Rose smiled forlornly as she watched the shimmering confetti rain down over her applauding audience. Smiled, because the trick had gone off smoothly, and the people were lapping it up; after all, seeing the magic jump directly out of her hands was much more impressive than allowing an illusion to be carried out behind a curtain or a handkerchief. Forlornly, because, against her better judgement, she had allowed Kenneth to alter her trick, changing the target from birds to confetti-filled balloons. Sure, the confetti was pretty, but blood was prettier. No one else seemed to get that.

Shooting down the balloons that had been hovering near the ceiling over the course of the show was her last trick of the night. Well, the last part of the last trick, a nice little grand finale spectacular of colors and what few pyrotechnics were allowed within the walls of the community center. The audience had swallowed it up ravenously, of course. Rose couldn't help but wonder if these people could sit through a whole show without wetting themselves if they saw the act she'd had in Vegas, the city where no holds were barred.

She waited for the curtains to close before ducking back into her dressing room. With a contented sigh, she flopped down into her small, sleek black armchair and propped her crossed feet up onto the matching ottoman. She held back a yawn. It was getting harder and harder to get through a whole show without exhaustion and she got along in age.

No matter. There was probably a spell to fix that. Rose decided to have Joanne look it up later, once she arrived. Rose frowned. Speaking of Joanne...

As if in response to a command Rose had not even given, a knock came at her door, and the blonde assistant poked her head in without waiting to be invited in. "I found out where they are."

"Took you long enough," Rose huffed, crossing her arms. "Really, I ought to have your head for that. It's not easy to get through a full matinee with just Kenneth. Your brother's brighter than you, although the bar's not set all that high, but you're much better at the heavy lifting."

Rose smirked as Joanne's forehead creased and the latter bit down on the inside of her cheek. "I kid, of course," Rose said lightly. "I've told you recently how much I appreciate having you as my assistant, haven't I?"

"After I dirty my hands for you, yes," Joanne said curtly. She took a folded piece of paper out of the pocket of her jeans. "No chance at all you could start assigning Kenneth to the petty theft jobs?"

Rose snorted. "Please. He couldn't pick a lock with a key. I feel like you're stalling. You got their location?"

Joanne nodded and passed her boss the piece of paper. She and her brother had spent all of yesterday sitting behind several lines of trees surrounding the Mystery Shack, keeping an eye on the goings-on of its residents. It had been dull, of course. Alfred Hitchcock seemed to have greatly overestimated the intrigue involved in spying on one's neighbors. However, their surveillance paid off after closing when they saw Stanford, along with those two kids he had staying with him, making trip after trip to and from the old man's station wagon, arms loaded with luggage and merchandise.

Today, Joanne had been sent back to the Mystery Shack under instruction to wait for Stan to leave and then tail him, find out where he was headed. Much to Rose's dismay, the station wagon had already been gone when Joanne arrived. Still, that didn't deter Rose in finding out where Stan had gone; that is, it didn't deter her in sending Joanne to figure out where Stan had gone.

"It wasn't all that difficult," Joanne said. "Pines left those two other employees of his at the Shack, the ginger and the fat one. The girl wasn't all that helpful. All she did was tell me that she could not possibly care less about where her boss went on his day off and then ask me for some gum. I had to wait for that handyman to come in; apparently he'd been out repairing some of the golf cart tour stops. Anyway, he was more than happy to give me a bit of info."

Rose unfolded the paper and glanced at its contents. "Flea market in Seneca. Hm, seems like small fish for Stanford. That is..." She scanned the date listed on the flyer, then laughed. "Ending Sunday morning, right after this midsummer bunk ends. Oh, that is just too cute."

Joanne raised an eyebrow. "Not sure I follow."

Rose laughed again. "Don't you get it? Poor idiot's trying to shake me off. He honestly thinks he can leave town for a couple of days, and that I'll be gone when the festival's done. A little odd, really. He used to be a stubborn little fighter. Not really like him to go to the effort to get out of harm's way."

"Still not following," Joanne said with a frown. "We are leaving after the festival, aren't we? We have that appearance lined up in Redmond, then Madras the week after."

Rose let out an exasperated puff of breath. "And you wonder why I call you slow. Joanne, why on earth would we leave now when the fun's just starting? Besides, I'm sure Stanford wants in on the fun, so we're going to have to wait for him to come back, aren't we? Speaking of whom, clear your schedules for Saturday evening, after the Shack's closing time. I want to leave Stan a little out-of-office memo."

"There's a billboard for Pizza Hut!" Mabel cried, pointing out the car window. "That's 'Z'! I win!"

Dipper sighed and leaned his head so that his cheek and half his nose was pressed up against the glass of window. Nearly three hours of car games with Mabel could really wear on a person, especially since Mabel had beat him to punch in pointing out the sign for 'Cheri Boutique', so for the entire past stretch of highway, Dipper had been stuck on 'Q'.

"Congratulations," he said with a yawn. He looked up toward the front seat. "How much longer did you say we have?" he asked his uncle, who peered up into the rearview mirror to reply, "About half an hour, little less."

Dipper sighed again. Less than thirty minutes and he'd be done with what had amounted to one of the most boring weekends he could remember. Stan had sprung the flea market on them quite suddenly the day before they left, which surprised both Dipper and Mabel. Stan hadn't really struck them as the type of person who would do anything simply on a whim. Still, they had obliged him and, although it wasn't as if they had any actual say in the matter, had joined him on this weekend outing.

The flea market itself wouldn't have been so bad if Stan had let them actually do any amount of exploring. Instead, he had insisted that Dipper and Mabel remained on his lot for the entirety of the market's run, and watched them like a hawk as they boredly helped sell objects to those marketgoers who were dumb enough to buy the things Stan plugged, and talk up the items that weren't for sale but were there to help promote the Shack. When Dipper had complained to him that there was no need for all three of them to be there all the time, Stan had snapped at him to, "just shut up and sell."

"Wanna start another round?" Mabel asked her brother. She pointed to a green sign that read: 'This Highway Adopted by Cub Scout Troop #4457'. "I think that's, like, 'A' through 'E' right there. I'm already way ahead of you."

"No thanks," Dipper muttered. "I'm bored with the alphabet right now."

"Okay, well, how about twenty questions? I'll go first. I'm thinking of an object."

"Mabel, we played twenty questions for about two hours earlier. I'm done with that."

Mabel stuck out her lip in a pout. "Fine, you spoilsport. If you were wondering, the object I was thinking of was an ice cream scooper." She looked around. "Okay, 'nother idea. I spy, with my little eye, something..."

"Mabel!" Stan barked. "We've got twenty minutes 'til home. Could we please spend them in peace?"

Mabel looked at her uncle, stunned, then turned and whispered to Dipper, "Alright, here's a tough one. I spy something grouchy."

Her brother snorted and then looked up to make sure Stan hadn't heard. Mabel wasn't lying. As if the boredom hadn't been bad enough, Dipper and Mabel had also had to spend their weekend dealing with their uncle being in an unshakable black mood. They had caught him muttering to himself several times, he had been quick to irritably snap at his niece and nephew, and even during his sales pitch, for which Grunkle Stan was normally at the top of his game, he had seemed almost preoccupied. Dipper hadn't pried, knowing that his uncle was hardly the touchy-feely sort and if there was something on the old man's mind, that's where it was staying.

Just because he hadn't pried, though, didn't mean he wasn't curious.

The family spent the rest of the ride in silence, save for the little sounds of Mabel breathing onto the window so she could draw smiley faces in the fog. Dipper sat up eagerly as they reached the familiar scenery of cliffsides and creeks that indicated they were entering Gravity Falls. He wasn't sure how much longer he could have endured the boredom without snapping.

The station wagon made its way through the town's streets before turning onto the bumpy, winding road that led toward the Mystery Shack. Dipper and Mabel both leaned down to start picking up their luggage, but stopped when the car jerked to a very sudden stop sending them both slamming into the seats in front of them, coupled with Stan spitting out a word that he very seldom used in the presence of kids.

"Grunkle Stan?" Dipper gasped, rubbing his head as he looked toward his uncle, who was frozen, gripping the steering wheel. "What - " Mabel nudged him and pointed out the window. Dipper followed the direction of her finger and immediately understood. They had just pulled into the line of sight of the Mystery Shack, and even from here, they could see that the welcoming sign was torn, the windows were smashed, and the door of the gift shop stood wide open on busted hinges, swinging ominously in the light breeze.

A/N: So it's been a month, I know. Remember back when I used to update, like, every four days? Good times. But I have my reasons. This semester, school has been kicking my butt around the block and back again. I take solace in the fact that by the end of this semester I'll be done with all my premajor requirements, but in the meantime, all my writing juice is being expended writing abstracts and essays and annotated bibliographies over subjects that no one should ever be required to care about.

I can't have caffeine, so instead, know that I use reviews, favorites, and follows as an alternative energy source. Help a girl out, eh?