Sewed Up Tight (A Quilters Club Mystery No. 5) (Quilters Club Mysteries) (8 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Circus Boy

T
hat next morning Maddy caught up with her son Freddie at the Haney Bros. Zoo. She used the excuse that she was dropping off some ginger cookies for his daughter Donna Ann, but he smelled a rat right away.

“Come on, Mom. What’s up?” he said as she handed over the tin of freshly baked cookies. “You didn’t bake these for my daughter. You know she can’t have sweets.”

True, his adopted daughter recently had been diagnosed with early onset diabetes, Type 2. Maddy had been so wrapped up in what she wanted to discuss with her son, she hadn’t really thought through her trumped-up excuse.

“Got me,” she admitted. “I wanted to have a motherly word with you.”

He smiled, making the leathery skin of his face wrinkle in strange way. Damn scar tissue. “You don’t need to manufacture a reason to do that. Let me take a guess: You want to ask me more details about finding Skookie Daniels’ body?” Word had spread through the family that the Quilters Club was on another case. Aggie was excited by the idea that they were searching for a ghost – real or imagined.

Maddy grimaced. “Not that,” she said. “About the other thing.”

“Oh, you mean the fire … my burned face … my reduced to being a clown … my turning into a lousy husband and a not-so-good father?”

“Yes, that.”

“Anybody else, I’d tell them it’s none of their business and that they can go take a flying –”

“–but I’m your mother,” she cut him off.

“Let’s walk out back,” he said, nodding toward a worn path in the grass between two large circus tents. “Bombay’s finished exercising Happy for today.”

“Happy?”

“The elephant.”

They strolled back to a large fenced-in field where an Africa pachyderm stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Meet Happy. He’s about ten feet tall and weighs some 12,000 pounds. We think he’s around 40 years old.”

“Is it safe to be this close?” She noted the elephant wasn’t tethered.

“Happy’s a friendly boy. Being an African elephant, he has those large ears and big tusks. Makes him look more fearsome than he really is. Happy loves giving children rides on his back. He as tame as a cocker spaniel.”

“You seem to like him.”

“We have a lot in common, if you notice his tough, wrinkly skin.”

“Freddie, don’t feel so sorry for yourself. You came out of that fire alive. And you saved that little girl. Now you owe her a good home, a good family.”

“Like that old Chinese saying, ‘He who saves a life is responsible for it’?”

“I was thinking more of that old
Yancy Derringer
TV show where a Pawnee Indian named Pahoo-Ka-Ta-Wah is required to watch Yancy’s back after saving his life.”

“Same idea, I guess.”

“So what are you going to do to get out of this funk?”

“Dunno, Mom. I just feel like I’m worthless. That I have no real purpose.”

“Entertaining children may not be curing cancer, but it’s not a bad thing to be doing.”

He hung his head. “I can’t even entertain my own daughter.”

“What about your wife?”

“Amanda’s great. But I feel I’ve let her down. I’m not the man I once was.”

“Oh. Did the fire damage any… delicate parts?”

“Not that. The damage, I think, is more inside my head than on my skin.”

“So how do we fix this?”

“I’ve got a plan. But I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”

≈ ≈ ≈

The Phantom had been hanging out in the old Beasley place for several months now – at least before the police came. Everybody knew it was abandoned, had been for nearly a century. A wonder the building was still standing, although those granite boulders were as solid as a mountainside.

Years ago his father had taken him to the quarry where the stones had been mined. Once it had been a major source for building materials. Many of the early skyscrapers in Chicago were constructed with blocks from this quarry.

Now a big hole in the ground that was halfway filled with water, kids swam in it during the summer. But this time of year, nobody would be around. It would be a great place to test his homemade Napalm B.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Heritage Quilt

W
ith barely any advance notice, Cookie Bentley called a meeting of the Quilters Club. Even Aggie was invited. Again, they met at the Cozy Café, the little eatery next to the DQ. Together these establishments served as the town’s “food court,” the choice being blue-plate specials and watermelon pies … or toasted cheese sandwiches and watermelon shakes.

The four women and girl took their usual corner booth, for it was big enough to hold five. The red leatherette was worn slick from people sliding in and out over the years. It was the same upholstery Maddy remembered from when they were in high school, popular girls on the cheerleading squad. Matter of fact, Beau had proposed to her on graduation night in this very booth.

After the waitress took their orders for pie and coffee – chocolate milk for Aggie – they settled down to listen to Cookie’s news.

“Go ahead, Cookie,” urged Maddy. “Tell us what’s got you so agitated?”

The blonde woman surveyed the table, catching each of their eyes. “Today I received that photograph of the Beasley Heritage Quilt from that little museum in Massachusetts.” She pulled a FedEx pak out of her oversized purse and slapped it down on the Formica. “I haven’t looked at it yet. I was saving it for all the group to see.”

“Let’s have a look without further preamble,” urged Lizzie. Having a nervous bladder, she was not one for waiting.

“Oh boy, an historical quilt we haven seen before,” gushed Bootsie. “I can hardly wait.”

The women leaned closer as Cookie tore open the red-white-and-blue pak. She pulled out the letter first. It read:

Dear Mrs. Bentley,

The Beasley Heritage Museum is a non-profit organization dedicated to preserving the history of the Beasley family. It was established by Major Samuel Elmsford Beasley of Hobson’s Landing, Massachusetts, and Caruthers Corners, Indiana. In 1829 Major Beasley led a wagon train from the East Coast to the Indian Territory. There he heroically fought in the Battle of Gruesome Gorge against a fierce tribe o
f
Potawatomi Indians
.
Upon routing these savages, Major Beasley helped found the town of Caruthers Corners. It was originally named Beasleyville, but in a political upset the name was changed by a vote of the early settlers led by Jacob Abernathy Caruthers. Major Beasley’s wife Madelyn Taylor Beasley recorded that early history in a magnificent one-piece quilt that is on display as the centerpiece of the Museum. It is considered a masterpiece of Colonial-style needlework. Enclosed are photographs of the quilt per your request.

Cordially yours,

Eunice Smith-Cardwell

Executive Director

Maddy stared at the letter. “Madelyn Taylor Beasley?” she sputtered. “I was born Madelyn Taylor. Does that mean I might be related to the Beasleys?”

≈ ≈ ≈

Cookie Brown rolled her eyes. “That’s doubtful, but I’ll check the genealogy charts,” she promised. The Historical Society kept records of local family trees. “I should know the answer, but truth is everybody always focused on Major Beasley, paying little attention to his wife’s lineage.”

“Don’t be too fast to discount that possibility,” warned Maddy. “My great-great grandfather was Rev. Thaddeus Barrington Taylor. He and his wife Millicent were members of that wagon train. Could they have been related to Major Beasley’s wife?”

Bootsie wagged a finger of warning. “We shouldn’t take this letter at face value, Maddy. It says Old Sam led the wagon train, but we know it was actually led by Col. Beauregard Madison – your husband’s great-great grandfather. The history books are quite clear on that.”

“That’s right,” nodded Cookie. “You can find the details in
The History of the Indian Territory, 1800 - 1900
by Nelson Lawrence Chadwick. According to the book, Major Samuel Beasley played a minor role in the founding of the town. And it was
never
known as Beasleyville.”

“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

B
obby 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.”