The Underhanded Stitch (Quilters Club Mysteries)
Page 6
Crack!
“Dang, you broke my latch,” griped the giant.
“Sorry about that, Paul. But my husband owns the hardware store. Go down there this afternoon and he’ll give you a replacement – no charge.”
“Well, okay. But don’t break my front step on your way out.”
“Come along, girls. Time to go.”
The Quilter’s Club marched down the front walk toward Maddy’s SUV. The big man called after them: “If you find that ring, remember it’s mine.”
As she slid behind the wheel of the Ford Explorer, Maddy replied primly, “No, Paul, it’s not. You sold it to my husband for a thousand dollars.”
Chapter Fifteen
Dangers of Quilt-Making
Watermelon Days was coming up. That meant the Quilter’s Club had to finish their sewing projects. Quilts of local design were always displayed at the Grange Hall during the festival days.
Maddy’s watermelon appliqué quilt was nearly completed. Lizzie had finished hers – a design based on rows of corn – and was helping Agnes make her sandwich with the batting and backing now that she had her nine squares all sewn together. It had taken every minute of her spare time since she started. Maddy’s granddaughter had picked a mix of solid and printed colors for her nine-patch. The way she put them together didn’t exactly coordinate all the colors, but somehow it still worked. Her finished quilt would be really unique.
Bootsie had chosen a complicated design that she’d found on the freepatterns.com website, intricate briars and brambles called “Rose Red.” It featured a brilliant red rosebud in the very center of the quilt.
Cookie was coming along just fine, taking her own sweet time. Historians don’t like to be hurried. Her brick-like design in a variation of a log cabin motif reflected the façade of the local Town Hall, sure to be a crowd-pleaser.
“That looks really cool,” ten-year-old Agnes complimented the older woman, sensitive to Cookie’s being a widow and all.
“Thank you, my dear. But it’s nowhere near the workmanship we saw on that quilt displayed over Tall Paul Johnson’s fireplace. Those old-timey quiltmakers certainly knew how to sew.”
“The Town Hall on that quilt looked different than yours.”
“Remember, I told you the original Town Hall was wooden. But after Ferdinand Jinks burnt it down, they rebuilt it out of bricks.”
“Sounds like The Three Little Pigs,” giggled Agnes. “Brick to keep Big Bad Mister Jinks from huffing and puffing and blowing it down.”
“Something like that,” Cookie admitted. “But he used matches.”
“Did they have matches back then?” asked Lizzie, looking up from her stitching. She was a fast sewer, and Agnes’ hodgepodge design was starting to look passable.
“Yes, indeed,” replied Cookie. “Matches were developed in China in 577 A.D. But modern, self-igniting matches were invented by a Frenchman in 1805.”
“You’re a font of knowledge,” said Bootsie, but it wasn’t clear whether this declaration was meant as a compliment or not.
“The point being, it wasn’t particularly hard for Jinks to burn down the Town Hall. A few matches and a little kindling, then – whoosh! – the rickety old building goes up in flames.”
“The fire station’s just on the other end of Main Street,” noted Maddy. “Wonder why they didn’t put out the fire before it engulfed the whole building?”
“The fire engine – it was horse-drawn back in those days – had a broken axel. At least, that’s what the newspaper account says.”
“Do you think Jinks sabotaged the fire engine?” asked Bootsie, always looking for conspiracies. She was convinced the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King had been a joint effort of the Ku Klux Klan, the CIA, and the Knights of Columbus.
Cookie shook her head. “There was a mention of the fire engine breaking its axel trying to cross the Wabash River to get to a house fire in Burpyville. So I’d expect it was either just a coincidence or Jinks taking advantage of an existing situation.”
“Ow-w-w,” said Agnes, pricking her finger. She hadn’t quite mastered the needlework yet. And the basting of her sandwich was a lot harder than she thought.
“You okay, dear?” asked her grandmother.
“Uh-huh, it doesn’t hurt bad.” The girl sucked on the tip of her forefinger, tasting the blood.
“We’ve got Band-Aids over here in the cabinet,” said Lizzie. “Let me get you one.” She rummaged in a big mahogany breakfront, coming up with a square tin box stamped with a red cross.
“How’d you stick yourself?” asked Cookie, leaning forward to examine the tiny wound.
“My needle hit something hard. Glanced off and jabbed my finger that was holding the middle part together.”
“Something hard? That’s odd,” said Bootsie, running her palm along the surface of Agnes’ quilt. “Wait! There is something hard in here.”
“Really?” Maddy ran her finger over the fabric, checking it herself. Bootsie was known to exaggerate. But not in this case, for she came to a lump about the size of an unshelled peanut, something solid and unyielding.
“What is it?” asked Lizzie as she finished wrapping the bandage around Agnes’ injured finger.
“Dunno,” admitted Maddy.
“Hand me that pair of scissors,” instructed Lizzie. A take-charge personality to the point of being pushy. “We’ll find out what’s in there.”
Snip, snip!
The determined redhead clipped just enough of the basting to slip her hand into the part with the lump. Her hands as steady as a heart surgeon’s. “Here you go,” she said, carefully pulling her hand out. “I think I’ve found the culprit.”
“A thimble!” Bootsie declared, staring at the round metal object that had been tucked in the folds of the quilt.
“Why, honey,” admonished Cookie, “you sewed up your thimble inside your quilt.”
“I wondered where it went,” the girl giggled. Showing no apparent embarrassment over her faux pas.
“Like a doctor sewing up the patient with a sponge inside,” said Bootsie. “I heard of that happening at the Veteran’s Hospital over in Indianapolis.”
“Never mind that,” said Maddy. “I know where the ring is.”
Chapter Sixteen
Martha Ray Takes the Prize
Cookie found the newspaper article in her Historical Society archives. The dateline on the yellowed paper was marked April 12, 1934.
Local Woman Takes State Quilting Prize
INDIANAPOLIS – Mrs. Martha Ray Johnson of Caruthers Corners placed first in the statewide Quilting Bee. Her design was judged most creative among 112 contenders. Reminiscent of a Currier and Ives scene, the quilt offered a bucolic view of a small Midwestern village. When asked where she got the idea for the design, she replied, “My hometown inspired me. Our Town Hall is a real jewel.”
“There you have it,” exclaimed Maddy. “The location of the ruby ring, right out of the mouth of Paul Johnson’s grandmother.”
“You mean – ?”
“That’s right,” nodded Maddy. “The ring is sewn into that prizewinning quilt hanging over Tall Paul’s fireplace.”
“Hm,” said Bootsie, “maybe the old crone wasn’t senile after all when she told her grandson that the ring ‘lies beneath the Town Hall.’ She wasn’t talking about the real brick-and-mortar building – she was referring to the building in the quilt pattern.”
“So what do we do?” asked practical-minded Agnes. “Knock on Mister Johnson’s door and ask him to let us cut open his grammy’s quilt?”
“I doubt he’d simply hand it over,” said Cookie, well aware how folks in these parts valued their family heirlooms.
“We have to steal it,” declared Lizzie, devious as usual.
“Wait, we can’t do that,” exclaimed Bootsie. “My husband’s the chief of police. How would it look if we got caught?”
“Then don’t get caught,” snapped Lizzie. Her friend Bootsie was such a wimp,
always poo-pooing her brilliant suggestions.
“It’s not like we’d really be stealing the quilt,” rationalized Cookie. “Tall Paul will get it back once we recover the ring.”
“And Maddy’s husband is the rightful owner of the ring,” said Lizzie. “He paid Tall Paul a thousand dollars for it.”
“We need a plan,” suggested Maddy’s ten-year-old granddaughter with the ease of a professional jewel thief.
“Yes, a plan,” repeated Maddy thoughtfully.
≈≈≈
Tall Paul Johnson sighed when he answered the knock at his front door, finding Cookie Brown standing there dressed in her Sunday finery. “What do you want now? I done told you women everything I know about that blasted ruby ring.”
“Oh, I’m not here about that,” she lied. “As you know, Watermelon Days is coming up, and every year we display our best quilts at the Grange Hall. This year the committee voted to show not only new designs, but also some of the older quilts in the community. Someone pointed out that your grandmother’s quilt there over the fireplace won a state prize, so it would be only right to give it a place of honor in the show.”
“Not interested,” said the giant, slamming the door in her face.
Darn! Back to square one.
≈≈≈
Knock, knock!
“Yeah?” Tall Paul answered the door. At first he thought no one was there. The neighborhood kids were always knocking on his door and running, thinking it a fine joke to play on the two carnival freaks who lived on Easy Chair Lane. Then, he dropped his eyes to notice the small girl standing at his doorstep. “Young missy, whattaya want now?”
“I’m selling Girl Scout cookies,” Agnes announced brightly, holding up the two boxes her grammy had bought last year but never eaten.
“Girl Scouts! Young girls oughta stay home and learn to cook and clean. Ain’t got no business hiking and camping in the woods like wild Injuns.”
“Won’t you buy a box of cookies? It’s for a good cause.”
“Them things are filled with preservatives. Might stunt my growth,” chucked the seven-foot-tall man, pleased with his own joke.
Agnes’ assignment was to keep him talking while Lizzie slipped in the back door and grabbed Martha Ray Johnson’s prizewinning quilt. A criminal act, but Lizzie was a natural-born rule-breaker. Bootsie Purdue had refused to come along, spending the morning with her husband in order to have an alibi.
“You sure are tall,” Agnes marveled at Tall Paul’s height. “I’ll bet your taller than Michael Jordan.”
“By six full inches,” he said proudly.
“That’s neat-o. Were you already big when you were my age?”
“What age’s that?”
“Ten.”
“No, when I was ten – ”
Crash!
“What was that?” the big man looked over his shoulder.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“Might-a been Bertha. She could’ve fallen off the bed. That happens sometime when she has them wild dreams about the circus. I told her to stop taking naps if she can’t sleep in peace, but she don’t listen to me. Says when she’s tired she’s tired. S’pose we gotta get her a king-size bed one-a these days.”
“Wait!” said Agnes, but it was too late. Tall Paul had disappeared into the interior of his house. He was sure to catch Lizzie in the act of burglarizing his prized patchwork quilt.
Not waiting for the police to come, Agnes raced across the front lawn, jumped the low hedge, and hotfooted it up Easy Chair Lane. Grammy and Cookie were waiting in the parking lot of the old chair factory with the SUV’s engine running.
“Where’s Lizzie?”
“I think she got caught.”
“Oh my,” her grandmother said to Cookie. “I told you Plan B would never work.”
≈≈≈
“I can’t believe you girls left me behind!” shouted Lizzie as she stepped into Maddy’s kitchen where the remnants of the Quilter’s Club had gathered to access damage.
“Lizzie!”
“What are you doing here?” said Maddy. “Aggie told us you got caught.”
Lizzie Ridenour stood there in the doorway, hands on her angular hips. “Do I look like I’ve been caught?”
As a matter of fact, the redhead did. She was a complete mess – hair askew, slacks ripped, scratches on her bare arms as if she’d been running through a briar patch. She’d made her escape through the wooded area behind Tall Paul’s cottage, an undeveloped section known as No Man’s Land. Obviously, it wasn’t a land suitable for women either.
“I thought you were a goner,” said Agnes, sounding overly dramatic. “He heard you make a noise.”
“Yes, I broke the back window trying to raise it. Never got inside the darned house.”
“So you ran when you heard him coming,” Cookie filled in the pieces.
“Like a bunny. I thought my heart was going to bust out of my chest. Whew!” Lizzie heaved a sigh, reliving the trauma of her escape.
“Well, do we call it off – or go to Plan C?” Maddy put it up for vote.
“Plan C,” said Cookie.
“Plan C,” echoed Agnes.
“Plan C,” agreed Lizzie, shaking her head at her own stupidity.
“By the way,” said Agnes, “what is Plan C?”
“Beats me,” replied Maddy with a weak smile.
Chapter Seventeen
Bad Girls
Beau Madison phoned his wife to say he was working late. Taking inventory at the hardware store. “I’ve been counting wing nuts all day long. Maybe I should have bought a Burger King franchise instead.”
“Don’t be too long,” Maddy cautioned. “Tomorrow’s Sunday and you’re leading the church choir for Reverend Copeland.”
“Oh right.”
Beau had a rich baritone voice. He often sang solos with the choir of Peaceful Meadows Church. And sometimes he led the gospel singers when the choral director was out of town. This weekend Ted Triplett was in Indy visiting his sick mother.
“I’ll wait up,” she promised.
“Okay, as long as you and those over-aged delinquents you call the Quilter’s Club stay out of trouble. Bootsie confessed all to her husband.”
“What’s Chief Purdue going to do about our mischief?”
“Same thing he did about mine – turn a blind eye. After all, nobody actually went inside Paul Johnson’s house. But I can tell you he was pretty steamed when he called me. Called Lizzie’s husband too.”
“I’m sorry, Beau. I don’t know what got into us girls.”
“Tilly’s going to be mighty upset when she learns you’ve involved her daughter in criminal acts.” His voice was quiet, as if speaking in church.
“We weren’t going to actually steal anything. Just retrieve the Colonel’s ring.”
“You know where it is?”
“Think so.”
“That’s why you girls were going to burglarize Paul’s house?”
“We thought of it as an unannounced visit.”
≈≈≈
“Mom, how could you?”
Maddy had just confessed all to her daughter. Agnes sat there on the couch, looking contrite.
“Guess we got carried away.”
“All Mark needs is something like this to claim I’m an unfit mother. Let’s not give him any help in this custody fight.”
“But we were so-o-o close,” wheedled young Agnes. “We almost had the ring.”
Tilly threw her hands into the air as if beseeching a higher power. “What is it with this stupid ring? It’s making everyone in this family crazy.”
“Cookie says it’s a piece of history,” said Agnes.
“Since when were you interested in history? You got aC- in U.S. History last semester!”
“History is important to Grampy. He spent lots of money on a marble statue of our ancestor, the one who helped found Caruthers Corners.”
Agnes’ mother gave her the eye. “What do you
care about this hick town? You were born in Los Angeles.”
“But you were born here, mommy. Caruthers Corners is your hometown.”
“Yes, but – ”
Maddy patted her daughter’s hand. “She’s got you there, dear.”
“Finding this ring is important to you and those crazy old biddies in the Quilter’s Club?”
Maddy was taken aback by her daughter’s rude outburst. “Hey, those are my friends. Cookie Brown babysat you when you were five. Bootsie Purdue bought you your first bicycle. And Lizzie Ridenour made your prom dress for you.”
“Sorry I called them ‘old biddies,’” Tilly apologized.
“And crazy?”
“Their actions speak louder than words.”
Agnes tugged at her mother’s arm. “Hey, I’m a member of the Quilter’s Club. And I’m not crazy.”
“When did you get inducted in this witch’s cabal?”
“Tilly!”
“Sorry, mom. I meant Quilter’s Club.”
“I’ve been a member for over two weeks. Lizzie’s helping me finish my quilt.” She paused before adding, “And we did solve the mystery of the missing bronze bust – even if it did nail Grampy.”
“I’ve never seen you so involved in anything, short of a video game.”
“Mommy, Grammy and the ladies of the Quilter’s Club are so much fun. I never had friends that let me solve mysteries with them in California. I love Caruthers Corners – except that I want my daddy to come here too. Please mommy. Can’t you make daddy move here with us?”
Tilly stared at her daughter as if she’d been replaced by body snatchers. She didn’t know what surprised her more. The fact that she wanted to stay in Caruthers Corners or the fact that she still didn’t understand that her father didn’t want to spend time with them anymore. She’d deal with that later – again. But for now at least Aggie liked her new surroundings. “You really like it here?” Tilly pressed, amazed at her daughter’s change of heart.