Sewed Up Tight (A Quilters Club Mystery No. 5) (Quilters Club Mysteries)

by Marjory Sorrell Rockwell

  “Calm down, son,” said Edgar. “You’re as paranoid as your old man. Remember, you’re not in Iraq anymore.”

  “Kinda seemed like it for a minute there. Guess you never get over war.”

  “I know what you mean,” agreed Beau. “That explosion reminded me of Vietnam.”

  “How so?” asked Bobby Ray.

  “Sniff the air,” said Beau. “Smells like napalm.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Meet The Phantom

  Maddy got a phone call from Cookie Bentley that afternoon. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?” her friend opened the conversation.

  “Just tell me,” groaned Maddy. She hated those stupid good news-bad news conversational gambits.

  “First, you are related to the Beasleys – kinda.”

  “Is that the good news or the bad news?”

  “We’ll call it good news. It establishes your blue blood bona fides even more.”

  “I don’t care about bone fides. My husband is descended from a town founder. That’s enough for one family.”

  Cookie cleared her throat, a nervous habit. “Well, that brings us to the bad news. Technically, Col. Beauregard Madison may not have been a town founder.”

  “What?” Maddy almost hung up. “Cookie Bentley, you’re talking a lot of nonsense for someone who is the head of the Historical Society.”

  “Hear me out,” her friend pleaded.

  “Well, okay. But first tell me how I’m related to the Beasleys.”

  There came a brief silence as Cookie gathered up her thoughts. Or maybe she was consulting her notes. “All right, here’s what the old genealogy charts say. I had to go into the warehouse to find these old records. Somehow they had been stored away and forgotten. Major Samuel Beasley was married to the sister of your great-great grandfather.”

  “You’re saying Rev. Thaddeus Barrington Taylor had a sister?” That was news to her. Little was known about the Taylor family prior to settling in what was to become Caruthers Corners.

  “Yes, Madelyn Taylor was married to Samuel Beasley.”

  “Madelyn, just like me.”

  “You once told me it was an old family name.”

  “Yes, I was named after my grandmother.”

  “And apparently she was named after her aunt.”

  “So what happened to Madelyn Taylor Beasley?”

  “She was killed when the wagon train was ambushed by Indians. Apparently, that’s why Major Beasley attacked that Potawatomi village in the Battle of Great Gorge.”

  “Oh my. And he built that big old mansion on Melon Ball Lane without a wife?”

  “He had an infant son, Sam Jr. He staffed the place with nannies and cooks and maids and all kinds of help. Lived there till that chandelier fell on him.”

  “Now tell me why Beau may not be related to Col. Beauregard Madison.”

  “Oh, he’s related to Col. Madison. The question is whether Col. Madison was a founding father or not.”

  “That’s silly. Look in any history book.”

  “Remember the photograph of the Beasley Heritage Quilt? The one that pictured the founding of Caruthers Corners?”

  “Of course. What about it?”

  “That photograph showed the front of the quilt. We didn’t notice that there was also a second photo in the cellophane sleeve, one showing the back side.”

  “Oh? What was on the back side?”

  “More needlework scenes. But they tell a very different story than the history books.”

  “So you’re going to believe some ratty old quilt rather than a stack of history books? You surprise me, Cookie.”

  “Hey, that ratty old quilt was stitched by your great-great aunt.”

  “What exactly does the back of the quilt show?”

  “If you take the scenes at their face value, they indicate that Col. Madison and Ferdinand Jinks returned East while Major Beasley and Jacob Caruthers stayed on to found the town. They both built mansions, helped fight off the Indians, established order, recruited more settlers. Madison and Jinks returned later on. That’s why there’s not a mansion for either of them.”

  “For that matter, there’s no Caruthers Mansion.

  “Yes, there is. It was the structure that was converted into the E Z Seat chair factory. Jacob Caruthers sold it to Abner Purdue – that’s N.L. and Bobby Ray’s great-great granddad.”

  “Why would the history books have it wrong?” Maddy asked. Her husband was going to be very upset if it turned out Col. Madison wasn’t a founding father. They might have to take down the statue of him in the town square.

  “When it comes to local history, there are only two books that matter – The History of the Indian Territory, 1800 - 1900 by Nelson Lawrence Chadwick and A History of Caruthers Corners and Surrounding Environs by Martin J. Caruthers. Most of what we know about this town comes from that second book. Martin J. Caruthers claimed he got the stories from his grandfather, Old Jacob himself.”

  “Wasn’t Martin the father of former mayor Henry Caruthers?”

  “Yes. So you can see why the Caruthers family figures so prominently in the town’s history. The old reprobate told the story the way he wanted.”

  “You mean by leaving Samuel Beasley out?”

  “And by writing Col. Madison and Ferdinand Jinks back in.” She paused to add, “Well, not so much Jinks. His ancestors still grouse that he didn’t get his due.”

  “But you said the quilt indicates he and Col. Madison didn’t play a very big role in the early days of the town.”

  “That’s the way I read it,” said Cookie. “The needlework on the quilt tells the story very clearly.”

  “But what makes the Beasley quilt any more authoritative than Martin J. Caruthers’ history?” asked Bootsie. “Both came from people with axes to grind.”

  “True,” admitted Cookie. “But I’ve never much trusted anything a Caruthers has ever said.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Stanley Caruthers was pleased with his test of the Napalm. Based on his calculations, a couple of canisters oughta take down the Town Hall with no problem. And the perfect timing had just presented itself. According to today’s Burpyville Gazette, the Town Hall was going to be the site for the Caruthers Corners High School’s annual Halloween Festival.

  Perfect.

  Plenty of people would be there, to add to the catastrophe.

  He would have access to the building. It was open to the public.

  And a Halloween costume would be a perfect disguise.

  Yes, he had one in mind. He would go as The Phantom!

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Meet The Phantom

  Le Fantôme de l'Opéra by Gaston Laroux was based on some strange historical events that took place at the Paris Opera during the 19th Century. Today it’s best known as a 1925 silent film starring Lon Chaney and the 1986 operatic musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber.

  According to the story, an “opera-ghost” threatened to blow up the opera house if he doesn’t get his way with a beautiful singer.

  Perhaps that’s why Stanley Caruthers identified with The Phantom. He was going to blow up “the opera house,” so to speak.

  Tonight he’d scope out the parameters of the Town Hall, figure out his best approach. He had the floor plan, an old architectural drawing from when the building had been renovated in 1998. He’d found it among his uncle’s papers.

  The blueprint showed the ground floor as a large atrium with two offices along the left wall and a large storage room toward the back. The mayor’s office and other departments were on the second floor. There was a basement, but the plans only showed a large unfinished square. As he recalled, there were now a couple more offices down there as well as a large archives room where land plaits, property deeds, tax records, and other materials were haphazardly filed.

  He was thinking one canister in the back storage room, the second in either the janitor’s closet or somewhere in the basement archives. Placed right, he could take out two
structural support columns, at the same time inflicting maximum damage on the partygoers. The thing about Napalm is that the jellied gasoline stuck to the skin and continued burning. Nasty stuff.

  But it was The Phantom’s plan to create havoc, the more the better, allowing him to step in and volunteer his services as acting mayor. That meant Mark Tidemore had to be a casualty.

  Too bad. Mark had been halfway decent to him in high school.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Aggie Tidemore had been drafted to babysit for her two-year-old sister Madelyn and baby Mandy. She didn’t mind; her parents paid her $2 an hour, good money for a twelve-year-old. They thought it was “character building” to let her earn some spending money.

  Whenever Aggie got babysitting duty, her mother penned a phone number to her sleeve with instruction to call it at the slightest need. Only two blocks away on Melon Pickers Row, Aggie’s grandmother could be there in a matter of minutes.

  Tonight Aggie’s parents were off to the movies in Burpyville. They wanted to catch the new Ben Affleck film. Tilly though her husband looked a bit like the handsome Hollywood star. Mark didn’t see the resemblance, but had liked Affleck ever since that Argo thriller.

  Not waiting for a phone call, Maddy Madison strolled over to the Tidemore residence, that stately Victorian facing the town square. Still known as the Taylor House, Madelyn Agnes Madison (née Taylor) had grown up there, so every visit was a bit like coming home.

  As Maddy crossed the grassy edge of the town square, she thought she saw a shadow move over near the gazebo. Was it just her imagination – nighttime jeepers-creepers – or some kid playing in the dark? She didn’t like the idea of mothers allowing their children to prowl around at night, so she headed in that direction to see whose offspring it might be. “Hello,” she called. “Is everything all right?”

  She saw the shadow move again, this time she was sure of it. Then a hunched figure loped across the town square in the opposite direction, past the Old Settlers Well, as if running away from her. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked more like a small man than a child.

  “Hello,” she called after the retreating figure, but got no answer.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  That was close, Stanley Caruthers told himself. He’d recognized the woman in the park as Beau Madison’s nosy wife. He’d read about her and her quilting pals, acting like a gaggle of Angela Lansburys. No doubt she would’ve recognized him if he hadn’t run away. She used to see him hanging around his Uncle Henry’s office when he was a kid. He hadn’t changed that much, still skinny with spikey hair.

  Maddy Madison’s husband was the reason he’d never got to be mayor, convincing the Town Council to vote in an age requirement. With him unable to succeed his uncle, Henry Caruthers had ended up serving three more terms. A wonder they hadn’t voted in a term limit too.

  Forget all that, he told himself. After the explosion, he’d step into the role of ad hoc mayor. There weren’t any age requirements for temporary public officials. He’d looked it up in the town’s by-laws. Then, in a few years when he turned thirty-four, he could assume the office permanently.

  That was his plan.

  Blow up the mayor. Cause a panic. Volunteer his services as the descendant of a founding father. Turn the Beasley place into the official Mayor’s Mansion, renovate it back to its grande style, and then move in.

  Simple, huh? Simple plans worked best, he’d always found.

  Alas, he and his Uncle Henry were the last of the Caruthers line. And now that his uncle was on the lam, with the FBI hot on his trail, it fell to Stanley to carry on the family name. Yet, never having married, extinction was looking pretty likely for the Caruthers lineage.

  But maybe it wasn’t too late to remedy that.

  Stanley had delusions of taking a wife and (hopefully) procreating. He even had a potential mate in mind, a girl who’d been in his high school class. Although she was a bit mousy in appearance, he’d had a big crush on her. Turns out, she had never married. So why not take Cornelia Tutley as his bride? Eligible women were few and far between here in northeastern Indiana. Most married after graduating high school and settled down as farmers’ wives. Or else they went off to college and never came back.

  He knew Cornelia lived just down the block from the old Beasley place, but he’d never seen her there. She didn’t come outside to work in her yard. She didn’t fetch the newspaper. She didn’t check her mailbox. Well, not in the daylight hours. She seemed to go out only at night, under the cloak of darkness, to get her mail and the daily Burpyville Gazette.

  She would make a perfect wife for The Phantom.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  That next morning Freddie Madison was seated at the Cozy Café having coffee with his brother-in-law. Rather than a family get-together, it was more like a job interview. Fire chief Pete Watson had announced his retirement next month and Freddie was applying for the job.

  “C’mon, Mark, I’ve got more firefighting experience than anybody in this one-stoplight town – including ol’ Pete. Three times I was picked as Fireman of the Year in Atlanta. I’d have my own district there if it hadn’t been for that accident.” He waved his hand at his scarred face by way of explanation.

  “That’s what I’m worried about, Freddie. You’re on disability. If you’d been up to the job, the Atlanta Fire Rescue Department would’ve kept you on.”

  “Heck, nobody knew my prognosis back then. That was nearly two years ago. I’ve made amazing progress. You’ve seen me riding around on the kiddie fire truck at the Zoo. I’ve got all my agility back.”

  Mark shook his head doubtfully. “There’s a big difference between a kiddy fire truck and our big three-ton pumper.”

  “The fire chief doesn’t drive the truck, Mark. Besides, most of the job is paperwork. That, and directing how to fight the fire. I’m pretty darn good at it.”

  Mark glanced down at his brother-in-law’s resume. “You skipped college, went into the army straight out of high school.”

  “That’s right. I chose life experience over book learning. Wanted to serve my country.”

  Marl took that as a slight jibe. He’d had a deferment, having been in law school. “What did you do in the Gulf War?”

  “Bomb squad. But I was attached to a firefighting unit.”

  “And you joined Atlanta straight out of service?”

  “That’s right. About ten years ago.”

  Mark Tidemore stirred his coffee as if it were too hot. “Look, Freddie, as mayor I’ve got to avoid any appearance of nepotism. I’m married to your sister Tilly. So I need somebody else to weigh in on this decision.”

  Freddie grinned. With his disfigured face it made him look frightening. “Who? My dad – the former mayor?”

  Mark actually blushed. Thinking Freddie was suggesting that nepotism got him the mayor’s job. “I-I was elected. A landslide.”

  “You were unopposed,” laughed Freddie. “Nobody else wanted the damn job. However, I do want to be the fire chief. I need to do something important again. Like saving lives.”

  Mark thought about his brother-in-law’s words. Was he suggesting that the mayor’s job wasn’t important? No, that was paranoid. He was just jealous that Freddie instead of him had come up with the idea for turning the entire Melon Ball Lane neighborhood into a housing development.

  “Come on, what do you say?” pushed Freddie. “I’m the best man for the job.”

  Mark sighed. “Let me talk to Pete Watson. If he gives you the nod, I’ll appoint you.” Besides, he knew his wife would kill him if he didn’t.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Choosing a Costume

  Aggie had changed her mind. Instead of going trick-or-treating as The Little Mermaid – one of her favorite storybook characters – she’d opted for a costume that she found in the attic, a hooded red cloak and picnic basket. Little Red Riding Hood would be perfect if she could talk someone into accompanying her in wolf’s clothing. Uncle Freddie, perhaps.

 
She wasn’t sure where he’d find a Big Bad Wolf costume. The selection at the Dollar General was pretty limited. That is, if he hadn’t already picked out something. Maybe he’d decide to go as Sparkplug the Clown, his other identity. That was a terrific costume, what with its colorful greasepaint and bulbous red nose and oversized fireman’s helmet.

  But without a wolf, Red Riding Hood was kinda lame. Maybe her mom would take her to the Dollar General and let her look for something else. By now everything had been pretty well picked over, but she might get lucky.

  Maybe she’d go as Princess Leia.

  Or as a cowgirl.

  Or a clown.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  “No, I’m thinking of retiring Sparkplug the Clown,” her Uncle Freddie said. “I’m considering going into another line of work. Something I have a little more experience in.”

  “Are you going to become a full-time dog catcher? If so, Tige better look out!”

  Freddie Madison smiled, making his face look like wrinkled sandpaper. “The SPCA is just volunteer work, helping out my pal Bobby Ray. He funded the animal shelter, you know.”

  “Bobby Ray’s pretty rich, huh?”

  “That he is, but he wants to use his money to do good things.”

  “Like the animal shelter?”

  “That – and the home for retired circus people and the town zoo. And he’s working on a big housing project for local families.”

  “Isn’t that what my Daddy’s trying to do, turn that spooky old house into Beasley Arms?”

  “You bet it is, but I’ve talked Bobby Ray into helping with it. Make the project bigger than one apartment building. Beasley Gardens, we’re calling it, a whole neighborhood-wide low-income housing development.”

  “Wow! Bobby Ray must be as rich as Scrooge McDuck. Building a bunch of houses for people who can’t afford a place of their own.”

  Her uncle laughed. “Bobby Ray’s trying to decide on a Halloween costume. Maybe I ought to suggest he go as Scrooge McDuck.”