2 The Patchwork Puzzler (5 page)

Chapter Nine

A
fter retiring from the bank, Lizzie Ridenour’s husband spent most of his time hunting and fishing. He held the record for the biggest catfish caught in this part of the state. Some days he would go down to a favorite spot on the banks of the Wabash and dip a hook, bringing with him a good book. Today he was reading
Death of an Expert Witness
, an English murder mystery by P. D. James.

Edgar Ridenour considered himself a bit of an Anglophile, always fascinated by British customs and manners of speech. Sure, they spoke the same language as folks hereabout, but they did it with such style!

Sometimes Edgar himself would say “lorry” instead or “truck.” Or “flat” instead of “apartment.” It sounded so … sophisticated.

The Ridenour family came from Germany a couple of generations back. The original name was
Reitenauer, but it was handily Anglicized to help his grandparents assimilate into this small town in Indiana. Truth was, Edgar would have preferred an English heritage, and so he downplayed his forbearers. Leave that to the founding families like the Madison, Caruthers, and Jinks.

Edgar was sitting on the riverbank, immersed in the clever detective work of Adam Dalgliesh, one of P. D. James’ favorite characters. He was willing to overlook the fact that the author was actually a woman – Phyllis Dorothy James, despite her non-descriptive initials. Didn’t Harry Potter author J. K. Rowling take that same genderless approach, her publishers fearful that a woman wouldn’t sell as well as a male storyteller?

Truth was, he actually liked P. D. James’ female detective Cordelia Gray better than Dalgliesh. Women were naturally inquisitive, he felt, making them good at ferreting out facts.

His wife was like that, a nosy parker who liked to help her quilting group solve crimes. Maybe he should have put his foot down on these activities, but it occupied her enough that she didn’t complain about his solitary fishing and hunting trips. Edgar was a natural loner, content to spend time with himself.

Since retiring from the bank, he’d swapped his clean-cut visage for a hoary beard, Chester A. Arthur muttonchops, and longish hair. Few banking customers would have recognized him at first glance, looking more like a rugged mountain man than a former bank executive.

As he read his mystery book, he became aware of a small aluminum boat floating down the river with the current. He noted a man hunched in the bow, unmoving, like a fisherman, but there was no rod in his hands. The boater looked familiar, yet it took him a few glances to recognize Henry Caruthers, the former mayor of Caruthers Corners. Henry had been a bank customer, but his fortunes had undergone a major reversal after being caught up in a scandal and forced from office. What was Caruthers doing out here?

“Hello there!” he shouted to the ex-mayor. “That you, Henry?”

The man didn’t respond, in fact hunching lower and turning his head away. Was he trying to ignore the greeting?

“Hello!” he called again. And again no response.

Edgar watched as the aluminum boat floated silently past. The man he’d placed as Henry Caruthers continued to ignore him. Perhaps he didn’t respond because he failed to recognize this bearded fisherman as the former president of Caruthers Corners Savings and Loan.

Hm, where could Henry be going? There weren’t any houses downriver for miles. He’d have to go almost all way to Burpyville before coming to a bridge or place to put ashore.

Strange, he thought
.

≈≈≈

“You saw who?” said Lizzie.

“Henry Caruthers, I’m sure it was him.”

“Fishing on the Wabash?”

Lizzie’s husband shook his head. “No, not fishing. Just floating downstream in a boat.”

“What do you make of this?” Lizzie turned to Cookie Bentley. The Bentleys and the Ridenours were having dinner at Bob’s Best Bar-B-Q over on State Road 21, just outside Burpyville. Edgar was particularly fond of the ribs, always ordering a full rack. And oversized Ben Bentley could eat two of them at one sitting.

“Chief Purdue needs to hear about this. He’s got an ABP out on Henry Caruthers.”

“APB – All Points Bulletin,” Ben politely corrected his wife. Working as a volunteer ambulance driver on weekends, he knew all the police scanner lingo.

“Whatever,” Cookie waved his words away. They had that kind of relationship, where neither could do any wrong in the other’s view. “Point is, Jim’s looking for that old scalawag.”

“Did Henry Caruthers really mastermind the quilt theft?” asked Ben. A trusting man, he found it difficult to believe the worst about people.

“Sure looks like it,” said Lizzie.

“I’m not sure Henry’s smart enough to be a criminal mastermind,” opined Edgar, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. “Take a kickback or accept a bribe – yes. But mastermind the theft of a forty thousand dollar quilt, I dunno.”

“Remind me to tell Maddy about the sighting,” said Lizzie, knowing she would be hot on the telephone with her friend before the night was over. Liz loved juicy gossip.

“Yes,” said Cookie. “Maddy’s very clever about these things. Maybe she can figure out where Henry Caruthers was headed in that boat.”

“Downstream,” said her husband, stating the obvious.

≈≈≈

Maddy Madison was bending over a topographical map of Caruthers County, a leftover from when her sons had been in the Scouts. They used to camp along the Wabash, in an area known as the Never Ending Swamp, a large marshy area down toward Burpyville.

“Whatcha doing, Grammy?” asked Aggie as she burst into the kitchen, her new cousin N’yen in tow. They were looking for gingerbread and milk, knowing that Maddy had been baking all morning.

“Trying to figure out where Henry Caruthers was headed.”

Aggie had heard her mom talking about Edgar Ridenour’s sighting. “Bet he was going to meet up with his partner in crime, that mean ol’ Mrs. Beanie,” she offered.

“Beats me,” her grandmother threw up her hands, “You kids ready for some freshly baked gingerbread?”

“Yeah!” shouted Aggie. Rubbing her belly in a pantomime of hunger.

“Yes, ma’am,” mumbled N’yen, careful to be polite around his brand-new grandmother.

“Here you go, you two hooligans,” said Maddy, dishing out generous slices of warm gingerbread.

“Yummy!”

“Yes, yummy!”

“Aggie, what were you saying the other night about a secret tunnel?”

“Just that I bet the Underground Railroad has an escape tunnel.”

“Interesting. If you look at this map, you’ll see that Pleasant Glades is not far from the river. Here’s where Lizzie’s husband was fishing. It’s just upstream from the shortest point between the cemetery and the river.”

Aggie grinned, her face covered in frosting that topped the gingerbread. “So
you
think there’s a tunnel too!”

“Well, Mrs. Beanie had to get out of that hidden room somehow.”

“I tried to tell everybody she was hiding in a secret tunnel, but nobody believed me,” she said poutily.

“Maybe we ought to go look for a tunnel. See what we find,” suggested young N’yen. Out of the mouths of babes.

Chapter Ten

A
ggie was the one who reminded them that the historic Underground Railway site was monitored by a security company. “There’s a man inside a black box over the stairs,” she said. Not literally meaning that there was a person inside the speaker.

“Hm, that may be a problem,” replied her grandmother. “We don’t want him calling Chief Purdue about intruders.”

“How did Mrs. Beanie get inside without setting off the alarm?” asked N’yen.

“Good question. Perhaps she knew how to disable the system. Had an alarm code or found a turn-off switch.”

They were standing outside the mausoleum that served as entrance to the cellar where runaway slaves had been hidden during the mid-1800s. It was an imposing stone structure, the ribbed columns giving off a Greco-Roman aura. A Latin inscription over the portal rea
d
MUS UNI NON FIDIT ANTR
O
. The old padlock had been replaced by an even bigger one. And this one really locked.

“Let’s look for a way to turn off the man in the box,” suggested Aggie.

“Don’t bother. We’re locked out.” Maddy was kicking herself that they hadn’t checked out the hidden chamber before the security company installed this new padlock.

“Grammy, we can’t give up. Mrs. Beanie will get away.”

“Oh, I expect she’s long gone by now. If my theory’s right, Edgar spotted Henry Caruthers boating down the river to pick her up at the other end of your secret tunnel.”

“Then why did you want to get inside the underground hideout?"

“They had to stash the quilt somewhere.”

N’yen pointed at
the Latin inscription over the mausoleum’s portal. “What’s that say, Mrs. Madison?”

“Call me Grammy, dear. Aggie does.”

“Okay, Grammy.”

Maddy studied the phrase. “My high school Latin is pretty rusty. I think it says something about a mouse.”

≈≈≈

Back home
, the trio of explorers had another helping of gingerbread and milk, the idea being that brain cells need nourishment. Aggie was studying the topographical map, which was still spread out on the kitchen table, anchored by their glasses of milk.

Maddy phoned Lizzie to report their failure in gaining entrance to the underground chamber where Mrs. Beanie had disappeared. “I’m so frustrated I could spit,” she told her friend in an exaggerated whisper.

“I’ve never been to that part of the cemetery,” said Lizzie. “It’s icky down there among those old crypts and mausoleums.” She was the fashion plate among the Quilter’s Club members, always hesitant to do anything that might muss her hair or break a nail.

“Yes, I know what you mean. I kept expecting to be attacked by rats and spiders.” She took another nibble of gingerbread. “Oh, that reminds me. There was a Latin phrase carved over the entrance to that Underground Railway hidey-hole – something about a rat. No, a mouse.”

“Whatever are you talking about, Maddy Madison?”

“A Latin phrase.
Mus uni non fidit astro
, or something like that.”

“Goodness, Maddy honey, you know I flunked Latin. Had to switch to French. I was better at that.” The redhead made it sound like a confession.

“Strange that a mausoleum would have an inscription about a mouse,” mused Maddy, taking another bite of gingerbread. She became a compulsive eater when agitated.

“Ask Cookie. She got an A+ in Latin.”

≈≈≈

Cookie Bentley answered on the first ring. “Caruthers Corners Historical Society. Sorry, but the museum’s closed today. We’re only open on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.”

“It’s me,” said Maddy.

“Hi, dear. It’s good to hear your voice. I’m worried sick about
that missing Pennington quilt. I’m going to have to tell the Smithsonian about it sooner or later, then all heck is going to break loose.”

“I’m worried too. Chief Purdue still hasn’t found Henry Caruthers. Nan Beanie escaped from that hidden chamber. And still no sign of the stolen quilt.”

“Thanks for calling to cheer me up.” The sarcasm was evident in Cookie’s voice.

“I have a quick question,” Maddy changed the direction of the conversation. “It may not have anything to do with anything, but I saw a strange Latin phrase there in the cemetery. Maybe you can tell me what it means.”

“I’ll try.”

“
Mus uni non fidit astro
.”

“Say that again.”

Maddy repeated the words.

“It’s something about a mouse and a star.”

“A star?”

“A mouse doesn’t have a star.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Are you sure you got the words right?”

“Not totally,” Maddy admitted.

“Let me check. I think I’ve got a Latin dictionary here on the shelf somewhere. It comes in handy when dealing with old documents.”

Maddy served another slice of gingerbread to Aggie and N’yen, then took one for herself. “
Mus uni non fidit astro
,” she spoke the words out loud. “I think that’s right.”

Cookie came back on the line. “Could that have been
antro
rather than
astro
?”

“Perhaps.”

“It’s an old saying by a Roman playwright named Plautus: ‘A mouse does not rely on just one hole.”

Chapter Eleven

A
ggie found out more about this strange “railroad” in the cemetery by checking Wikipedia, the source of all knowledge for the computer generation.

It read:

The
Underground Railroad
was an informal network of secret routes and safe houses used by 19th Century black slaves in the United States to escape to free states and Canada with the aid of abolitionists who were sympathetic to their cause.

She wasn’t sure what an “abolitionists” was, but her mom had told her about slavery. She had been shocked that people treated other people like … uh, pets. That was as close as she could come to the concept. But even her dog Tige had a better life than those long-ago slaves.

She supposed these local abol-whatchamacallums had built those underground chambers in the Pleasant Glade Cemetery, along with a tunnel leading to the river where black people could sail away to freedom. Good for those tunnel-builders. Nobody should have to be a slave, in her opinion.

According to Wikipedia, more than 30,000 people had escaped slavery by using this so-called Railroad. Only a small number had likely been routed through Caruthers Corners, but who knew? Records were sketchy during that 1810 to 1950 period, noted the Wiki entry.

She asked Cookie Bentley about this strange history of the United States. Wasn’t America supposed to be the “land of the free”?

As head of the Caruthers Corners Historical Society, Cookie was a bit embarrassed that she hadn’t known about these National Registry sites right here in the town cemetery. “Forgotten history,” she explained this lapse. “People don’t like to remember bad things.”

She’d done some research since the discovery of the underground chambers. The National Park Service listed three Underground Railroad sites in Indiana, but there had been many more.

Jeffersonville was an important station. One route had stations at Charlestown, Lexington, Marble Hill, and Bethlehem, making connection with Hanover. Another route started at Graysville and ran through Wirt and College Hill before ending at Butlersville. Corruption in this route made a change necessary and this led to the formation of Tibbett’s route in 1845. Eventually, three grand trunk lines converged at the Levi Coffin residence in Newport, leading from Cincinnati, Madison, and Jeffersonville.

Getting a site listed on the National Historic Registry took some doing. Apparently that had happened under Mayor Caruthers’ regime and received no publicity. Turns out, the preservation of the Pleasant Glade chambers and tunnel had been backed by the Indiana Division of Historic Preservation and Archaeology.

All that was before Cookie took over managing the local Historical Society. She could only assume the records were buried in those boxes of files stored in the basement of the Town Hall.

“Bad things? Our town helped save people,” Aggie pointed out with a child’s simplicity. “That’s a good thing.”

≈≈≈

Based on the inscription over the door, Maddy prevailed on C
hief Purdue to contact the alarm company to learn more details about this way station on the Underground Railroad. A supervisor checked the records and a survey map before confirming that not only was there another entrance in the cemetery, but that a mile-long tunnel ran from the chambers to an exit near the Wabash. “It’s all been closed off for safety sake,” he told the police chief. “Our firm monitors it for the National Registry folks, just to make sure nobody gets hurt going down there.”

“Hate to ask you to do this, but we’re searching for a fugitive. Could you send somebody down here to open up that second cemetery entrance so we can take a peek inside?”

“As long as it’s police business, no problem. We generally don’t encourage visitors – even researchers – due to liability issues. Those old structures are dangerous. Ready to crumble down around your head.”

≈≈≈

“Who would have thought the Quilter’s Club would be investigating a crime that involves a hidden way station on the old Underground Railroad,” gushed Bootsie. They were in the Town Hall conference room, putting finishing touches on the Pennington exhibit.

“Actually there’s a connection between quilting and runaway slaves,” offered Cookie. She’d been doing her homework.

“How’s that?” asked Maddy.

“Some people claim that quilt designs were used to send signals to the slaves, directing them to specific escape routes on the Underground Railway.”

“Do tell?” said Lizzie, her attention focused on this interest facet of quilting history.

“According to some theories, there were ten different quilt patterns used to convey messages. A particular quilt would be draped over a fence for all to see. But only the slaves knew the code. Plantation owners didn’t have a clue.”

“How cool,” whistled Aggie. Fascinated by these tales of derring-do in olden days – back even before her grammy and grampy were born.

“What’s for lunch?” asked N’yen. Thinking with his stomach as
usual.