Sewed Up Tight (A Quilters Club Mystery No. 5) (Quilters Club Mysteries) (16 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

A Second Chance

“You want the job, it’s yours,” Mark Tidemore told his brother-in-law. Fire Chief Pete Watson had hung up his helmet, declaring he was too old for any more excitement like the
HALLOWEEN BOMB SCARE
(as the
Burpyville Gazette
termed it in the next day’s headline.

Freddie Madison grinned and said, “I’ll take it. I’m tired of being a clown.”

Bobby Ray Purdue took his understudy’s retirement with good grace. Perhaps because he was busy with architect Dave Winterbottom planning Beasley Gardens. He declared himself semi-retired from the clown business too.

Big Bill Haney hired a couple of replacements from the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus. You could do that when you had an endowment as large as the one Bobby Ray had set up for Haney Bros. Zoo and Exotic Animal Refuge.

“Satisfied?” said Maddy Madison to her son as they sat in her kitchen snacking on ginger cookies.

“What do you mean?” mumbled Freddie as he washed a fat cookie down with a swig of milk. In Caruthers corners a milkman employed by Dingle’s Dairy still delivered it to the doorstep.

“You said you missed being a fireman, doing something important like saving lives.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Well, you certainly made up for lost time. You saved the lives of six hundred people, disarming that firebomb.”

“Aw, it was probably a dud like the one in the basement. With Stinky’s fouled-up wiring it might not have gone off.”

“I don’t think anyone wants to test that theory.”

He grinned, unmindful of his horrific face. People had quit flinching when they saw him on the street. Being a hero overcomes minor things like appearance. “Good news is I get to keep my disability pension despite having a new job. I’m going to need the extra money. Amanda’s expecting.”

“She told me.” Nobody in the family kept secrets from Maddy. “That’s good. Donna Ann needs a brother or sister.”

“And I need to be somebody they can look up to. No more moping for me. I’m going to be a better husband and father.”

“So the Ugly Duckling turns into a Swan,” teased Maddy.

“Something like that,” he said sheepishly.

“Well, Aggie certainly looks up to you. You saved her life.”

Freddie patted his mother’s hand. “Aggie’s one brave little girl. What people are overlooking is that she went back into the building to save
me
.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Maddy admitted. “I suppose you’re right.”

≈ ≈ ≈

“The psychiatric evaluation at Woodwing indicates Stanley Caruthers is suffering from acute schizophrenia,” reported the mayor at the Town Council meeting. “Seems he had convinced himself that by killing me he would become mayor himself, a position he had obsessed about for the past dozen years.”

“Maybe if we hadn’t imposed those age limits, he would have achieved his dream and never taken up making bombs,” sighed Beauregard Madison. Always considering the “what if’s.”

“No, it just means we’d have had a mayor crazier than his uncle,” said Edgar Ridenour.

“Or the one we have now,” joked Bobby Ray Purdue. He’d just been appointed to the Town Council. When you raise $200 million for a low-income housing development, you get a seat at the table.

“Hey, don’t push it,” growled Mark the Shark. “I gave in on calling it Beasley Arms. And you promised the landscaping would live up to the name Beasley Gardens.”

“Next thing I know, you’ll be asking for palm trees.”

≈ ≈ ≈

Police Chief Jim Purdue was keeping his voice low, so as not to wake up Jasper Beanie who was sleeping off a bender in a nearby jail cell. “We found Stinky Caruthers’ car parked in the Home Depot lot. A ratty old Buick Regal littered with candy wrappers and dirty underwear. And guess what, there was $161,957 stashed in the trunk.”

Mark Tidemore looked up from his cup of coffee. The coffee here at the Police Department tasted like mud. “Does that mean Stinky robbed the S&L?”

“Naw. It means he stole the money from the crooks. Found it in those trunks in the basement of the Beasley Mansion … uh, I mean Beasley Arms.”

“Forget about Beasley Arms,” the mayor said.

“All those candy wrappers in his car were the same kind we found in the upstairs bedroom. Stinky had been camping out there. Probably stumbled across the money by chance.”

“I thought there was supposed to be $212,000.”

“Was. But you gotta deduct the money he spent at the Dollar General. That Phantom of the Opera getup and a sack of candy bars.”

“That’s still fifty grand short.”

Chief Purdue shrugged. “We don’t know what happened with that.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The Family Reunion

T
he next day Maddy placed a call to the Beasley Heritage Museum in Hobson’s Landing, Massachusetts. She’d looked it up on the map. It was located on the Powwow River near the New Hampshire border.

“H-hello,” came a tenuous voice.

“May I speak with Eunice Smith-Cardwell?”

“This is Eunice. Is this about the museum? We’re closed for the season. The museum’s only open to the public during summer months.”

“Well, it’s kind of about the museum. I’m your distant cousin on the Taylor side, Madelyn Taylor Madison from Caruthers Corners.”

“Rightfully it should have been Beasleyville,” the old woman said petulantly. “Your last name’s Madison?”

“I married Col. Beauregard Madison’s great-great grandson. But I’m related to Major Samuel Beasley same as you. My great grandfather was William Taylor, Eunice’s brother.”

“Guess we are cousins then,” allowed the voice on the phone. “Pleased to me you, I’m sure.”

“Same here. I think it’s wonderful that you have a museum devoted to Old Sam.”

“We don’t call him that on this side of the family. It seems disrespectful.”

“We mean it affectionately out here in Indiana,” Maddy recovered the fumble.

“The museum is a way of honoring Samuel Beasley and the heritage he left behind.”

What heritage? Maddy wondered. An abandoned mansion and a fake quilt. “What type of items do you have on display at the museum?” Maddy asked.

“Not many. Just the ones handed down by my grandmother. An old sword. A pair of boots. A few letters. A handful of tintypes. A US Model 1816 Marshall Pattern Flintlock Pistol. And, of course, the Beasley Heritage Quilt.”

“About the quilt –?”

“I sent pictures of it to your local historical society. I’m sure they will share them with you.”

“I’ve seen them,” Maddy admitted. “That’s what I’m curious about. Your letter said it was stitched by Madelyn Taylor Beasley, Old Sam – uh, Major Beasley’s wife. My namesake, as a matter of fact. As I understand it, she was killed by the indigenous natives when the wagon train got stranded in Indian Territory.”

“That is correct, murdered by Red Indians.”

“Potawatomi, I believe they were.”

“Yes, savages. The Major helped eradicate the vermin.”

Maddy cleared her throat, trying not to answer with anger. She was big on Native American rights. Vermin, indeed! She was deciding that she didn’t like her cousin very much. “Here’s my question. If Madelyn Taylor Beasley was killed on the wagon train, how could she have created a pictorial quilt showing the founding of the town? That came later.”

“You make a good point,” the old woman acknowledged.

“But your letter said it was her quilt…”

“Well, we’re not totally sure of that. ‘Attributed to’ would be more accurate. It was discovered in my grandmother’s trunk. Maybe Granny made it, maybe her mother Eunice made it. The women on my side of the family have always been very talented at needlecrafts.”

“But the pictures on the quilt give a false history.”

She had expected to get an angry reaction to that statement, but Eunice Smith-Cardwell surprised her. “Who’s to say?” muttered the old woman. “As Napoleon put it, ‘History is the version of past events that people have decided to agree upon’.”

“So the quilt’s provenance is murky –”

“Only to a degree,” said the old woman. “If it wasn’t made by Madelyn Taylor Beasley, it was made by her daughter or granddaughter. That much is clear.”

“And the alternate history?”

“That’s the way it should have been. Major Samuel Beasley should have gotten more credit for his role in founding that wide place in the road where you live.”

“Beasleyville? My husband doesn’t complain that it’s not called Madisonville.”

“Hmph. Why would it have been called that? Col. Madison just led the wagon train. If he’d done a better job our great-great grandmother wouldn’t have been murdered by those horrible Indians – and history would have turned out differently.”

“So what are you going to do about the quilt? You can’t keep passing it off as authentic.”

“Perhaps not. Maybe we should change its name. How does Beasley Memorial Quilt sound?”

“An improvement,” said Maddy – thinking Beasley Fantasy Quilt would be more accurate. Eunice Smith-Cardwell was crazy as a loon.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Aggie Solves the Mystery

T
hat Tuesday the Quilters Club met at the Hoosier State Senior Recreation Center for its weekly session. It was a gray, overcast day, with wind snow in the air. They were working on Christmas quilts for a showing next month in Indianapolis. Lizzie, the fastest sewer, was close to being finished with hers. Maddy and Cookie were coming along fine, while Bootsie was still struggling with the hemming. Little Aggie was working on a lap quilt, not quite as large as the other members’ projects.

“That’s good, dear,” encouraged Maddy, looking over her granddaughter’s shoulder. “Keeping your stitches even – six stitches per inch – is the most important part of hand quilting.”

“Like this?”

“Perfect,” observed Lizzie.

“You know, we’ve accomplish quite a lot these last few weeks,” mused Cookie Bentley as she threaded a size 10 needle. “Captured a mad bomber, thwarted a disaster, and shut down a fraudulent museum with a quilt that didn’t live up to its claims.”

“Also we helped settle my crazy cousin into a nice home for Alzheimer sufferers,” said Maddy Madison. “The old girl was losing it.”

“And thanks to a grant from Bobby Ray Purdue, she’ll eventually be transferred to Beasley Assisted Living, as he’s calling the old Beasley place,” added Cookie. “Turning it into a special care facility was a stroke of brilliance.”

“Considering her obsession with Old Sam, she should be quite pleased to live in a housing development named after him,” nodded Bootsie. “Work’s already begun on converting the mansion.”

“Hope his ghost doesn’t mind sharing the place with a bunch of crazies,” sniffed Lizzie. The redhead was as sharp-tongued as Dorothy Parker, but without the wit.

“Memory impaired,” corrected Maddy.

“C’mon, she
was
pretty crazy,” said Cookie. “Trying to rewrite history with a fake quilt. Her diary showed that she’d made it herself. Beasley Heritage Quilt, indeed.” The town historian was obviously still miffed at being taken in by the scam.

“Unfortunately, we didn’t accomplish our original mission,” sighed Maddy, finishing off another 12” x 12” quilt square. It pictured the round, white face of a jolly-looking snowman. “We set out to solve Skookie Daniels’s murder.”

“But it wasn’t a murder,” the police chief’s wife responded. “He simply dropped dead.”

“What about that ghost, the one Skookie’s mom claimed scared him to death?” asked Lizzie.

“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Maddy’s granddaughter spoke up. She was getting quite adept at reciting that fear-chasing mantra.

“That’s right,” said Maddy. “Madam Blatvia was filling Mrs. Daniels’ head with nonsense.”

Cookie nodded her solemn agreement. “If Madam Blatvia were real, how come she didn’t foresee that bomb at the Town Hall? Answer me that. She was sitting right there, reading palms, and waving her hands over a big crystal ball.”

“Jim tells me the old humbug packed up shop and left town,” confided Bootsie. “He says her storefront in Burpyville has a
FOR RENT
sign taped on the door.”

“So Skookie Daniels just dropped dead on his own?” muttered Lizzie, unable to accept such a straightforward explanation.

“Not really,” said Aggie. “I know what killed him.”

Everybody turned to stare at the girl. “You know what killed Skookie?” repeated her grandmother.

“I told you I was going to solve the mystery on my own.”

“Okay, young lady,” said Bootsie, back to being a cop’s wife. “Let’s hear your theory.”

“Yes, give,” urged Lizzie, hoping for juicy gossip.

Cookie just sat there, all ears.

“Go ahead, dear,” said Maddy, giving her granddaughter an encouraging nod.

Aggie set aside her lap quilt. She brushed her blonde locks away from her face and took a deep breath, as if gathering her thoughts. “Well, it’s quite simple, actually. Everybody knows Skookie was engaged to marry Miss Pritchard, that pretty Latin teacher. But what
he
didn’t know was that she was seeing somebody on the side, a man named Charlie Kurtz. He has a house next door to the Beasley Mansion. When Skookie went over to check out the Mansion for the Halloween Festival, he saw Ellie Pritchard coming out of Charlie Kurtz’s house. They may have been playing kissy-face. The shock caused him to drop dead on the spot.”

“How can you know that?” said Cookie.

“Deductive reasoning. Like Sherlock Holmes. When we went trick-or-treating we stopped at Charlie Kurtz’s house. He gave us
M&M
’s. I had to pee and he let me use the bathroom. You had to go through his bedroom to get there. I saw a framed photo of Miss Pritchard on his nightstand. It was inscribed
TO MY DARLING CHARLIE
. They were obviously an item. And the house was right next door to where Skookie Daniels dropped dead. Too bad he had a weak heart, otherwise he could have marched over there and punched that Charlie fellow in the nose and demanded that Miss Pritchard give him back his engagement ring. After all, it had belonged to his mother.”

“How do you know it belonged to his mother?” inquired Cookie.

“I used to see a diamond ring on Mrs. Daniels’ hand. Then she quit wearing it and Miss Pritchard started wearing one. Guess Skookie couldn’t afford a new ring on a principal’s salary.”

“What about the ghost in the window?” asked Lizzie, reluctant to give up on a supernatural explanation.

“Uncle Freddie saw that guy Stinky Caruthers. He’d been hiding out in the mansion. Left his candy wrappers all over the place. Uncle Jim found more of them in his car.”

“That’s true, he did,” confirmed Bootsie.

“What about that bank robber Jim caught in the basement?” pressed Lizzie.

“Oh, Moose and his partner robbed the savings and loan, all right. Then they hid the money in the basement of the abandoned house. Moose was coming back to get it, but Stinky had already found it.”

“How do you know this?”

“Cause Moose looked like he’d lost his best friend when Grammy came upstairs with that empty sack. And since Stinky was squatting there in the Mansion, he’d be the logical one to have found it.”

“You’re right on the mark,” nodded Bootsie. “Jim and Pete recovered most of the missing money from the trunk of Stinky Caruthers’ old car.”

Aggie smiled with satisfaction. “Stinky’s big mistake was buying a Halloween costume with it.”

“Because that turned up some of the marked money?” guessed Cookie.

“No, because his dressing up as The Phantom of the Opera attracted Uncle Freddie’s attention. And he recognized Stinky as the man he’d seen out near the quarry where somebody set off a bomb. Testing it probably. Otherwise, Uncle Freddie wouldn’t have got suspicious when I smelled something funny in the haunted house.”

“Wow!” said Lizzie. “You’ve got this case sewed up.”

“I’ll say,” agreed Bootsie.

“You’re one smart kid,” nodded Cookie.

“I belong to the Quilters Club,” she reminded them. “We’re all pretty darn smart.”

“Aggie,” chided her grandmother, “don’t say “darned’.”

“Yes ma’am,” she said, picking up her lap quilt and nonchalantly beginning to work on the center square.

= = =