Welcome to the intro video
and an excerpt from the seventeenth post of my weekly serial, “Sketches from
the Café Confictura.” If you’d like to share a comment, please use the comment option at the end of this excerpt. To follow the mystery of Applewood, and get
recipes from Mrs. Creaverton, writing advice from Roscoe Belesprit, and fashion
tips from the Fastionista, please visit www.ClarissaJeanne.com for new posts
every Tuesday at 2:30 p.m. EST.
“What has you so enamored of
him?” I asked. Mrs. C usually doesn’t get swept up in politics.
She sat on the couch’s arm.
She fit there nicely, actually, now that she’s down about twenty-five pounds
since she started eating so much healthier in January. She said, “Well, I share
his values. I think he’d make a good mayor. Same goes for the guy he’s running
against in the primaries. But, with Masterson, I feel a kinship. When I saw Mr.
Creaverton just after he passed, I told some people about the encounter and I
was ostracized for a time. You know how people were in this town before the
ghosts really started kicking up a storm after 11/5. A full-spectre paranormal
encounter was sacrosanct. Half the people I told were jealous of me, half
thought I was making it up for attention. Masterson went through a similar
experience. He still gets flack, since he’s the first major candidate around
here to admit he had the same kind of encounter. He’s up against that kind of
malarkey and he still puts himself in the public eye, striving to make his
dreams come true. I’m pretty inspired by that. I really wish, just for now, I
lived in Speroton so I could vote for him.” She grinned. “But at least letting
him campaign here might help secure him the nomination.”
“Why Confictura?” said
Roscoe, his voice a touch gruff. Everyone knows Roscoe’s in love with Mrs.
Creaverton; everyone, that is, except Mrs. Creaverton. Whenever she
inadvertently reminds him that the ghost of Mr. Creaverton is still hanging
around, he gets a little prickly.
“His advisor guy on the
phone said Masterson loves the café’s story,” said Mrs. C. “That we were lucky
to be a rock in the midst of the quake, business hasn’t suffered, people love
coming here. He sort of holds us up as an ideal. And I guess he’s heard about
the changes I’ve made in my own diet and with some of the café’s recipes.” She
started to get flushed as the phone rang again.
Her flush quickly drained. “Oh,
really?” she said. She tried to keep her voice light, but the look on her face
was one of disgust. “I see. There’s not, by any chance, anyone else who could
maybe do it instead? No, no, that’s fine. I was just wondering. I’ll be looking
forward to it.”
We got the skinny when she
hung up, and said flatly, “One of their campaign people, who lives in
Applewood, can meet me here tomorrow to go over the schedule, figure out where
in the café he’ll be set up, things like that. And that person is none other than
Ms. Nessie Fyne.”
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