Kateri showed Merida where to place the sandwiches—on a table as far away from the quilt as possible—then they went to sit among the group, and everyone shuffled their seats to make room.
Kateri pointed Merida to a chair between Emma Royalty and Rosa Sage, then seated herself across the table with Lilith beside her. To the table in general, she explained, “My friend Merida can hear, so don’t shout! But she can’t speak. Lilith and I will translate as needed.”
An awkward silence. A little chitchat asking how Merida and Lilith liked Virtue Falls. Mrs. Golobovitch gave them quilting needles and showed them the basics of putting the patches together. Then Gladys McKissick asked, “How are your ribs, Kateri?”
Kateri touched her side. “Better, thank you. Since we lost John Terrance and we’re dealing with a period of relative calm—except for some of the less sensible tourists—”
Knowing laughter.
“—I’ve had time to heal.”
“And Rainbow? No change?” Tora Keidel’s voice trembled.
The room grew very quiet; the only sound was the zip of the rotary cutter in Elsa’s hand. Rainbow was a regular at the quilting group; she was sorely missed and they all waited on the sad news with tears and prayers.
Kateri cleared her throat. “No change.”
Lilith looked around in surprise; apparently it hadn’t occurred to her that people other than Kateri might harbor a love for Rainbow.
Frances Salak said, “Kateri, can you tell us what Garik said about these … these slashings around town?”
Everyone here knew Garik, most had known him all their lives, and Kateri had tried to make sure gossips knew she’d consulted him and his FBI database. She told them, “In the last twelve months, slashings in the U.S. are up, but only slightly. Most of the perpetrators are accounted for—drug cases or spousal abuse. The three fatalities that are still without a suspect are in different parts of the country and the methods and weapons are not similar.”
“Where were they?” Frances asked. “What were the weapons?”
Kateri counted down on her fingers. “New York, Chicago and Birmingham, Alabama. A paring knife, an X-Acto knife and a butcher knife. Weapons everyone has access to.”
Without looking up, Elsa Cipre corrected Kateri. “To whom everyone has access.”
Kateri wanted to smack her.
Merida put her fingers to her forehead and massaged.
Lilith moaned softly.
And dear, sweet Mrs. Golobovitch stood up and stalked over to Elsa Cipre. “Please stop cutting that material. We don’t need so many strips for this quilt!”
Elsa Cipre didn’t even look up. “Yes, you do.”
Mrs. Golobovitch’s Eastern European accent got heavier. “I have been quilting for sixty years. Do you dare tell me I’m wrong?”
“You are wrong. Do you have a degree in Home Sciences?” Elsa answered. “No, you do not. I have designed this quilt in my mind and with the additional three inches it needs at the top and the bottom—”
“It doesn’t need anything at the top or the bottom!” Outrage brought Mrs. Golobovitch to attention.
“Of course not.” The rotary cutter slid past the tips of Elsa’s fingers. “If you want the proportions to be incorrect.”
At the quilting table, all needles froze in midair. Every eye was fixed on the scene between Elsa Cipre and Mrs. Golobovitch, and no one knew what to say, what to do, how to alleviate the tension.
Mrs. Golobovitch said, “Mrs. Cipre, I have led this group to four blue ribbons at the county fair—”
“I guided young women’s lives for years. Do you hear me? Years! Do you know who I am?”
“No.” Mrs. Golobovitch leaned her hands on the table and tried to catch Elsa’s eyes. “Nor do I want—”
The rotary cutter swerved within millimeters of Mrs. Golobovitch’s fingertips.
Kateri half-rose, expecting to have to render aid.
Mrs. Golobovitch leaped back, saving herself, and her outrage changed to wariness, caution, suspicion.
Elsa Cipre never noticed. Or if she did, she didn’t deign to show it. “I taught Home Sciences at Northeastern Christian University, and within ten years I had vanquished all other contenders and I was the head of the program. I taught those young women more than sewing and cooking. I taught them how to make a house a home. I taught flower arrangement, interior decorating, gardening. Quilting. I taught them creativity.”
“You were like Martha Stewart,” Emma Royalty said.
Elsa whipped around and faced the quilting table, still clutching that rotary cutter. “That faker. If I had accepted a television show, my Home Sciences program would still be in place. I would still be guiding young ladies to seek the pinnacle of their womanhood. Yet I would not lower myself to anything so vulgar.”
“I like Martha Stewart,” Emma said, but she muttered under her breath as if Elsa Cipre intimidated her.
Bette Abrahamson, who had her own background of academic honors, asked, “Mrs. Cipre, were there no young men in your classes?”
“None seriously. Not at first. Some, of course, thought to get an easy A by attending my basic baking classes.” Elsa stacked the strips she had cut, turned them 45 degrees and began to make small triangles for some design she had created in her mind. “But they found out soon enough they were expected to knead dough into a loaf of white bread with a good crumb. They were expected to produce a pie crust so crisp it crumbled in a stiff breeze. Their angel food cakes had better be light and heavenly. Some of them thought to cheat, to get their girlfriends to do the work for them, but I watched closely and they performed those tasks or their easy A dropped to a big fat F. I would not sacrifice the integrity of my courses, not even for those young men who thought themselves privileged sports stars. As the seventies progressed, some brave young men came to realize the value of my instruction and enrolled for their own sakes. I updated the program, adding knowledge about car mechanics, horticulture, technology. I kept up to date!”
Merida signed, Lilith translated. “What happened to your classes?”
“I should have had tenure. It was time for me to have tenure. And the college…” Elsa stopped, head down, and breathed heavily. “The college canceled the whole program. They said Home Sciences was a dated concept, that young women—young people—didn’t need to learn good housewifery, that getting a job was more important than making a home.” She threw out her hand in a grand, dramatic gesture. “In this day and age when so many people work so hard to succeed in a daytime job, and in the evening provide succor for their families, it’s obvious that—”
The library door slammed back.
Everyone turned, gasped.
A man’s hulking silhouette loomed against the light.
Dawkins Cipre stepped inside.
Everything about Elsa’s demeanor changed; she went from wildly indignant instructor to cowed female. “Dawkins! Dear! I didn’t know you were … close. To here.”
“You disappeared, Elsa, darling. I didn’t know where you were or what you were doing. You know I need to keep track of you.” He sounded so genial … and he looked so threatening.