2 The Patchwork Puzzler (9 page)

Chapter Nineteen

M
ark and his mother-in-law drove out to Melon Hill the next day, looking for a mailbox marked
LAZYNSKI
.
It took them two times circling the block before Maddy commanded, “Stop here!”

She was pointing at a small brick-front cottage set back from the road. There was no name on the mailbox, but a Pontiac parked in the driveway had a bumper sticker that announced
QUILTERS ARE NOT SQUARES
.

“Yep, this has to be the place,” agreed Mark. “That license-plate holder displays the name of a Pontiac dealership in Bloomington.”

They parked behind the Grand Prix and walked up to the front door. Before they could press the bell, the door swung open and an elderly woman said, “We don’t buy nothing from door-to-door salespeople.”

“Oh, we’re not salespeople,” replied Maddy in his politest tone. “We’re here to speak with your daughter, Mrs. Lazynski.”

“Holly’s not here.”

“Isn’t that her car in the driveway?” Mark nodded at the Pontiac Grand Prix.

“She went for a stroll.”

A voice from inside the house put a lie to her words. “Mom, who is it?”

“Solicitors,” shouted the cranky woman.

“No, I’m the wife of the mayor. And this is the town’s attorney.”

“Let them in, mom.”

The gray-haired woman stepped aside, granting them entrance to a cluttered living room. The couch was covered with protective plastic. Newspapers covered the coffee table, abandoned where they were read. The paintings on the walls were black velvet, a portrait of Elvis displayed prominently over the mantle. “Forgive the mess,” the woman muttered as they searched for places to sit.

Holly Eberhard strided in from the kitchen. The state quilting champion looked as chic as her mother looked frumpy. Her short blonde hair was a $200 styling job. Her makeup was picture-perfect, as if she was on her way to a high-society party. “Hi, I’m Holly,” she introduced herself, not the least self-conscious about the clutter of her family’s living room.

“Holly, my name is Maddy Madison. And this is Mark Tidemore. We’re here on a very sensitive inquiry. I hope you will allow us to ask you a few questions.”

“What? About my divorce. It’s getting quite nasty, I’ll admit that. My husband’s a jerk. It was him caught with a chorus girl, not the other way round.”

“No, nothing about that,” said Mark, his voice as reassuring as a priest’s. Maddy was impressed. “It’s about your quilting activities.”

“Oh that. Yes, I’m the state champion. Would you like to see my trophy? Mom has it sitting on top of the sideboard in the dining room.”

“Thanks, but that’s not necessary,” he replied politely. “We’d like to ask you about some of your recent work.”

“Ask away.”

Mark glanced at Maddy, a signal for her to take over the questioning. She had to admit he was very smooth, more like a porpoise than a shark.

“Forgive me, but I have to ask you this,” apologized Maddy. “Did you recently make an exact copy of Sarah Connors Pennington’s beehive quilt design?”

“Why yes,” Holly Eberhard replied, “I did.”

≈≈≈

In all his years as a lawyer, this was the easiest confession Mark Tidemore had ever encountered. Holly Eberhard batted her mascaraed eyelashes and stared at them as if waiting for the next question.

“You freely admit you made a fake Pennington quilt?” Mark repeated carefully.

“I wouldn’t call it a fake. I’d say duplicate or replica.” She waited for him to continue.

“Do you realize you may be subject to arrest?” Mark said.

“What for? I was commissioned to make an exact replica of three Pennington quilts by the Smithsonian.”

“By the Smithsonian – ?” blurted Maddy.

“Yes,” smiled Holly. “It’s their collection. They can do whatever they choose with it.”

“Why would they want copies?”

“So they can maintain a display back at the museum while the originals are on the road tour. It’s done all the time, I’m told.”

“And what happened with the three replica quilts?” asked Maddy.

“Two are finished, I’m working on the third. So all are still in my possession. Why do you ask?”

Mark took over. “We have evidence of a crime involving a fake Pennington quilt.”

“Well it can’t be mine. My quilts are in my quilt-carrying trunk. It’s sitting in mom’s guest bedroom at this very moment.”

“Here?”

“Yes, I brought them with me. As I said, I’m still working on the third.”

“Would you mind showing them to us, ma’am?”

“I suppose so. Right now?”

“Could you give us a half hour?” Maddy interjected. “I want to invite a colleague over to inspect them.”

Holly Eberhard frowned. “Say, what’s this all about?”

“A crime,” said Mark. “We told you that.”

≈≈≈

Daniel Sokolowski bent over the quilt, a jeweler’s glass screwed to his eye. “Hmm,” he said as he examined it inch-by-inch. The antique dealer wasn’t about to be hurried, determined to make an accurate assessment.

“Well?” said Maddy, getting impatient.

“Just a moment.”

After a few more minutes, Maddy carefully cleared her throat and repeated “Well?”

Sokolowski looked up. “Excellent copies,” he said.

“Thank you,” said Holly Eberhard. “But I
am
quite good at quilting. That why I’m the state champion, for goodness sakes.”

“I might mistake them for originals, except for this red thread. As I suspect you know it’s a synthetic blend, not available in 1924 when Sarah Pennington made her famous quilts.”

“Yes, but the original thread is no longer available. I was forced to use a substitute. Most people wouldn’t notice.”

“True,” he agreed. “It’s a wonder I did. Perhaps it was the way the light refracted on it.”

“I’m sure the Smithsonian will be satisfied. Everything else is authentic. It was quite a challenge finding original materials – fabric, threads, batting.”

“Yes, it would be,” agreed the antique dealer. “Some of these fabrics aren’t made anymore.

“These three quilts are excellent copies,” said Maddy. “How do we know she didn’t create a fourth?”

“Oh, I’d say she did,” opined the antique dealer. “Because the fake quilt you have was made with the same synthetic red thread as these three. That’s four in all.”

“Wait a minute,” growled Holly Eberhard. “Are you accusing me of a crime?”

“That’s not for me to say. All I can do is tell you that the same person who made these three quilts likely made the fourth that is hanging in the Town Hall.”

“That can’t be true,” she shrieked angrily. “I know how many faux Pennington quilts I made – three, not four.”

“That’s quite impossible.”

Mark held up his hand to silence them. “Mr. Sokolowski, could I ask you to look at this beehive design again. Are you certain it has the same synthetic thread as the others?”

“Well – ” the antique dealer hesitated.

“Humor me, please.”

“Alright, if you insist.” He returned the jeweler’s glass to his eye. Everyone waited while he inspected the beehive quilt with even greater care than before. “No way!” he said suddenly. “This can’t be right.”

“What?” demanded Maddy.

Mark smiled grimly, as if he already knew the answer.

“Should I call my attorney?” asked Holly Eberhard.

“Oh, I knew this sewing stuff would lead to no good,” wailed her mother, swaying back and forth on the plastic-covered couch.

“This quilt,” pronounced Daniel Sokolowski, “is authentic, not a copy!”

Chapter Twenty

A
ggie was sitting there listening to the women’s excited chatter. With all the excitement of a new baby, her mother had relented on her ban of Aggie’s participation in the Quilter’s Club.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Lizzie was saying. “Why would Holly Eberhard have allowed you to examine her quilts if she knew one of them was the stolen Pennington?”

“Beats me,” replied Bootsie. “But Jim has taken her into custody. Now if he can find that rascally cousin of hers.”

“Henry Caruthers can’t be far,” opined Maddy. “But Nan and Robert Kramer are likely in Canada by now.”

“Doesn’t Canada have an extradition treaty with the US?” asked Lizzie.

“Sure,” answered Bootsie, “if you can find them to arrest them.”

“I’m just relieved the stolen quilt has been recovered. If we can keep this quiet, the Smithsonian need never know it was missing.”

“Forget that,” said Maddy. “When they learn Holly Eberhard’s been arrested, everything will come out.”

“Oh fiddle.”

“Lizzie has a point,” continued Maddy. “I was there. And I think Holly was as surprised as we were when Daniel announced that her beehive quilt was authentic.”

“Maybe she’s a good actress,” postulated Bootsie. “The fact that Holly had the real quilt and we had the copy proves she’s guilty as sin. Case closed.”

“What if somebody else switched them,” Aggie spoke up.

“That’s not very likely, honey.” Cookie patted her on the arm, placating the girl for trying to be helpful. “The copies were in Holly’s possession. Who could have switched them?”

“Somebody stole yours and it was under lock and key. Hers were in an unlocked trunk.”

“Yes, but – ”

“Aggie has a point,” interceded Maddy. “Like I say, I think Holly Eberhard was as surprised as we were.”

“Are you saying Jim has an innocent woman locked up in the police department holding cell?” Bootsie looked like she was ready to pop a blood vessel.

“To tell the truth, I’m not sure. But we ought to figure out exactly what happened, else we might not be able to sleep at night.”

Lizzie gave her a stern gaze. “Because we may have accused an innocent person? Or because you can’t rest until you’ve solved the puzzle?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Okay, if Holly is innocent, who could have pulled the old switcheroo?” Cookie posed the question. She was almost as compulsive about solving puzzles as Maddy Madison. Every day she tackled
The New York Times
crosswords, unable to go to bed at night until she’d completed every square.

“Henry Caruthers,” said Aggie.

“What makes you say that?” Lizzie played along, amused by the girl’s tenacity.

“He took Mrs. Beanie’s keys, so he probably stole your quilt. And Holly Everlast – ”

“Eberhard,” Cookie corrected.

“ – Eberhard was his cousin, so he could have paid her a visit and switched the two.”

“But Henry Caruthers left a note in your grandmother’s house claiming he didn’t steal the quilt,” Bootsie reminded the girl. Not that the police chief’s wife actually believed the former mayor to be innocent.

“Maybe he was telling a fib,” offered eight-year-old N’yen. Maddy had both kids again today. “I sometimes tell fibs when I don’t wanna get caught.”

“Now there’s a theory I can buy into,” said Lizzie. She’d never truly liked Lefty Caruthers. He’d acted like a total jerk back in high school, when they sat next to each other in English class. She remembered him passing her notes with obscene suggestions. Just because he was the hotshot pitcher on the baseball team, he thought he could get away with murder. The nerve of that guy!

“Let’s think through this logically,” suggested Maddy. “We know Nan Beanie arranged for Henry Caruthers to take her office keys. She admitted as much. We know the beehive quilt disappeared from the locked conference room. There were only three sets of keys – Nan’s, Beau’s, and Jim’s. If we agree that neither my husband nor Bootsie’s stole the quilt, that leaves Henry because he had Nan’s keys.”

“So Henry’s a crook. But what about Holly?” Liz was still having trouble believing her quilting idol could have been involved in a heist.

“Holly was commissioned to sew three replica quilts. One of them – we can tell by the matching thread – was substituted for our quilt. Not just anyone would have known about her assignment to create duplicates or had access to them. But Henry Caruthers, who was Holly’s cousin, might have.”

“So either she was in league with Mr. Caruthers or he stole her fake quilt on his own, then substituted the real one,” said Aggie. Seemed a simple one-or-the-other to her.

“Where does this guy Kramer fit in?” asked Cookie. It was all so confusing.

“We know about him because of that to-do list of Nan’s we found. He ran a quilting store in Indianapolis. Maybe he was going to help them sell the quilt or planned to buy it for himself.”

“I figured Nan was going to run off with Henry,” said Bootsie. “She worked for him all those years, maybe fell for him. But it looks like she left the country with this Kramer guy instead.”

“I don’t get that part either,” nodded Cookie.

“If we found Henry, we could ask him,” said Maddy.