2 The Patchwork Puzzler (2 page)

Chapter Three

N
ancy Ann Beanie – “Nan” to her friends – had been administrative assistant to the Caruthers Corners mayor through three administrations, counting Beau Madison’s. She was said to be more married to her job than to Jasper Beanie, caretaker of Pleasant Glade Cemetery (and town ne’er-do-well). It was through the good graces of the mayor’s office that Nancy’s husband didn’t spend every Saturday night in the hoosegow sleeping off a binge.

There were no bars in Caruthers Corners, but there were several in nearby Burpyville. The police in that larger burg were more unforgiving and Jasper didn’t always make it home for Sunday morning church.

“Nan, do you have your set of keys handy?” asked Beau, leaning his head out of his door to make himself heard in her outer office. The mayor’s office couldn’t afford a fancy intercom system.

Nan Beanie was a slender woman of indeterminate age, her mousy-brown hair pulled back in an old-fashioned bun. Her hazel eyes were squinty, as if she needed to visit Lenscrafters. “Yes, Beauregard. Right here in my desk drawer,” she replied, sliding open the upper right-hand drawer to prove her words.

“Where?” asked Beau, stepping closer to examine the drawer. He saw nothing but pencils, paper clips, and rolls of Scotch tape. No key ring.

“Mercy me!” Mrs. Beanie exclaimed. “My keys are gone. I could’ve sworn they were here when I opened up the storeroom last Monday morning. I had to get you a new ream of typing paper, you’ll remember.”

Beau nodded, recalling running low on paper earlier in the week. “You haven’t seen ’em since then?” he asked.

“No, mayor. You always open up the building in the morning. And you’ve been letting the ladies into the conference room each day since those scrap quilts arrived.”

“Hm, who could have stolen your keys?” Chief Purdue put the question to Nan. “You rarely leave your desk.”

“True enough,” she said. “Other than to go to the restroom, but I have the keys with me when I do that. We keep them locked, y’ know.”

“Don’t you go to lunch?” asked little Aggie. Ever the prescient one.

“I bring a brown bag.”

“What about Monday?” said Beau. “Didn’t you have lunch with Dizzy Duncan?”

“Why yes, I did,” the woman recalled. “She wanted to talk about her son Denny. He’s up for a basketball scholarship.” Nancy Beanie was related to Dizzy by marriage. Arthur Duncan owned the Pic A Pair shoe store on Main Street.

“So somebody could’ve walked in here and snatched them out of your drawer while you were at lunch?” reasoned the police chief.

“Oh my,” said Nan. “I suppose that’s possible.”

≈≈≈

Nobody would accuse Maddy of being nosey, but she was known to have a curious nature. Her husband wasn’t surprised to learn that she’d called on Dizzy Duncan to ve
rify his assistant’s story.

“Well, hello there, Maddy Madison,” said the shoemaker’s wife. “What brings you over here to Jinks Lane?” The Duncans had lived here for years. Their modest cottage was set back from the street, the broad expanse of yard as neatly mown as a tee on a golf course.

“I heard your son Denny’s up for a basketball scholarship.”

“True. He’s got their attention, him being so dang tall. Takes after my side of the family. My dad was even taller than Denny.”

“Well, I wish him luck. It’s a good thing to play your favorite sport and get a college education at the same time.”

Dizzy Duncan smiled. “He’d be the first in our family to get a higher education.”

“Is he getting a higher education because he’s so tall?” Aggie spoke up. All this talk about college and scholarships was confusing to the youngster.

“This your granddaughter? I heard Tillie had come back home.”

“Yes, her husband Mark has set up his law practice here.”

“Do tell?”

“He took over Bartholomew Dingley’s clients when the old man retired.”

“’Bout time. Bart Dingley must be two hundred years old by now.”

“Just about,” Maddy chuckled.

Dizzy Duncan focused her gaze on Aggie. “That your dog, young lady?” she nodded at Tige.

“Uh-huh. He’s my best-est friend.”

“Nice mutt.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Duncan.” She paused, then said, “Could I ask you a question?”

“Of course, my dear.”

“Why do they call you Dizzy?”

“Aggie!” chided her grandmother.

“Oh, that’s alright, Maddy. I don’t mind saying. It’s ’cause my real name is Desiree. Some folks shortened it, maybe because they think I’m a little foolish at times. You know, dizzy.”

“Oh.”

“You can call me Dizzy, if you like. Everybody does.”

“Dizzy, why did you ask Mrs. Beanie to lunch on Monday?” the girl got right to the point.

“That’s right, we met for toasted cheese sandwiches down at the DQ. I enjoy getting together with Nan. She’s my husband’s first cousin. She called, wanting me to tell her about my son’s basketball scholarship. Guess she was interested in how the recruitment’s going.”

“Wait,” said Maddy. “She asked
you
to lunch? Not the other way round?”

“Phoned me out of the blue, invited me to the DQ. I truly do love toasted cheese sandwiches with a slice of tomato on them.”

Chapter Four

F
ounded in 1829 by three fur trappers on their way West, Caruthers Corners is a small town on the Wabash River, tucked away in the northeastern part of the state. In fact, Indiana’s state song is “On the Banks of the Wabash, Far Away.”

The town’s Main Street is as picturesque as a 25¢ scenic postcard, a mile of tree-shaded yards and two-story brick mansions occupied by prominent families. In the exact center you’ll see the historic Town Hall, facing a grassy public square replete with a bandstand for warm summer nights and skating pond for cold winter days.

The business district covers only two short blocks of Main Street, not exactly a triumph of commerce – brick-faced storefronts that include a shoe store, the antique shop, two clothing boutiques, and an empty space that used to house a travel agency. Beau’s hardware store already had been replaced by a Dollar General franchise.

Just beyond Main you’ll find the boxy homes of chair factory workers and other citizenry, cozy but not impressive edifices like those surrounding the town square.

Maddy had grown up in that big Victorian on the square, a house that had been built in 1888 by the founder of the EZ Seat chair factory. Now Tillie and Mark lived there, a proper abode for a successful attorney. She was glad to see it back in the family again.

Maddy’s father – Jonathan Bradfield Taylor – had not been of such prestigious lineage as the Caruthers or Madisons or Jinks, but he was accepted among the town’s elite. If there had been any question about the Taylor family’s social status, Maddy’s marriage to Beauregard
Hollingsworth Madison IV settled that. Not that the Madisons were highfaluting – they weren’t. Back then, Beau was just getting started with his hardware store, a modest establishment catering to local handymen. His name brought him a degree of respect, but being descended from a founding father didn’t guarantee wealth.

Money wasn’t everything. They had eked along nicely, thank you. Beau had inherited the big house on Melon Pickers Row from his grandfather, a benefit of being last in the family line (until their three children had come along). Now granddaughter Agnes represented the sixth generation since the town was established.

Maddy was happy to have Tillie home again. Maybe she’d have a chance to get to know the little stranger that was her granddaughter. Too bad her sons Bill and Fred lived so far away.

When she was a girl, no one ever considered leaving the hometown. These days, no young people considered staying, often going off to college never to return.

Alas, how things had changed.

Used to be, no one locked their doors in Caruthers Corners. Now a rare Sarah
Connors Pennington quilt had been stolen from behind locked doors.

The world was so very different these days.

≈≈≈

Maddy met her daughter Tillie for lunch at the Cozy
Café on South Main Street. Aside from the Dairy Queen and a Pizza Hut, this was the only eatery in town. It was one of those silvery cafés constructed from an old school bus. The booths were crowded, but the coffee was good.

“Hi mom. Is it true that one of the Pennington quilts has been stolen?”

“Aggie’s been talking. It’s supposed to be a secret.”

“She’s my snuggle-ums. Of course she’s going to tell me.”

“Well, don’t spread it around. We’re hoping Chief Purdue can recover the missing quilt before the Smithsonian gets word of this.”

“Oh my.”

“Your father’s afraid he might be impeached before he completes his first term as mayor. The quilts were locked away in the Town Hall’s conference room.”

When the waitress came over – a girl named Francis that Tillie had gone to high school with – they changed the subject, glanced at their menus, and ordered the soup-and-sandwich special. Today was cucumber bisque and a roast beef with lettuce and tomato.

Waiting until Francis was at the far end of the counter taking another order, Tillie whispered, “Did somebody break into the Town Hall?” Nearly nine months pregnant, she could barely fit in the diner’s narrow booth.

“Not exactly. Looks like someone stole Nan Beanie’s keys. Your dad has a locksmith over there right now, changing all the locks. Had to pay extra to get him to come out from Burpyville on short notice, but we can’t take a chance on more quilts going missing.”

“Aggie said the thief left a fake Pennington in place of the original. Pretty clever. It could’ve been weeks before anyone discovered the switch.”

“It was a very good copy,” Maddy pointed out between sips of the cucumber bisque. “We’d never have spotted it, except for Dan Sokolowski’s eagle eye.”

“But who’s good enough at quilting to make a near-perfect copy of a Pennington?”

Maddy put down her soupspoon. “That’s an excellent question, dear. Answer that, and we might be able to identify the thief.”

≈≈≈

After lunch Maddy stopped by the Historical Societ
y to see Cookie. As usual on Tuesdays, she found her pal in the tiny office, surrounded by a stack of papers, old documents, and faded photographs. Maddy didn’t know much about antique photos, but Cookie could tell a tintype from an albumin print at forty paces, so used to researching the history of Caruthers Corners as she was.

“Hi Cookie.” The slender woman’s real name was Catherine, but nobody called her that.

“Hello, Maddy,” she greeted her friend rather despondently. The missing Pennington quilt had put her into a deep funk. The Smithsonian would hold her personally responsible for its disappearance. After all, she’d made the arrangements for the Watermelon Days exhibition.

“Tillie just raised a key question. The answer might help us solve this puzzler.”

“That’s all this is to you, a puzzle to solve? It might mean my job!”

Maddy waved a hand, dismissing her words. “The only way we’re going to save your job – and Beau’s – is to find out who stole the quilt.”

“Okay, okay. So what’s the big question?” Cookie brushed her blonde hair back in a gesture of resolution. The gray mop she’d sported before her recent marriage to Ben Bentley had given way to golden highlights, thanks to Lady Clairol.

“Tillie pointed out that not just anybody could have created such a perfect copy of the Pennington quilt. So the question is, who could’ve?”

“That’s easy. Holly Eberhard. She’s the state quilting champion.”

“No seriously. Someone with a questionable reputation.”

“Hm, that’s harder. Maybe one of the runners-up in the state Quilting Bee?”

Maddy frowned. “That’s a good suggestion. An also-ran might bear a grudge over losing.”

“That’s the idea. Someone soured by losing decides to pull off a crime to show how good her quilting skills really are.”

“Where can we get a list of the past few year’s entrants?”

Cookie swung around to face her computer keyboard, nearly hidden under the scattering of papers. “Simple enough.”
Clik! Clik! Clik!
“Here we go, I Googled it.”

A nearby printer
whirred
as it spewed out the list. It was short, maybe a dozen names. Many of them duplicates, showing that the same quilters entered the contest year after year. Only the best of the best made it to the finals – so it was a very elite club.

Maddy studied the names. “Holly Eberhard was first runner-up three years ago, but took the top spot this year and last. Sue Ann Morgan is a senator’s daughter so it’s not likely she would be involved in a crime like this. Christie Thurman died this past winter in a skiing accident. Thelma Wolpner retired due to arthritis. Beatrice Hackleberry married a famous television minister, the one who comes on at nine o’clock Sunday mornings. Hm, I don’t recognize this last one, Doris Thornton.”

“No, it couldn’t be her. I know that name – she signed a big contract with Tiger Brand Yarns. Their spokeswoman. I doubt she’d but that six-figure contract in jeopardy for a forty thousand dollar quilt.”

“Drat! A dead end.”

“See. I am going to lose my job with the Historical Society. This is a terrible state of affairs.”