Seiderman had grown up in Chicago, always a weird boy, perversely interested in the occult. The term comes from the Latin word occultus, meaning hidden or secret. For little Maury it included magic, mysticism, the paranormal, spiritualism, and theosophy. He subscribed to the Goodrick-Clarke thesis that occultism was “a strong desire to reconcile the findings of modern natural science with a religious view that could restore man to a position of centrality and dignity in the universe.”
He was particularly fascinated by witchcraft and Satanism. The Feri Tradition founded by Victor Anderson and his wife Cora. Stregheria as popularized by Raven Grimassi. Raymond Bowers’s Clan of the Tubal Cain. And especially the Order of the Trapezoid, led by Satan-worshiper Anton LaVey.
Perhaps this interest came from the fact he had a distant relative who’d claimed to be a witch – one Matilda Elizabeth Wilkins.
Seiderman had worked as a clerk at Borders, until the bookstore chain closed down. Now unemployed, he had nothing better to do than record stories of psychic phenomena he found online into the thick spiral-bound notebooks that lined the bookcases in his Irving Park apartment. This was the so-called database of G.M.O.P.A.
Even that was getting boring. So you can bet he was excited when his cousin called to ask if he’d help her and her boyfriend look for Viking silver that was described in runes embroidered on the Wilkins Witch Quilt. She knew he was good at research. All he had to do was follow the clues, like a scavenger hunt. She promised they would split the treasure equally, a third to each.
Seiderman had a plan. After he got his share of the treasure, he’d turn the other two in for the murder of that Aitkens boy. Maybe there was a reward. Or perhaps he could extract money from the boy’s father. Everybody said Boyd Aitkens was richer than Croesus.
He’d have to go about it carefully. He didn’t want to get arrested for extortion. Or as an accessory to murder. This called for a clever approach. But Maury’s mother had always said he was a clever boy.
≈ ≈ ≈
Boyd Aitkens wasn’t sure what to make of this odd-looking man who claimed to be an investigator for an Occult Phenomena Association. They were meeting in a back booth at the Cozy Café on South Main Street. The strange man obviously didn’t want the two of them seen together.
“So what’s this about?” demanded Aitkens. He was a large florid-faced farmer who had made a fortune growing watermelons. Normally, he didn’t meet with nutcases, but this guy claimed he could tell Boyd who was responsible for his son’s death.
“As you know, there are evil forces at large in this country,” Maury Seiderman began his practiced spiel.
The farmer cut him off. “Look, Mr. Seiderman, I don’t even go to church. So cut the crap about good and evil, and just tell me who killed my boy.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“And why not?”
“Your land has been defiled. It was once the home of a witch.” The man dug his fork into the slice of pie on the table before him. Cozy Café was known for its watermelon pie a la mode.
Boyd waved the words away. “Everybody knows about Mad Matilda. Around the turn of the century, she lived on a parcel of land that I now happen to own. She sold potions to gullible farmers. But what’s that got to do with my son’s murder?”
“Her bones lie at the bottom of that well next to the ruins of her cottage. So her spirit is not at rest. Her spirit entered a local man and enticed him to recover her quilt. Then it led this man to kill your son.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Why?”
“Because your son disturbed her resting place by pumping water out of the well.”
“If you say so. Now why did you ask for this meeting?”
“Because I can identify the man inhabited by Matilda Wilkins’s spirit. The man who killed your son.”
“You need to be talking to the police, not me.”
The field investigator for G.M.O.P.A. finished off his pie, licked his lips, and said, “There are certain expenses involved in locating a wayward spirit. I hoped you might finance the exorcism.”
“Finance? How much money are we talking here?”
“Forty thousand ought to do it.”
Boyd Aitkens squinted his eyes, the muscles around his mouth tightening. “For forty G’s you’ll identify my son’s murderer?”
“That is correct.”
The watermelon farmer thought it over. “You bring me proof and the money’s yours. But no proof, no payment.”
Maury Seiderman frowned. “Might we discuss a small deposit?”
“No way, Jose.” Boyd Aitkens stood up, towering over the occult investigator. “You don’t get a thin dime till you identify the killer and I see proof of his guilt.”
“You can count on it, sir.” Maury stood up to shake the farmer’s calloused hand. A deal struck. Now, after he located the silver, his cousin and her boyfriend were toast.
Chapter Eighteen
A Pickled Pig’s Eye
“It was a pig’s eye,” Lt. Neil Wannamaker reported back to Chief Purdue. “Our forensic pathologist estimated it could be a hundred years old, pickled like that. Much of the tissue had deteriorated, but he had plenty for a DNA test. By the way, ISP will be invoicing your department for that test. Our budget’s a little tight this year.”
“Yours is tight? I don’t even have one,” carped Jim Purdue.
“So you think it was some kind of magical amulet?”
Jim sighed. “Something like that. Hard to say, but we’re dealing with a self-professed witch.”
“Any leads on that Aitkens boy’s murder?”
“No,” Jim lied. He had two very good leads from Harry the Hobbit. But he didn’t feel like sharing with the guy who had just stuck him with a $1,000 DNA testing bill. The Nail indeed.
≈ ≈ ≈
Harry Gertner had given them two names, fellow Tolkien fans who lived with single moms. Pinkus “Pinky” Bjork and Gary “the Gollum” Goldberg.
Deputy Pete Hitzer had promised to put Harry in a “witness protection program,” meaning the police wouldn’t reveal him as the source of these names.
The police chief’s wife knew both boys. Bootsie sometimes worked as a substitute teacher when needed, so she recognized a lot of the local kids. She’d met Gary’s parents, one of the few Jewish families in Caruthers Corners. Mariam Goldberg was separated from her husband Haim, but no one had filed for divorce yet. “Just a rough patch,” she told her friends. Bootsie was pretty sure Mariam wasn’t seeing anyone, trying hard to put her marriage back together.
That made Jim and his deputies focus on Pinky Bjork. Pinky was a withdrawn 16-year-old geek, spending most of his time online with various Lord of the Rings role-playing games, living a second-hand life as an avatar. His mother was a frazzled middle-aged blonde named Wanda. She’d been divorced from Bern Bjork, manager at the DQ, for about ten years now. Word had it that she was living with a guy who worked at the chair factory, an upholsterer named Ted Something-or-Other. Nobody knew much about him, but he quickly moved to the top of Chief Purdue’s “Persons of Interest” list.
“Why do you want to talk with me and my son?” demanded Wanda Bjork when Deputy Hitzer showed up at her front door. The small brick-front bungalow was located on Jinks Lane, a narrow dead-end street named after one of the town’s founders.
“We think your son might be able to help us with the missing quilt. Somebody said he’s able to read those markings on the border of the quilt.”
“Pinky’s already translated those old markings,” she smirked. “He’s a very smart kid. Learned how to read that rune writing by playing his video games. Elves or dwarfs or one of them magical characters communicate with that language.”
“Great. I’m sure he’ll be a lot of assistance to us.”
She eyed the deputy suspiciously. “Why do I have to come along?” she asked, as if suspecting a trap.
“’Cause Pinky’s underage. Gotta have a parent present when we interview him.” True enough f
or the moment.
“Oh. That makes sense. Let me go get him. Can I ride up front, so the neighbors won’t think I’m getting arrested?”
“No problem, ma’am. I’ll wait here while you go fetch him.” The deputy shifted his weight from foot to foot, a sign of impatience. But he displayed a polite smile, as fixed as the plastic face of a Halloween mask.
Three minutes later came a loud shriek.
Pete Hitzer dashed into the house and ran up the stairs. His 9mm Glock was in his hand. He encountered Wanda Bjorn standing in the narrow hallway, pointing into a bedroom.
“What?” he shouted.
“Pinky,” she said. “He’s gone.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Chief Purdue personally picked up Ted Yost at the E-Z Chair factory. Wanda Bjorn confirmed that Yost was living with her, but denied any knowledge about the theft of the Wilkins Witch Quilt. A search of her house turned up nothing.
She dutifully filled out a missing person report, but there would be no 24-hour waiting period in this case. Pinky was a material witness in a felony. The police chief already had two deputies scouring the town looking for him.
Ted Yost sat in the holding cell, whistling to himself like a man who didn’t have a care in the world. He wore faded blue jeans and a red flannel shirt, the appearance of a working-class man. He said he didn’t steal the quilt, but took the Fifth when asked who killed Charlie Aitkens.
Jim was pretty sure he’d solved the murder.
Lt. Neil Wannamaker phoned to say he was on the way to Caruthers Corners. Yeah, come get involved now so you can take all the credit, thought Jim in a flash of anger. But he didn’t say anything.
When told of Ted Yost’s arrest, Mayor Beau Madison figured this wrapped up the town’s crime wave. It was pretty clear this guy Ted also stole the quilt. Edgar Ridenour had overheard it straight from the Aitkens boy. All that remained was to figure out where ol’ Ted had stashed it.
As far as finding any Viking silver, Beau considered that to be a wild goose chase. There was no real proof Norsemen ever came to the Midwest. This “treasure” was a just a fantasy fostered by his wife and her Quilters Club buddies.
Boyd Aitkens phoned Beau to thank him for the support in finding his son’s killer. The watermelon farmer assured him he could count on generous financial support come next election.
Heck, that wasn’t such a big deal, thought Beau. He had only spent $2,000 in his last campaign. Twenty posters and a few radio ads.
Chapter Nineteen
Nothing Magic About Murder
Pinky Bjorn contacted his Relic of the Runes pal Harry the Hobbit. Little did he know Harry Gertner had given his name to the police in the first place.
As online gamers they used avatars, cyber characters that were fantastical improvements on their puny dateless real-life selves. Predictably, Pinky was an elf; Harry was a Hobbit. Both had magical powers, at least in the online world of Relic of the Runes.
“Are the cops looking for me?” Pinky typed into his laptop.
“Cops? What for?” replied the diminutive Hobbit on his screen.
“I know who killed Charlie Aitkens.”
“Whoa, man. You better turn yourself in. That’s serious stuff.”
“No way. I’m responsible for the murder.”
“How so?”
“I translated the runes on that witch quilt. If I hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t have stole it. And if he hadn’t stole it he wouldn’t have wound up killing Charlie over it.”
“Who?”
“Can’t say. But it’s someone close to me.”
“Your dad? Or Teddy Yost?”
“Can’t say. Don’t ask again or I will use fairy dust to immobilize you.”
“Hobbits are immune to fairy dust.”
“Says you.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Meanwhile Ted Yost was refusing to talk. And Pinky Bjorn was still missing. Wanda Bjorn had been released for lack of evidence. Nothing tied her to either the missing quilt or the murder, not even Charlie Aitkens’s own words.
With Charlie dead, the conversation overheard by Edgar Ridenour was being treated like a dying declaration. But Mark the Shark, now back from Milwaukee, told them it didn’t meet the criteria for a deathbed confession, in that the boy’s demise came days later.
Both Bill and Kathy had been released from the Aurora St. Luke's Medical Center and were now back at home in Chicago. Little N’yen was torn between his anxiousness to see his mommy and daddy and an eagerness to help the Quilters Club solve this case. He wanted to see that Viking treasure with his very own eyes.
Aggie told him not to worry, that tomorrow’s picnic was really just a cover story for their treasure hunt. With a little luck, he’d get to see the treasure before heading back to Chicago.
But that was before Spud Bodkin turned up.
≈ ≈ ≈
Spud had been on the run, fearful that the same fate would befall him as happened to his friend Charlie. He’d been holed up in an Indianapolis flea trap when Lt. Wannamaker tracked him down. Spud had used his credit card to pay for the room, a mistake when the police are looking for you.
“Honest, I was gonna turn myself in,” he lied to the state policeman.
“Sure you were,” said Wannamaker.
“I didn’t even know you wanted to talk with me till yesterday. Saw my picture on TV.”
“Well, here you are – so talk.”
“I didn’t kill Charlie.”
Wannamaker leaned back in his chair, one of two in the bare ISP Interrogation Room. Folding chairs, metal table, one-way glass on the wall – the room’s total furnishings. “Didn’t think you did,” said the lieutenant.
Spud wrinkled his forehead. With his round face, thick glasses, and protruding ears, he did look a bit like Mr. Potato Head. “Then why were you looking for me?”
“Thought you could tell me who stole the Wilkins Witch Quilt. Valued at over a hundred grand, that makes it a felony.”
“Wasn’t me.”
“But you know who did. Someone overheard you and Charlie Aitkens talking.”
“Was that who killed Charlie, the eavesdropper?”
Wannamaker shook his head slowly, like the pendulum of a ticking clock. “Nope. We think it was the fellow who stole the quilt, trying to shut you guys up.”
“That was my thought too. That’s why I took off when I heard Charlie was dead.”
“How’d you hear?”
“On the radio.”
“So who is this fellow you’re afraid of, the one who stole the quilt. We’ll pick him up and then you’ll be as safe as a babe in his mother’s arms.”
“Sure. I don’t mind telling you – our ol’ pal Bern.”
“Who the fudge is that?”
≈ ≈ ≈
Chief Purdue was confused by the phone call he got from Neil the Nail. “What do you mean you’ve identified the quilt thief as Bern Bjorn? I’ve got the guilty party locked up right here in my holding cell, a guy named Theodore Yost. Works at the local chair factory.”
“No,” insisted the ISP lieutenant. “It’s a fellow named Bern Bjork. Go pick him up. Me and my boys will be there in about two hours if the traffic’s light.”
“Can’t be Bern Bjorn,” insisted Jim Purdue. “Bern manages the local Dairy Queen. He gives me extra sprinkles every time I go in.”
“You better have him in custody by the time we get there or I’ll give you enough sprinkles to choke on.”
“Hey, watch your tone. You said the murder was my case to solve. And I have – Ted Yost.”
“Well, the art theft is my case and I just solved it – Bern Bjorn.”
“But the same guy that stole the quilt killed Charlie Aitkens.”
“Exactly,” said the Nail, hanging up in the police chief’s ear.
Chapter Twenty
Searching for the Viking Treasure
With two separate suspects under arrest, the Quilters Club turned its attention back to the Vi
king treasure. Cookie was convinced it was buried at the site of the Church of Avenging Angels. Where else could it be, now that the well had proved to be a “dry hole.”
“Dry?” laughed her husband Ben. “There was a good three feet of water in that old well. Came up to my hoo-ha.”
“Your what?”
“Never mind. Let me just say my waders had a leak and that water was icy cold. Thought I’d freeze my –”
“Ben!”
“Like I said, never mind.”
She smiled. They had married late in life. While she’d been a widow, he’d been an old bachelor. As such, Ben Bentley still got tongue-tied around his wife when risqué subjects came up.
“Point is, you found nothing down in that well. Not even the bones of Mad Matilda.
“There was that Mason jar,” he reminded her.
She rolled her eyes. “A magic amulet of some kind. But nothing to do with a Viking treasure.”
“True.”
“So if the silver’s not there in the well, the men who killed Matilda Wilkins must have taken it.”
Ben was eating a bowl of cereal, his mouth full. “Tha iz gun.”
“What’s that you said?”
He swallowed, then repeated: “Then it’s gone. You’ll never find it if the old woman’s killers took it. The law never found them.”
“There’s an old legend that says they buried the money under the steps of their church. All we have to do it find where it stood and look there.”
“What church was that?” Ben knew the countryside around Caruthers Corners like the back of his hand. Having worked one summer as a surveyor of watermelon-growing allotments, he’d traveled every square inch of the county.
“The Church of Avenging Angels.”
“Never heard of it.” Ben refilled his bowl with puffed rice. He was fond of that snap-crackle-pop cereal.
“The church burned down in 1899. Nobody remembers where it stood.”
“Like I said, the treasure’s long gone.”
“No, we just have to figure out where the church used to be.”
Hemmed In (A Quilters Club Mystery No. 4) (Quilters Club Mysteries) Page 8