Chapter 8
When Marla swung into the driveway of Aspen Meadow Imports, a tall mechanic with long, droopy cheeks and a gray ponytail came out waving a rag.
“Wait,” he called to us. When he was beside the Mercedes, he said, “You can’t leave that food truck here. That van. What does it say? Goldilocks’ Catering. We’ve had trouble with a bear coming down every night and foraging in our garbage.”
Under her breath, Marla said, “One bear’s food is another bear’s trash. But still, can mountain bears read?”
I hated it when people made fun of my Germanic maiden name, but I was prepared to ignore my best friend. To the mechanic, I said, “I’m moving it. I was just helping out a friend.”
The mechanic’s cheeks drooped even farther. “Okay, lady. Those bears can smell food. I wouldn’t want to be respo
