3 Coming Unraveled (6 page)

Chapter
Fourteen

Amanda Madison was worried about her husband. While the burns were healing nicely, his acceptance of his altered appearance wasn’t going so well. He moped about his parents’ house like one of those zombies in
Dawn of the Dead
. That used to be one of his favorite movies, but he hadn’t even bothered to watch it when it came on TV the other night.

The adoption plans for the little girl he’d saved from the fire was going well, thanks to powerful friends in Atlanta. But she worried he might be too distracted with his own problems to take on the role of fatherhood.

“Maddy, do you think we need to talk Freddie into getting some therapy? The insurance would pay for it. But he doesn’t seem interested.”

“He’ll work it out,” her mother-in-law responded. “Freddie always had a good head on his shoulders. That fire may have burned o
ff his skin, but it didn’t reach the man inside.”

“I hate seeing him like this. So despondent.”

“He’ll come around. His new face just takes some getting used to. By all of us.”

≈≈≈

“I’m sooooo sorry,” Aggie was telling her mother. “But the Quilters Club was trying to solve a crime. We’re detectives, you know.”

Tilly Tidemore was still stewing. How dare her mother involve a child in illegal activities? The morning sickness had left her crabby lately. But this time her reaction was justified, she told herself.

“No trips to the Dairy Queen for a month,” she pronounced the sentence. “And no more Quilters Club – ever!”

“That’s not fair,” said Aggie. “I’m going to appeal.”

“You’re going to do what?”

“Hire me a lawyer and appeal.”

“Where are you going to find a lawyer, young lady?” her mother laughed at the idea.”

“Daddy’s a lawyer.”

“He charges $300 an hour,” Tilly countered.

“He does
pro Bruno
work,” said her daughter.

“You mean
pro bono
.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m going to appeal.”

≈≈≈

Mark the Shark was having a meeting with his other client, Sad Sammy Hankins. That property dispute.

“My farm is north of town, next to the old Baumgartner place,” the roly-poly man was saying. His skin was pale and puffy, like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. “There’s a fence separating the Baumgartner pasture from my watermelon field.” He laid two snapshots down on the table, there in a booth at Cozy Diner. “This first one was made twenty or thirty years ago, and here’s one made only a month ago. See the difference?”

Mark leaned closer to study the images. He could see that the position of the fence had shifted between the first snapshot and the second. A big elm tree was in front of the fence in one, behind it in the other. “Someone moved the fence,” the lawyer stated the obvious.

“Exactly.”

“Who do you think might be responsible?” asked Mark.

“Who else but Errol Baumgartner. He took over the farm when his grandpappy died.”

“When was that?”

“Maybe ten years ago. Old Man Baumgartner lived to be ninety-three. Had the constitution of a horse.”

Mark studied the pictures again. The newer photo was digital. The date it was taken was written by hand on the back
– July 20, 2012. The older photo had been printed from a film negative. It had been time-stamped on the back by the photo processor – August 12, 1982.

The fence could have been moved anytime between those two dates. But it really didn’t matter whether Errol Baumgartner or his grandfather moved the fence, it had clearly been moved.

“Do you have any surveys?”

“
Right as rain, I do. Here’s the plait survey from the courthouse. And here’s the survey I paid for two weeks ago. Shows that the Baumgartner fence is setting twenty feet over on my property.”

“Okay, this should be a slam-dunk,” Mark concluded. “I’ll need to keep theses photos and the surveys.”

“No problem. Just kick Errol Baumgartner’s butt. He’s as weird as his grandpappy.”

“Weird?”

“The Baumgartners never were very neighborly. I doubt anybody’s been allowed to set foot on that farm in half a century. You’d think they’re hiding Elvis out there.”

Chapter
Fifteen

That weekend the three families were having a backyard cookout at the Madisons’ beautiful Victorian mansion on Melon Pickers Row. Ben was manning the barbeque grill, basting the steaks with his special watermelon sauce. Edgar was playing bartender. Beau and Jim were acting as tasters.

Their wives were taking it easy at the shaded patio table, happy to not be fixing dinner
, the men waiting on them for a change. Not that they deserved any pampering after that misadventure involving Maud Purdue’s quilt, Beau pointed out.

“But, dear,” argued his wife, “if we hadn’t bent the rules a little, no one
– not even Maud – would have known about the money hidden in that ugly old quilt.”

“A little,” snorted Jim. “
Breaking and entering is a criminal offence punishable by up to five years in prison.”

“You’d miss me,” teased Bootsie. Defiant as usual.

“Could I convince you to press charges against Lizzie,” called Edgar from behind the Tiki bar. “Give me more free time for fishing if she was locked up in jail.” He was enjoying his retirement, spending most weekends with a rod and reel in his hand.

“Oh poo,” his wife respo
nded. “Who would fix you dinner?”

“Ben,” he said, pointing toward the burly man at the stone grill
. “He’s a damn good cook. We’d eat steak every night.”

“Not with his cholesterol levels,” Cookie chimed in. “Red meat is off his diet, tonight being an exception.”

“I have a theory about that guy at Burpyville Memorial,” volunteered Maddy to no one in particular.

Being on the hospital’s board, that got Edgar’s attention. “What theory’s that?” he asked while mixing a
frothy gin fizz for his wife. Lizzie was fond of sweet alcoholic concoctions.

“I think he’s really Jud Watson.”

“You’re saying Bernard Warbuckle is actually one of the Lost Boys?”

“Why else would he switch the DNA samples?” Maddy posited. “He was in on the swindle with his
pal Harry.”

“Doggone,” said Jim. “That makes sense.”
You could almost see the lightbulb coming on over his slick head.

“But why would Jud Watson change his identity in the first place?” asked Beau, confused.

“So he could get a job at the hospital,” speculated Cookie. “Pretend he was qualified as a lab technician.”

“
There might be another reason,” suggested Maddy. “What if Harry Periwinkle and Jud Watson killed Bobby Ray Purdue? That would explain why they disappeared, changed their names.”

“Why would they kill their
childhood buddy?” asked Jim, switching back to cop mode.

“Maybe Bobby Ray told them about the money
– and they killed him for it.”

“And waited thirty years to go after it?”

“Who knows? Maybe they panicked, ran away. Only got up the courage in recent years.”

“I’ll float that idea with the state boys,” said Jim after a moment’s thought. “Might be something there.”

≈≈≈

Daniel Sokolowski had been giving some thought to that money found in
Amandine Gersbach Purdue’s quilt. He’d spoken with several
numismatists since his first appraisal and was coming to the conclusion it was worth even more than he originally thought.

In trying to figure out its provenance,
he could pin it down to around 1899, the year Maud Purdue said her husband’s grandmother made the quilt. The various bills were minted in 1880, 1882, 1891, and 1899 – nothing later.

Abner
Purdue had started E Z Seat in 1899, according to public records. Did he come into an inheritance about then? Did he have secret investors? Or did this represent twenty years of scrupulous saving? It was anybody’s guess.

Hiding money away was not
an unusual practice back then. Simple country folk had a distrust of banks. Some buried it in their backyards. Others stuffed it in their mattress. Why not sew it into a padded quilt?

Chapter Sixteen

That Monday Cookie Bentley called a special meeting of the Quilters Club. Their regular room at the senior recreation center was booked, so they met at the Caruthers County Historical Society. The office was cramped but provided convenient access to Cookie’s filing cabinets.

“I know where the money came from,” she announced.

“What money?” said Lizzie, distracted by being late for an appointment with her hairdresser. Lee Ann would charge her whether she showed up or not.

“The money in the quilt. Pay attention, hon.”

“Oh, right.”

“So tell us,” demanded Bootsie. A no-nonsense gal, she
had little patience.

“What do you know about the Fire of 1899?” Cookie asked, as if she were a history teacher addressing a class.

“Not much,” admitted Maddy. “Just that most of the town burned down.”

“Half.” Cookie spread a faded map across her desk. “The south end was completely engulfed in flames,
all the buildings lost. The firemen made a stand, stopping the conflagration within a block of town hall.”

“Didn’t it start at the
First Wabash National Bank?”

“That’
s right. Burned to the ground. Even melted the vault. Cleaned First Wabash out of some two million dollars, according to this report.” She laid a yellowing newspaper atop the map. The headline read: FIRE LEVELS TOWN.

“What started it?” Bootsie wanted to know.

“No one knows for certain, but according to this account in the
Burpyville Gazette
it was thought to be ‘spontaneous combustion of paint fumes.’ Seems the bank had been painted the day before.”

“You don’t think so, do you?” Maddy was a quick study.

“No, I think the bank was set on fire to cover up a robbery. That’s where the money in the quilt came from.”

“
Stolen by my husband’s great grandfather?” gasped Bootsie.

“We know Abner Purdue came into money about then. Used it to start
E Z Seat. His wife made that ugly old quilt the same year.”

“And she left the quilt to her grandson
’s wife,” Lizzie nodded. “Now I have to go. I can’t keep Lee Ann waiting.”

“Actually, to her son Bobby Ray,” corrected Cookie.

“If you say so,” shrugged Lizzie, gathering up her quilt squares.

“Just a minute,” said Maddy, waving for her friend to sit
back down. “We have to solve this mystery.”

“Oh, okay. But the answer is as plain as the nose on your face.
Bobby Ray told his two friends about the money in the quilt and they pushed him into a quicksand bog so they could steal it, right?”

“Something like that,” beamed Cookie Bentley, proud of her connect-the-dots theory.

≈≈≈

Police Chief Jim Purdue nodded his head. “Looks like the Quilters Club has solved another puzzle,” he agreed.
They were gathered in the mayor’s office there in the Town Hall.

Beau was seated behind his desk. “I’ve gotta admit it all makes sense,” he said. “
A bank robbery. That money had to come from somewhere.”

“Who’s money is it now?” asked Jim.

“Beats me. Better call the state boys and let them sort it out.”

“Before you do that,” suggested Maddy, “why not confront
Harry Periwinkle with this and see if he confesses. He might know where Jud Watson is hiding.”

“
Not a bad idea, but I’d have to have his lawyer present,” the police chief pointed out.

“So call Mark,” she said. “He should be at his office.”

Chapter Seventeen

Mark Tidemore met the entourage at the Caruthers corners Police Department. “Sorry,” he said to them, “but only the Chief gets to question Harry Periwinkle. The rest of you have to wait outside.”

“But
–”

“Those are the conditions,” the attorney said, avoiding the stares of his in-laws.

“C’mon,” said Beau Madison to the members of the Quilters Club. “Let’s walk down the street to the DQ. I’ll buy everybody a milkshake.”

Mark looked at his shoes
while everyone but Jim Purdue filed out of the room. The police department was a small brick building: Inside there was a reception area with a long counter, an inner office with two desks, two holding cells, Jim’s own office, and a locked storage room where they kept weapons and ammunition and a battering ram they’d never used.

Harry
Periwinkle was sitting forlornly in the holding cell on the left, as if waiting for something to happen. “Hi,” his attorney greeted him, stepping close to the bars. “The Chief has a few questions for you. I’ll be here to object if I don’t think you should answer. Okay?”

The prisoner looked up, eyes blank. “Whatever.”

Jim Purdue edged closer. “A great deal of money has been found inside that old quilt you tried to get your hands on. Do you know how it got there?”

“Bobby Ray’s
great grandmother made the quilt. I’d guess she put it in there.”

“Where did an old country woman get her hands on that much money?” pressed Jim.

“Beats me. Bobby Ray never said.”

“Do you and Jud Watson kill Bobby Ray?”

Mark interjected, “Don’t answer that.”

The prisoner shrugged and said, “Whatever.”

Jim tried again. “Does Jud go by the name Bernard Warbuckle?”

“Maybe
, maybe not.”

“Did he jimmy that DNA test so you could pass as Bobby Ray Purdue?”

Mark spoke up again. “Harry wasn’t there at the time. He can’t know what Jud Watson did or didn’t do.”

Jim scowled in the attorney’s direction. “But that was the plan, wasn’t it?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Where have you been for the past thirty years?”

“I told you,” said Harry Periwinkle. “I became a pirate.”