“I’m gonna throw the book at him,” fumed Jim. “Breaking and entering. Trespassing. Spitting on the sidewalk.”
“What’s he mean, he didn’t steal the quilt?” said Maddy. “Nan Beanie admitted she let him take the keys to the conference room.”
“Can’t trust Henry,” muttered the policeman. “He was a lying weasel even in high school.”
“Aw, Jim, he pitched you out fair and square in that last game of the season.”
“No way. That ball wasn’t good. Lefty was trying to hit me in the head.”
“The umpire called it in the zone.”
“You know ol’ man Brown was half-blind.” The father of Cookie’s late husband had been the high school coach, as well as driver’s ed instructor. Both were jobs his 40-40 vision should have disqualified him for, but in a small town allowances are made.
“I don’t like Henry being in my house,” declared Maddy Madison. “He’s creepy. That’s why I turned down his invitation to senior year prom.”
Beau looked up from the note. “Maddy, you never told me Henry asked you out.”
“Pish. That was nearly forty years ago. It doesn’t matter now.”
“Heck it doesn’t. You were going steady with me back then. I can’t believe he asked my girlfriend out behind my back.”
“I told you he was a weasel,” repeated Jim Purdue.
“The important thing to keep in mind is recovering that Pennington quilt,” Maddy reminded them.
“And the fact that he broke into our house.”
“If we don’t recover that quilt, the town may be liable,” Maddy pointed out. “As mayor, you signed the agreement booking the exhibit for Watermelon Days.”
“What’d you say that quilt worth?” inquired Jim.
“Forty thousand dollars. But the museum might sue us for negligence and collect damages.”
“Negligence?”
“Dear, it was your assistance who helped steal it.”
“Oh.”
“Bet this could cost a hundred grand,” surmised the police chief.
Beau rolled his eyes in horror. “The town doesn’t have that kind of money in its budget.”
“Then we’d better find that quilt,” said Maddy.
Chapter Eighteen
Taking on the State Champ
Turns out, the Quilter’s Club didn’t have to drive to Bloomington. Holly Eberhard came to them.
“Have you heard?” Cookie Bentley gushed into the phone. “The state’s Quilting Bee committee is coming here tomorrow. They want to talk about the Watermelon Days competition, make it a first round for the statewide contest.”
“That’s great,” replied Maddy, fixing breakfast for Aggie and N’yen as she cradled the princess telephone between head and shoulder. “That could put the Quilter’s Club on the map.”
“Guess who’s coming with them?”
Maddy didn’t feel up for guessing games. She was still bummed over Henry Caruthers breaking into their house. Not to mention her excitement over her daughter giving birth. She had a new granddaughter to think about, not-quite-one-day-old Madelyn Taylor Tidemore. “Not a clue,” she sighed.
“Well, I’ll tell you. Holly Eberhard!”
“Really? That’ll give us a chance to ask her if she’s forged any Sarah Connors Pennington quilts lately.”
“Now Maddy, we have to handle this carefully. We don’t want to blow this opportunity for the Quilter’s Club.”
“Have you told Bootsie and Lizzie yet?”
“No, you’re my first call.”
“Okay, let’s meet at the Cozy Café to figure out a strategy.”
“Sure. That will give you a chance to tell us about Holly’s cousin breaking into your house.” Word had spread among the members of the Quilter’s Club, thanks to Chief Purdue’s wife Bootsie.
“He didn’t actually break in. The door was unlocked.”
“But he came in uninvited and left you a threatening note.”
“I wouldn’t call it threatening. Mainly, it denied that he stole the quilt.”
“Ha! We know better than that.”
“Do we?”
“Of course. Nan Beanie confessed.”
“Well, not quite.”
“Then why did she run? Isn’t that proof of guilt?”
“I suppose so,” said Maddy, serving the ham and eggs to the kids. “But I have to tell you, something doesn’t feel right about this.”
“Oh, Maddy, you’re such a worrier.”
≈≈≈
The Cozy Café was always crowded. Not surprising, in that it was the only restaurant in town unless you counted the DQ or the Pizza Hut out on Route 21. The Quilter’s Club squeezed into a booth at the far end of the converted bus. Bootsie hated coming here because the booth space was so tight.
“Perhaps the Quilter’s Club shouldn’t confront Holly Eberhard,” said Lizzie, worry wrinkling her brow. Her red hair was tied back in a ponytail, a youthful look. With a skillful application of makeup, she looked a decade younger than her 58 years.
“We can’t let her get away with this if she’s guilty,” exclaimed Cookie. “The Smithsonian is going to have a fit.”
“Maybe we should let Jim speak with her, keep the issue away from us,” urged Lizzie. “I’d hate to see us lose the opportunity to be part of the statewide Quilting Bee competition.”
“What if I confronted her?” volunteered Maddy. “I could temporarily resign from the Quilter’s Club, so you won’t be connected with my putting her on the spot.”
“Resign? No way,” said Cookie. “You’re our fearless leader.”
“Not so fearless as you might think. But I’m certainly not afraid to take on Mrs. Holly Lazynski Eberhard, now that I know she’s just a local girl like you and me.”
“I don’t like this plan,” said Bootsie. “Your resigning is totally unacceptable.”
“Plausible deniability,” said Maddy, repeating the term she’d used with Bootsie just the other day. “That means you girls don’t have to take the heat if I screw up.”
“Screw up? In what way?”
“What if Holly’s innocent? She may not like being accused of a crime she didn’t commit.”
“That’s true,” Lizzie agreed. “And she obviously has a lot of pull with the state Quilting Bee committee.”
“Okay, but your resignation is only temporary,” Bootsie caved in.
“A leave of absence,” amended Cookie. She was a stickler for proper procedure, an obsessive rule follower.
“Oh my. I hope I can get Holly to confess.”
“If anybody can, it’s you,” encouraged Bootsie. “You’re better at grilling suspects than Perry Mason.”
“Yes, you should have gone to law school,” said Lizzie, adding her own positive reinforcement to the plan. Better to sacrifice Maddy than see the Quilter’s Club go down in flames, she told herself.
“Law school? You mean be a lawyer like Mark the Shark? No thank you!”
“Why are you always putting Mark down?” asked Cookie. “He seems like a good son-in-law. Aggie adores him. And Tillie just had another child by him.”
“Edgar recommended him to the Savings and Loan. He’s now the bank’s attorney of record,” said Lizzie.
“And he helped Jim with that frivolous lawsuit against the police department. Got the man to drop the whole thing.”
“The man who claimed Jim towed his car from the handicap spot at the courthouse, despite a handicap sticker in the window?”
Bootsie nodded. “That’s the one. Mark pointed out that the man himself wasn’t handicapped. He’d bought the car from Peg-Leg McGinty and thought the sticker went with the vehicle.”
“And he’s been hired as the town’s attorney,” Cookie added. “They needed a new one after old Bart Dingley retired.”
“Wait up!” Maddy halted this runaway praise for her son-in-law’s legal prowess. “If I gave the impression I’m denigrating Mark Tidemore, I apologize. I like to tease hi
m, but that’s out of affection. Now that he and Tillie got over that rough spot in their marriage, I couldn’t be happier with having Mark as part of the family.”
“Excellent,” said Cookie. “Why don’t you take him with you to confront Holly Eberhard. After all, two heads are better than one.”
Chapter Nineteen
A Fateful Interview with a Suspect
Mark and his mother-in-law drove out to Melon Hill the next day, looking for a mailbox marked LAZYNSKI. It took them two times circling the block before Maddy commanded, “Stop here!”
She was pointing at a small brick-front cottage set back from the road. There was no name on the mailbox, but a Pontiac parked in the driveway had a bumper sticker that announced QUILTERS ARE NOT SQUARES.
“Yep, this has to be the place,” agreed Mark. “That license-plate holder displays the name of a Pontiac dealership in Bloomington.”
They parked behind the Grand Prix and walked up to the front door. Before they could press the bell, the door swung open and an elderly woman said, “We don’t buy nothing from door-to-door salespeople.”
“Oh, we’re not salespeople,” replied Maddy in his politest tone. “We’re here to speak with your daughter, Mrs. Lazynski.”
“Holly’s not here.”
“Isn’t that her car in the driveway?” Mark nodded at the Pontiac Grand Prix.
“She went for a stroll.”
A voice from inside the house put a lie to her words. “Mom, who is it?”
“Solicitors,” shouted the cranky woman.
“No, I’m the wife of the mayor. And this is the town’s attorney.”
“Let them in, mom.”
The gray-haired woman stepped aside, granting them entrance to a cluttered living room. The couch was covered with protective plastic. Newspapers covered the coffee table, abandoned where they were read. The paintings on the walls were black velvet, a portrait of Elvis displayed prominently over the mantle. “Forgive the mess,” the woman muttered as they searched for places to sit.
Holly Eberhard strided in from the kitchen. The state quilting champion looked as chic as her mother looked frumpy. Her short blonde hair was a $200 styling job. Her makeup was picture-perfect, as if she was on her way to a high-society party. “Hi, I’m Holly,” she introduced herself, not the least self-conscious about the clutter of her family’s living room.
“Holly, my name is Maddy Madison. And this is Mark Tidemore. We’re here on a very sensitive inquiry. I hope you will allow us to ask you a few questions.”
“What? About my divorce. It’s getting quite nasty, I’ll admit that. My husband’s a jerk. It was him caught with a chorus girl, not the other way round.”
“No, nothing about that,” said Mark, his voice as reassuring as a priest’s. Maddy was impressed. “It’s about your quilting activities.”
“Oh that. Yes, I’m the state champion. Would you like to see my trophy? Mom has it sitting on top of the sideboard in the dining room.”
“Thanks, but that’s not necessary,” he replied politely. “We’d like to ask you about some of your recent work.”
“Ask away.”
Mark glanced at Maddy, a signal for her to take over the questioning. She had to admit he was very smooth, more like a porpoise than a shark.
“Forgive me, but I have to ask you this,” apologized Maddy. “Did you recently make an exact copy of Sarah Connors Pennington’s beehive quilt design?”
“Why yes,” Holly Eberhard replied, “I did.”
≈≈≈
In all his years as a lawyer, this was the easiest confession Mark Tidemore had ever encountered. Holly Eberhard batted her mascaraed eyelashes and stared at them as if waiting for the next question.
“You freely admit you made a fake Pennington quilt?” Mark repeated carefully.
“I wouldn’t call it a fake. I’d say duplicate or replica.” She waited for him to continue.
“Do you realize you may be subject to arrest?” Mark said.
“What for? I was commissioned to make an exact replica of three Pennington quilts by the Smithsonian.”
“By the Smithsonian – ?” blurted Maddy.
“Yes,” smiled Holly. “It’s their collection. They can do whatever they choose with it.”
“Why would they want copies?”
“So they can maintain a display back at the museum while the originals are on the road tour. It’s done all the time, I’m told.”
“And what happened with the three replica quilts?” asked Maddy.
“Two are finished, I’m working on the third. So all are still in my possession. Why do you ask?”
Mark took over. “We have evidence of a crime involving a fake Pennington quilt.”
“Well it can’t be mine. My quilts are in my quilt-carrying trunk. It’s sitting in mom’s guest bedroom at this very moment.”
“Here?”
“Yes, I brought them with me. As I said, I’m still working on the third.”
“Would you mind showing them to us, ma’am?”
“I suppose so. Right now?”
“Could you give us a half hour?” Maddy interjected. “I want to invite a colleague over to inspect them.”
Holly Eberhard frowned. “Say, what’s this all about?”
“A crime,” said Mark. “We told you that.”
≈≈≈
Daniel Sokolowski bent over the quilt, a jeweler’s glass screwed to his eye. “Hmm,” he said as he examined it inch-by-inch. The antique dealer wasn’t about to be hurried, determined to make an accurate assessment.
“Well?” said Maddy, getting impatient.
“Just a moment.”
After a few more minutes, Maddy carefully cleared her throat and repeated “Well?”
Sokolowski looked up. “Excellent copies,” he said.
“Thank you,” said Holly Eberhard. “But I am quite good at quilting. That why I’m the state champion, for goodness sakes.”
“I might mistake them for originals, except for this red thread. As I suspect you know it’s a synthetic blend, not available in 1924 when Sarah Pennington made her famous quilts.”
“Yes, but the original thread is no longer available. I was forced to use a substitute. Most people wouldn’t notice.”
“True,” he agreed. “It’s a wonder I did. Perhaps it was the way the light refracted on it.”
“I’m sure the Smithsonian will be satisfied. Everything else is authentic. It was quite a challenge finding original materials – fabric, threads, batting.”
“Yes, it would be,” agreed the antique dealer. “Some of these fabrics aren’t made anymore.
“These three quilts are excellent copies,” said Maddy. “How do we know she didn’t create a fourth?”
“Oh, I’d say she did,” opined the antique dealer. “Because the fake quilt you have was made with the same synthetic red thread as these three. That’s four in all.”
“Wait a minute,” growled Holly Eberhard. “Are you accusing me of a crime?”
“That’s not for me to say. All I can do is tell you that the same person who made these three quilts likely made the fourth that is hanging in the Town Hall.”
“That can’t be true,” she shrieked angrily. “I know how many faux Pennington quilts I made – three, not four.”
“That’s quite impossible.”
Mark held up his hand to silence them. “Mr. Sokolowski, could I ask you to look at this beehive design again. Are you certain it has the same synthetic thread as the others?”
“Well – ” the antique dealer hesitated.
“Humor me, please.”
“Alright, if you insist.” He returned the jeweler’s glass to his eye. Everyone waited while he inspected the beehive quilt with even greater care than before. “No way!” he said suddenly. “This can’t be right.”
“What?” demanded Maddy.
Mark smiled grimly, as if he already knew the answer.
“Should I call my attorn
ey?” asked Holly Eberhard.
“Oh, I knew this sewing stuff would lead to no good,” wailed her mother, swaying back and forth on the plastic-covered couch.
“This quilt,” pronounced Daniel Sokolowski, “is authentic, not a copy!”
Chapter Twenty
A Culprit Behind Bars
Aggie was sitting there listening to the women’s excited chatter. With all the excitement of a new baby, her mother had relented on her ban of Aggie’s participation in the Quilter’s Club.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Lizzie was saying. “Why would Holly Eberhard have allowed you to examine her quilts if she knew one of them was the stolen Pennington?”
“Beats me,” replied Bootsie. “But Jim has taken her into custody. Now if he can find that rascally cousin of hers.”
“Henry Caruthers can’t be far,” opined Maddy. “But Nan and Robert Kramer are likely in Canada by now.”
“Doesn’t Canada have an extradition treaty with the US?” asked Lizzie.
“Sure,” answered Bootsie, “if you can find them to arrest them.”
“I’m just relieved the stolen quilt has been recovered. If we can keep this quiet, the Smithsonian need never know it was missing.”
“Forget that,” said Maddy. “When they learn Holly Eberhard’s been arrested, everything will come out.”
“Oh fiddle.”
“Lizzie has a point,” continued Maddy. “I was there. And I think Holly was as surprised as we were when Daniel announced that her beehive quilt was authentic.”
“Maybe she’s a good actress,” postulated Bootsie. “The fact that Holly had the real quilt and we had the copy proves she’s guilty as sin. Case closed.”
“What if somebody else switched them,” Aggie spoke up.
“That’s not very likely, honey.” Cookie patted her on the arm, placating the girl for trying to be helpful. “The copies were in Holly’s possession. Who could have switched them?”
“Somebody stole yours and it was under lock and key. Hers were in an unlocked trunk.”
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