LITMIR.BIZ

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      Shannon Devereux frowned at the calendars laid out in front of her. She sighed and then shuffled through the stack of index cards that held information on the classes she was supposed to be scheduling and then looked at the calendars again, seeking inspiration. Finding none, she shuffled the cards a little more before resolutely picking one out.

      When she bought the quilt shop four years ago, she hadn’t known a thing about running her own business. She’d been looking for a focus in her life, something to fill her days and make the nights seem a little shorter. Patchwork Heaven had proven to be exactly what she needed. She felt a surge of pride as she looked around the shop. Shelves along two walls held bolts of fabric in a rainbow array of colors. Patterns and books were displayed in racks in the center of the shop. The front of the building was almost all glass, letting in sunlight and giving a pleasant view of the tree-lined street outside. At the back of the shop, where Shannon was sitting, were tables for classes, and every spare inch of wall was covered by class samples—a warm, multicolored wallpaper to entice potential students. The arrangement was both efficient and inviting.

      She’d done a good job, she thought. Business had increased nicely. For the past two years, the shop had been making a small but steady profit. She wasn’t likely to make it into the Fortune 500, but she was solvent and that was more than most small businesses could say. Even better, she loved her work. Most of it, anyway. She looked down at the calendars and the stack of cards and sighed. Where was a scheduling fairy when you needed one?

      “You know, there are easier ways to do that.” Kelly McKinnon paused next to the table, a stack of bolts in her arms.

      “If you tell me that a computer would make this easier, I’m going to fire you.” Shannon fingered the edge of an index card, debating whether to slot the hand quilting class on a Saturday morning or Thursday evening. And should it be January or February?

      “A computer would make that a lot easier,” Kelly said, ignoring the warning.

      “You’re fired,” Shannon said without looking up.

      “You can’t fire me.”

      “Why not? You’re insubordinate. That’s a good reason to fire someone.”

      “Insubordinate?” Kelly considered the accusation for a moment and then shook her head. “I think insubordination applies only to the military.”

      “I don’t see why they should get to hog all the best words,” Shannon said, frowning.

      “They’re selfish pigs, aren’t they?” Kelly said sympathetically.

      Shannon sighed and sat back in her chair, looking up at her friend and employee. At five feet one inch tall—if she stretched a bit—with a mop of pale-blond hair and brown eyes that always seemed to hold a smile, Kelly made her think of the illustrations of pixies in old children’s books. “You’re sure I can’t fire you for insubordination?”

      “I think you’d have to court martial me instead.”

      “Too much trouble. You’ll have to stay.”

      “Thanks, boss.” Her job security confirmed, Kelly nodded toward the calendars. “You want me to do that for you? It’s a lot easier when you can just click and drag the class names from place to place. Saves a lot of wear and tear on erasers. Why did you buy a computer for the office if you’re not going to use it?”

      “People have been scheduling classes for centuries without using a computer.”

      “You’re afraid of the computer.” Kelly’s tone made it a statement rather than question.

      “I am not,” Shannon said defensively. “I just don’t see the point in using it to do something that I’m perfectly capable of doing by hand. People are too dependent on computers these days.”

      “Well, you certainly don’t have to worry about that,” Kelly said dryly. She set the bolts she’d been carrying on the edge of the table and lifted the top one—a midnight-blue fabric printed with a scattering of tiny gold stars. “You never even turn it on.”

      “I run it at least once a week,” Shannon said. “I figure that will keep its pistons clean.”

      Kelly slid the bolt of fabric in amongst the other blues, turning her head to grin at Shannon. “Computers don’t have pistons. I’ll get that,” she added as the phone began to ring.

      “Maybe I’d like them more if they did,” Shannon muttered as she walked away.

      She could put away the rest of the fabric, she thought, eyeing the bolts on the edge of the table. It wouldn’t really be procrastinating if she was doing something productive, would it? She allowed herself a brief, wistful moment of self-delusion and then resolutely picked up the first index card. If she didn’t get this done soon, the winter class schedule was going to be going out next spring.

      She heard Kelly say, “You’re kidding!” in a tone of breathless surprise and then tuned out the rest of the conversation. Kelly McKinnon was one of the kindest, most generous-hearted people you could ever hope to meet. She also happened to be hopelessly addicted to gossip. As near as Shannon could tell, she was the unofficial clearing house for information for the entire town.

      It could have been an intolerable character flaw but Kelly’s interest came without a trace of malice. She was genuinely interested in everyone—not just what they were doing and with whom but what they were thinking and feeling. Which was probably why people were so willing to tell her things they wouldn’t even share with their hairdresser. Besides, Kelly was quite capable of keeping a secret. She might know where all the bodies were buried, but she rarely told anyone where to find them.

      With an effort Shannon forced her attention back to the schedules. A strand of strawberry-blond hair fell forward and she tucked it absently back behind her ear. She penciled in the beginning quilt-making class on Tuesday night. Esther McIlroy was teaching that. Esther didn’t mind running the cash register to handle any purchases her students made, which meant that Shannon didn’t have to be here.

      “You’ll never believe what Rhonda Whittaker just told me!” Kelly said as she hung up the phone.

      “Don’t tell me.” Without looking up, Shannon sensed the other woman approaching from the front of the shop.

      “Don’t you want to know?” Kelly asked impatiently.

      “Know what?” Shannon went over the penciled line a little more heavily. Tuesday was a good night to learn how to make quilts, she decided. She’d double-check with Esther to make sure it was okay.

      “What Rhonda just told me,” Kelly said. “Don’t you want to know what she said?”

      Shannon set the pencil down and looked up, her blue eyes mock solemn. “You’ve already told me I won’t believe it, so why bother to tell me? If I want to hear things I’m not going to believe, I can watch the news.”

      “This is firsthand information.”

      “What makes you think Rhonda Whittaker is more trustworthy than Tom Brokaw? Isn’t she the one who says she saw Elvis going into a room at that motel on the edge of town?”

      “That was Tricia Porter,” Kelly corrected her. “And it wasn’t Elvis she saw, it was Paul McCartney. And she saw him at the natural foods store, buying organic barley.”

      “That’s sooo much more believable than seeing Elvis,” Shannon drawled.

      “Well, I think he’s a vegetarian.”

      “Elvis?”

      “Paul McCartney,” Kelly said impatiently. “I think he’s a vegetarian so I guess it’s not totally beyond the realm of possibility to see him in a health food store.”

      “Oh sure.” Shannon nodded agreeably. “I bet he flies over from England on a regular basis to buy barley at Finlay’s Flourishing Foods for Fitness. The name is probably known all over the world.

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