“We’ve all read that book,” acknowledged Lizzie. “The main thing Major Beasley did was lead the Battle of Gruesome Gorge where he slaughtered a village of peaceful Indians.”
Maddy raised her hand. “Hold on,” she said. “Based on his wife’s name, I might just be related to this liar and murderer you’re talking so badly about.”
“Yes, but –” Lizzie began, and then stopped, realizing the truth of Maddy’s words.
“No big deal,” shrugged Madelyn Agnes Taylor Madison. “We all have monkeys hanging from the branches of our family tree.”
“I don’t care if I do have a monkey for an uncle,” sighed her granddaughter, having finished her watermelon pie à la mode. “Aren’t you gonna show us what that old quilt looks like? That what I want to see.”
Cookie Bentley looked up from the letter. “Right to the point,” she said. “You’re certainly related to Maddy, my dear.”
Maddy looked up, not sure whether that had been an insult or compliment.
Without further ado, Cookie gently shook the FedEx pak and an 11” x 12” color photograph inside a protective cellophane envelope slithered out of the cardboard package onto the tabletop.
“Whooa, that’s one beautiful rag,” joked Lizzie, admiring the quilt’s intricate pictorial design.
“The needlework is quite amazing,” nodded Maddy.
“I’ll say,” agreed Bootsie.
The Beasley Heritage Quilt was indeed impressive. Its autumn hues were highlighted with colorful stitching. Its flowing design depicted several scenes: A wagon train led by a bearded military man; a battle scene with that same military man leading a charge against a band of Native Americans; a street lined with tents and shacks, where a military man was beckoning to three followers; and a large stone edifice that had to be the Beasley Mansion, with the military man standing proudly out front.
“How come the Historical Society never knew about this,” squawked Cookie as she studied the photograph. “A first-hand history of the founding of Caruthers Corners and this is the first time I’ve ever seen it!”
“It looks like a hand-stitched comic book,” observed Aggie.
“Pictorial Quilts tell a narrative through the images on the quilt,” explained her grandmother. “Instead of bringing together fabric in an abstract or patterned design, needlework or pieces of fabric are used to create a series of pictures. Pictorial Quilts were created both in the United States and England beginning as early as 1795.”
“This is an important artifact,” nodded Cookie. “It documents the town’s early history.”
“But if it’s accurate, the history we grew up with may be a tad skewed,” Bootsie pointed out. “This seems to show Major Beasley as the key figure in founding the town.”
“Yes, that bearded military man has to be Old Sam,” noted Cookie. “You can tell by the major’s insignias on his uniform.”
Lizzie studied the photograph. “These scenes certainly picture him as the leader. Riding in front of the wagon train, fighting the Indians, directing the building the town.”
“Maybe they should have called it Beasleyville,” muttered Bootsie.
“Let’s not jump to any conclusions,” warned Maddy. “Remember, this quilt was made by Old Sam’s wife. It wouldn’t be surprising if she aggrandized her husband in her needlework.”
“True,” agreed Cookie. “We mustn’t rewrite history too quickly here.” Nonetheless, her head was reeling. Everything she knew about the founding of Caruthers Corners was being called into question by this quilt.
“Doesn’t matter to me,” announced Aggie Tidemore with a broad smile. “I’ll be descended from a founder either way … through Col. Madison on Grampy’s side or Major Beasley on Grammy’s side.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A Neighborhood Development
Bobby Ray Purdue returned from a successful meeting with the bankers in Chicago. What with him guaranteeing the loan, they were more than willing to finance Beasley Gardens, as he was calling the proposed development.
The project was certainly ambitious. He proposed to partner with the town in creating an entire neighborhood of low-income housing. Using the Right of Eminent Domain they could acquire all the row house on Melon Ball Lane. The lots were large enough to allow them to add onto each house, turning the structures into duplexes, doubling the number of residents the development could accommodate. The street would require re-zoning for multi-family housing, but with the town behind it, that shouldn’t be a problem.
A man of immense self-confidence, Bobby Ray hadn’t bothered talking to the new mayor yet. He knew Mayor Tidemore was interested in turning Beasley Mansion into low-income apartments, but that wasn’t a bold enough vision in his opinion. Why do a single building when you could do the whole block?
He figured if he showed up with the financing in place, the Mayor would eagerly join forces.
According to the planners he’d hired, Beasley Gardens could accommodate more than up to 150 people. And their subsidized rents could cover the interest payments on the bank loans.
Everybody won.
This would be nothing like those inner-city projects in Chicago. Duplexes would offer a more civilized lifestyle than rats-in-maze apartment buildings that bred crime and juvenile delinquents.
After establishing the home for retired circus performers, Bobby Ray had got hooked by the do-gooder bug. A low-income housing development would solve many problems here in Caruthers Corners.
His protégé Freddie Madison deserved most of the credit. He’d brought the idea to Bobby Ray. Freddie had a good head on his shoulders (albeit a little overcooked) … and a big heart.
The former “Lost Boy” shared those big-hearted sentiments. Why not help people less fortunate than you? Why not help the town that took you back in, accepting you like a Prodigal Son?
≈ ≈ ≈
Bobby Ray and Freddie met with Mayor Tidemore that afternoon. Freddie, of course, had brokered the meeting with his brother-in-law. Not that Mark the Shark wouldn’t have taken the meeting in any case. When you were as rich as Bobby Ray, people made time on their schedule for you.
Even after giving that $100 million endowment to the new Zoo and setting up a $2 million annuity for his dear old mom, Bobby Ray still had another $100 mil or so to play with, making him the richest person in Caruthers Corners. Number two would be his brother N.L., who owned the E Z Seat chair factory, with watermelon farmer Boyd Aitkens coming in a distant third.
“What can I do for you two clowns?” joked Mark Tidemore. He thought it funny that the richest guy in town and his brother-in-law chose to spend their spare time performing as circus clowns at the Haney Bros. Zoo. They were like big kids.
Bobby Ray spoke up, his newfound wealth having given him surprising confidence. “We wanna buy the town … or at least part of it,” he announced with a broad smile.
“W-what? Is that some kind of joke?” Mark had never quite figured out clowns. He’d been scared of them as a child.
“Not at all. We want to partner with Caruthers Corners to develop a low-income housing development over near the chair factory. My brother N.L. will join me in backing it. We already have the financing lined up with a Chicago bank. We’d need you to exercise eminent domain to buy out the neighborhood on Melon Ball Lane and we’ll turn all those row houses into duplexes.”
“Melon Ball Lane? That’s where we’re planning to rehab the old Beasley Mansion as low-income housing –” the mayor began.
“That’d be part of it,” Bobby Ray cut him off. “This is the same thing you had in mind, only bigger.”
“Gracious, I don’t know what to say.” It was a Red Letter Day when a silver-tongued lawyer like Mark the Shark was at a loss for words. But this was a proposal that caught him by surprise. A very big proposal.
“All you have to do is nod and it’s a done deal,” said Freddie.
“It was Freddie’s idea, this concept of creating Beasley Gardens,” beamed Bobby Ray
. “Brilliant, huh?”
“But I wanted to call it Beasley Arms,” muttered the mayor, more to himself than anyone else.
And that’s how the Beasley Gardens Housing Project began.
≈ ≈ ≈
After the meeting, Bobby Ray and Freddie were jubilant. Not surprisingly, Mark Tidemore had thrown the mayor’s office behind their plan, all but assuring its success. The Town Council – Freddie’s dad, Chief Purdue, Edgar Ridenour, and a couple of others – would undoubtedly go along.
To hedge their bet, they decided to talk to some of the councilmen, give them a head’s up. Freddie figured they may as well tackle his dad first, but it turned out Beau was off fishing with Edgar Ridenour.
“On the Wabash?” he asked. His dad and Lizzie’s husband usually fished for bass on the muddy 503-mile-long river that stretches across Indiana, from northwest Ohio to southern Illinois. The fishing was still good in some spots.
“No, they went down to Pitsville,” his mother told them. “Some farmer stocked the old quarry with trout as an aquacultural experiment. They wanted to try it out.”
“Not much trout fishing hereabouts,” Bobby Ray allowed. However, he doubted a quarry would provide the proper environment for raising trout. Trout have a high oxygen requirement. They thrive in moving water, not a stagnant old quarry. Not that anybody had asked his opinion.
“That’s what dad does mostly since he retired as mayor, goes fishing with his pal Edgar.”
“Huh, I’m curious about that trout experiment. What say we drive down to Pitsville and catch up with them? It’s only fifty miles or so.”
“Okay,” said Freddie. “But if we’re going to do that, let’s take along our fishing rods.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Boom!
That same afternoon Stanley Caruthers drove down to the old quarry near Pitsville. But he didn’t have fishing in mind. He took the bumps carefully because he was carrying a canister of Napalm B in his trunk. The old Buick chugged along, bellowing smoke from its twin tailpipes. He’d purchased the 1982 vehicle for $200 at Bargain Bob’s Used Cars in Burpyville. Lately he’d been sleeping in the V8 Regal, what with the police crawling all over Beasley Mansion.
Soon the Mansion would be his, he was sure of it. After he blew up the Town Hall, and the mayor along with it, panic would ensue and he’d be a shoo-in as acting mayor. After all, he was descended from a founding father. Then, he’d sign the papers turning the old Beasley place into the official Mayor’s Mansion.
Watching his speedometer, Stanley was careful to keep it at 45 – not too fast, not too slow. He’d have trouble explaining the bomb in the trunk if stopped by a state trooper. He was rather pleased with his handiwork, although making a bomb wasn’t all that difficult. These days you could find the directions on the Internet.
However, he’d relied on a booklet titled Making Napalm In Three Easy Steps, published by Paladin Press. A mainstay for ‘60s radicals and ‘80s survivalists, these days the Colorado publishing company’s Professional Action Library featured such titles as Arming for the Apocalypse, Kalashnikov Rifle Gunfighting, Secrets of Surveillance, Computer Security Guide For Paranoids, and Fighting Dirty.
Stanley took the turnoff at Pitsville and followed County Road 12A to the east. The abandoned quarry was near the Ohio border. He spotted it off to the right, a dark shadow on the horizon. Pulling up close to the rim, he could see the murky water that filled the crater below. No kids around. Too chilly for swimming here in late October.
The mile-long quarry was a jagged gorge that had provided building blocks for the state capital in Indianapolis. The stones were considered a good quality, but the mining operation had gone bankrupt due to poor financial management and eventually other quarries to the west had taken up the slack.
Stanley carefully removed the homemade bomb from his trunk, handling it very carefully. He wanted a smoke, but he knew better than that. Lighting up a Marlboro could easily set off the incendiary device. Napalm was essentially jellied gasoline, highly volatile.
He positioned the canister on a ledge down near the water, hooked up the white phosphorous initiator and set the timer that he’d fashioned from a cheap Big Ben alarm clock, a battery-operated digital model. Ten minutes should do it.
Backing his car up, just to be safe, he sat there behind the wheel starring at the quarry pit like someone at a drive-in movie. Four minutes … three minutes … ka-boom!
The clock had been two minutes off. Oh well, close enough.
A huge ball of smoke roiled out of the pit like a belching dragon.
≈ ≈ ≈
“What the heck was that?” asked Beau Madison, looking up at the sound of the explosion. He saw a dark plume rising over the rocks of the quarry about a half-mile around the bend.
“Probably somebody dynamiting for fish,” groused Edgar. “That’s illegal but kids still do it.”
“We oughta report ‘em,” said Beau. “Playing with dynamite is dangerous.”
“Not to mention scaring away all our fish.”
≈ ≈ ≈
As Freddie neared the quarry, the car shook with the reverberation of the explosion. He pulled over to the side of the narrow dirt road. “Whoa,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Makes me feel like I’m back in the Middle East. That was an IED.”
“A what?” asked Bobby Ray. Having traveled with a circus, he’d never done a tour in Iraq like Freddie.
“An improvised explosive device – a roadside bomb.”
“You think somebody’s trying to blow us up?”
“No, the bomb was down there in the quarry somewhere. Probably kids playing with dynamite or something.”
“Who’d be crazy enough to do that?”
As if in answer to Bobby Ray’s question, a big green Buick Regal came barreling past them at a high speed, nearly hitting them as it wobbled from one side of the dirt road to the other, practically out of control.
They caught a fleeting glimpse of the driver’s pasty white face, eyes wide, mouth open in a scream, looking as if he were being chased by ghosts.
“Crazy fool,” observed Bobby Ray.
“Say, if I didn’t know better I’d think that driver was Stinky Caruthers.”
“Who?” Not going to high school in Caruthers Corners, Bobby Ray had lost touch with many of his contemporaries … although quite a few had been crawling out of the woodwork since he’d inherited that fortune.
“A kid I went to school with. Mean little snot. His uncle used to be mayor.”
“Stinky?”
“Stanley actually. Don’t know if he still lives in these parts. I went off to the army, then worked as a fireman in Atlanta till … well, till I came home.”
“Why would Stinky Caruthers be setting off a bomb?”
“Beats me. He was always a weird little cuss.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Beau Madison was surprised to see his son and Bobby Ray Purdue pull up in Freddie’s shiny blue SUV. “Hey there,” he waved. “How did you boys find us down here in Pitsville?”
“Mom,” Freddie stated the obvious.
“Figures.”
“Is that you, Bobby Ray?” called out Edgar Ridenour. As a retired bank president, he’d helped the young multimillionaire set up his investment portfolio. “Hardly recognize you out of your clown makeup.”
“Hey there, Edgar. Did you guys hear a loud explosion?”
“Sure did. Came from over there,” he pointed in the direction they had seen the smoke plume.
“Any idea what it was?” asked Freddie. “Didn’t sound like some farmer blasting stumps outta his pasture.”
“We figure it was kids dynamiting fish,” allowed Beau Madison. “Not that there’s much to catch in here. Trout require fresh water, not a standing quarry pond.”
“Yeah, we haven’t caught squat,” Edgar Ridenour admitted. He held up a line with three puny fish hanging by their gills. Their blue-green scales sparkled in the sunlight.
Freddie
shook his head. “No point getting out our rods,” he decided.
“You came down to fish?” asked his dad.
“We really came down to talk to you about a development proposal we just made to Mark the Shark. But we thought as long as we’re here –”
“Don’t bother,” said Edgar. “The fish are few and far between. Let’s hear about your development idea. That is, if you don’t mind sharing a cool drink. I see a cooler wedged there in your backseat.”
“Cherry soda pop,” said Bobby Ray. “I developed a taste for it while in the circus.”
“That’ll do,” shrugged Beau. “We ran out of beer an hour ago.”
“Do you remember Stinky Caruthers – the nephew of the old mayor?”
“Yeah. Henry tried to run the kid for office, but we voted in age limits.”
“Funny thing, but I could swear I saw him driving away as we got here. I had the feeling he was somehow connected with that explosion.”
“Stanley Caruthers?” said the former bank president. “Last I heard he was selling real estate down near Indianapolis. But that was a couple of years ago.”
“Never did like that kid,” added Beau. “Reminded me too much of his uncle.”
“Henry Caruthers turned out to be a real weasel,” Edgar nodded. “Embezzled money. Skipped town with his old secretary. The FBI is still looking for him, from what I hear.”
“Why would Stinky be setting off an explosion?” Freddie wondered. “There’s nothing out here to blow up.”
“Except us,” said Beau.
“Don’t go getting paranoid on us,” his friend patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. “That blast came from way over there. Nowhere near us. Not even a dummy like Stanley Caruthers would miss by that far.”
“I suppose you’re right. But it seems like mighty strange behavior, setting off dynamite.”
“I’m not sure it was dynamite,” said Freddie. “That blast produced a fireball followed by a billowy cloud of smoke. More like some kind of firebomb.”
Sewed Up Tight (A Quilters Club Mystery No. 5) (Quilters Club Mysteries) Page 8