“Where’s yours?” responded Lucius Plancus, perhaps a tad cheeky given the “juice” of the slick barrister he was addressing.
“I’m in costume,” winked Barnabas Soltairé. “I’m disguised as an honest, tax-paying citizen.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“I just need to fool juries.”
“Where are your clients? I heard Hickensmith and Johansson were going to get sprung tonight.”
Soltairé shrugged, offering an apologetic little smile that caused the ends of his pencil-mustache to curve upward. “Didn’t happen.”
“Oh, why not?” Plancus was reaching for the RECORD button on his hand-held Sony digital recorder.
“Two reasons: First one, they don’t have a lawyer to file a writ of habeas corpus.”
“Why not? I thought you were their attorney of record…”
“No more. Those two doofuses don’t have the money to pay my fees. The boys robbed that savings and loan, all right. But they let somebody steal the two hundred grand from them. They’re broke.”
“And the second reason?”
“Peewee’s sister rolled over on him, and he rolled over on Moose. The Feebies aren’t going to turn them loose now that they have a witness who corroborates that Tutley woman’s story.”
“Why would Mama Leone do that? I thought she adored her baby brother.”
“Mama Leone? You mean Myrtle Hickensmith? She’s no more Italian than you are.”
“Matter of fact, I am second-generation Italian. I was named after Lucius Munatius Plancus, a Roman senator circa 42 BC.”
“A redheaded wop? Now I’ve seen everything.”
“Well, my mother was Irish. But that’s not the point.”
“No, the point is Myrtle overheard the boys talking and decided to do the right thing by turn them in. Her civic responsibility.”
“You believe that?”
“Not really. I expect she’s still mad over him pushing her off a tricycle when she was nine. But who’s to say?”
“So if Hickensmith and Johansson are still in jail, what are you doing here?”
“I’m supposed to meet a new client, a guy who says he’s going to need a lawyer before this Halloween party’s over.”
“I didn’t know you met clients in parks.”
“Don’t usually, but this guy sent fifty grand in twenty dollar bills along with his request for the meeting. I can make exceptions with that kind of introduction.”
Plancus’s antennae went up. There had to be a story here. “Who is this guy that’s going to need a lawyer?”
“Couldn’t tell you even if I knew. Client privilege and all that. But truth is, he didn’t say. Just said to look for a guy dressed as The Phantom of the Opera.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Döpplegangers
Stanley Caruthers mingled with the partiers at the Halloween Festival. No one recognized him underneath the Phantom of the Opera getup. Perfect-o! He wanted to look around, see all the unsuspecting people. Little did they know there were two firebombs planted in the building. But he’d be long gone before the bombs went off precisely at 10 p.m. The next day he’d return to claim his rightful place in town society, helping to restore order in the aftermath of a disaster.
As Stanley strutted across the atrium, he came face-to-face with a mirror image of himself, another Phantom of the Opera. Same plumed hat, same white plastic mask, same $39.95 spent at Dollar General. Somehow it had never occurred to him that another person might come as Phantom of the Opera.
He studied his döppleganger the way two dogs of the same breed might sniff at each other. “Why are you wearing that costume,” he demanded. “I am the one true Phantom.”
Freddie Madison cocked his head to inspect this strange twin challenging his right to be so-dressed. “For forty bucks, pal, anybody can be The Phantom of the Opera,” he retorted. The nerve of this guy!
“But you have no right.”
“More right than anybody in this room,” said Freddie. “There’s more to me than meets the eye.”
“Whatta you mean?”
Freddie puffed out his chest. “Like The Phantom I hide my hideous visage behind this mask,” he said with exaggerated Shakespearean aplomb. “What claim do you have?”
“I am The Phantom in spirit, a recluse who secrets himself away from others.”
The guy was starting to bug Freddie. “Tell you what, on the count of three we’ll both remove our mask and see who best fits the role.”
Stanley squared off against his nemesis, certain that his own harrowing personality would shine forth. “All right,” he said. “One … Two … three…”
“Three,” Freddie echoed.
With that, both Phantoms pulled away their masks. Freddie’s action unveiled the distorted face beneath, a real-life monster. Stanley snatched away his own mask, revealing his gaunt face and untrustworthy eyes. “Behold!” he said loud enough to attract a few stares.
But it was Freddie’s scarred face that won out. Upon seeing it, the One True Phantom stepped back, an involuntary reaction that he would later view as a sign of weakness. “Yikes!” he said. “Is that makeup?”
“Told you I was the real deal,” laughed Freddie. “This face doesn’t come off.”
“You’re downright scary,” admitted the man who was planning to kill dozens of the people around him tonight.
Freddie blinked, suddenly recognizing his adversary. “Stinky?” he said. “Is that you?”
“Hey, how do you know me?”
“We went to school together,” said Freddie.
“No, I would remember a face like that.”
“This came later, in a fire. I’m Freddie Madison.”
Stanley Caruthers gawked. “You were on the football team. But you didn’t look like a burnt marshmallow.”
“Told you, that came later. I was a fireman in Atlanta. What have you been doing?”
“Planning.”
“Planning what?”
“That’s my secret,” he giggled.
“Say, didn’t I see you down near Pitsville yesterday? Were you setting off explosives at the quarry?”
“So what if I was. I had to test it.”
“Test what – a bomb?”
“That’s part of my plan,” babbled Stanley. “I’m going to reclaim the town for the Caruthers name. I’ll become mayor once that stupid Tidemore guy is dead.”
“Mark Tidemore is married to my sister,” said Freddie. “What do you mean ‘once he’s dead’?” He reached out to grab Stinky by his scrawny neck, but the self-proclaimed Phantom turned and ran, the hem of his cape sliding through Freddie’s fingers like a lost dream.
≈ ≈ ≈
“Stinky Caruthers – he’s here?” exclaimed Chief Purdue. “That little weasel has a lot of nerve. After what his uncle did to this town.”
“Saw him with my own eyes,” nodded Freddie.
“And you’re saying he threatened me?” repeated Mark Tidemore.
“In so many words.” Freddie had gone straight up to the mayor’s office to report his strange encounter. “Also I saw him yesterday, down near Pitsville. I think he was testing a bomb. If you don’t believe me, ask Beau Madison and Edgar Ridenour. They saw the explosion too.”
“You think he’s going to blow me up?” asked Mark. He didn’t like the sound of this.
“Who knows? But he looked pretty crazy to me.”
“All the Caruthers are crazy,” said the police chief. “His Uncle Henry turned out to be a criminal psychopath.”
“Well, go arrest him,” said the mayor.
“Stinky? For what?”
“For being crazy. I don’t like some nut job running around threatening to blow me up.”
“He wasn’t that specific,” admitted Freddie.”
“What the heck,” shrugged the police chief. “I’ll hold him overnight. Is he still downstairs?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay, then, what di
d he look like?”
“Just like me.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Stanley Caruthers was not to be found. Jim Purdue and his deputies swept the Town Hall, but there was no Phantom of the Opera among the partiers. Pete Hitzer almost arrested Freddie before he saw his scarred face.
“You sure it was Stinky?” asked Mark Tidemore. He’d never liked that little worm. Back in high school he’d been a whiny jerk. He wasn’t even a good waterboy.
“No question. We talked. He took off his mask.”
“Well, I’ve put out an APB on him,” said Chief Purdue. “All three of my deputies are looking for him. We’ll never make a charge of threatening the mayor stick, but why take any chances.”
“I’m gonna get back to the party,” said Freddie. “I promised to take Aggie through the haunted house.”
“She’s been looking forward to that all week,” said her father.
“Me too,” Freddie admitted. “Donna Ann’s a little young for that. But Aggie’s brave. She even went trick-or-treating at the house next door to the Beasley Mansion tonight.”
“Beasley Arms,” Mark corrected him.
“Beasley Gardens,” responded Freddie.
“Oh, right.” Mark knew when to give in. A $200-million housing development was more important than what you might call it. Bobby Ray Purdue always stayed out of the limelight. That meant the mayor’s office would get all the credit. Yes, he liked that.
≈ ≈ ≈
Freddie found Aggie eating a caramel-coated apple on a stick near the fortune-telling booth. The planning committee had chipped in to hire Madam Blatvia for the occasion. “There you are,” he said to his favorite niece. “Ready to go through the haunted house?”
“You bet,” she said, tossing the half-eaten apple into a nearby trash receptacle. In her costume, she looked like an Alice late for a very important date. “We’d better hurry. It’s almost time for the cosplay contest. I don’t want to miss a chance to win that motor scooter.”
“Silly girl, you’re too young for a driver’s license.”
“I can store it in Grammy’s garage until I get my license. I’ll be eligible for a learner’s permit in two and a half more years.”
“You’re growing up fast, Miss Agnes Tidemore.”
“I’ll let you ride on my motor scooter if I win it,” she said.
The line to the haunted house had shortened considerably by this time of night. But screams and moans could still be heard coming from inside. The recording, no doubt.
“My treat, kiddo,” said Freddie, forking over four bucks to a pimply-faced kid at the entrance.
“Thanks, Uncle Freddie.”
“The sign says to abandon all hope,” he teasingly cautioned.
“I never give up hope,” she replied primly. “Let go inside.”
The darkened labyrinth took them first past a fan blowing cold air, a chilling breeze to set the mood. Groans and grunts were piped in via an overhead speaker. Next came a zombie popping up from nowhere, revealed in what looked like a flash of lightning. Then came the net-like spiderwebs hanging from the ceiling and phosphorescent black widows the size of dinner plates. Aggie screamed time and again.
As they came to the station where a cloth-wrapped mummy – that was Buddy Switzer, the star quarterback – lumbered from an alcove, arms outstretched, Aggie whispered to her uncle, “I smell something funny.”
“Funny?”
“Like a service station.”
“You mean gasoline?”
“Yeah, gasoline.”
Freddie froze in his tracks. Sniffing the air, he picked up the scent, that smell he’d encountered at the quarry. What had Stinky Caruthers said about testing a bomb … and the mayor being dead?
“Good gravy,” he said. “That’s the smell of napalm.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Waiting for the Fireworks
Stinky had shucked his Phantom costume and stuffed it in a garbage can near the gazebo in the town square. They couldn’t arrest him for sitting here on a bench enjoying the night, he told himself. The gazebo would provide a convenient ringside seat for the fireworks.
He watched straggling Trick or Treaters troll the perimeter of the grassy square. The air was nippy enough that he could see his breath. The temperature was dropping. It was almost 10 o’clock, the zero hour. He’d set the Big Ben alarms to detonate the bombs at ten sharp.
This bench was far enough away that he be safe from the blast, yet he expected he’d feel the heat on his face. He wouldn’t mind that. It was chilly out here without a coat.
He hated having to get rid of his Phantom disguise, but that Madison guy would likely give the cops his description. He’d said too much, more than he intended. But in ten more minutes it wouldn’t matter. Freddie Madison and the entire Caruthers Corners Police Department would be French fried right along with Mayor Tidemore.
The nerve of that guy wearing the same costume as him. He was the One True Phantom, not some local copycat wearing a plumed hat and cape. But he had to admit, under the mask the guy was a dead ringer for Gerard Butler in that Phantom of the Opera movie. He wondered if those scars were real, like the guy claimed.
Suddenly he heard screams and shrieks emanating from the Town Hall. At first he thought some prankster had jacked up the sound system from the haunted house, but no, he could see people streaming out of the big brick building, waving their arms in the air, shouting, “Run, run, it’s a bomb.”
How did they figure that out?
Maybe he did tell Freddie Madison too much.
≈ ≈ ≈
Freddie had cleared out the haunted house and flagged down Chief Jim Purdue. “Evacuate the building. I think there’s a bomb in the haunted house.”
“Think? You don’t know for sure?” responded the police chief. He wasn’t about to set off a panic unless he had clear cause.
“I told you about Stinky Caruthers. And there’s the smell of napalm in there.”
“Calm down, Freddie. Napalm? You sure this isn’t some sort of carryover from your service in Iraq?”
“This isn’t PTSD, Jim. And we didn’t use napalm in the Middle East. The US military hasn’t used it since 1975.”
The police chief looked dubious. “Then how do you know what it smells like?”
“It’s jellied gasoline. It smells like gasoline. I was with a bomb squad; they trained us.”
Fire Chief Pete Watson stepped out of the haunted house. He was a big walrus-looking man with a handlebar mustache. He carried his weight well, but he would never have passed the health exam required of new recruits. He flinched when he saw Freddie’s face without the Phantom mask. “I can smell gas in there, but could find anything. Place is a maze with the haunted house set up. Even with the lights on, I could hardly find my way around.”
“See?” said Jim Purdue. “There’s nothing in there.”
“What about the gasoline smell?” insisted Freddie.
“Maybe there’s a little gas leak,” he allowed.
“Propane doesn’t smell like that. Let me take another look.”
Freddie Madison re-entered the storeroom-cum-haunted-house with the two men at his heels. He sniffed at the air, turning toward a far wall. “Seems stronger over this way,” he said. “It would likely be hidden, maybe in a heating duct or a box or a closet.”
“There’s no closet in here,” said Pete Watson. “It’s one big storeroom if you moved these partitions out.”
Freddie shoved one of the office partitions aside, exposing the east wall. He sighted along the bottom, spotting the metal grill of a heating duct. Pushing aside more partitions, he made his way to it. “Here,” he said, pointing to the grill. One screw lay on the floor beneath it, a sloppy job of putting it back on.
Jim Purdue bent down and sniffed. “The gas smell is stronger, I gotta admit.”
“Anybody got a screwdriver?”
“Use my Swiss Army knife,” offered Pete Watson. “It’s got a screwdriver bl
ade.”
Freddie quickly removed the remaining three screws and pulled away the grill. “Don’t suppose this knife has a flashlight blade?” he said.
“Hang on. Bootsie carries a penlight in her purse. She’s just outside, near the punch bowl.”
“Get it for me, then clear the building – quick.”
Jim Purdue returned on the run, penlight in hand and the mayor a few steps behind. “Freddie, what’s this nonsense about a bomb? Is this more of your cockamamie suspicions about Stinky Caruthers?”
Freddie shined the light into the heating duct. “Cockamamie? Looks like some kind of time bomb to me.”
Everybody crowded to look. Sure enough, about two feet inside the metal duct sat a shiny canister with an alarm clock attached by red and green wires. “Holy Toledo, get everybody out of the building,” exclaimed Mark Tidemore.
The police chief scurried away to spread the word. Pete Watson tugged at the mayor’s arm. “You better go too,” he advised.
“Both of you go,” said Freddie.
“But I’m the fire chief. This is my job,” protested Pete Watson, eyes wild with fear. Sweat beaded his forehead.
“You ever disarmed a bomb?”
“Well, no –“
“I have. Both of you get out.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Maddy Madison filed out of the building with the others, making sure her family was in hand. Tilly had her kids, despite Aggie’s protest at leaving Uncle Freddie behind. Amanda had her daughter. Beau and Mark the Shark brought up the rear, ushering everybody out of the building and into the park across the street.
Maddy’s Quilters Club pals and their spouses were all accounted for, with Jim barking orders and directing people to safety.
High-school teachers were taking charge of the students, everything more orderly than one would expect in a situation calling for panic. But terrorist acts and potential disasters were foreign to Caruthers Corners, so this bomb threat seemed more like an obligatory fire drill than not.
Sewed Up Tight (A Quilters Club Mystery No. 5) (Quilters Club Mysteries) Page 13