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of these teddy bears to sell in my ski shop. I don’t suppose you’ve got any that are wearing parkas and carrying little skis?”
    “Oh, I like that idea,” Betsy Twining chimed in from her perch on one of Liss’s kitchen chairs. “I want some teddy bears to sell in my place, too.”
    Betsy owned the Clip and Curl, a combination beauty parlor and barber shop, located in the back half of the building that also housed the post office. Stu could have used her services, Liss thought. His hair was the flat black of a do-it-yourself dye job.
    “Are you talking about selling on consignment?” Thorne asked.
    “I’m saying you should sell me a couple for resale. Call it a good-will gesture among local businessmen.”
    “If you wanted to sell teddy bears, Burroughs, you should have bought your own supply in the first place. Mine are staying right where they are.”
    “What do you think, Joe?” Stu appealed to Joe Ruskin, Dan’s father, who had appropriated the Canadian rocker in Liss’s bay window. “Share the wealth, right?”
    Liss had only to study the older Ruskin’s features to know what his son would look like in twenty years. Dan’s sandy brown hair would have a bit of gray at the temples—very distinguished. There would be more lines around his molasses-brown eyes. But he wouldn’t stoop, for all that he was over six feet tall, and he’d still have the muscular build that came from working in construction and owed nothing to exercise machines in a gym.
    “Thorne has a point,” Joe said. “He was the one with the foresight to buy the bears.”
    “Or his ex wife was.” Marcia’s mutter was just loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.
    Liss sent her a repressive look, thinking that Marcia should be the last person in the world to look down on the idea of consignment sales. Marcia ignored the warning glance. Apparently she considered these extraordinary circumstances.
    “I want at least ten teddy bears in my store.” Deliberately rude, Stu leaned in front of Marcia to glare at Gavin Thorne.
    “You’re not getting them.” Thorne folded his arms across his chest but ended up looking sulky rather than resolute.
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake! Nobody has teddy bears!”
    At the aggrieved outburst, everyone turned to look at Angie Hogencamp, owner of Angie’s Books and secretary of the Moosetookalook Small Business Association. Seated beside the small telephone table on which her notebook rested, Angie ignored the startled silence in the room. She fished in her tote until she came up with a small pencil sharpener. In her agitation, she’d broken the point of the pencil she’d been using to take minutes of the meeting.
    Joe Ruskin cleared his throat. “You want to explain yourself, Angie?”
    She finished sharpening her pencil before she answered him. “Do you have any idea how annoying it is to have to keep writing the words ‘teddy bears’ when those…those toys are clearly not teddy bears. Teddy bears are a very specific sort of stuffed bear. They have beads for eyes and stitched noses and arms and legs that move…oh, what do any of you care!”
    Angie collected designer teddy bears, Liss remembered. She’d never bothered to ask the bookseller exactly what that meant, but apparently those who engaged in the hobby were particular about nomenclature.
    She got that. No one could nitpick better than a person passionate about an activity pursued for pleasure. She saw the same thing all the time among those who had chosen to celebrate their Scottish heritage. Debates on the proper way to wear the kilt—and who could or could not wear one—had been known to go on for hours!
    “Can we agree to call these bears Tiny Teddies,” she suggested, “and move on?”
    Angie gave a curt nod and returned the pencil sharpener to her tote bag.
    “Whatever you call them,” Thorne said in a loud, belligerent tone of voice, “the idea is to make it easy for shoppers to find them. Spread them out and you