Absolutely, Positively

was it?”

    “I realized something I should have understood immediately. I know the man who made this gear assembly.” Harry frowned. “Or, at least I know his work. It's almost the same thing.”

    “You're losing me, Harry.”

    “Remember how your sister took one look at the fake pistol device and announced that at least two of her friends were innocent?”

    “She said it wasn't their style.”

    “Exactly.” Harry sat down on a counter stool. “There's a certain style to this kind of thing. The fake pistol and that damned hobgoblin that was put under your bed were not off-the-shelf items. The devices were individually built and tailored to their particular tasks.”

    Molly eyed the gear. “I think I'm beginning to see where this is going.”

    “It defies the laws of probability to believe that two different people would have designed precisely the same gear assemblies, using the same jury-rigged motor and battery design and the same sloppy elevation mechanisms.”

    “All right, so it was probably the same person who built both the gun and the goblin,” Molly said. “We already assumed as much. What makes you think you know him?”

    “I've seen these sloppy designs somewhere else.”

    Molly stared at him. “You're sure?”

    Harry smiled slightly. “That's what I'm trying to tell you. I know this person's work. Now all I have to do is figure out where I've seen this particular style of crude engineering design.”

    “How do you intend to research the problem?”

    “That's easy,” Harry said. “I'll start by going back through all one hundred of those grant proposals I told you to reject.”

    The implications of what he was saying hit Molly so hard that she had to grasp the edge of the counter for support. “Oh, my God. You don't think it's one of those inventors, after all, do you?”

    “Yes,” Harry said. “That's exactly what I think. It looks like one of the people whose grant proposals we turned down has decided to take some revenge.”

    Molly sighed heavily. “My father's foundation has caused me nothing but trouble. I wish he had thought of something else to do with his money.”

    “Well,” Harry said slowly, “there are two schools of thought on that subject.”

    “There are?”

    “One, as you just suggested, is that the Abberwick Foundation is a headache.”

    “Uh-huh.” Molly raised her brows. “What's the other point of view?”

    “The other side of the issue is that I would never have met you if your father hadn't appointed you sole trustee of the foundation.”

    “Hmm.” Molly cheered at that observation. “There is that.”

    “Yes.” Harry's eyes gleamed with sensual memories. “There is that.” He glanced at the cluttered counter. “What are you doing here?”

    “I'm going to make us some breakfast. French toast, to be exact.” Molly selected a large knife from a drawer and prepared to attack the loaf of sourdough.

    “When was the last time you cooked without the aid of the Abberwick Food Storage and Preparation Machine?”

    Molly frowned in thought as she began to saw through the end of the loaf. “I think I was eighteen or nineteen. Why?”

    “Maybe you'd better let me give you a hand.”

    “Nonsense. Any fool can make French toast.” At that moment the wide-toothed bread knife hit a rough spot in the sourdough. Molly bore down with grim determination.

    Too much determination. And at a bad angle. The acrylic bread board suddenly skidded across the granite countertop. Molly yelped in surprise. Instinctively she yanked the knife out of the loaf. It came free with unexpected speed and flew out of her hand. She stared in dismay as it soared and wheeled in the air and then plunged down toward the granite, point first. She wondered how much a fine-quality bread knife cost.

    With a deceptively easy motion that was almost too fast for the eye to follow, Harry reached across the counter and caught the knife by the hilt just before it struck the unforgiving granite. He smiled. “I'll slice the bread for you.”

    “Thanks. I'd appreciate that.”

    “And there you have it,” Molly said as she concluded her tale two hours later. “The adventures of Molly Abberwick and the mysterious hobgoblin.”

    “You spent the night with T-Rex?” Tessa paused in the act of replacing a glass canister full of smoky Lapsang Souchong tea on the shelf. “I don't believe it.”

    Molly gave her a repressive glare. “He was kind enough to let me