Sewed Up Tight (A Quilters Club Mystery No. 5) (Quilters Club Mysteries) (6 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Beasley Heritage Quilt

C
ookie Bentley was sitting at her desk in the cluttered office of the Caruthers Corners Historical Society, trying to catch up on her mail. The office might be a shambles – old newspapers, stacked files, dog-eared books, yellowed photographs, ancient correspondence tied with ribbons, handwritten diaries and journals, historic documents, engraved pocket watches, and even a dollhouse – but Cookie herself was a very organized woman. OCD, some might say.

Doing the mail had become kind of a ritual: She sorted the envelopes into two stacks:
Junk
and
To Read
. The
Junk
she swept into her trashcan without further ado. Then she re-sorted the
To Read
stack into
Bills
and
Correspondence
. She carefully opened each envelope in the
Bills
stack – Indiana Michigan Power, Embarq, etc. – and checked the amount due before putting it in her
To Pay
file. Then she tackled the
Correspondence
stack. These she re-sorted into
Inquiries
and
All Other
.
Inquiries
were mostly people looking for genealogical information, one from a college professor researching a paper on Swiss migration into the Midwest.

Caruthers Corners had a goodly number of families of Swiss descent, but nothing like the nearby towns of Berne and Geneva, whose very names claimed their Swiss heritage. Berne even had an annual Swiss Days Festival with booths selling chocolate pastries and fried cheese balls, and the local businessmen recently built a clock tower based on one located in its sister city in Europe.

That left the stack marked
All Other
. She tossed all the stray circulars into the trash with the junk mail, and then thumbed through the thick pile of magazines. Typically, she approached them alphabetically:
American Heritage
.
American Historical Review
,
Journal of American Studies
,
Family Tree
,
Good Old Days
,
Harper’s
,
History Today
,
ICOM News
,
Journal of Illinois History
,
Just CrossStitch
,
Mennonite Quarterly Review
,
Native American Report
,
National Geographic
,
Ohio History
,
Psychology Today
,
Quilter’s World
…

An article in
Quilting Bee
caught her eye:

Beasley Heritage Quilt On Display

In Massachusetts Museum

A small museum in northern Massachusetts claims to have an antique pictorial quilt depicting the early history of a town in Indiana. A distant relative of Major Samuel Elmsford Beasley, an early pioneer in the settlement of the so-called Indian Territory, has preserved this historic artifact, now on display at the Beasley Heritage Museum in Hobson’s Landing, MA …

≈ ≈ ≈

“Have you ever heard of the Beasley Heritage Quilt?” asked Cookie that Tuesday afternoon as her friends gathered around the big table in the Hoosier State Senior Recreation Center, sorting their scraps and stitching fabric squares together.

“Beasley? You mean as in the Beasley Mansion Beasleys?” asked Maddy.

“One and the same. Apparently Old Sam’s wife was a talented quiltmaker. And she captured the early history – the Indian battles, the early settlers – in a old patchwork quilt that’s now in a museum back east.”

“Where back east?” inquired Lizzie. She was the fastest sewer and her quilt was ready for its cotton batting.

“In Old Sam’s hometown, a place in Massachusetts called Hobson’s Landing. Population about 1,200 on a good day, according to the latest US Census.”

“And it has a museum?” murmured Bootsie dubiously. “That town’s half the size of Caruthers Corners and we can barely support a few dinky displays at the Historical Society.”

“Amen,” said Cookie. “My portion of the town budget would barely keep a fruit stand open.”

“Then how does Hobson’s Landing do it?” asked Lizzie. As the wife of a banker, she was interested in financial matters.

“Apparently the museum has a large endowment. Money from the Beasley estate. Aside from leaving the mansion to the town, Charlotte Beasley left the bulk of her fortune to this tiny craft museum.”

“Craft museum, you say?” muttered Maddy. There was always the debate on whether quilting was a handicraft, an art form, or simply a domestic activity. Of course, the Quilters Club favored the “art” designation.

“What’s the name of this museum?”

Cookie smiled. “The Beasley Heritage Museum, of course. Most of its contents are artifacts and objects from the founding of this town. But since they wouldn’t call it Beasleyville, Old Sam sent his collection back east.”

“A bad sport,” observed Bootsie.

“How come we’ve never heard of this Beasley Heritage Quilt before now?” Maddy wanted to know. “We’re supposed to be the experts on local quilting history.”

“I supposed folks were insulted by Old Sam’s attitude so they sort of wrote him out of the town history. His wife’s quilt along with it.”

“Then how did you learn about it?”

“Believe it or not, I read about it in
Quilting Bee
magazine.”

“What kind of quilt is it?” asked Maddy, always the curious type.

“Like many early 19
th
-Century designs, it’s a wholecloth quilt decorated with pictorial needlework. The scenes depict the Beasley family’s trip west and their early days here in Indian Territory.”

Bootsie looked up from her squares. “Is there a photograph of this quilt? I’d like to see it.”

“Alas, not that I’ve been able to find,” said Cookie. Her disappointment was palpable, that of a historian missing a piece of the puzzle.

“Why don’t you just phone up and ask them to send us a picture?” suggested Aggie.

Out of the mouths of babes, Cookie thought. “What a good idea. I’m sure the Beasley Heritage Museum will be happy to accommodate our Historical Society. Professional courtesy and all that.”

“Problem solved,” smiled Maddy.

But maybe not. Later that day when Cookie Bentley placed the call she got an answering machine that refused to take a message. It merely stated that museum hours were 10 to 2 on Fridays, summers only.

Not a very active schedule.

≈ ≈ ≈

“Freddie dear, could I see you a minute?” called Willamina Haney. The petite woman was the grand dame of the Haney Bros. Circus, although for years she had passed herself off as a man in order to rule the two-ring Big Top alongside Big Bill. Now that the circus had a permanent home, she could just be herself.

“Hi Willie, what’s up?” he greeted her. She was one of the few people who seemed to not notice his ruined visage. She simply accepted him as one of the new members of the circus family that she watched over like a mother hen.

“Take a walk with me.”

“Sure. I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs. Riding around on that kiddy-car version of a fire truck cramps them up sometimes.”

“Your act’s doing well. The kids love Sparkplug. And your fire safety messages are a valuable public service.”

“Thanks. I want to make a difference. However, my options are limited, now that I look like Fireman Bill on that
In Living Color
TV show.”

“
In Living Color
proved to be a springboard for Jim Carrey’s movie career. That Fireman Bill character worked out pretty well for him.”

“Problem is, I can’t take off the grotesque makeup like he could.”

“Is that what’s been bothering you? You seem down in the dumps lately.” She reached up to pat him on the arm. There was several feet difference in their heights.

“Partly. But I’ve pretty much come to accept I’m not going to look like a poor man’s Ryan Gosling any more.”

“What then?”

“Truth is, I miss being a
real
fireman.”

“Hmm, I guess I can understand that,” she said.

They walked along in silence for a while, skirting the perimeter of the flimsy fence that defined Happy the Elephant’s stomping grounds. Finally, Willamina indicated they should turn back. She wasn’t as agile as she used to be. Not many people realized she’d started out in the circus as an acrobat, graduating to a star trapeze artist. That was before she was wooed by a handsome ringmaster who happened to own the circus.

“Why don’t you go back to being a fireman?” she said as they neared the tents. “Tat would solve everything.”

“Ha! Who would hire an ugly puss like mine?”

“Your brother-in-law, the mayor.”

“Do you think Volunteer Unit 1 would take on another fireman?” There was no Unit 2, only one firehouse serving the town.

“I was thinking fire chief.”

“I believe that job’s already taken,” he sighed.

“Swami Bombay tells me Pete Watson’s ready to retire. You’d be perfect for the job.”

“How does Swami Bombay know this?”

“Who knows? Maybe he really
is
psychic.”

≈ ≈ ≈

The Quilters Club decided to pay a call to Maisie Daniels’s medium. If they were going to get at who – or what – might have frightened Skookie into having a heart attack, they should eliminate the ghost angle. And Madam Blatvia seemed to be in charge of ghosts.

Maddy made an appointment for them the next day at 4 o’clock. She wasn’t familiar with the address in Burpyville, but she was sure they could find it. Her iPhone was pretty good at giving directions. For the fun of it, she’d programed the device to have a male voice, so instead of Siri she had Sir (as in Sir Galahad).

A quick poll showed that none of the Quilters Club members had ever attended a séance before. And Aggie commenced to pout when they unanimously told her that she couldn’t go along on the boondoggle.

“You mother would kill me,” said Maddy.

“Too scary,” said Lizzie.

“Social Services would file charges against us,” said Bootsie.

“You’ll be in school,” reminded Cookie.

“Not at four o’clock,” Aggie whined.

“It will take an hour to get there. You won’t be out of class when we leave,” the blonde woman retorted.

“I could skip last period,” argued the girl. “It’s a study period.”

“Not going to happen,” said her grandmother.

“Be that way,” sniveled Aggie. “I’m going to solve this mystery without you.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Entering the Spirit World

M
adam Blatvia received them politely at her storefront reading room, a long and narrow space that had been sectioned into thirds by heavy red curtains. The first section was a waiting area replete with cheap yellow couch, a coffee table strewn with out-of-date celeb magazines, and a fake potted plant. The second section was reserved for séances and psychic readings, furnished with a round wooden table and six straightback chairs. The back area was presumably the “medium’s cabinet” where she stored her paraphernalia such as trumpets, candles, and fresh decks of tarot cards.

“Please have a seat,” she indicated the chairs. “I assume you are here to talk about the death of Robert Daniels?”

“You can’t tell by reading our minds?” challenged Bootsie.

“It doesn’t work that way, dearie.”

Maddy took over, following a sharp jab to Bootsie’s ribs. No need to alienate Madam Blatvia before they even got started. “Yes, we thought you could contact Skookie Daniels and ask him what was the last thing he saw. That might help us determine if his mother’s assertion that he was frightened to death was true.”

“I don’t have to summon Mr. Daniels to tell you that Marvin Johansson was not responsible for the school principal’s death.”

“How can you know that?”

Madam Blatvia smiled, revealing a gold tooth. “Because he said so. And all his body signs indicated he was telling the truth.”

“Body signs?” said Lizzie.

“Yes, I am adept at reading body language. Sometimes the spirits need a little help. Mediums are trained in picking up clues from the way a person holds her body or reacts to questions.”

“Trained?” Lizzie was surprised. She believed in psychic phenomena, but assumed it was a God-given gift.

“Yes, mediums are trained professionals. While we’re blessed with an innate psychic ability, we must learn how to channel it. We do not come to spiritualism by epiphany like Saul on the road to Damascus.”

“Where were you trained?” asked Maddy.

“I studied mediumship at Camp Chesterfield. It’s one of the leading centers of psychic studies as well as being the headquarters of the Indiana Association of Spiritualists.”

That got Cookie’s attention. “Say, I’ve heard of Camp Chesterfield. About a dozen years ago, the Chesterfield Spiritualist Camp District was added to the National Registry of Historic Places. It’s located somewhere down toward Indianapolis.”

“That’s right,” beamed Madam Blatvia. “The camp was founded in 1886 as a Spiritualist Church.”

“Church?” Now Lizzie was confused for sure. “I thought you were just a fortune-teller.”

“No, dearie, it’s a religion, just like the Methodists and Episcopalians. We believe people’s spirits survive death and that with proper training we can communicate with them. And since the spirits exist on a higher plane, they can offer advice and consolation to the living.”

“Oh.” Lizzie was embarrassed, as if she had intruded on the church services of another denomination. “Perhaps we should go.”

“Don’t be daft,” chuckled Madam Blatvia. “You came to get some answers and you shall have them. We’ll hold a brief séance and ask my spirit guide if he can locate Robert Daniels to speak with us.”

“What’s this about a spirit guide?” said Bootsie, still skeptical. “That sounds like mumbo jumbo.”

“Perhaps to you. But we trained mediums find it useful to have someone from the other side assist us, someone who better understands the afterlife.”

“You mean a dead person?” gulped Lizzie.

“A spirit. We use them like the early pioneers used Indian guides to show them the way west.”

“That’s right,” nodded Bootsie. “Lewis and Clark were guided through the Northwest Passage by an Indian woman named Sacagawea.”

“Actually, Sacagawea was not the guide,” corrected Cookie. “But she did play an important role as interpreter.”

“Whatever,” Bootsie waved her words away. “We get the idea.”

“My spirit guide is an old Mexican named Poncho,” explained Madam Blatvia. “Poncho died at the Battle of the Alamo in 1836. He’s been very helpful to me in finding my way among the spirit world.” As she spoke, the medium dialed the lights low and asked everybody to join hands.

“What’s happening?” asked Liz nervously.

“A séance,” whispered Maddy. “Pay attention.”

“
Gulp
,” responded the superstitious redhead.

“O mighty spirits,” intoned the medium, eyes closed, chin raised heavenward, “send my guide Poncho to me. I need his counsel.”

There was a silence. Then came a
Knock
!
Knock
!

“Ah, the spirits have made contact,” murmured Madam Blatvia.

“Where? I don’t see anyone,” exclaimed Bootsie.

“
Shhhh
!” said the medium. “You’ll scare them away.”

“Me, scare spirits? I’d think it would be the other way round,” the police chief’s wife muttered.

“
Shhhh
!”

Knock
!
Knock
!

“Yes, O mighty spirits, send Poncho.”

Suddenly a faint light flickered overhead, a filmy shape like a glowing puff of smoke.

“Oooo,” said Lizzie, the fear obvious in her voice.

“Easy,” whispered Maddy. “Just keep calm.”

“Greetings, Poncho, my old friend,” announced the medium. “We need your able assistance. Can I ask you to go among the recently dead and locate one Robert Daniels, better known to his friends as Skookie?”

“
Whooo
.” The sound came from high above. The room had a 12-foot ceiling, lost in blackness with the lights dimmed. Was that the puff of smoke making the sound? Or a hidden microphone?

“Thank you, Poncho.”

“
Whooo, whooo
.”

“Alas, Poncho says he cannot find Skookie Daniels. I’m afraid we must try again when the signs are right.”

“When might that be?” asked Maddy.

“Who knows? That is up to the spirit world.”

“Can I ask your spirit guide a question?” Maddy continued.

“Of course, but keep it brief.”

“¿
Quién usted es, fantasma potente
?”

“
Whooo
.”

“Poncho asks that you speak in English.”

“I asked if Skookie was happy in the afterlife.”

“
Whooo
.”

“Turns out Poncho did understand you after all. He says he will ask Robert when he sees him.”

“Thank him for me.”

≈ ≈ ≈

After driving back to Caruthers Corners, the Quilters Club stopped at the Cozy Café to reconnoiter. Lizzie had babbled all way back about how she’d actually seen the spirit floating above their heads. The other three remained somewhat silent, not so easily convinced. To them, puffs of smoke and light tricks did not add up to a visitation from the spirit world.

They took the booth in the corner, ordering coffee and slices of watermelon pie.

After the pie came, Maddy looked around the table at her friends and announced, “Madam Blatvia is a fake.”

“But she belongs to the Spiritualist Church,” countered Lizzie. “She studied to become a medium, like getting a college degree. And Cookie said that Lucky Strike place –“

“– Chesterfield,” Bootsie corrected her.

“– that
Chesterfield
place was a historic site.”

“Historic, but maybe not so credible,” amended Cookie Bentley.

“What do you mean?” Lizzie looked stricken.

“Back in 1925 a newspaper reporter went undercover to expose Camp Chesterfield as being fraudulent. Fourteen mediums were arrested for obtaining money by fraudulent means. That is, bilking grieving relatives out of money by pretending to reunite them with dead loved ones.”

“So what? 1925 was a long time ago,” protested Lizzie.

“Again, in 1960 the publisher of
Psychic Observer
arranged to film a séance at Camp Chesterfield using infrared film. He was hoping to obtain scientific proof of spirit materializations, but instead recorded what was obvious chicanery on the part of the medium and her cabinet assistant.”

“Just two instances –” Lizzie began.

Cookie Bentley fished a newspaper clipping from her purse. She’d done her homework before visiting Madam Blatvia. “Says here that in 1965 a well-known writer attended séances at Camp Chesterfield. He reported that the spirits a medium claimed to materialize ‘…were all barely visible. Most appeared to be swathed in white drapery, and all were the same height as the medium, and sounded exactly like her.’
”

“That’s not conclusive proof,” pouted Lizzie. She hated to be wrong.

Cookie wasn’t finished. “Then in 1975 a famous Camp Chesterfield medium named M. Lamar Keene wrote a book called
The Psychic Mafia
in which he admitted the séances were all a clever fraud. He coined the term ‘True Believer Syndrome’ to describe the gullible followers.”

“Enough.”

“One more. In 2002 a former stage magician named Joe Nickell pulled off a sting operation at Camp Chesterfield, exposing rampant fraud among the mediums. His findings were published in
The Skeptical Inquirer
.” She waved a copy of the magazine in front of her stunned friend. “It’s all here.”

“Okay, okay,” she gave in. “But what makes Maddy call Madam Blatvia a fake?”

“Because I spoke to the Mexican spirit called Poncho in Spanish and he didn’t understand me.”

“Madam Blatvia said Poncho
did
understand you after all and he answered your question.”

“No, he didn’t. The question I asked in Spanish was ‘Who are you, powerful ghost?’ Not ‘Was Skookie happy in the afterlife,’ as I pretended.”

“Oh my.”

“So I think we can safely dismiss Madam Blatvia’s claim that Skookie Daniels was killed by the spirit of Major Samuel Beasley,” said Maddy as she bit into her watermelon pie. “That phony fortune-teller wouldn’t know a spirit unless it came in a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka.”