“We’re going to recover it?”
“Don’t you think we should?” responded Cookie.
“Of course,” said Maddy. “After all, we know more about quilts than the State Bureau of Investigation.”
“Jim’s not going to like this,” muttered the police chief’s wife.
Maddy patted her friend’s shoulder. “Then don’t tell him. No need to worry your husband unnecessarily. That’s my policy.”
“One rumor had it that Matilda Wilkins’s money was buried under the church’s doorstep, awaiting Rev. Royce’s return.”
“Surely people have looked there,” said Bootsie.
“Not really,” Cookie shook her head. Her mousey brown hair glinted with gold from the overhead light. “You see, when the Avenging Angels pulled out, they burned their church to the ground. Or so it was claimed. It could be that the deputized posse looking for them burnt it. After all these years, nobody seems to remember exactly where it was located.”
“How could you lose a church?”
“The town plats are pretty accurate, but no one paid much attention to the surrounding countryside back then. Old newspaper articles say it was on the far side of the Never Ending Swamp, but that’s a lot of empty land. Mostly watermelon fields today.”
“Okay, then let’s concentrate on the quilt,” decided Maddy. “Do you know if Mad Matilda made others?”
Cookie shook head. “Not as far as we know. ‘The Battle Between Heaven and Hell’ was the only one.”
“Wow! That’s a pretty dramatic name,” exclaimed Bootsie.
“That’s the official title given to the Wilkins quilt.”
“I didn’t know that,” Lizzie admitted. “I’ve always heard it referred to as the Wilkins Witch Quilt.”
“The official title is posted there on a little bronze plaque in the Town Hall,” admonished Cookie. “Anyone could read it if they had a mind to do so.”
“I hardly ever go to the Town Hall,” rejoined the redhead, sounding a little defensive.
“The title comes from the design on the quilt, angels and demons fighting it out. An apocalyptic vision.” Cookie pulled out a color photograph of the quilt, taken when it was still hanging on the Town Hall wall. “It’s quite detailed.”
The four women studied the picture. The orange-and-red quilt was dazzling to the eye. Each patchwork square was embroidered with tiny figures, some bearing wings, others displaying horns, with monsters scattered among them – like a scene from a Civil War battle, but being fought with otherworldly soldiers.
“Ooo-ee,” said Lizzie. “I’ve never looked at the quilt up-close before. Reminds me of a nightmare I might have after eating too much pistachio ice cream.”
“There’s no such thing as too much pistachio ice cream,” muttered Bootsie, a frequent visitor to the DQ on Main Street. She suffered a little weight problem from time to time.
Cookie described the scene: “Angels attacking devils with thunderbolts. Devils wielding pitchforks. Goblins and half-human monsters gnawing on angels’ legs. Cauldrons boiling with witches’ brew, fires burning, thunderclouds spewing lightning, the very earth splitting to swallow combatants, all hell breaking loose!”
“What an imagination,” observed Maddy.
“Matilda Wilkins claimed it was a vision of things to come.”
“Well, it’s now more than a hundred years later and I haven’t noticed any strangers with wings or horns hanging around the gazebo in the town square,” smirked Lizzie. She and her husband Edgar owned a big Victorian house facing the grassy expanse of the square.
“Don’t scoff,” admonished Bootsie. It wasn’t clear whether she was being superstitious or just overly reverent.
“What about these strange markings around the border?” Maddy pointed. “Do you know what they mean?”
Cookie pulled out a thick book titled A History of Caruthers Corners and Surrounding Environs by Martin J. Caruthers. He’d been the father of the former mayor, the scallywag that Beau had defeated in a landslide victory. “Let me read this. Old Martin Caruthers devoted a few paragraphs to the Wilkins quilt.”
Fitting her reading glasses over the narrow bridge of her nose, Cookie continued:
“Whereupon an elderly crone named Matilda Elizabeth Wilkins lived on the outskirts of town, we come to a discussion of her subsequent murder and the patchwork prize she left behind. Said to be a sorcerer, Mrs. Wilkins sold magic potions to the lovelorn and vengefuyl. Thus, a religious sect known as the Avenging Angels is thought to have kill’t her. The followers scattered and were never tried for the heinous crime, drowning the old woman in her own water well.
“A relative rescued a wondrous quilt, purported to be a magical device, from her cottage and turned it over to one of the town fathers (that being my biological pater familias), who preserved it for all to see on display in the governmental building facing the square.
“This quilt was said to bestow the aspect of invisibility upon its owner. It is embroidered with scenes of the Armageddon, depicting the final battle between Good and Evil. Around the border are indecipherable symbols, thought to be a secret language known only to practitioners of the Dark Arts. Despite its frightening subject matter, the Matilda Wilkins Quilt is an example of superb needlework. It is deserving of preservation as an ignoble chapter in this town’s history, as well as a record of the masterful craftsmanship of its inhabitants.”
“Indecipherable,’ the old man said.” Bootsie looked frustrated. She liked things to be black and white.
“Those markings must have some meaning,” insisted Lizzie. “Has anyone ever called in a language or code expert?”
Cookie pulled out a clipping. “Says here that back in the ’40s a World War II code breaker took a look at the quit but was stymied.”
“These markings look like they could be ancient runes or cuneiform writing,” said Maddy. “Maybe it’s not a code at all. Just some kind of little-known hieroglyphics.”
Bootsie said, “Why not ask Daniel Sokolowski? He has lots of sources when it comes to things like this.” Sokolowski was owner of Dan’s Den of Antiquity, a crowded little shop on Main Street that displayed Tiffany lamps, Chippendale chairs, carousel horses, and a genuine Tlingit totem pole that came all the way from Alaska.
“Surely someone would have recognized it by now,” argued Cookie, not eager to gallop off on a wild goose chase. But when Maddy nodded her head at the suggestion, she knew the plan was approved. The mayor’s wife was sort of the unofficial leader of the Quilters Club.
Chapter Five
An Accident in Wisconsin
The Quilters Club’s plan to consult Daniel Sokolowski went astray when Maddy got the phone call from Wisconsin. Bill and Kathy had been in an automobile accident on the way back from the Dells. Her son had a broken leg, his wife a fractured hip. They were in the Aurora St. Luke’s Medical Center, ranked #2 out of 153 hospitals in that state.
“No, don’t fly up here, mom,” Bill said firmly. “Kathy and I are getting good care. We just want to make sure you’re okay with N’yen staying with you and dad for a few weeks. Give me and Kathy time to get back on our feet. So to speak.” Her son had a way of laughing at adversity.
“Of course,” Maddy replied. “You know how fond we are of N’yen. And he loves being here with Aggie. They’re inseparable.”
“Thanks, mom.”
“Nonetheless, I think I should fly up there for a day, just to check on your medical care and help with anything you might need. N’yen can spend the night at Aggie’s. Your sister Tilly won’t mind.”
“One day. No more. You know how fidgety dad gets when you leave him to fend for himself.”
“I’ll head to the airport in Indy this afternoon. You’re sure you two are all right?”
“As they say, sticks and stone can break my bones. Apparently an eighteen-wheeler can do that too. My femur got cracked, my nose got bloodied, Kathy broke her hip, and the Subaru was totaled. Thank goodness for airbags – and S
ubaru’s reinforced frame body structure!”
≈ ≈ ≈
Maddy was actually gone for three days. By the time she returned from Milwaukee, the Indiana State Bureau of Investigation had determined that the thief had hidden inside the Town Hall until after hours, removed the quilt from the wall using a step ladder stored in the janitor’s closet, reset the alarm, then slipped out into the night.
A brilliant deduction.
Just as N’yen had said.
The SBI questioned the boy to determine how he knew the modus operandi of the thief, but gave up after he described the plot of a movie called Flawless in which a janitor robs a diamond distributor, an inside job.
They did, however, give Jasper Beanie a hard time. In addition to being the cemetery’s caretaker, Jasper acted as the Town Hall’s janitor. Fortunately for him, he only worked on Wednesdays and Fridays, so he wasn’t there that Monday when a culprit had hidden inside the building to rob it.
Chief Purdue cleared all the town officials.
Like Beau Madison, the Town Clerk had been home with his wife … and new baby. Being colicky, the tot had kept the couple up half the night.
The Tax Assessor had played poker with his cronies until 3 in the morning, then sacked out on his friend’s couch. Divorced, he didn’t have to report home to a wife.
Becky Marsch, Beau’s new secretary, had spent the night with her boyfriend, though she’d been reluctant to admit the affair. After all, this was a small town.
Jim Purdue had also phoned Big Elk Lodge, the resort in Idaho where the director of Public Works was vacationing. Turns out, George Wilkerson had bagged an elk on Tuesday. Got his picture in the Big Elk Gazette.
And Doc Habegger confirmed that Ferdinand Gilmore, the Planning and Zoning guy, was in bed with a temperature of 102°. “If he’s able to go out and steal quilts, it’d be a modern-day medical miracle,” the doctor had said.
The list of people who had been in the Town Hall on Monday was lengthy. Even so, many visitors were likely overlooked. With property taxes coming due, Arthur Rutledge had processed 127 payments that day despite his usual hangover.
Rutledge printed out the list of people he’d processed, but he couldn’t be sure who had accompanied them – wives, brothers, miscellaneous friends.
The Town Clerk added 32 names to the list. And Becky contributed 13 more from Beau’s appointment book.
The SBI was studying all the names with the diligence of high school seniors cramming for their final exam.
“The state boy’s will never catch the crook this way,” Beau told his wife over supper. What with N’yen and Aggie joining them, watermelon à la mode was on the desert menu.
“Why not?” Maddy asked.
“Too many suspects. If the Wilkins Witch Quilt is ever recovered, it will likely be by some unscrupulous art fence turning in the seller for a fat reward.”
≈ ≈ ≈
After dinner (the chili was great!), the phone rang. Aggie was first to pick it up. “Madison residence,” she said with the aplomb of an experienced receptionist. “Whom may I say is calling?”
It was one of the state boys, a gruff agent known behind his back as The Nail. Lieutenant Neil Wannamaker was acting as lead investigator on the case. Aggie handed the phone to her grandfather, whispering, “It’s a man named Wanna-something. He sounds scary.”
Beau took the phone. “Yes, Lt. Wannamaker, I’d be happy to go over my appointments with you. But all the names on that list are leading citizens. I’d vouch for each and every one of the people I met with on Monday. First thing in the morning at my office? Fine.”
“A waste of time,” Beau grunted as he put the phone down. “But gotta go through the motions, I suppose.”
“Somebody stole that quilt,” Maddy reminded him. “I just hope it’s not anyone we know.”
Chapter Six
At the Ruins of the Wilkins Cottage
The next morning the Quilters Club – the four women and little Aggie – set out on a field trip to inspect the ruins of the Wilkins cottage. N’yen was at home pouting, seeing his exclusion as nothing short of sexism, girls ganging up against the lone boy.
About a half-hour north of Caruthers Corners, Maddy turned her big SUV onto a sandy road that cut through flat watermelon fields belonging to Aitkens Produce, the biggest farm in the county. About four miles in they came to an oasis in the farmland, a cluster of oak trees that shaded a stonewalled well. Someone – Boyd Aitkens most likely – had installed a pump to draw water up to a large cattle trough. Not that there were any cows in sight.
“Over there,” Cookie pointed. “That clump of rocks must be where the house stood.”
They strolled over to inspect the remains of Matilda Wilkins’s cottage. Most of the foundation stones had been carried away, probably to build some other structure on the watermelon farm.
Lizzie paced it off. “Not a very big house,” she assayed its diminutive size.
Bootsie was peering into the well. “I can’t see the bottom,” she said.
“Don’t lean too far,” advised Maddy. “That didn’t work out too well for Mad Matilda.”
“Did people really kill her?” asked Aggie, still learning about the inhumanity of fellow humans.
“Bad people,” Lizzie told her, red hair blowing in the breeze that came off the surrounding fields.
“Church people?” The girl had heard them talking.
“A cult,” corrected Cookie. “The Avenging Angels were more like a gang of murders and thieves hiding under the cloak of piety.”
“And nobody knows where their hideout was?” asked Aggie.
“Well, they called it a house of worship, but that was certainly a misnomer.”
“Miss who?”
“Misnamed.”
“Oh,” said Aggie. Her blonde locks brushed her shoulders, a tomboy look. “Why don’t we go find it? Didn’t you say they buried the treasure there?”
Cookie cracked a smile. “One newspaper article speculated they buried the money they stole from Mad Matilda at the church. But there’s no basis for it, other than a local farmer who claimed Rev. Royce told him that.”
“Why would Rev. Royce tell anyone where he hid the money?” scoffed Maddy. “What would keep that farmer from digging it up for himself?”
“Good point,” nodded the bank president’s wife.
“What’s this?” said Bootsie, still staring into the well. “Looks like some markings on the inside.”
The women gathered round the well. “Markings?” said Cookie, straining to see. Her eyes followed Bootsie’s pointed finger. There on some of the stones about three feet down were scratches that might have been writing of some kind.
“Hard to make out,” muttered Lizzie. Afraid to lean over the rim. “It’s awfully dark down there.”
“I’ve got a flashlight in the glove compartment,” volunteered Maddy. “Hang on.”
“Let me see the markings,” begged Aggie, but her protective companions refused to let her near the open well.
“Better stand back,” warned Lizzie. “It’s dangerous.” She stepped backward, away from the well, as if following her own advice.”
“Awwww.”
Maddy returned with a small penlight. It was more powerful than it looked. She aimed the beam at the scratches, tracing the indentions with the light. “Hm, could be the same kind of symbols that were on the quilt’s border,” she noted.
“Ruins?” said Aggie.
“I think you mean ‘runes,’ dear,” Bootsie corrected.
“That reminds me,” said Cookie. “We have an appointment this afternoon with Daniel Sokolowski. He’s going to recommend someone who knows Old Norse writing.”
“Why Norse?” asked Lizzie. “Didn’t you say those markings could be Sumerian cuneiform writing or Egyptian hieroglyphics?”
Cookie glanced at the scratches before answering. “No, they’re certainly not Egyptian hieroglyphics or Japanese kanji. Those forms of writing are mor
e pictorial. As for cuneiforms, ancient Sumer was located a long way from Caruthers Corners. However, there is some evidence of Norsemen coming this way.”
“Norsemen? You mean Vikings?”
Cookie nodded. Despite her plain-Jane hairstyle and spectacles, you could see she was a beauty underneath. “The Old Norse feminine noun víking refers to an expedition overseas. We know they came to Vinland – probably eastern Canada – around 1000 AD. And the Kensington Runestone was found in Douglas County, Minnesota, some seven hundred miles northeast of here.”
Maddy looked skeptical. “You think Vikings carved these markings inside the well?”
“I doubt this well is that old. The Kensington Runestone dates back to 1362.”
“Looks pretty old to me,” muttered Lizzie.
“Maybe whoever dug this well picked up some runestones along with the other rocks when they built this wall,” said Bootsie.
“Where did Mad Matilda get the markings on her quilt?” asked Aggie. Trying to piece it all together, without much luck.
“Maybe she copied them off these rocks,” said Lizzie. Like Occam’s Razor, always looking for the simplest explanation.
“We’re all guessing,” Cookie pointed out. “Let’s wait to see what Daniel Sokolowski’s expert has to say.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Daniel Sokowloski rubbed his gray-streaked beard with one hand, as if petting a cat, while he thumbed through an old-fashioned carousel-style Rolodex with the other. “Here it is,” he said. “Ezra Pudhomme. He’s an expert on Runology. You may be familiar with his biography of Friedrich Bernhard Marby, the noted rune occultist.”
“Must have missed that one,” said Maddy.
Cookie spoke up. “Wasn’t Marby the Germanic neopaganist who developed a set of occult exercises he called runic gymnastics?”
“Yes, the exercises were used as a means of channeling runic power. Or at least that was Marby’s theory.” Sokolowski grinned like a Cheshire cat, delighted to have found someone who shared his esoteric trivia.
Hemmed In (A Quilters Club Mystery No. 4) (Quilters Club Mysteries) Page 2