“Oh, let me get some water,” she said casually, disappearing into the kitchen while I pretended to help Tommy with his homework. I immediately pulled out my phone and watched on the camera as she slipped the eggs into her bag. She hurriedly crossed the yard and handed the eggs over to Mrs.
Davis. Within minutes, she was back inside, fawning over the kids like nothing had happened. That evening, I invited Andrea to have a cup of tea with me on the back porch before she returned home.
From here, we had a clear view of Mrs. Davis’s kitchen. She didn’t have curtains in her kitchen windows, and I often sat here in the evenings to watch her bake.
Tonight, however, I expected there might be a more exciting show to witness. Mrs. Davis walked back and forth a few times carrying bowls, flour, and other items.
Then, she lifted an egg. She cracked it open and screamed as yellow mustard and hot sauce mixture burst from the egg. “What on earth?” Andrea sat up straight, her teacup clattering against the saucer.
I shrugged and pretended to look around with concern. Moments later, the pounding on our front door made her jump again. I took my time walking over, fighting to keep the grin off my face.
Mrs. Davis stood there, hands covered in mustard, face red with fury, looking like she’d just discovered her winning lottery ticket was fake. “Those eggs!” she sputtered as I invited her inside.
“They were filled with… with…”
“Eggs?” I asked innocently. “Oh, you mean the ones you bought from Andrea?
Is something wrong with them?”
Andrea stepped into the living room then. Mrs. Davis immediately stomped toward her.
“Andrea? What’s going on? The eggs you sold me…
they’re full of mustard and hot sauce!”
“What? That can’t be. Rebecca,” Andrea hissed.
“What did you do?”
I crossed my arms. “What did I do? I think the better question is, what were you doing stealing my groceries and selling them to my neighbor?”
Mrs.
Davis’s mouth fell open. “Wait… you stole these eggs from Rebecca?”
The silence was deafening.
Andrea’s face turned a shade of red I’d never seen before, clashing spectacularly with her floral blouse. She opened and closed her mouth several times, but no words came out. “I can’t believe this,” Mrs.
Davis muttered. She jabbed her finger at Andrea, dripping mustard onto my floor. “I trusted you!
All that talk about your backyard chickens… I’ve been telling everyone at my bridge club about your amazing eggs!”
She stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows. Andrea didn’t stick around much longer.
She grabbed her purse and practically ran out the door, leaving her tea half-finished on the table. I waited until she was gone before I started laughing. When James got home and I told him the whole story, he laughed even harder than I did.
“That’s what you were doing with the mustard and hot sauce?” he wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes. “That’s brilliant! But also slightly terrifying.
Remind me never to steal your groceries.”
These days, our eggs stay exactly where they belong — in our fridge. Andrea never mentioned the incident again, and Mrs. Davis found a new egg supplier.
But sometimes, when I’m putting groceries away, I catch myself smiling. Because nothing tastes sweeter than the satisfaction of catching an egg thief red-handed. Source: amomama
