1 The Underhanded Stitch (7 page)

C
ookie found the newspaper article in her Historical Society archives. The dateline on the yellowed paper was marked April 12, 1934.

INDIANAPOLIS – Mrs. Martha Ray Johnson of Caruthers Corners placed first in the statewide Quilting Bee. Her design was judged most creative among 112 contenders. Reminiscent of a Currier and Ives scene, the quilt offered a bucolic view of a small Midwestern village. When asked where she got the idea for the design, she replied, “My hometown inspired me. Our Town Hall is a real jewel.”

“You mean – ?”

“That’s right,” nodded Maddy. “The ring is sewn into that prizewinning quilt hanging over Tall Paul’s fireplace.”

“Hm,” said Bootsie, “maybe the old crone wasn’t senile after all when she told her grandson that the ring ‘lies beneath the Town Hall.’ She wasn’t talking about the real brick-and-mortar building – she was referring to the building in the quilt pattern.”

“So what do we do?” asked practical-minded Agnes. “Knock on Mister Johnson’s door and ask him to let us cut open his grammy’s quilt?”

“I doubt he’d simply hand it over,” said Cookie, well aware how folks in these parts valued their family heirlooms.

“We have to steal it,” declared Lizzie, devious as usual.

“Wait, we can’t do that,” exclaimed Bootsie. “My husband’s the chief of police. How would it look if we got caught?”

“Then don’t get caught,” snapped Lizzie. Her friend Bootsie was such a wimp, always poo-pooing her brilliant suggestions.

“It’s not like we’d really be stealing the quilt,” rationalized Cookie. “Tall Paul will get it back once we recover the ring.”

“And Maddy’s husband is the rightful owner of the ring,” said Lizzie. “He paid Tall Paul a thousand dollars for it.”

“We need a plan,” suggested Maddy’s ten-year-old granddaughter with the ease of a professional jewel thief.

“Yes, a plan,” repeated Maddy thoughtfully.

≈≈≈

Tall Paul Johnson sighed when he answered the knock at his front door, finding Cookie Brown standing there dressed in her Sunday finery. “What do you want now? I done told you women everything I know about that blasted ruby ring.”

“Oh, I’m not here about that,” she lied. “As you know, Watermelon Days is coming up, and every year we display our best quilts at the Grange Hall. This year the committee voted to show not only new designs, but also some of the older quilts in the community. Someone pointed out that your grandmother’s quilt there over the fireplace won a state prize, so it would be only right to give it a place of honor in the show.”

“Not interested,” said the giant, slamming the door in her face.

Darn! Back to square one.

≈≈≈

Knock, knock!

“Yeah?” Tall Paul answered the door. At first he thought no one was there. The neighborhood kids were always knocking on his door and running, thinking it a fine joke to play on the two carnival freaks who lived on Easy Chair Lane. Then, he dropped his eyes to notice the small girl standing at his doorstep. “Young missy, whattaya want now?”

“I’m selling Girl Scout cookies,” Agnes announced brightly, holding up the two boxes her grammy had bought last year but never eaten.

“Girl Scouts! Young girls oughta stay home and learn to cook and clean. Ain’t got no business hiking and camping in the woods like wild Injuns.”

“Won’t you buy a box of cookies? It’s for a good cause.”

“Them things are filled with preservatives. Might stunt my growth,” chucked the seven-foot-tall man, pleased with his own joke.

Agnes’ assignment was to keep him talking while Lizzie slipped in the back door and grabbed Martha Ray Johnson’s prizewinning quilt. A criminal act, but Lizzie was a natural-born rule-breaker. Bootsie Purdue had refused to come along, spending the morning with her husband in order to have an alibi.

“You sure are tall,” Agnes marveled at Tall Paul’s height. “I’ll bet your taller than Michael Jordan.”

“By six full inches,” he said proudly.

“That’s neat-o. Were you already big when you were my age?”

“What age’s that?”

“Ten.”

“No, when I was ten – ”

Crash!

“What was that?” the big man looked over his shoulder.

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“Might-a been Bertha. She could’ve fallen off the bed. That happens sometime when she has them wild dreams about the circus. I told her to stop taking naps if she can’t sleep in peace, but she don’t listen to me. Says when she’s tired she’s tired. S’pose we gotta get her a king-size bed one-a these days.”

“Wait!” said Agnes, but it was too late. Tall Paul had disappeared into the interior of his house. He was sure to catch Lizzie in the act of burglarizing his prized patchwork quilt.

Not waiting for the police to come, Agnes raced across the front lawn, jumped the low hedge, and hotfooted it up Easy Chair Lane. Grammy and Cookie were waiting in the parking lot of the old chair factory with the SUV’s engine running.

“Where’s Lizzie?”

“I think she got caught.”

“Oh my,” her grandmother said to Cookie. “I told you Plan B would never work.”

≈≈≈

“I can’t believe you girls left me behind!” shouted Lizzie as she stepped into Maddy’s kitchen where the remnants of the Quilter’s Club had gathered to access damage.

“Lizzie!”

“What are you doing here?” said Maddy. “Aggie told us you got caught.”

Lizzie Ridenour stood there in the doorway, hands on her angular hips. “Do I look like I’ve been caught?”

As a matter of fact, the redhead did. She was a complete mess – hair askew, slacks ripped, scratches on her bare arms as if she’d been running through a briar patch. She’d made her escape through the wooded area behind Tall Paul’s cottage, an undeveloped section known as No Man’s Land. Obviously, it wasn’t a land suitable for women either.

“I thought you were a goner,” said Agnes, sounding overly dramatic. “He heard you make a noise.”

“Yes, I broke the back window trying to raise it. Never got inside the darned house.”

“So you ran when you heard him coming,” Cookie filled in the pieces.

“Like a bunny. I thought my heart was going to bust out of my chest. Whew!” Lizzie heaved a sigh, reliving the trauma of her escape.

“Well, do we call it off – or go to Plan C?” Maddy put it up for vote.

“Plan C,” said Cookie.

“Plan C,” echoed Agnes.

“Plan C,” agreed Lizzie, shaking her head at her own stupidity.

“By the way,” said Agnes, “what is Plan C?”

“Beats me,” replied Maddy with a weak smile.

B
eau Madison phoned his wife to say he was working late. Taking inventory at the hardware store. “I’ve been counting wing nuts all day long. Maybe I should have bought a Burger King franchise instead.”

“Don’t be too long,” Maddy cautioned. “Tomorrow’s Sunday and you’re leading the church choir for Reverend Copeland.”

“Oh right.”

Beau had a rich baritone voice. He often sang solos with the choir of Peaceful Meadows Church. And sometimes he led the gospel singers when the choral director was out of town. This weekend Ted Triplett was in Indy visiting his sick mother.

“I’ll wait up,” she promised.

“Okay, as long as you and those over-aged delinquents you call the Quilter’s Club stay out of trouble. Bootsie confessed all to her husband.”

“What’s Chief Purdue going to do about our mischief?”

“Same thing he did about mine – turn a blind eye. After all, nobody actually went inside Paul Johnson’s house. But I can tell you he was pretty steamed when he called me. Called Lizzie’s husband too.”

“I’m sorry, Beau. I don’t know what got into us girls.”

“Tilly’s going to be mighty upset when she learns you’ve involved her daughter in criminal acts.” His voice was quiet, as if speaking in church.

“We weren’t going to actually steal anything. Just retrieve the Colonel’s ring.”

“You know where it is?”

“Think so.”

“That’s why you girls were going to burglarize Paul’s house?”

“We thought of it as an unannounced visit.”

≈≈≈

“Mom, how could you?”

Maddy had just confessed all to her daughter. Agnes sat there on the couch, looking contrite.

“Guess we got carried away.”

“All Mark needs is something like this to claim I’m an unfit mother. Let’s not give him any help in this custody fight.”

“But we were so-o-o close,” wheedled young Agnes. “We almost had the ring.”

Tilly threw her hands into the air as if beseeching a higher power. “What is it with this stupid ring? It’s making everyone in this family crazy.”

“Cookie says it’s a piece of history,” said Agnes.

“Since when were you interested in history? You got
a
C
-
in U.S. History last semester!”

“History is important to Grampy. He spent lots of money on a marble statue of our ancestor, the one who helped found Caruthers Corners.”

Agnes’ mother gave her the eye. “What do you care about this hick town? You were born in Los Angeles.”

“But you were born here, mommy. Caruthers Corners is
your
hometown.”

“Yes, but – ”

Maddy patted her daughter’s hand. “She’s got you there, dear.”

“Finding this ring is important to you and those crazy old biddies in the Quilter’s Club?”

Maddy was taken aback by her daughter’s rude outburst. “Hey, those are my friends. Cookie Brown babysat you when you were five. Bootsie Purdue bought you your first bicycle. And Lizzie Ridenour made your prom dress for you.”

“Sorry I called them ‘old biddies,’” Tilly apologized.

“And crazy?”

“Their actions speak louder than words.”

Agnes tugged at her mother’s arm. “Hey, I’m a member of the Quilter’s Club. And I’m not crazy.”

“When did you get inducted in this witch’s cabal?”

“Tilly!”

“Sorry, mom. I meant Quilter’s Club.”

“I’ve been a member for over two weeks. Lizzie’s helping me finish my quilt.” She paused before adding, “And we did solve the mystery of the missing bronze bust – even if it did nail Grampy.”

“I’ve never seen you so involved in anything, short of a video game.”

“Mommy, Grammy and the ladies of the Quilter’s Club are so much fun. I never had friends that let me solve mysteries with them in California.  I love Caruthers Corners – except that I want my daddy to come here too. Please mommy. Can’t you make daddy move here with us?”

Tilly stared at her daughter as if she’d been replaced by body snatchers. She didn’t know what surprised her more. The fact that she wanted to stay in Caruthers Corners or the fact that she still didn’t understand that her father didn’t want to spend time with them anymore. She’d deal with that later –
again
. But for now at least Aggie liked her new surroundings. “You
really
like it here?” Tilly pressed, amazed at her daughter’s change of heart.

“Yes, I like staying with Grammy and Grampy. But I want daddy to be here, too!

“Honey, we’ve talked about this. We don’t always get what you want. But I’m glad you are so happy here.”

“I am, mommy.”

“And you really think you know where to find that ruby ring?”

“Un-huh. We were about to put Plan C into effect.”

Tilly gave a roll of her eyes then answered (much to her
own
surprise) “OK, Count me in, too.”

T
he Quilter’s Club met first thing the next morning while everyone else was in church. “Tall Paul teaches Sunday School, so he’ll be tied up ’til noon,” Maddy explained to her daughter.

Tilly couldn’t believe her ears. “That old crook teaches Sunday School? He cheated Dad out of a thousand bucks selling him that phony ring.”

“We’ll leave that between Paul Johnson and his Maker,” said Lizzie. “The point is, he’ll be out of the house.”

“What about his wife, that circus tattooed lady?”

“She worked for a carnival, not a circus,” corrected Cookie, a stickler for getting facts straight.

“Don’t worry about Mrs. Johnson,” said little Agnes. “Plan C will take care of her.”

≈≈≈

The van pulled up in front of the cottage on Easy Chair Lane. The lettering on the side panel identified it a
s
JIFFY HOUSECLEANING SERVIC
E
.

Maddy had rented the van late yesterday afternoon and Lizzie – having an artistic flair – had lettered it with a soluble non-permanent paint. Bootsie had bought two pair of coveralls and Cookie had rounded up the cleaning supplies.

Maddy made the phone call. “Hello, Mrs. Johnson. This is Myrtle at Jiffy Housecleaning. We’re calling to confirm your ten o’clock appointment.”

“There must be some mistake,” came Bertha Johnson’s drawl. She’d been raised in Tennessee. “I didn’t order any cleaning.”

“Hmm, are you sure? Our records show one hour of housecleaning scheduled for this morning. Paid in advance.”

“Paid, you say.”

“Yes ma’am. According to our records we owe you a cleaning that you’ve already paid for.”

“Like I say, there must be some mistake – ”

“If so, it’s your gain. We have a truck on the way.”

Larceny crept into Bertha Johnson’s heart. “Can you refund the money to me?”

“No ma’am. No refunds. But if you don’t want the cleaning, just send our crew back to the office. We’re kinda backed up today, plenty of other houses scheduled.”

“But it’s Sunday – ”

“One of our busiest days. Guess folks like to start off the week with a clean house.”

“That’s right, ma’am. But you can send our truck back if you feel there’s been some mistake.”

“No, no. Send ’em on. If you can’t gimme a refund, I’ll take the cleaning.”

Just then, Bertha heard a knock at the front door. She hung up the phone as she looked out the window. There was the Jiffy Housecleaning van in the driveway. “Hold your horses, I’m coming,” she shouted, starting that torturous journey down the stairs to the living room.

Being a recluse, Bertha didn’t know many of the town folk. She’d never laid eyes on the two women standing at her front door. “Jiffy Housecleaning,” Bootsie introduced herself. “We clean your house in a jiffy.” Lizzie was standing behind her friend, wearing identical beige coveralls, red hair tucked under a bandana.

“Come in, come in,” Bertha ushered them into the living room.

Lizzie tried not to stare. But this woman was a human canvas, every inch of her skin covered with ink – dragons and swirls and stars and more!

“According to our records, you have an hour’s worth of cleaning – already paid in advance. That should cover any room of your choice. Unless you want to pay for additional rooms at seventy-five dollars an hour.”

Bertha frowned. “Say, is this some kinda bait and switch? I’ve got an hour coming. Don’t try to wiggle out of it.”

“So shall we do your bathroom?”

Bertha bellowed, “You don’t get off with a tiny room like that. I want you to clean my living room.” That being the largest room in the house.

“No problem, ma’am. Step aside and we’ll get to work.” Bootsie could sound very officious when she wanted to.

“I’m going to stay right here and make sure you two do a thorough job. No slacking off with a lick and a promise.”

“Don’t worry, ma’am. You’ll get your money’s worth.”

That sounded all the better to Bertha Johnson, in that she hadn’t paid a nickel. Wasn’t her fault if Jiffy Housecleaning couldn’t keep its records straight.

Lizzie began vacuuming, while Bootsie polished the coffee table with Pledge. As expected, Bertha hovered over them like a mother hen, pointing out a fleck of dust here, a smudge on a mirror there.

Suddenly, the hum of industry was interrupted by a screech of tires and a child’s scream.

“What was that?” muttered Bertha, glancing toward the street.

“Sounded like an accident,” said Bootsie. “We’d better go see if anyone’s injured.”

“But I never go out – ”

“Quick, follow me. It sounded like somebody got hit by a car.”

As the two women stepped onto the porch, they could see an SUV stopped in the middle of the street, a little dog laying feet up on the asphalt in front of it. A little girl standing on the sidewalk was sobbing, “My doggie, my doggie!”

A carefully staged scene.

Tilly stepped out of the car, shouting, “I couldn’t help it. The dog ran right in front of my car.”

“Heaven help us,” gulped Bertha. “There’s hardly ever any traffic on this street.”

“Is the dog dead?” enunciated Bootsie, proud of her acting skills. She’d once had the lead in Shakespeare’s
Macbeth
in high school, playing the villainous queen.

“No, just injured,” replied the driver of the car. “I’ve already called for an help on my cell phone.”

“Thank the Lord,” said Bertha.

At that moment an ambulance pulled up, Ben Bentley driving, his huge form filling the cab. Cookie, wearing a jacket that sai
d
CARUTHERS CORNERS FIRE AND RESCU
E
was squeezed in beside him. You could see Ben smiling ear-to-ear, despite the supposed gravity of the situation.

“Over here, the dog,” pointed Tilly.

Ben hopped out, scooped Tige into his arms, and hustled the dog into the rear of the ambulance. The girl hopped in too.

“Is the puppy going to be all right?” called Bootsie, ad-libbing.

“If we hurry,” rumbled the big ambulance driver.

“I’ll follow you to the veterinarian in Burpyville,” announced Tilly, getting back into her car.

“Mercy me,” exclaimed Bertha Johnson as the vehicles sped away. Not wondering why an ambulance had been called to transport a dog to the vet’s.

“Gotta go,” announced Bootsie, looking at her Piaget. It was a pretty fancy wristwatch for a housecleaner.

“Go?”

“Hours up, lest you want to pay another seventy-five dollars.”

“But you were here on the porch, not working.”

“Time is money. We get paid by the hour.” Lizzie had appeared on the porch beside them, carrying the vacuum and the bucket of polishing rags.

“That ain’t fair,” complained the tattoo-covered woman. “I didn’t get my money’s worth.” Not that she’d paid any money in the first place.

“Don’t like it, talk to the office.” Bootsie was getting into her role. Giving the words an operatic infliction that had Lizzie rolling her eyes.

“I’ll just do that. I’m marching inside and calling Jiffy Housecleaning this very minute.”

“See you around,” called Bootsie as the two women climbed into the van.

Bertha thundered into the house and grabbed the phone receiver off its cradle, then realized she didn’t have a number for the cleaning service. That woman – what was her name, Myrtle? – had called her, not the other way around. She snatched up the thin Caruthers Corners phonebook and thumbed to the J’s. Jeffreys, Jillison, Jiggs … but no Jiffy Housecleaning.