house, five doors away. Ed opened his door, looked at my Barbie-pink rubber shoes and smiled. “Where’s Ken?”
I walked inside. “I have some serious news, but we’ve got to be careful who we tell. If anyone at the Beaumont School finds out he gave us this information, Miguel could lose his job.”
“Who’s Miguel, and what did he say?”
“The groundskeeper. He confirmed Dax Martin had an affair with the headmaster’s wife, Diane Davis, for the past several months. Then a week before he was killed, Martin had a huge argument with his pregnant wife. From what Miguel overheard, the enraged Mrs. Martin knew about the affair and told Jefferson Davis.”
“Do you think Martin’s wife killed him?”
“That’s the thing. She’s small and very pregnant. Probably not able to beat a big man like Martin to death with a baseball bat.”
Ed looked impressed. “So you were right. Dax Martin could have been killed by the jealous husband of Diane Davis, the high-and-mighty headmaster of Beaumont School. Great news!”
“Well, great news for you. Not so much for Martin. He’s still dead.”
“Yeah. There’s that. Wouldn’t it be sweet to see the school taken down a peg by a scandal?”
Ed’s phone rang. He had a brief conversation and hung up. “That was Simon. He’s contacted a friend in the US Attorney’s Office. He should have some new information in time for our meeting tomorrow.”
I got up to leave. “Great. Hang in there, Ed. Things are beginning to look a whole lot better for you.”
I made a quick trip to the market to get all the ingredients for dinner, including a loaf of braided challah and some kosher wine. Uncle Isaac would never sing the Shabbat blessings with just any wine.
I peeled fresh Idaho potatoes on top of a newspaper for easy cleanup. Then I shredded them in my food processor with fresh onion and prepared a kugel to go in the oven later in the afternoon. Even though I had remodeled my kitchen a little more than a year ago, I mostly used my microwave to prepare meals. Still, I hadn’t lost the knack for cooking traditional Jewish dishes.
At about eleven, Lucy and Birdie showed up with quilts over their arms just as I put the brisket in my new stainless-steel oven.
“Coffee?” I asked.
Lucy shook her head and I followed as she and Birdie walked toward my sewing room. “Can’t stay. We’ve just set up a workshop in the parish hall at Saint Winifred’s. We’ve got about ten quilters and three sewing machines. Seven will be tying and three will sew on bindings. We brought you the five quilts that were already finished.”
I examined the quilts lying on my cutting table. The blocks were simple Windmills, a square of eight triangles with their points meeting in the center. The alternating dark and light fabrics created a whirligig pattern. The backings were pieced with spare yardage and everything was tied together with perle cotton embroidery thread. Binding had been sewn on by machine, and the resulting blankets were utilitarian but cheerful.
Birdie tugged on her braid. “Martha dear, do you have any extra batting? We may not have enough.”
I pulled out a bolt of low-loft pure cotton batting—as tall as I was—from the closet. Batting was usually sold in cuts just big enough for one quilt. Since I made so many quilts, I bought in bulk. “There should be enough for about six more quilts here.”
Birdie felt the batting between her expert fingers and made a face. “We can’t use all cotton, dear. Pure cotton batting needs to be stitched in place so it doesn’t separate. We need a polyester or poly-cotton blend that won’t pull apart between the ties.”
Of course I knew what Birdie meant. I’d seen some antique quilts tied every four inches. Over years of use, big lumps of cotton had bunched in between the ties. “Sorry. I can’t help you, but I’ll give you a donation to buy some more today.”
Lucy smiled and held out her hand. “Seems only fair since this
I walked inside. “I have some serious news, but we’ve got to be careful who we tell. If anyone at the Beaumont School finds out he gave us this information, Miguel could lose his job.”
“Who’s Miguel, and what did he say?”
“The groundskeeper. He confirmed Dax Martin had an affair with the headmaster’s wife, Diane Davis, for the past several months. Then a week before he was killed, Martin had a huge argument with his pregnant wife. From what Miguel overheard, the enraged Mrs. Martin knew about the affair and told Jefferson Davis.”
“Do you think Martin’s wife killed him?”
“That’s the thing. She’s small and very pregnant. Probably not able to beat a big man like Martin to death with a baseball bat.”
Ed looked impressed. “So you were right. Dax Martin could have been killed by the jealous husband of Diane Davis, the high-and-mighty headmaster of Beaumont School. Great news!”
“Well, great news for you. Not so much for Martin. He’s still dead.”
“Yeah. There’s that. Wouldn’t it be sweet to see the school taken down a peg by a scandal?”
Ed’s phone rang. He had a brief conversation and hung up. “That was Simon. He’s contacted a friend in the US Attorney’s Office. He should have some new information in time for our meeting tomorrow.”
I got up to leave. “Great. Hang in there, Ed. Things are beginning to look a whole lot better for you.”
I made a quick trip to the market to get all the ingredients for dinner, including a loaf of braided challah and some kosher wine. Uncle Isaac would never sing the Shabbat blessings with just any wine.
I peeled fresh Idaho potatoes on top of a newspaper for easy cleanup. Then I shredded them in my food processor with fresh onion and prepared a kugel to go in the oven later in the afternoon. Even though I had remodeled my kitchen a little more than a year ago, I mostly used my microwave to prepare meals. Still, I hadn’t lost the knack for cooking traditional Jewish dishes.
At about eleven, Lucy and Birdie showed up with quilts over their arms just as I put the brisket in my new stainless-steel oven.
“Coffee?” I asked.
Lucy shook her head and I followed as she and Birdie walked toward my sewing room. “Can’t stay. We’ve just set up a workshop in the parish hall at Saint Winifred’s. We’ve got about ten quilters and three sewing machines. Seven will be tying and three will sew on bindings. We brought you the five quilts that were already finished.”
I examined the quilts lying on my cutting table. The blocks were simple Windmills, a square of eight triangles with their points meeting in the center. The alternating dark and light fabrics created a whirligig pattern. The backings were pieced with spare yardage and everything was tied together with perle cotton embroidery thread. Binding had been sewn on by machine, and the resulting blankets were utilitarian but cheerful.
Birdie tugged on her braid. “Martha dear, do you have any extra batting? We may not have enough.”
I pulled out a bolt of low-loft pure cotton batting—as tall as I was—from the closet. Batting was usually sold in cuts just big enough for one quilt. Since I made so many quilts, I bought in bulk. “There should be enough for about six more quilts here.”
Birdie felt the batting between her expert fingers and made a face. “We can’t use all cotton, dear. Pure cotton batting needs to be stitched in place so it doesn’t separate. We need a polyester or poly-cotton blend that won’t pull apart between the ties.”
Of course I knew what Birdie meant. I’d seen some antique quilts tied every four inches. Over years of use, big lumps of cotton had bunched in between the ties. “Sorry. I can’t help you, but I’ll give you a donation to buy some more today.”
Lucy smiled and held out her hand. “Seems only fair since this
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