Vernon threw up his hands. "All right, one hundred dollars even."

I smiled winningly at the co-proprietor of Vern and Viv's Collectables, an antique store remodeled inside from an old-style schoolhouse. "Deal--that's for all seven vintage posters."

Vivian, a buxom redhead who looked two decades younger than her sixtyish husband, beamed at me.

"That's impressive, dickering Vern down to half the original price."

Vernon looked unhappy, but his economic outlook was about to improve.

"Now for these two items," I stated, holding an old-style oaken butter pat in one hand and a heavy red maple hairbrush in the other, "How about ten dollars apiece?"

Vivian seemed startled at my brazeness. "They've listed at twenty-five each, dearie."

I frowned. "I was hoping--"

"Furthermore, I'm overruling my husband on those World War II posters," she interjected, "They're not going for less than a hundred and thirty."

He spoke harshly. "Who makes the deals here?"

"You do, sweetie, but I have the final say," Vivian countered firmly. "I also adjust rude attitudes."

Her spouse blanched. "I was just saying--"

"Your tone of voice said it all," she interrupred, "Apologies afterward."

Vernon was crestfallen. "Yes, ma'am."

His spouse turned to me. "If you buy the posters for one-thirfty, I'll sell you those other items for five dollars apiece, plus I'll have Vern bolt that harness leather scrap to a paintbrush handle for a three-dollar purchase price."

I nodded eagerly, handing the smooth, pliable leather strip to Vernon. "You must've read my mind."

"I'll ring up your purchases," Vivian announced, inputting the figures. "What I do read, dearie, is the 'Sisterhood Rules' website, so I'm helping you win big at 'Search and Employ.' What's your base bet?"

"Three pervertibles for twenty-five dollars, Philippe gets fifty bare-assed swats with each one if I'm successful." I grinned. "My bonus is ten more smacks with each for every dollar under."

She smiled back, handing over my receipt. "That's another hundred with each implement, will your hubby ever have a sore seat."

I giggled. "I'll be nice and give them in separate installments tonight, that should keep us entertained all evening."

"Could you do me one little favor, Joanna?" she asked.

Thanks to her, I had won my marital game and would immensely enjoy administering several hours' worth of intermittent bare-bottom blisterings, playful but nonetheless emphatic enough to turn his posterior a deep magenta shade and make him blubber like a soundly-spanked toddler, to my beloved lifemate. Otherwise, Philippe would've been due for an hour-long sensual massage.

"Certainly," I agreed.

She tittered. "Mention my part when you post this account on the website, you can call me 'Firehair'."

"Done deal." We both chuckled.

Five minutes later I slipped into the Lincoln's driver seat. From the woodshed behind the schoolhouse came the steady sound of flexible leather snapping against naked buttocks, accompanied by feminine scolding and masculine wailing.

Philippe smirked. "No luck, huh?"

"None at all," I answered, "For your cute caboose, that is. Please go retrieve my purchases..."