The Long Quiche Goodbye by Avery Aames Page A

suit was a perfect fit and whose hair was shellacked to a shine.
    “No, for heaven’s sake, no!” I shrieked. “My grandmother and grandfather are happily married. My grandmother didn’t kill—”
    Rebecca put a hand on my arm and whispered, “Charlotte, why don’t you take a break? I’ll handle this.” With aplomb I didn’t know a twenty-two-year-old could possess—I certainly hadn’t at that age—she sidled around the counter and summoned the reporters to come closer. As she answered the first of their questions, she flipped her hair in a girlish way and smiled at the cameras as if she were a budding actress destined to star in one of Grandmère’s productions.
    At the same moment, the owner of Sew Inspired Quilt Shoppe, a freckle-faced forty-year-old who everyone called, no surprise, Freckles, trotted up. She was as cute as a button, loved the color orange, and was the kind of woman who relished life so much that she finished nearly every sentence with a chuckle. “Charlotte, a minute?”
    I scooted from my spot behind the counter and followed her into the wine annex. Dozens of people browsed the wines that were for sale. Many carried our decorative six-pack holders. None seemed interested in us.
    I said, “What’s the matter?”
    “You won’t believe what Kristine Woodhouse is up to.” A happy snort escaped through her nose.
    I could always count on Freckles for the latest scoop. Every morning, she homeschooled her daughter. Afternoons and evenings, she worked at her shop and gleaned up-to-the-minute news from other homeschooling mothers and customers.
    “What?” I said.
    Freckles toyed with the zipper on her hot orange hoodie. “She’s wearing a red, white, and blue dress with a banner strung across her chest like a beauty pageant contestant that reads Vote for Woodhouse , and she’s handing out flyers.”
    The day after her husband’s death? I groaned. Leave it to Kristine to take advantage of the situation while my grandmother languished under house arrest. I found myself wishing Kristine ill. Not death, mind you, but a bad hair day or even identity theft.
    Choosing my words carefully, I said, “Basic black isn’t always the way. Perhaps she’s celebrating Ed’s life in living color?”
    “You are too kind.”
    If only she knew what was truly going on in my mind.
    Freckles thumped the counter with her palm. “I want to help Bernadette. What do you want me to do? Knock on doors. Arrange a rally? I’ve got a quilting party this afternoon. And a sparkly T-shirt class at eight.” At times Freckles left me breathless. Two afternoons a week, she taught quilting and quilting lore. Three nights a week, she taught women how to make T-shirts decorated with rhinestones. On Saturdays, she held children’s crafting sessions and birthday parties. “But in between I could—”
    “Do nothing.”
    “Nothing?” Laughter bubbled out of her. “Uh-uh. No, ma’am. It’s guerrilla campaign time.” She clapped me on the shoulder. “C’mon, we’re all in this together. We cannot, I repeat, cannot let Kristine Woodhouse become our new mayor.”
    “Perhaps you haven’t heard. My grandmother—”
    “Oh, please.” Freckles burst into giggles. “Like Bernadette could hurt anyone. Chief Urso will see that. Now . . .” She rubbed her hands together. “Give me a job.”
    Matthew slogged into the annex with hangdog eyes and hunched shoulders, looking more like a basset hound than a Great Dane. His striped shirt wasn’t tucked in. His stone-washed trousers looked slept in. He pushed a trolley filled with our latest shipment of wine.
    I said to Freckles. “Let me think about it.”
    “I’ll put my thinking cap on, too.” She gave my arm an affectionate squeeze and scurried out of the shop.
    Campaigning, worrying about my grandmother, and running a thriving business did not go hand in hand. My stomach felt as tangled as one of Rags’s balls of yarn. But Matthew looked like he needed more