Sewed Up Tight (A Quilters Club Mystery No. 5) (Quilters Club Mysteries) (9 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Boom!

T
hat 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.”

“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

M
addy 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!