The Underhanded Stitch (Quilters Club Mysteries)

by Marjory Sorrell Rockwell

  “Yes, I like staying with Grammy and Grampy. But I want daddy to be here, too!

  “Honey, we’ve talked about this. We don’t always get what you want. But I’m glad you are so happy here.”

  “I am, mommy.”

  “And you really think you know where to find that ruby ring?”

  “Un-huh. We were about to put Plan C into effect.”

  Tilly gave a roll of her eyes then answered (much to her own surprise) “OK, Count me in, too.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sunday Morning Coming Down

  The Quilter’s Club met first thing the next morning while everyone else was in church. “Tall Paul teaches Sunday School, so he’ll be tied up ’til noon,” Maddy explained to her daughter.

  Tilly couldn’t believe her ears. “That old crook teaches Sunday School? He cheated Dad out of a thousand bucks selling him that phony ring.”

  “We’ll leave that between Paul Johnson and his Maker,” said Lizzie. “The point is, he’ll be out of the house.”

  “What about his wife, that circus tattooed lady?”

  “She worked for a carnival, not a circus,” corrected Cookie, a stickler for getting facts straight.

  “Don’t worry about Mrs. Johnson,” said little Agnes. “Plan C will take care of her.”

  ≈≈≈

  The van pulled up in front of the cottage on Easy Chair Lane. The lettering on the side panel identified it asJIFFY HOUSECLEANING SERVICE.

  Maddy had rented the van late yesterday afternoon and Lizzie – having an artistic flair – had lettered it with a soluble non-permanent paint. Bootsie had bought two pair of coveralls and Cookie had rounded up the cleaning supplies.

  Maddy made the phone call. “Hello, Mrs. Johnson. This is Myrtle at Jiffy Housecleaning. We’re calling to confirm your ten o’clock appointment.”

  “There must be some mistake,” came Bertha Johnson’s drawl. She’d been raised in Tennessee. “I didn’t order any cleaning.”

  “Hmm, are you sure? Our records show one hour of housecleaning scheduled for this morning. Paid in advance.”

  “Paid, you say.”

  “Yes ma’am. According to our records we owe you a cleaning that you’ve already paid for.”

  “Like I say, there must be some mistake – ”

  “If so, it’s your gain. We have a truck on the way.”

  Larceny crept into Bertha Johnson’s heart. “Can you refund the money to me?”

  “No ma’am. No refunds. But if you don’t want the cleaning, just send our crew back to the office. We’re kinda backed up today, plenty of other houses scheduled.”

  “But it’s Sunday – ”

  “One of our busiest days. Guess folks like to start off the week with a clean house.”

  “And you say my cleaning’s already paid for?”

  “That’s right, ma’am. But you can send our truck back if you feel there’s been some mistake.”

  “No, no. Send ’em on. If you can’t gimme a refund, I’ll take the cleaning.”

  Just then, Bertha heard a knock at the front door. She hung up the phone as she looked out the window. There was the Jiffy Housecleaning van in the driveway. “Hold your horses, I’m coming,” she shouted, starting that torturous journey down the stairs to the living room.

  Being a recluse, Bertha didn’t know many of the town folk. She’d never laid eyes on the two women standing at her front door. “Jiffy Housecleaning,” Bootsie introduced herself. “We clean your house in a jiffy.” Lizzie was standing behind her friend, wearing identical beige coveralls, red hair tucked under a bandana.

  “Come in, come in,” Bertha ushered them into the living room.

  Lizzie tried not to stare. But this woman was a human canvas, every inch of her skin covered with ink – dragons and swirls and stars and more!

  “According to our records, you have an hour’s worth of cleaning – already paid in advance. That should cover any room of your choice. Unless you want to pay for additional rooms at seventy-five dollars an hour.”

  Bertha frowned. “Say, is this some kinda bait and switch? I’ve got an hour coming. Don’t try to wiggle out of it.”

  “So shall we do your bathroom?”

  Bertha bellowed, “You don’t get off with a tiny room like that. I want you to clean my living room.” That being the largest room in the house.

  “No problem, ma’am. Step aside and we’ll get to work.” Bootsie could sound very officious when she wanted to.

  “I’m going to stay right here and make sure you two do a thorough job. No slacking off with a lick and a promise.”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am. You’ll get your money’s worth.”

  That sounded all the better to Bertha Johnson, in that she hadn’t paid a nickel. Wasn’t her fault if Jiffy Housecleaning couldn’t keep its records straight.

  Lizzie began vacuuming, while Bootsie polished the coffee table with Pledge. As expected, Bertha hovered over them like a mother hen, pointing out a fleck of dust here, a smudge on a mirror there.

  Suddenly, the hum of industry was interrupted by a screech of tires and a child’s scream.

  “What was that?” muttered Bertha, glancing toward the street.

  “Sounded like an accident,” said Bootsie. “We’d better go see if anyone’s injured.”

  “But I never go out – ”

  “Quick, follow me. It sounded like somebody got hit by a car.”

  As the two women stepped onto the porch, they could see an SUV stopped in the middle of the street, a little dog laying feet up on the asphalt in front of it. A little girl standing on the sidewalk was sobbing, “My doggie, my doggie!”

  A carefully staged scene.

  Tilly stepped out of the car, shouting, “I couldn’t help it. The dog ran right in front of my car.”

  “Heaven help us,” gulped Bertha. “There’s hardly ever any traffic on this street.”

  “Is the dog dead?” enunciated Bootsie, proud of her acting skills. She’d once had the lead in Shakespeare’s Macbeth in high school, playing the villainous queen.

  “No, just injured,” replied the driver of the car. “I’ve already called for an help on my cell phone.”

  “Thank the Lord,” said Bertha.

  At that moment an ambulance pulled up, Ben Bentley driving, his huge form filling the cab. Cookie, wearing a jacket that saidCARUTHERS CORNERS FIRE AND RESCUE was squeezed in beside him. You could see Ben smiling ear-to-ear, despite the supposed gravity of the situation.

  “Over here, the dog,” pointed Tilly.

  Ben hopped out, scooped Tige into his arms, and hustled the dog into the rear of the ambulance. The girl hopped in too.

  “Is the puppy going to be all right?” called Bootsie, ad-libbing.

  “If we hurry,” rumbled the big ambulance driver.

  “I’ll follow you to the veterinarian in Burpyville,” announced Tilly, getting back into her car.

  “Mercy me,” exclaimed Bertha Johnson as the vehicles sped away. Not wondering why an ambulance had been called to transport a dog to the vet’s.

  “Gotta go,” announced Bootsie, looking at her Piaget. It was a pretty fancy wristwatch for a housecleaner.

  “Go?”

  “Hours up, lest you want to pay another seventy-five dollars.”

  “But you were here on the porch, not working.”

  “Time is money. We get paid by the hour.” Lizzie had appeared on the porch beside them, carrying the vacuum and the bucket of polishing rags.

  “That ain’t fair,” complained the tattoo-covered woman. “I didn’t get my money’s worth.” Not that she’d paid any money in the first place.

  “Don’t like it, talk to the office.” Bootsie was getting into her role. Giving the words an operatic infliction that had Lizzie rolling her eyes.

  “I’ll just do that. I’m marching inside and calling Jiffy Housecleaning this very minute.”

  “See you around,” called Bootsie as the two women climbe
d into the van.

  Bertha thundered into the house and grabbed the phone receiver off its cradle, then realized she didn’t have a number for the cleaning service. That woman – what was her name, Myrtle? – had called her, not the other way around. She snatched up the thin Caruthers Corners phonebook and thumbed to the J’s. Jeffreys, Jillison, Jiggs … but no Jiffy Housecleaning.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Armchair Quarterback

  “You girls should’ve stayed longer,” Maddy reprimanded her partners in crime as they peeled off their coveralls. “No need to raise suspicions.”

  “You’re one to talk, refusing to be part of the cleaning service,” snipped Lizzie.

  “Well, I wasn’t about to stay another minute,” declared Bootsie Purdue. “Tall Pall was due home from church and he would have recognized us for sure.”

  “Besides,” added Lizzie, “I wasn’t about to clean her messy living room. The woman’s not very neat.”

  “She a semi-invalid,” Maddy pointed out. “I hear she has a really bad case of diabetes.”

  “Candy wrappers everywhere,” grumbled Lizzie, not backing down. “No wonder she’s diabetic.”

  “How did my dog do?” asked Agnes, looking for praise.

  “Tige was perfect,” said her grandmother. “Laid there as still as a church mouse.”

  Not that the dog was still at the moment, bouncing up and down and barking with excitement.

  “I was glad Ben and Cookie arrived when they did,” Agnes said. “Tige doesn’t play dead for long.”

  “Say, where are Ben and Cookie?” asked Bootsie, noticing their absence.

  “The new lovebirds went for a drive,” said Tilly.

  “In an ambulance?”

  “’Fraid so. I think Cookie has said her final goodbyes to Bob,” declared Maddy. “Two years is long enough to grieve.”

  The newly single Tilly wasn’t so sure. “I wish them happiness,” she said, just to be polite.

  “Let’s see the Colonel’s ruby ring,” trilled Agnes, dancing about, as excited as a kid on Christmas morn.

  “You were right about it being in the quilt,” said Lizzie. “I’ve got the ring right here. And Martha Ray Johnson’s masterpiece isn’t much the worse for wear because the Town Hall building is actually appliquéd on. So snip, snip, a couple of threads and I had it.” She held out her palm to reveal a little wad of paper, like the wrapping around a piece of bubblegum.

  “Let’s see it,” said Bootsie. “Find out what all the foofaraw was about.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait ’til Cookie gets back?” asked Tilly. “After all, she’s the historian.”

  “That may be hours,” Bootsie complained. “I’m not waiting on those lovebirds.”

  “What about Beau?” said Maddy. “I think my husband should be here.”

  “He’s still at church rehearsing with the choir,” Lizzie pointed out. “We can show him when he gets home.” Her fingers were already picking at the wad of paper.

  “Oh very well. Let’s have a look at this fabulous ring,” acquiesced Maddy, not bothering to hide her disdain.

  Lizzie peeled away the paper to reveal a shiny gold ring with a brilliant red stone. Despite the years it wasn’t the least bit tarnished, as if it had been hidden away in the quilt only yesterday. “Ta da,” she said, holding it out for everyone to see.

  “Wow! It looks just like pirate’s treasure,” said Agnes, eyes reflecting the golden ring with the red stone. “And it’s all mine.”

  “Not so fast, young lady,” her mother corrected her. “That ring rightfully belongs to your grampy. He paid a thousand dollars for it.”

  “But I’m the last descendant on the family tree!”

  “Yes, but heirlooms and such have to be handed down. It’s only yours if Grampy gives it to you. But my guess is it will go on display in the Town Hall.”

  “Only if Mayor Caruthers agrees,” Bootsie noted. “And that old curmudgeon has been pretty jealous over Colonel Madison getting more attention than his forbearer.”

  “Jacob Caruthers got the town named after him. What more would the mayor want?” said Tilly.

  Bootsie laughed. “To hear him tell it, his great-great grandfather founded this town single handedly.”

  “While fighting off the Indians at the same time,” Maddy added, still protesting that Native Americans got a raw deal from the early settlers.

  “Maybe so, but I doubt he’ll want that ring on display,” shrugged Lizzie, a realist.

  “Then Grampy can give it to me,” said Agnes, still hopeful.

  “No dear, he’d likely bestow it to the Caruthers Corners Historical Society in that case,” said Maddy. She knew her husband only too well.

  “Okay, then Cookie will be in charge of the ring,” shrugged Agnes, already accepting her fate. “That’s almost as good as having it myself.”

  “Well, at least you can try it on,” laughed Lizzie, handing the golden circlet to the girl.

  “May I?”

  “It’s a loose fit. Don’t drop it,” said Lizzie as she slid it onto Aggie’s finger.

  “It looks beautiful. But here, take it back.”

  “Okay, we’ll put it away ’til Beau gets home,” said Maddy.

  “Wait, what’s that?” pointed Agnes. “There’s writing inside the ring.”

  “Writing?” said Bootsie.

  “Engraving,” corrected Lizzie, a connoisseur of fine jewelry. Her own wedding ring was circled with diamonds, but inside it was engraved the date of the marriage.

  “Let’s see,” said Maddy as she held the ring up to the light for a better view. She could make out the words etched into the inner circle of the golden band:

  PROPERTY OF ACME COSTUME SUPPLIES

  “Oh my,” she gasped. “This ring’s a fake too!”

  ≈≈≈

  Beauregard Madison was clearly puzzled. “Does that mean Tall Paul Johnson’s snookered me a second time?” He had just arrived home from choir practice and was completely caught off guard by this new mystery.

  “Can’t be,” Maddy patted his hand as they sat at the kitchen table, phony ring at the center. “How would he have known we’d figured out where to look for the Colonel’s ring?”

  “Maybe he planted the clue with you. Led you to looking in the quilt.”

  “I don’t think he’s that clever,” protested his wife.

  “Sorry, dad,” said Tilly. “We tried to get your ring for you.”

  “I know, dear. And I thank all of you girls.”

  Bootsie and Lizzie smiled happily. Tilly and Agnes too. Cookie was still off with Ben Bentley. “Sparking,” Beau had termed it.

  Maddy wasn’t one to give up easily. “Well, our goal is clear. We still have to find the real ruby ring.”

  “We’ve got a new clue,” said Agnes. “We can start there.”

  “What clue’s that, Aggie?”

  “Acme Costume Supplies. Maybe Mr. Johnson didn’t plant the ring in the quilt, but somebody did. Let’s find out who bought that fake ring.”

  ≈≈≈

  The recorded message stated that Acme Costume Supplies was closed for the weekend, but would be open for business 9 to 5 Monday through Friday. They would have to wait until tomorrow.

  Locating Acme had been a task in itself. There were no costume shops in Caruthers Corners or nearby Burpyville. But long-distant information turned it up in Indianapolis, the state capital.

  “Why didn’t he sell you this ring instead of that carnival fake? This costume jewelry looks more authentic than that piece of gold-painted plastic.” Tilly was thinking out loud.

  “Because he didn’t know that the ring was inside the patchwork quilt,” said Maddy. The answer was obvious.

  “If he didn’t know, then who put it there?” asked Bootsie, her brow wrinkled in confusion.

  “His grandmother,” said Betsey. “Just like we thought all along.”

  “No, this costume jewelry is too new,” Agnes pointed out. “The Ac
me website says they’ve only been in business ten years. And the quilt’s a lot older.”

  “That’s right,” Maddy confirmed. “According to that newspaper article, Martha Ray Johnson won first prize in the state with it back in 1934.”

  Bootsie shook her head in frustration. “But she told Tall Paul the ring was inside the quilt – or at least hinted as much.”

  “That’s right,” said Lizzie. “How could she have known about the ring back when Tall Paul was just a kid if somebody put it inside the quilt only within the past ten years?”

  “It’s so confusing,” sighed Tilly.

  Just then Cookie breezed in through the kitchen door. Members of the Quilter’s Club didn’t bother with knocking at each other’s homes, comfortable with an open-door policy. People in Caruthers Corners rarely bothered to lock their doors, the crime rate was so low. Mayor Caruthers joked that Police Chief Purdue barely had a job if it wasn’t for parking tickets.

  “Hi all,” crooned the slender woman. “I’m in love.”

  “That’s awfully sudden, isn’t it?” admonished Tilly. She seemed to find the L-word emotion suspect these days.

  “Not for Ben. He’s had a thing for me since high school. And to think I wasted all those years with Bob Brown.”

  “You loved Bob,” contradicted Maddy.

  “Oh, maybe at first. But all the romance had gone out of our marriage by the time ol’ Bob kicked the bucket.”

  “Then why have you been making those pilgrimages to Pleasant Glade?”

  “I don’t know. Guilt maybe. Or faithfulness. After all, Bob and I were together for more’n forty years.”

  “So Ben’s the one?” said Lizzie, eyes twinkling. She had always been the sucker for romance among the group.

  “For now,” Cookie declared. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Costume Party

  Everybody gathered at the Madison house on Melon Pickers Lane at precisely nine o’clock the next morning. Agnes had printed out Acme Costume Supplies’ home page with Maddy’s PC. It had the phone number at the top of the page for easy reference.