I should have known it would happen—well, I did know it would happen, eventually.  I just thought I’d been careful enough not to have had it happen so soon.  For those of you who’ve missed the previous two volumes of the Vanishing Tableware Series, you really must read Forked in Nashville and Spooned in Atlanta to get the full story, but here’s a brief skinny.  I have a writer friend, Karen White, who is prone to the practical joke.  She’s even corrupted my innocent little granddaughter, aka Olivia Grabbyhands, with her schemes.  I have now found a full setting of tableware in my purse, one utensil at a time, after dining with Karen in three different cities.

Karen and I were both honored to be invited to attend the SIBA (Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance) trade show in New Orleans.  This organization has been phenomenal in their support of Whistling Past the Graveyard.  To be able to sit on a panel at their trade show was a wonderful experience.  Can you imagine, all of those book lovers concentrated in one spot? What great conversations we had!

There was also a wonderful evening game of Trivia (for Cheaters—which suited Karen and I fine) as a fund raiser for Binc (Book Industry Charitable Foundation).  This evening deserves its own blog, so I’ll just tempt you with this tid-bit: Karen and I “bought” John Densmore of The Doors (he’s an author, too) to help us cheat in the trivia round dedicated to The Doors.  There was no tableware at this event, so I felt safe in taking my eyes off my purse long enough to full out the answer sheet for our team.

There were lunches and dinners with authors and booksellers and I believe it was at one of these meals that the travesty occurred.  I was no doubt engaged in a deep conversation on books, or distracted by an amazing New Orleans dessert, when Karen must have slipped the knife in my purse.  It probably has her DNA on it, because it had been used.  I’m considering taking it to the forensics lab in Indianapolis to be analyzed.  Not that there could be any doubt about who is responsible.  The only time I ever end up with silverware in my purse is after a meal in a restaurant with Karen.

Now that I have a full set, let’s hope this practical joke has seen its end and I won’t be an inadvertent thief any more.  I’m pretty sure any restaurateur that reads this blog will have photos of Karen and I posted at the doors with orders not to admit us to the premises.

If this continues, maybe I can create a cool piece of art from my booty.

Even if I never find another spoon in my purse, there is a problem to address.  Karen and I are tit for tat.  So you know that means I now need to come up with some clever practical joke of my own to play.  I’m considering kidnapping her dog (whom I adore and he adores me, so it’s really like eloping not kidnapping)…but that might be a bridge too far.

No?