He arranged his mouth in his most disarming smile. “I’ll admit I’m a little out of my element, but if you point me in the right direction, I’ll give it my best.”

Instead of charming her, he’d made her suspicious, and her face assumed its customary distrustful expression. Before she could interrogate him, however, an army of little girls charged around the corner. Some of them held hands, others walked by themselves. They came in different shapes, different colors, and one of them was crying.

“New places can be scary,” he heard Hannah say, “but everybody here is very, very nice. And if you get really scared, come and tell me. I’ll take you for a walk. Also, if you need to go to the potty, I’ll show you where it is. Our doggie is all locked up so she can’t jump on anybody. And if you see a bee, tell one of the grown-ups.”

This must be what Molly had meant when she’d said that Hannah got emotionally involved.

Molly stepped toward the pink cardboard boxes. “Every princess needs a beautiful gown, and here are yours.” A few of the bolder girls rushed forward.

Phoebe thrust the whoogees in his hand. “Put one of these at each place. And you’d better not charge me for it.” She hurried away to help.

Annabelle was nowhere to be seen. He’d come down on her hard, and he wasn’t surprised that she needed time to recover. He ignored an unpleasant twinge in his gut. She’d brought this on herself when she’d crossed the line. He studied the whoogees, pink cardboard starbursts glued to the ends of wooden dowels. His mood grew gloomier. They must be magic wands. What the hell did magic wands have to do with helping girls learn math and science? He’d been good at both. He could have helped them with math and science. Weren’t these girls supposed to be building skills? Screw magic wands. He’d have handed out some fucking calculators.

He tossed the wands on the table and looked around for Annabelle, but she still hadn’t appeared, which was starting to bother him. Even though he’d needed to sack her, he didn’t want to destroy her. High-pitched screams emerged from the gown boxes. Although the girls looked like an army, there were only fifteen or so of them. Something brushed his leg, and he gazed down into the face of Pippi Tucker. The theme from Jaws raced through his head.

The three-year-old’s gown was the color of Pepto-Bismol, her eyes green gumballs of innocence. Only the rakish tilt of the pink tiara in her blond curls hinted at a desperado’s heart. She held out a tiara she was clutching in her grubby little fist. “You gotta wear a crown.”

“Not in this lifetime.” He gave her a ministare, enough to get his point across without making her scream for her mother.

Her small, pale eyebrows shot together just like her father’s when he spotted a safety blitz.