“So what are you going as if not Sparkplug the Clown?”
“The Phantom.”
“Oh, that comic book guy in a tight purple costume.”
He chuckled. “No, The Phantom of the Opera.” He was surprised she even knew about that old Lee Falk comic strip character. His costume was purple due to a 1939 printing mistake, but the newspaper syndicate decided to keep it.
“Who is this Phantom of the Opera – a famous singer?”
“Kinda. He’s a character in a Broadway musical, a monster-like man who lives underneath an opera house in Paris. They called him the ‘opera-ghost’.”
“Oh, like ol’ Samuel Beasley.”
“Now you’re teasing me. You know Old Sam is dead and gone – with no ghost lingering behind.”
“But you saw something in the window.”
“I saw someone – a real person, not a ghost.”
“And you didn’t recognize him?”
“’Fraid not. Didn’t get a good look.”
“Do you think that guy scared Skookie Daniels to death?”
“Don’t know. But I had the impression he was looking out the window to see why I stopped the car, that he wasn’t there before that.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t that Elk Johnson?”
“You mean, Moose Johansson. No, I’m sure it wasn’t him. He’s kinda fat. My face in the widow was gaunt.”
“Gaunt?”
“Skinny.”
“So you believe Skookie just dropped dead on his own?”
“Could be. He had a bad heart, even in high school. He couldn’t play football, so they made him the team manager. And Stinky Caruthers was the waterboy.”
“Stinky?”
“It’s a long story.”
“That’s a funny name.”
“Nobody liked him. He was a mean little jerk. Don’t know what made me think of him just now.”
“And Skookie Daniels?”
“Skookie was a funny kid. Always playing practical jokes. Don’t know how he ever turned out to be a high school principal. When I saw him stretched out there on the lawn I though he was just being silly as usual. Didn’t realize he was dead till I toed him and told him to get up. But he didn’t move.”
“That must have been scary. I think I would’ve peed in my pants.”
“Not me. After all those years working on the bomb squad and as a fireman, I’m pretty used to dead bodies.”
“Where are you gonna find a Phantom of the Opera outfit?”
“I saw a costume down at the Dollar General. Think I’ll go buy it. May as well admit what I am – a scary guy with scars. But instead of a mask, I’ve been hiding behind the greasepaint of Sparkplug the Clown.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Epiphany
Maddy dropped by the Historical Society on her way home from the dentist. Just a loose filling. Fortunately, Dr. Yost was not quick to pull a tooth. A family dentist, the local moms liked him. That was good, since he was the only orthodontist in town.
Maddy’s filling had been painless. But while under the nitrous oxide, she’d had a minor epiphany: How could Major Beasley’s wife have stitched a quilt that showed the early days of the town if she’d been killed by Indians attacking the wagon train?
She posed that question to Cookie, who merely sputtered, “What –?”
“The timetable doesn’t work out,” Maddy pointed out. “It was the attack on the wagon train that stranded those people here. The town was built after that. Madelyn Taylor wasn’t alive to witness it, must less sew a quilt depicting the event.”
“But if Old Sam’s wife couldn’t have made that quilt, it’s a fake,” gasped Cookie. “And if the quilt’s a fake, so most likely is its pictured history.”
“Exactly. It probably means Old Sam didn’t found the town after all. We were nearly duped by that bogus quilt.”
“But who would create a deception like that?” said Cookie. The idea was abhorrent to her as someone who guarded the past with the ferocity of a Pythian priestess.
“Probably some later relative. Trying to improve the family history.”
Cookie readjusted her thinking. “Okay, we agree that Martin Caruthers’ A History of Caruthers Corners and Surrounding Environs is biased toward his ancestor’s role in founding the town, aggrandizing that old scoundrel Jacob Caruthers. The Beasley Quilt aims the same thing for Old Sam, by giving an alternative history that paints him as the town’s founder.”
“So who did found the town?” said Maddy,
“I don’t have a clue,” Cookie admitted. “But until we have more facts, let’s leave local history the way we were taught – with Jacob Abernathy Caruthers, Ferdinand Aloysius Jinks, and Col. Beauregard Hollingsworth Madison as the founders.”
“Fine with me,” nodded Maddy.
“But what do we do about Major Samuel Elmsford Beasley?”
“He has no living relatives. Let him slide back into obscurity until somebody proves different.”
“Hey, Old Sam does have living relatives,” Cookie corrected her.
“No, the Beasley line petered out when his great-great granddaughter Charlotte died last year.”
“That branch of the family, yes. But don’t forget he was married to your great-great aunt. Technically, you and your children are descendants.”
Maddy laughed. “The Beasleys were among those settlers who came here on that wagon train. But it looks to me like Major Beasley was just along for the ride, not a leader. So let’s leave Caruthers, Jinks, and Madison as the founding fathers for now – agreed?”
“I suppose so,” Cookie Bentley acquiesced. “Since we don’t have any reliable facts to the contrary.”
“Who’s to complain? I may be related to the Beasleys, but I’m not going to lead a campaign to rename the town Beasleyville.”
“Yes, but what about Eunice Smith-Cardwell?”
“Who’s that?”
“Don’t you remember? She’s the executive director of the Beasley Heritage Museum in Hobson’s Landing, Massachusetts. She’s the one making all the claims based on her phony quilt.”
“Oh, her. Maybe we should ask ol’ Eunice if she knows who really made that quilt.”
≈ ≈ ≈
“Come along, kiddo. We’re going to carve some jack-o-lanterns,” said Uncle Freddie.
“But we don’t have any pumpkins,” Aggie pointed out.
“That’s why we’re going out to Aitkens Produce. Boyd Aitkens has a private pumpkin patch, but he said we could pick out two, one for my front steps, the other for yours.”
“Can Tige come along?” Her fuzzy little dog was already jumping up and down with excitement, sensing the opportunity to go for a ride in a car. That little mutt would get his own driver’s license if he could.
“Okay with me. But better ask your mom.”
“If you keep him on a leash,” said Tilly. With two younger kids to look after, she was pleased to have her brother take Aggie and that pint-sized dog off her hands this afternoon.
“Fasten your seat belt,” he prompted as she climbed into the passenger seat of his Hyundai SUV. Tige had to sit in the back seat with Donna Ann. Her car seat looked like the escape pod on a space ship, but it anchored her safely in place using the LATCH system.
Aitkens Produce grew watermelons, but ol’ Boyd had a private apple orchard and a large pumpkin patch, in addition to a traditional vegetable garden. He owed Maddy and the Quilters Club a debt for helping catch the murderer of his son Charlie last year. That’s why Freddie had been given the invitation to pick out a couple of future jack-o-lanterns.
The pumpkins cover half an acre, scattered about like giant orange Easter eggs, all hidden in plain sight. It didn’t take Aggie long to select two 50 lb. monstrosities. Freddie practically sprained his back carrying them to the car.
“How’s the Quilters Club coming with its ghost hunt?” he asked on the drive home. Just idle conversation.
“We’re not hunting a ghos
t any more,” the girl confided. “That Madam Blatvia couldn’t produce one.”
“So are you gals making any progress?” he grinned.
“Not much. Grammy and the others are all distracted about some stupid quilt. They think it's a fake or something. I’m the one doing most of the sleuthing on the Skookie Daniels death.”
“Turning up any clues?”
“Just one. That Moose guy wasn’t the face you saw in the window.”
“How can you be sure? After all, the police found him in the building.”
“Remember all those candy wrappers Uncle Jim found in that upstairs bedroom?”
“Yeah, the guy had a sweet tooth.”
“Not Moose. Turns out, he’s diabetic. He couldn’t have eaten all those candy bars.”
≈ ≈ ≈
The next morning the Quilters Club members met for breakfast at the Cozy Café to discuss this new revelation about the Beasley Heritage Quilt. The Café featured an Early Bird Special, scrambled eggs and bacon for only $3.99, plus unlimited refills on the coffee.
Maddy’s logic seemed irrefutable. If Old Sam’s wife was killed on the wagon train, she couldn’t have sewed a quilt depicting the founding of the town.
“Scandalous,” said Lizzie. “That museum in Massachusetts should be closed down. This is a deliberate fraud.”
“That’s right,” agreed Bootsie. “If Maddy could figure this out, that executive director at the museum should have been able to do so too.”
“Hey, none of you figured it out,” responded Maddy, taking her friend’s words as an implied insult. Despite her Maude-like exterior, she could be sensitive sometimes.
“Oh, I didn’t mean it that way,” Bootsie patted her hand reassuringly. “I’m just saying a museum devoted to the heritage of Major Samuel Elmsford Beasley should have figured out that timeline long before now.”
“You can’t be suggesting that Eunice Smith-Cardwell knows the quilt’s a fake,” said Cookie, wanting to believe in the integrity of fellow historians.
“I don’t see how she couldn’t know,” said Maddy.
“Just who is this Smith-Cardwell woman?” asked Bootsie. “Do we know anything about her?” Always the suspicious cop’s wife, she liked to look into people’s backgrounds. No telling what you might find out.
“Not really,” admitted Cookie. “I learned about her and the quilt from that article in Quilting Bee magazine.”
“That’s a pretty reliable publication,” said Lizzie. She subscribed to a number of quilting publications. She was hoping to win the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes by buying lots of magazines. But no luck so far.
“In today’s economy, a lot of magazines have had to cut back on editors and fact checkers,” Maddy pointed out. “We can’t hold them responsible.”
“I could check Eunice Smith-Cardwell out through the American Alliance of Museums,” offered Cookie, feeling responsible for calling the Beasley Heritage Quilt to their attention in the first place.
“Yes, do that,” urged Bootsie. “Because this woman is either a humbug … or an incompetent museum director.”
“Should we contact her directly?” asked Cookie. “I’d like to know more about the quilt’s provenance.”
“Let’s wait till you hear back from some of your museum contacts,” suggested Maddy. “We don’t want to tip our hand till we know who we’re dealing with.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The New Venue
With a little urging by the mayor, Caruthers Corners High School had moved its Halloween Festival to the historic Town Hall building. There was little choice, since the school’s gym was being remodeled. Rollout bleachers were replacing the rickety old fixed seating.
“This way, the town still gets a rental fee,” Beau Madison patted his son-in-law on the back. “And there won’t be the costly cleanup Beasley Mansion would’ve required.”
“I suppose that’s true,” muttered Mark the Shark. He was having second thoughts about renting out the Town Hall, but it was too late to back out now. The old red brick building on the square was already abuzz with students putting up Halloween decorations – eerie jack-o-lanterns, paper maché goblins, plastic skeletons, bedsheet ghosts, and fake spider webs in every corner. A back storage room had been cleaned out to become the haunted house attraction, with boxes of property tax records moved down to the basement.
The mayor had already got complaints from the Town Planner’s office. He expected to hear from Building and Zoning next. His assistant – a recent graduate named Marcy Periwinkle – was fielding calls.
“Daddy!” shouted Aggie as she rushed into his office, her dog Tige two paces behind. “I’ve decided I’m going as Nancy Drew for Halloween.” Her excitement was evident in her big blue eyes.
“Who?”
“You know, the girl detective. I’ve read all those books about her by Carolyn Keene.”
Her father didn’t have the heart to tell her there was no real Carolyn Keene. That was just a pseudonym used by a series of work-for-hire authors who wrote those Young Adult detective stories. Back in California, when he’d worked for a big law firm, he’d taken a deposition of one of the writers. The man had been suing the publishing company for unpaid royalties. He’d lost. But, of course, Mark had been representing the publisher so there was no surprise in that.
“Aren’t you running a little late on selecting a costume? Halloween is tomorrow night, dear.”
“I know. But I couldn’t make up my mind. It was either The Little Mermaid or Nancy Drew. I figured I’d have to hop around with a fish tail if I dressed as a mermaid.”
“What does a Nancy Drew costume look like?” he asked, curious.
“There aren’t any at the Dollar General. So I’ll have to make it myself. A Sherlock Holmes hat and a big magnifying glass, I’d guess. This calls for some research.”
“What research? You’ve read every one of those books at least three times.”
“I want to get it right,” she insisted. “Tige can be my bloodhound.”
“Did Nancy Drew have a bloodhound?” He eyed the small shaggy terrier doubtfully. His daughter’s dog did not look like bloodhound material.
“Well, no. But I’m improvising. Don’t you always say, ‘When in doubt, improvise’?”
She had him there. “Where’s your dog’s leash? He’s not supposed to be running around town without a leash, you know that. Better watch out or the dogcatcher will pick him up.”
“Don’t be silly. Uncle Freddie volunteers at the SPCA as dogcatcher. He’d never impound Tige.”
That was probably true. His brother-in-law had a special bond with Aggie. And wherever Aggie went Tige was not far behind.
“Hey, Mark,” came a voice from the doorway. “Where do you want us to put the Wilkins Witch Quilt?” This was a historic quilt supposedly made by a local witch back in 1897. For years it had hung on a wall of the Town Hall as a decorative example of the area’s heritage.
“There’s a file room in the Tax Assessor’s office, Pete. Let’s store it in there.”
Deputy Pete Hitzer had been assigned to help ready the building for the onslaught of Halloween revelers. There wasn’t much crime going on in Caruthers Corners, other than Mrs. Daniels’s accusation that a ghost had murdered her son, or picking up Jasper Beanie for drunk and disorderly, so he had the extra time. Technically, he was still on administrative leave due to the dog bite.
“Last thing we want is high school rowdies splashing watermelon punch on a town heirloom,” Mark added.
“You got it.” Pete Hitzer toted the thick quilt toward a glass-fronted door marked ERIC JOHNSON, TAX ASSESSOR. Fortunately, Eric was on vacation and wasn’t there to object to his pristine records department being turned into a temporary storage room.
Chief Purdue was helping out too. His prisoners – Peewee Hickensmith and Moose Johansson – had been transferred to Indy, being that robbing a savings and loan was a federal crime. The FBI had taken over the invest
igation. “Hey, Mark, should we move this bronze bust of Jacob Caruthers?”
“To the town dump for all I care.” The founder’s great-great grandson – former mayor Henry Caruthers – had left a pall on the Caruthers name with his financial misdeeds. The old crook was still in hiding.
“We’ll put it in the basement,” the police chief shrugged. He signaled to Ben Bentley for assistance. He’d need the muscles of Cookie’s husband to move this heavy piece of metal.
“Just a sec,” called Ben, carrying in the last of ten 50 lb. sacks of apples for the bobbing tub.
“Daddy, can I check out the haunted house?” Aggie indicated the now-empty storeroom where high school boys were busily setting up the scary obstacle course.
“Have to wait till Halloween Night. It won’t be as much fun if you see all the tricks in advance.”
Like most haunted house attractions, it relied on all the old tropes – squishy hamburger meat representing zombie brains, strands of spaghetti substituting for earthworms, and ice packs to provide “zombies” with deathly cold hands. Pop-up goblins and a mannequin hefting a “bloody” ax completed the special effects. And yes, there was a recording of screams and moaning sounds to set the mood.
“Awww, I know it’s not a real haunted house,” Aggie chided her father. “I went through the one in the school gym last year – remember?”
“Gave you nightmares,” he reminded her. At twelve his daughter had reached a tipping point. By next year she’d probably be playing kissy-face with boys while lolling in the so-called haunted house.
“No, it didn’t. That was just an upset tummy from eating too much Halloween candy.”
“Have you Quilters Club detectives caught your ghost yet?” he changed the subject. He didn’t want to think about his daughter kissing boys.
“You’re teasing me,” she smiled. “I know there’s no such thing as ghosts. We’re just trying to figure out what gave Skookie Daniels that heart attack.”
“Sometimes they just happen.”
“I know. But it was our civic duty to look into it.”
Civic duty? She was starting to sound like him. He’d just been telling Beau Madison that it was their civic duty to create some low-income housing for the town. And Bobby Ray Purdue’s proposal would make it happen. “Sounds like you gals have given up on the idea that somebody scared the principal to death.”
Sewed Up Tight (A Quilters Club Mystery No. 5) (Quilters Club Mysteries) Page 10