he had held her close against him and murmured in her ear.
“I don’t know,” she said at last. “We were…close once, but now…I don’t know how he feels about Moi now.”
“But he came to your rescue,” Rory pointed out.
Piggy nodded.
“And you can’t tell Kermit because…because he’s—well, I know what it’s like when the person you love, when the person who loves you is jealous.”
“Kermit gets very jealous. And he’s working.” For some reason, Piggy’s blue eyes teared up again and Rory sighed and put his arms around her again.
“Are you going to be okay for tonight’s show?” he asked, and Piggy nodded her head against his chest. “Okay, then, Miss Adventure. I’ll keep your secrets but I’m going to give you some advice you don’t want.”
“Oh yeah? Moi can hardly wait. Why should today be any different than any other day?” Piggy shot back. Rory was pleased to see her sassiness returning, but when she looked at him, he could see the uncertainty in her eyes.
“It’s better to be honest, okay? It’s better for everything to be out there on the table and sort it all out in the open than have to try to explain it later.”
Piggy looked chastened and pouty, but said nothing. Rory looked down at her and sighed.
“Okay, then,” he said resignedly. “I’ve said my piece. Now you’d better go ahead and tell me about that elbow you’re so desperate for me not to notice before we have some sort of dance disaster out on stage.”
*************************************
Scribbler walked down the sidewalk as though gravity didn’t exist. Maybe it didn’t, because all of the other laws of the universe had apparently failed! She had clung to him, she had needed him again and—joy of joys—she had asked for his phone number! A brass band was playing in his head (no—not the one that plays for Thoreau—this one is more like an old-fashioned um-pah-pah band) and it was just like old times, when there had just been the two of them without any need for that froggy-went-a-courtin’ wannabe. It was marvelous! It was amazing! It was too good to be true.
It was too good to be true, but there was no way to know that now, so Scribbler was allowed to trip lightly down the sidewalk with a buoyant spirit to match his buoyant feet. This probably explained what happened next.
His boss had called earlier, and—on normal days—a significant point like that would have registered, would have made itself felt, but there was only room for one overwhelming emotion in his heart at the moment, and it wasn’t fear or loathing. When his phone beeped, he answered it blindly, almost singing out his name.
“Fleet Scribbler, ace reporter!” he avowed cheekily, and the deafening silence that met his ears should have given him some warning about the stream of invective that was about to pour forth. Sadly, it did not, and the icy cold contempt of his employer took the wind out of Scribbler’s sails and the starch out of his clean shirt.
“I don’t actually pay you to be happy,” said the voice when the flow of profanity and abuse had eased. “And I don’t really like to know if you are, so I would appreciate it if you could contain your merriment unless I bloody well tell you to be happy.”
Which would never happen, Scribbler knew. The laws of the universe must be righting themselves, because he was back on the low rung on the ladder, envious of pond scum and pestilence. He tried to cling to the way he had felt when Piggy had looked at him, really looked at him, her expression grateful and adoring, but the sarcasm and abuse he was currently enduring was cutting his beautiful memory to ribbons.
“Right, not happy,” he parroted dully, and it was so.
“While you’ve been gallivanting around the Big Apple missing story after story,” his boss accused, “some of us here have gotten some actual work done. I’ve actually hired someone to work your desk while you’re gone,” taunted his employer, and Scribbler felt a little ripple of fear. It was a fine line—it had always been a fine line—of walking where he was willing to go to satisfy a boss who wanted what he couldn’t sanction. Still, his desk… But, if nothing else, this afternoon had reminded him that he was no coward.
“Tell him the file drawer sticks,” Scribbler muttered, and the outraged silence that followed was almost worth what happened next. Almost.
“Tell him yourself when you get here,” said the mocking voice, and Scribbler’s heart skipped a beat.
“What…? When I--?”
“That’s right—when you get here. You’ve got a plane ticket waiting for you, bucko and your job’s riding on whether or not you can get your butt down here in time to pull off something decent at the Academy Awards.”
“At the…the Awards?” In the excitement of the afternoon, he’d almost forgotten about the Academy Awards. “But why?” Scribbler demanded. “Surely you’ve got other reporters who can cover the red carpet?”
“Although it pains me to admit it, I do have others who can cover the red carpet, but none of them have the same smear ability that you do.” It was a compliment that was designed to wound, and it did.
Scribbler started to argue that he was more than a sensation monger, and had—in his day—brought home the news the world wanted to see, but his impassioned defense died before he had properly mounted it. Now was not the time to start a ******* contest with his boss—not when so much was at stake.
“Red carpet—no problem,” he grunted, clenching his jaw to keep from shouting.
“Yes. And when that’s done, I’m expecting a thorough accounting…” The word hung there in the air, an almost visible threat. “…of your activities in New York so I can decide if you’re still the right…man for the job.” That last was an idle threat if there ever was one, but there was no need for Scribbler to know that. That stupid pelican was a durned nuisance in the office. You’d think with all that newspaper around that the stupid bird could actually hit some of it, but apparently even that was too much to expect. What were they teaching in journalism schools these days, anyway? These musing partially masked Scribbler’s dawning consternation and fury while he wrestled his temper—and his tongue—under control.
He couldn’t leave now—he just couldn’t! Missy was going to call him! She was—oh. Oh no. Piggy might even now be planning to call him. Scribbler paled, feeling ill. He knew from his experience at Christmas that his boss was an inveterate snoop, and he would inevitably be asked to surrender his phone. He thought nervously through the last several days, wondering if there were any pictures of Piggy that he wouldn’t want to fall into hostile hands. And what would Missy think if she called him and he didn’t answer? Or, worse yet, if she called and someone else answered. It—it couldn’t happen. Scribbler finally tuned into what was being shouted at him through the phone, gritted his teeth and answered as meekly and abjectly as he could.
“Whatever you say, Boss,” he said, and there was a stunned instant of silence. Into that instant, Scribbler slid, putting a verbal foot-in-the-door. “You want I should bring my tux with me?”
“How the he—oh, fine. Bring your tux. It will save me the trouble of digging one up for you. But if you miss your plane packing, you will be sorry!”
Too late for that, Scribbler thought. I’m already sorry. “And which plane would that be?” he asked, still playing at misdirection.
There was a suspicious pause, then an airline and a flight number were grudgingly provided.
“First class?” Scribbler murmured, baiting his employer incautiously. Anything to keep the conversation moving forward so he could think, could plan.
“You’re lucky it’s not in the cargo hold!” shouted the voice, and there was a clatter that Scribbler could only hope was his boss falling over the loose threshold in the rattrap that passed for an office, but, unhappily, the despised voice came back on the line.
“Just get your sorry purple butt down here as soon as possible. And I want to be completely de-briefed on what you’ve been up to in New York—got it?”
“I got it,” Scribbler said, and waited until the phone was slammed down in his ear.
The second the line was dead—a few seconds before, actually-an embryonic plan was forming in Scribbler’s fevered brain. He looked at the time on his phone, groaned, and hailed the first cab he saw. He was just about to step into it when he looked up and saw the little sundries shop, the place where so much had happened, and so much had changed today. He stuck his head in to the cabbie.
“Hold this cab a minute won’t you?” he begged.
“Look buddy—you want a cab or don’t you? I got people lined up waiting for this little baby—“
Scribbler did not argue that the street was dead, was empty of people. He waved a twenty at the cabbie, who snatched it greedily, but not quite quickly enough. Scribbler held the other half triumphantly.
“Wait—and get the other half plus a fare. Leave and you’ll have to scrounge up another customer.”
The cabbie regarded him sullenly. “Scrounge is right. Ok, Joe—but don’t make me wait too long. And I’m starting the meter!”
“No problem,” Scribbler said, grinning with relief. “My boss is picking up the tab!” He dashed for the little shop and left Sparky fuming behind him.
*************************************
“What’s he doing again?” Fozzie asked Scooter.
“Checking for bugs,” Scooter replied. They watched the anteater shuffled along with a metal rod in his hand, listening intently and looking at a monitor on a device around his neck.
“But he checks for bugs every month,” argued Fozzie. “I mean, what’s he doing with that electronic thingy on his chest.”
“Oh—he’s, um, he’s looking for electric bu—um, listening devices or things like that. Or things like your, um, like the tie-tack.”
Scooter waited patiently for another question, but Fozzie was quiet and somber.
“Do you really thing someone is trying to hurt Kermit?” Fozzie asked at last, and though Scooter’s immediate impulse was to deny it, Fozzie’s trusting expression made him difficult to lie to. Difficult, but not impossible.
“We don’t know that someone is trying to hurt Kermit,” Scooter said soothingly. “Maybe somebody is just trying to hurt the new movie.”
“If they don’t like it, why don’t they just go see some other movie?” Fozzie cried plaintively.
In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Scooter grinned. “I wish it were that simple, Fozzie,” he said gently. “When I said someone was trying to hurt the new movie, I guess I didn’t really mean the movie. I don’t think this is really about Fozzie’s Angels. I think someone is trying to hurt the studio.”
“How can they hurt the studio—it’s just a building,” Fozzie said, and once again, Scooter smiled.
“I mean the business. The, um, company. Rainbow Productions. It looks like someone wants the studio to fail or…something.” Scooter did not tell Fozzie that he was beginning to think that Piggy’s departure was also part of the plan to hurt the studio—he had not even said as much to Kermit—but it had occurred to him.
“Do you think that’s why Piggy got a job in New York? To…to hurt the studio?”
This time, Scooter out-and-out grinned. For an unsophisticated bear, Fozzie could sure get right to the crux of things.
“Maybe,” Scooter admitted. “Or it could just be coincidence.” He tried his sincere smile—and crossed his fingers behind his back just in case.
“That’s a lot of coincidence,” said Fozzie.
“You can say that again,” Scooter agreed.
*************************************
Scribbler ran into the shop, wild-eyed with haste. The doorbell clanged harshly and the pretty salesclerk behind the counter startled and looked at him in alarm. Her hand edged under the counter where she obviously had mace—or a tire-iron. Seeing her reach, Scribbler threw out an arm in entreaty.
“No—no, wait. Sorry I startled you. I-I’m just in an enormous hurry.”
Leila looked a little uncertain but her hand did not move further under the counter.
“Please. I—I need…haven’t I seen prepaid cell phones here?”
Mutely, she nodded, pointing at the display against the inside wall near the register. Scribbler dashed up to stare at the phones, and Leila’s hand edged under the counter again for a moment, but when he stopped and stared fixedly at the display, his head swinging from one to the other in confusion, she came out from behind the counter to help him.
“Were you looking for anything in particular, um, sir?” she said. While he’d looked a little crazed when he ran in, up close he was clean-shaven and smelled like soap and aftershave.
“I need a phone so I can…keep in touch with a friend,” he said evasively. Though she was careful not to show it, Leila felt like smirking. That’s what men said when they had a wife and a girlfriend, she thought, and it made her look at the fellow who wanted a phone more shrewdly. It…it didn’t fit. He didn’t look like a two-timing jerk, but Leila knew from personal experience that you could always tell by looking.
“This model’s very popular,” Leila said, really meaning “This one is very cheap.”
“Naw, too chea—um, I mean, not enough bandwidth,” Scribbler mumbled, and Leila reassessed again. “And I’d like three that are alike. Don’t you have any that are already charged?” he said plaintively, almost vibrating with tension. He looked at his watch—for about the 15th time—and she could tell that his haste was making him miserable. She took a deep breath, expecting to be snarked at, and pointed at the one up top—the one that was prepaid, pre-charged and clearly expensive.
“This one can be prepaid and is already pre-charged—guaranteed for at least two hours or 300 texts before being fully charged. And it comes with a charger that connects to any USB port.”
“Great!” Scribbler breathed. “Perfect! I need three of them.” He pulled three of the five off the wall, then traded the blue one for a bright pink one. Leila noticed he was grinning in amusement, and smiled reflexively. Must be for a girlfriend after all, she thought.
They rushed through the check-out ritual, but he said nothing over the price, merely grimaced and peeled bills of his money clip until there were very few bills left. She started to scoop the three phones into a bag, but once they were bought and paid for Scribbler ripped the packages open and let all three phones fall on the counter. For an instant, Leila’s hand edged under the counter again, but after a moment of watching, she relaxed.
He pulled out the first phone—a silver one—and looked at the number on the peel-off adhesive on the back of the phone. He picked up the pink phone and dialed the number. The silver phone rang. He answered the silver phone, then ended the call, then fiddled with the buttons for a moment. Leila guessed that he was saving the number onto the silver phone. Then he took the pink phone and saved the number he had just dialed on it as well. He repeated the process, including the blue phone, until each phone had connected to the other two phones, and all numbers were recorded on each phone. Then, nodding his head as though satisfied, Scribbler swept the silver phone and all its detritus into the paper sack, followed by the blue phone and its packaging. After a moment’s hesitation, he put the packaging from the pink phone into the bag as well, then picked up the little pink phone and turned on the Leila, who yelped with alarm.
Scribbler jumped himself, then grinned at the startled salesclerk. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to…look. I—I need a favor.” Times must be desperate indeed, he thought sourly, for Mr.-Paddle-his-own-canoe to be asking strangers for help, but desperate times….
Leila looked at him and thought about reaching under the counter again, but he did not make any sudden moves—just stood there looking hopeful and helpless. Without the sunglasses he’d been wearing when he came in, he looked less sophisticated and more scrubbed-clean-and-hoping-for-the-best.
“What kind of help?” she asked carefully, her hand on the tire iron.
Scribbler’s shoulders slumped with relief. “There’s a lady who comes in here—a lady pig—“ he began, but Leila was immediately suspicious.
“What about her?” she demanded, her newly-plucked brows drawing down over her hazel eyes.
Scribbler knew that look and immediately did his best to appear innocuous. “Nothing bad,” he said soothingly. “I just want to leave something here for her to pick up.”
Leila gave him the evil eye. “She’s married,” she said angrily. “You need to leave her alone.”
The man’s little eyes widened, surprised at her fierceness. “You don’t get any more married that Mis-Miss Piggy,” he said solemnly, but could not keep a sardonic note out of his voice as he added, “Trust me—I know.”
“Are you bothering her—like those other guys?”
Scribbler’s heart skipped at beat. “What other guys?” he said, equal parts worried and eager. If he could find out who Missy’s mystery stalker was, he’d be Mr. Wonderful for a long time—time enough to—
“All you guys are the same, spying on her, following her,” Leila said. She thought about brandishing the tire iron, but the man was looking so anxious and unhappy that she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“I’m not bothering her. Honest,” the man insisted, and there was that undertone of truth that rang through. Yesterday he would not have sounded so certain, but there was no way Leila could know that.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked sourly.
But the man seemed intent upon proving his good intentions. “Look—I just want to leave the phone here, okay? For her to pick up if she wants. That’s it. That’s all. If she doesn’t want to pick it up, no problem.”
Leila reassessed. It sounded harmless enough, and Miss Piggy was in here almost every day. She could decide what she wanted to do her own self when she came in, so Leila gave a great sigh and waved at the counter top.
“Okay—leave it here. I’ll let her know that it’s here next time she comes in, okay?”
“Okay!” Scribbler said, and grinned so infectiously that Leila had to smile back. When he smiled, he didn’t seem like such a bad guy, but she reminded herself again that appearances could be deceiving. And so could people.
But she took the phone.
(GOSH I've missed you guys! Enjoy!)
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Christmas Music
Macy's Thanksgiving Parade
Jim Henson Idea Man
Back to the Rock Season 2
Bear arrives on Disney+
Sam and Friends Book
! Drama! Kidnapping! Scribbler saving the day, again! And Piggy got his, er, Harve's number to "thank him" later?
I am NOT listening to any of this. Not, not, not. 
) Finally! Finally, someone figured out the magnet -- how nice that it was one usually-mangled lab assistant! I always knew he had an actual brain...
What, you want it thick enough you can stand a spoon on it?
