When Chenille Is Not Enough: Chenille, #2

By Lani Longshore

Susan saved the world from aliens disguised as bolts of fabric, but that was last year. Now there's an assassin from space looking to even the score. Susan, her daughter Cecily and mother Edna must once again save humanity - and themselves - from creatures from another planet who have an inordinate fondness for quilt shops and lavender.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lani Longshore
• Release date: Apr 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301513000

Lani Longshore

Ann Anastasio and Lani Longshore are Broken Dishes Repertory Theatre. They sing, dance and write about quilts, quilters, and science fiction with fabric.

Book preview

When Chenille Is Not Enough

by

Ann Anastasio and Lani Longshore

Published by Ann Anastasio and Lani Longshore at Smashwords.com

Copyright 2013, Ann Anastasio and Lani Longshore

Cover image courtesy of Gelpi & Can Stock Photo

Cover by Joleene Naylor

This book available in print at most on-line retailers

Discover Death By Chenille

on Smashwords.com

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. this ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank for respecting the hard work of these authors.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the grandmothers who have made us quilts. We even wrote a song for you (to the tune of Gloria In Excelsis Deo)

Grandmothers who have made us quilts

Mothers, too, and maiden aunts

They have cut up father's shirts

Cousin's vest and uncle's pants

More dressmaking scraps

Aprons and pajamas, too

More dressmaking scraps

Aprons and pajamas, too

Thank you for the art you taught

Tiny stitches without fuss

Thank you for the cloth you bought

And then handed down to us

More dressmaking scraps

Aprons and pajamas, too

More dressmaking scraps

Aprons and pajamas, too

Acknowledgements

When Chenille Is Not Enough is the second book in the Chenille series, which means our friends and families have been sharing us with these characters for a long, long time. We would like to thank them for their support, and for laughing in the right places.

Lani's sci fi critique group - Jordan Bernal, Marlene Dotterer and Edward Miracle - read page after page of quilt-related themes without flinching. Lani's literary critique group - V.Z. Byram, P.C. Chinick, Neva Hodges, Violet Carr Moore, J.K. Royce and Elaine Schmitz - read page after page of science fiction, although none of them write in that genre. We are grateful for your generosity as well as your comments and suggestions.

Thanks to Gale Oppenheim-Pietrzak, who graciously allowed Ann to hijack their Art Quilt Santa Fe retreat for our book launches.

We would never have considered writing a book were it not for the quilt guilds that hired us as Broken Dishes Repertory Theatre to sing and dance about quilts for them. We will always treasure your encouragement.

Finally, we both owe a huge debt of gratitude to our families. Ann is the first to say that these books would not have been possible except for the encouragement and support of her wonderful husband Michael and two great daughters, Alison and Alexandra. Lani also thanks her family for giving her the space and time to write. We especially thank our respective husbands, who continue to ask, They pay you for this? It keeps us humble.

Chapter 1

A brilliant blue light exploded in front of Britex Fabrics a block from Union Square in San Francisco. It bounced off the gray exterior walls and shimmered against the banners hanging from long slender poles. The dancing effect was lost, however, in the sparkle of hundreds of cameras flashing as friends, family and tourists photographed the most magnificent Lion's Dance the Chinese New Year parade had ever produced. Everyone in Union Square was facing the other direction, and saw neither the light nor the squat beige creature that appeared a fraction of a second later.

The creature wobbled on two stubby legs as it skittered into the shadows. Hiding behind a mailbox, it slid a small black box from a pocket of rubbery flesh. Two thin digits wiggled free, and tapped a glimmering pad on the box.

Music from the parade masked the creature's whimpers as its beige edges trembled. Its legs lengthened and rippled, then bent in the middle, becoming knees. Next came hips, but the rectangular mass above the hips pitched forward. It fell on the sidewalk and rolled into an alley.

Its legs jabbed the damp night air, when a gust of wind blew a flyer for a dance school on top of the black box. The digits flicked the flyer away and tapped the pad again. Ankles formed at the end of the legs, followed by feet.

The creature rolled over and pulled its bent knees underneath. It squeaked, modulating to a growl. It retracted the two thin digits. Shoulders emerged at the top of its rectangular body, followed by arms. Elbows and wrists wiggled into place, and finally two strong hands.

It pushed itself to a kneeling position. Inch by inch, a neck protruded between the shoulders, then a head. Hair, ears, and a commanding chin popped into place.

The eyes emerged and scanned the rest of the body. Lips popped out, compressing into a frown. The creature snorted and snatched the black box from where it had fallen on the sidewalk. It tapped the pad with brand-new fingers.

A soft green light spread from the box like hot fudge sauce on ice cream. Spots of green appeared on the pale, naked body, first around the limbs then the torso. As the spots stretched and stitched themselves together, they turned a rich brown. The shimmering light grew opaque, and the body was no longer naked but clothed in a double-breasted wool suit.

A pool of green light swirled around the head. Tendrils of light reached like feathers from the top of the head, and became curly brown hair. Brows and lashes unfurled around the eyes, now the color of caramel. A thin mustache sprouted above the lips.

The creature - now a young man - twitched and squealed as the last of the light faded. He tapped the black box again, brought it up to his mouth and gasped, That tickled - and not in a good way. Get rid of the hair below the nose before I scratch it off myself. And can you do something about the nasal filters? The smells here are unbearable.

He wobbled to his feet as the box buzzed. He craned his face toward it. Give me a minute, I am still new at this. He stuffed the sputtering box in his jacket pocket and took two hesitant steps.

Another young man leaned against the wall, a thin stream of liquid squirting from his body. He turned his head. What you starin' at, man? He zipped his jeans and stumbled down the street.

The brown-suited man held his nose with one hand and retrieved the box with the other. Found the source of the smell, he said. And I think we missed something in our research. No, I just saw one of them, and he has some parts I do not.

The box chittered and went silent. The man backed away from the alley. He angled one foot and made a wide turn off the sidewalk and into the street, like an aircraft carrier attempting to herd a pod of dolphins.

A young couple chattering about the parade slowed their pace. Hey, mister, are you okay? the woman asked.

Yes, fine, thank you. New knees. Not quite sure how they work.

Oh, my aunt had knee replacement surgery. It can take a while, but she's really happy now. Pain-free for the first time in years.

The brown-suited man looked at the couple and blinked. Good to know. He raised his hand and rocked it side to side. Bye-bye.

The other man pulled the woman down the street. When will you learn that you should just keep walking? he scolded as they hurried away.

A series of stern beeps brought the brown-suited man's attention to his pocket. He retrieved the box and said, Marsel, what did you find? I thought so. Never let the blues be in charge of the research. They hate us. They think beiges are all brawn, no brain, and we will not notice their practical jokes.

He rocked from one foot to the other. A shiver wiggled down his body from his shoulders to his toes. He swiveled his hips and said, Transformation complete. No, I do not know if all the parts are functioning properly. I am still working on getting the knees to behave. Just give me my cover story. Yes, I am ready for the download.

He closed his eyes and pressed the box against his forehead. The soft green light again flowed around him. The light split into two beams which twisted together like a rope as it circled, then shot through one ear and out the other.

Understood. My name is Bozidar Cottonwood, film maker. Czech mother, English father. Fine, I will not repeat the story. I am not the one who pushed for an insertion before completing the proper training. Do not blame me if some of the details are wrong because you were too lazy to go through the checklist, Marsel. Oh, wait. Guess what? I am walking!

The press of people leaving Union Square pushed him into the storefront. He leaned into the stream, forcing his way between parents and children, couples holding hands, and knots of tourists holding maps. He heard their protests - watch it, wrong way and the parade's over, jerk - but did not respond. He made his way to an empty spot near the middle of the square.

Taking a deep breath, he spoke into the box. I think the knee issues have resolved themselves. What? Oh, right. He glanced at the stragglers nearby. No, some of them are talking into boxes, too. And some are just talking. No one seems to notice. Give me the mission specifications. Who is my target, and where am I going?

He bent his head and listened. When the buzzes and crackles from his box subsided, he straightened, looked at the street signs and said, I am not far from there now according to the guidance program. Yes, I will verify my chronometer against local time before I contact the target. Cecily Morgan, daughter of Susan, leader of the group that murdered our clan.

***

Cecily, where are the flyers? Susan whispered, pulling her sage-green silk blazer tight against the blast of cold air from the door.

They stood in the foyer of a small meeting hall. Twenty people already claimed seats inside, greeting each other as they shed coats and backpacks. Cecily handed a program to the twenty-first person to come through the door and smiled.

If by flyer you mean order form, they're on that table under the window, she said. Don't worry, Mom, everything's under control. She smoothed her denim skirt. It's a pretty good turn-out. Thanks for getting the Norwegian Sailors Association to let us use their hall for another screening.

Susan brushed a lock of purple hair from her daughter's eyes. "I do like this color better than the red. It suits your skin tones. Brings out those blue eyes. And I'm happy to help. After all, Death by Chenille is my story, too. The aliens invaded my shop, and most of that footage is real. I am so proud of you for making that movie. Although I can't believe people think it's all science fiction special effects, it's kind of fun to see me on the screen." Her attention snapped to the front door as three young women entered, all speaking at once on their individual phones.

Cecily stepped forward. Great, you made it after all. She hugged her friends in turn, presented each with a program, and waved toward the meeting room. There's still plenty of room. Sit wherever you like and we'll catch up after the show.

How many people order DVDs at these things? Susan asked when the buzz of three conversations ebbed.

Not as many as at a film festival, but enough, Cecily said. We're making a profit now, did I tell you? Not huge, but it's better than being in the red.

Susan swept her hand through her honey-blonde hair. Her gold bracelets jingled like coins in a collection jar. I saw the statements before I came out to the city. You've done a great job, sweetie. I'm really proud of you.

The front door opened again, accompanied by a swirling gust of cold air. A brown haired man in a double-breasted brown wool suit stood at the threshold for a moment.

Am I in time for the showing? he asked as he entered the hallway and shut the door behind him.

As Cecily offered a program to the man, Susan put herself between him and her daughter, arm extended as if to restrain her from a sudden stop. Yes, you're right on time. Go ahead in. The movie will start soon.

Thank you. I have so been looking forward to this moment. My name is Bozidar Cottonwood. We have heard of this movie even in my homeland. He reached past Susan to take the program from Cecily.

And where are you from? Susan asked. Her eyes grew narrow and tight. Her lips pulled back from her teeth - less a smile than a prelude to a bite.

Central Europe, he said.

Not the Czech Republic! Cecily pushed her mother aside and shook his hand. "The Brno Independent Film Festival? We just heard Death by Chenille has been accepted, and we are so excited, I can't tell you."

Susan placed her hands on Cecily's shoulders and eased her away. How nice of you to come, Mr. Cottonwood. That's not exactly a Czech name, is it?

My father is English. I do not represent the film festival, but I am associated with the industry. I would very much like to talk with you after the showing, Miss Morgan. He smiled at Cecily, nodded to Susan, and went into the meeting room.

Don't talk with him, Susan hissed as soon as he was out of earshot.

What's wrong with you, Mom? You act like he has horns.

Susan shook her head, exhaling. I don't like him.

Cecily brushed her mother's hands away. Since when do you not like business opportunities? You heard him, he's in the film industry. And he knows about our movie.

And he smells of lavender.

Putting her palm against Susan's forehead, Cecily said, So do you. So does your store. And your sewing room -

Studio.

Studio. And most of the house. Cecily peered into her mother's eyes. You don't have a fever, but you're acting very strange. What's the problem, aside from a handsome man with an accent wearing your favorite scent?

Susan glanced into the meeting room, and saw Bozidar sitting alone in the back row. I've just got a bad feeling about him.

Cecily shook her head. Mother, please. He probably wants to talk about distribution rights in Europe. I promise I won't make any verbal agreements, and that I'll run any written agreements past your lawyer before I sign. Now smile - it's show time!

Chapter 2

Bozidar sat at the end of a row near the middle of the hall. When the room darkened, he removed the black box from his pocket. As the movie started, he tapped the pad.

The movie froze on the first frame of the opening credits. The music continued to play, increasing tempo until the notes collapsed into a screech.

Cecily rushed to her laptop and keyed in commands. The screech grew louder and higher pitched. She jabbed the escape key three times. The screen turned blue, with a flashing cursor in the corner.

Susan said, Sorry about that, everyone. Cecily will have the machine working properly in just a moment. She leaned over and whispered to Cecily, Do you want me to turn the lights on?

No, that's okay, I can manage.

Bozidar glanced at the woman next to him, who brought out her phone and started texting. He scanned the room and saw others on their phones. He smiled to himself and whispered into the black box, We have a minute. I will key in the sequence for you to capture the electromagnetic pulses. His index finger danced on the pad. Now you should see what I see. He put the box in his breast pocket and sat on the edge of his chair.

Cecily inhaled and pressed enter. The screen changed from blue to gray. The music began, soft and melodic. The opening credits rolled. Cecily exhaled.

Bozidar ground his teeth at the scene with Susan lobbing lavender sachets at the fabric beings. Idiots, he muttered, they could not have done any research at all about this planet if they thought that disguise would succeed.

His fists constricted into tight balls as the movie progressed. Laughter from the rest of the audience muffled his sob when a chenille-armored woman tackled a beige bolt. When the crowd applauded at the conclusion, he whispered into his jacket, It seems the message we received was accurate. It was a slaughter, even if our cousins' stupidity brought it on them.

He wiped a tear from his eye. The emotion translation program is working too well, he said. I dislike having saline solution dripping on my face.

Cecily made her way to the front, shaking hands along the way. Thank you again for coming to see quilting heroines save the world from space aliens, she said, and for laughing in all the right places. There are cookies on the back table, coffee and tea at the side, and DVDs available for sale. Relax, enjoy, and remember we take credit cards, checks or cash.

Bozidar rose and was swept by the crowd toward the cookie table, where he saw Cecily greet three squealing women. The four of them bounced on their toes, hugging each other. He felt a hand on his elbow.

Sorry, I was just reaching for a snickerdoodle, said a young man wearing a knit cap.

Bozidar stared at the table, then the man. He stepped back and said, Pardon me. Sorry to be in your way. When he found a piece of unoccupied wall, he whispered to the box in his pocket, Tell the language department they are sabotaging the mission! What do you mean that is a real word? How can they eat something with such an obscene name? I know they do not realize what it means on our planet, but there is a logic to the universe that - fine, I will stop. Just tell me what it looks like so I can avoid it.

Cecily approached him with her friends forming a wedge behind her. Mr. Cottonwood, I was hoping you hadn't slipped away. Let me introduce my friends - Darlene, Davita and Danielle.

We're the 3D girls, the thinnest one said as the other two giggled.

Bozidar bowed crisply. Delighted to make your acquaintance.

The thin girl said to Cecily, Mom alert, two o'clock.

Susan pushed between a couple devouring brownies and positioned herself between Bozidar and the exit. Here you are.

Bozidar bowed to Susan. Forgive me for not greeting you properly earlier, Mrs. Morgan. My concern for the lateness of my arrival led to a lapse of manners.

Susan cleared her throat. No offense taken. She pushed a stray lock of hair from her face. Her bracelets jangled as she dropped her hand.

Mr. Cottonwood, Cecily said, you mentioned wanting to speak with me about the film. Did you mean this evening?

Eyes darting from Cecily to Susan, he said, As this is a matter of business, perhaps business hours would be more appropriate. I am certain you have plans with your charming friends.

I was - Cecily said.

Business hours are perfect, Susan interrupted. Do you have an office in the city? We would be happy to meet you there at your convenience.

I am visiting here. But perhaps I could come to you? To the shop from your charming film? It is yours, yes?

Susan crossed her arms. Yes, that is my store. You've certainly done your homework on us.

One should always be prepared in these situations, he said. I have transportation. I only require an address.

Cecily snatched the program from the thin girl and said, Pen. She wrote the address to Quilting Parade in the margin. It's pretty easy to find. Do you have a GPS?

He took the paper. Yes. Would tomorrow morning be convenient?

We open at ten, Cecily said.

I will be there. He bowed. Thank you so much for an enlightening evening. He folded the program and put it in the pocket with the black box. Susan stepped aside, and he left the hall.

See, Mom, he's only interested in the movie.

Susan drummed her fingers against