“Oh, no. No, no, no. The collectors don’t want the dolls out of the boxes. The collectors want them NRFB. Never Removed From Box. It makes a huge difference—”
Tom held up a hand. “When Arch came in with the drinks, he tried to warn Macguire, but it was too late.”
I repeated, “Too late. Oh, God.”
Tom seemed resigned to telling this tale of human folly. Yet his green eyes were merry as he drizzled olive oil on the griddle. “Three women screamed and chased Arch and Macguire out of the LakeCenter. Then a guy, one of the helper-husbands, called the sheriff’s department on his cellular phone—”
I moaned.
Tom slid the potato-crusted fillets on the hot griddle, where their sizzling sound made my mouth water. “Since I was on my way home from the hardware store, I was the closest.” Another smile
