Free Killer WASPs by Amy Korman

middle of the flea market. The Stoltzfus beer is exceptionally
     good, but it was only 10:30 a.m., so I decided to skip it and shop.
    Waffles gave me Sad Eyes as we got out of the truck, then made a crazed run for the
     bratwurst stand, so I took a left at the barn to divert him, and stopped at a stall
     where a rickety-­looking guy aged about ninety was selling a pair of very pretty crystal
     sconces that were perfect for an entrance hallway or dining room. They were just the
     kind of thing that I like for The Striped Awning, but the vendor wanted two hundred
     and fifty dollars, and though he looked like an ancient plucked chicken, he was a
     tough bird when it came to negotiating.
    “No fucking way,” he rasped, which I thought was a little rude, when I suggested seventy-­five
     bucks as a more reasonable price. He wouldn’t come down more than twenty, so I headed
     toward the middle of the field, passing tables of old books (not to be negative, but
     I’m not really sure I believed that copy of Gone with the Wind belonged to Vivien Leigh), and glassware (okay, old Coke bottles can be valuable,
     but these looked like they came out of the soda machine inside the barn earlier today),
     and a dealer who purported to be selling mirror-­topped café tables from the original
     incarnation of Studio 54. Waffles and I wandered around for another thirty minutes
     before heading to the back field, where my favorite dealers, Annie and Jenny, are
     usually stationed.
    Annie and Jenny are two Californians who travel to antiques shows and sales all over
     the country, and purvey silver and tabletop items that always include some serious
     deals. I’ve scored silver creamers (ten dollars!) and candlesticks (four dollars each!)
     from them before. Once, I got a beautiful footed tea tray (twenty dollars) that I
     sold for two hundred dollars in the shop, which sounds like highway robbery, but was
     so beautiful that it really merited the huge mark-­up. Today Annie and Jenny, draped
     in their usual flowing peasant dresses circa 1973, looked very mellow and relaxed
     behind a table full of pretty antique serving pieces.
    “Hey, Waffles,” said Annie, bending down and reaching her arms around his big belly
     to give him a hug as he thumped his tail happily.
    Annie and Jenny spend winters in a teepee outside San Francisco, and rent a tiny cottage
     near Stoltzfus’s in the summer, when they’re not making road trips. They’re incredibly
     sweet. They had the Grateful Dead wailing away on a boom box, and had thoughtfully
     provided a plate of snacks on their table for anyone passing by to enjoy. A small
     square of paper next to the plate announced that these were homemade carrot-­quinoa-­gingersnaps.
    “Cookie?” asked Jenny, gesturing toward the plate.
    Gosh. I didn’t want to be impolite, but the cookies looked terrible. They were dry,
     crunchy-­looking, brown disks with flecks of carrot poking out. “Cruelty-­Free!” read
     the little sign. “Made with Love, but Without Any Flour, Sugar, or Butter.”
    “Thanks, I just ate,” I told Jenny. “But I’m sure they’re delicious.”
    Annie handed one to Waffles, and he chowed down happily. They were so dry, though,
     he had trouble swallowing. He chewed and gulped for a few minutes, then finally got
     the lump of carrot and quinoa down his throat. He wagged, looking relieved.
    “Yum!” I said to the women, on Waffles’s behalf.
    While chatting with the vendors, I scooped up a dozen old silver serving spoons and
     forks with intricate, delicate patterns, and found another great old tray from the
     1950s, all of which came to sixty dollars. Annie and Jenny had some furniture today,
     too, including a petite dark elm-­wood bench that had a curvy Art Deco shape, which
     I loved and was only seventy dollars, so I told them I’d take that, too.
    “Hey Kristin, you might like these bookends,” said Jenny, who was over by their van,
     holding up a silver object.