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meeting Harrison Tofflemire—that’s for sure. You’re right; he is a jerk.”
    “There’s a bunch more like those,” Dillon said. “Complaints about the temperature, the design, the weight of the thing, how flimsy it is. Plus how hard it is to get it fixed or get a refund.”
    “We’ll have to see what his chocolate tastes like,” Aunt Abby said. “If his Chocolate Falls machine is so shoddy, I’d imagine his chocolate will be too. It may be game over for Mr. Tofflemire.”
    “Maybe not,” Dillon said, raising an eyebrow. “He may have an advantage at the festival—at least with the guys. Get a load of this.” Dillon turned his iPhone toward them, revealing two beautiful, buxom girls dressed in skimpy cheerleading outfits.
    “Who are they?” I asked.
    “‘Jezebel’ and ‘Delilah,’ his college-age twin daughters. At least, that’s what I call them. Apparently, they help out at his shop—and they wear those cheerleading outfits. According to Harrison, business is booming, with guys coming in off the streets to buy chocolate-covered whatevers.”
    Aunt Abby shook her head. “Well, he may pull in the most money, using those kinds of visual lures, but when it comes to the contest, taste will tell.”
    Dillon shrugged. “Next there’s some chick named Mon-it Richards.”
    “Mon
et
,” Aunt Abby corrected, pronouncing the name with a French accent: Mon-
nay
. “Like the painter, dear.”
    “You know her too?” I asked.
    “I’ve heard of her. She owns a truck that makes ice-cream-cake cones in all kinds of flavors and colors. As a matter of fact, she’s been trying to snag a spot for her I Scream Cupcakes truck at Fort Mason for months.”
    “Okay, so Moh-NAY,” Dillon said, mocking the French pronunciation. “I suppose it’s Ree-SHARDS, not Richards?”
    Aunt Abby shrugged him off. “What did you find out about her?”
    “She’s hot,” Dillon said, staring at his iPhone screen. After a few seconds, he turned the screen around so we could see.
    She was hot.
    She had shoulder-length dark hair that tumbled over one eye and a beauty mark under the other, heavily made-up eye. Her pouty lips were painted bright red, matching her red fingernails. She appeared to be posing in front of her truck in a tight black leotard-looking outfit, as if presenting her business—or herself—like Vanna White might do showcasing a winning prize. With that too-tiny waist, those larger-than-life breasts, and that self-confident smirk on her face, I hated her immediately. This competition was
on
.
    “Better keep her away from Jake,” Dillon added.
    I glared at him.
    “Who else?” Aunt Abby said, distracting us from a possible food fight.
    Dillon checked his notes on his iPhone. “Some dude named Griffin Makeba. Calls himself the ‘Pie Man’ and owns the ‘Piehole’ truck.” Dillon used air quotes at each pie reference.
    “I’ve seen it around,” Aunt Abby said. “He parks illegally at a bunch of different places until they run him off. Pies? How much competition can he be? Besides, he’s just a kid.” Anyone under forty was “just a kid” to my sixtysomething aunt.
    “His pies are getting good write-ups on Yelp, Off the Grid, and Food Mafia. He says he uses hisgrandmother’s secret pie recipe, the one she used to make as a cook for a plantation owner. He says the secret has African roots, but he won’t give out the recipe or talk about the ingredients.”
    “Hmm. Secretive, eh?” I said, as if I were about to take on the role of Sherlock Holmes. “Interesting.”
    “I’ve never been a fan of chocolate pie,” Aunt Abby said. “Too sweet, too gushy, too intense. My mother used to make chocolate silk pies for my dad for his birthday, but I only ate the ice cream that came with it.”
    “So that’s why you’ve never made a chocolate pie?” Dillon asked. “Because you don’t like them? Did you ever think I might want to try one?”
    “Guilt trip,” I whispered to Aunt Abby. “Just