3 Coming Unraveled

Coming

Unraveled

A
Quilters Club Mystery

Marjory Sorrell Rockwell

ABSOLUTELY AMAZING eBOOKS

Published by Whiz Bang LLC, 926 Truman Avenue, Key West, Florida
33040, USA

Copyright © 2013 by Gee Whiz Entertainment LLC.

Electronic compilation copyright © 2013 by Whiz Bang LLC.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized ebook editions.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. While the author has made every effort to provide accurate information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their contents.

For information contact:

[email protected]

Other Quilters Club Mysteries

By Marjory Sorrell Rockwell

The Underhanded Stitch

The Patchwork Puzzler

Available from
AbsolutelyAmazingEbooks.com

Coming

Unraveled

A Quilters Club Mystery

A day patched with quilting seldom unravels.

Chapter One

Maddy Madison had heard the story for years, how three boys disappeared back in 1982 in the Never Ending Swamp, 400 acres of bog, primeval trees, tangled brush, and deadly quicksand, located just north of Caruthers Corners on Highway 102. Parents still told the story to their children as a cautionary tale.

The missing youths
– Harry Periwinkle, Jud Watson, and Bobby Ray Purdue – had been 12 at the time, sixth graders at Madison Elementary. They were last seen hiking across Edwin Baumgartner’s pasture, a grassy expanse that abuts Never Ending Swamp on its southern perimeter.

Maddy’s husband Beauregard Madison was the current mayor of Caruthers Corners. And every time she visited his office at the Town Hall she saw the small bronze plaque that dedicated the building to the memory of that trio commonly referred to as The Lost Boys.

A squib in the
Burpyville Gazette
noting that this was the 30
th
Anniversary of the disappearance caught Maddy’s attention.

At the weekly meeting
of the Quilters Club, which took place on Tuesdays in the Hoosier State Senior Recreation Center, Maddy raised the question to her three BFF’s. “What do you suppose happened to those poor boys?”

“Probably stepped in
a pool of quicksand,” shrugged Liz Ridenour. “Died an agonizing death, no doubt.” The redhead tended to be somewhat dramatic.

“
Mostly likely they got disoriented in the swamp and died of starvation,” posited Cookie Bentley. Being the town historian, she was more practical in her viewpoints.

“Some people think they ran away, went to Indianapolis,” shrugged Bootsie Purdue. Her husband
Jim was related to one of the boys. “But Bobby Ray’s mother hasn’t received a single postcard in thirty years so I agree with Cookie.”

“The park service ought to drain that ol’ swamp,” said Maddy as she
sorted out her quilting squares. “It’s a public nuisance.”

“It’s a watershed area,”
Lizzie pointed out. “No one is going to touch it.”

Cookie added, “
When the first pioneers arrived, more than 80% of Indiana was covered with forest. Now only 17% of the state is considered forested. Nobody’s going to cut down those trees.”

“Nobody goes in there anymore. Not even hunters,” re
plied Bootsie. “Those boys are the only recorded deaths in fifty years, so the state doesn’t consider it much of a hazard.” Her husband was the police chief, so she knew about those things.

“
Guess it doesn’t really matter whether it was quicksand, starvation, or bears,” said Maddy, “those poor boys are still dead.”

But they weren’t. At least, one of them wasn’t.

≈≈≈

The stocky man who presented himself to
Chief Jim Purdue at the Caruthers Corners Police Department shook the chief’s hand and announced, “I’m your cousin Bobby Ray.”

Suspicious by nature, a trait reinforced by twelve years as a lawman, Chief Purdue snorted, “Like hell you are.”

But his visitor was adamant. “My daddy’s your daddy’s brother. Me and your younger brother went to school together. I’ve been to your family’s house for dinner when I was little.”

“What’s
your daddy’s middle name,” snapped Jim. He’d learned that you could trip crooks up by clever questioning.

“Manfred,” the stranger replied without hesitation. Right, as it turned out.

“What was your dog’s name?”

“Bowser.” The man shrugged. “I s’pect he’s long dead after thirty years.”

Jim Purdue paused. “Yeah, I remember that old mutt. He was good at digging muskrats out of the river bank.”

“That’s right,” said the stranger. “Me
and Harry and Jud used to play along the Wabash. We should’ve taken Bowser with us on that hike to Never Ending Swamp. It might have turned out different. That dog sure had a good sense of direction.”

The police chief decided to take a different tack. “So you boys got lost
in the swamp?”

“Did we ever.”

“But you obviously found your way out. How come nobody ever heard from you boys again?”

“Oh, we became pirates. Sailing under a black flag.”

That’s when Bootsie’s husband decided that this returned-from-the-dead Lost Boy was totally mad. Pirates? Black flag? They were in the middle of Indiana, for God’s sake – not a drop of ocean to be found for 680 miles.

“Hang on. I’ve got to make a call.”

“Sure, I’m not going anywhere.”

The police chief dialed the familiar number.
“Hello, Beau,” he spoke loudly into the phone. “Get your skinny butt over to the police station. I’ve got somebody you’ll sure as heck want to meet.”

≈≈≈

Beauregar
d
Hollingswort
h
Madison IV was descended from one of the founders of Caruthers Corners, a wily fur trapper who stayed on after his wagon train broke down in “Indiana territory.” Even though the state took its name from the Indians, there are fewer than 8,000 Native Americans living here today.

Beau had been elected mayor after the previous officeholder had been run
out of town for financial improprieties. He was now in his second term. People said he was doing a good job, which meant he let things coast along without any mishaps.

Th
e mayor was huffing and puffing as he walked into the boxy redbrick building that housed the Caruthers Corners Police Department. He was still in his shirtsleeves, tie askance, looking a bit wild-eyed. “One of the Lost Boys turned up?” he greeted his best friend.

“That’s what
the fellow claims,” responded Jim Purdue. “Of course, he also professes to be a pirate.”

“A what
–?”

“You know, like Blackbeard. A
seafaring buccaneer.”

“That’s ridiculous,” sputtered Beau. “There aren’t any pirates these days. Well, maybe over in
Somalia. But not here in Indiana. The man must be insane.”

“My thoughts exactly,” nodded the police chief. “But this thing about being one of the Lost Boys requires some sorting out.”

“What’s to sort?”

“Well, he knows a lot of stuff that only my cousin Bobby Ray would know. Like his old dog’s name.”

“Anybody around here might remember that. Boner, I think it was.”

“Bowser,” corrected the police chief.

“Boner, Bowser, it doesn’t make any difference. Your cousin’s been dead for thirty years.”

“Twenty-three,” smiled Jim. “The family had to wait seven years to have him declared
legally dead.”

“So what else does
this guy know?”

“He remembers coming to my family’s house for Sunday dinner when he was a boy. Described the dining room right down to the mahogany table and the breakfront with its Blue Willow China.”

“Plenty of people have been to dinner at your mama and daddy’s house out on Melon Rind Road.”

“Not lately. That house burnt down in 1988, just six years after them boys went marching off to
the Never Ending Swamp.”

“So what? He’s gotta be a fake. You don’t just disappear for thirty years and then turn up like you’ve been
out for a stroll.”

“My thoughts exactly. But that raised another question
– if he ain’t Bobby Ray Purdue, then who the hell is he?”

Chapter Two

Maddy and Beau had three grown children – all happily married, she’d be pleased to report
.
Bill – the oldest – and his wife Kathy lived in Chicago with adopted son N’yen. Freddie and his wife Amanda lived in Atlanta, where he was a decorated fireman. And Tilly and her lawyer-husband Mark “the Shark” Tidemore had moved back to Caruthers Corners with daughter Agnes two years ago. Then had another, little Taylor.

Twelve-year-old Aggie was an unofficial member of the Quilters Club. She was getting pretty good at making patchwork quilts, having just completed her third.

The Quilters Club was all abuzz about the appearance of Bobby Ray Purdue (or a guy claiming to be the missing hiker). It was a hot topic all over town, especially once the FBI got involved. Never Ending Swamp was close enough to the Ohio border to presume it might have been an interstate kidnapping.

An Associated Press story fuelled the flames:

‘
Lost Boy’ Re-Appears After Three Decades

AP - Thirty years ago three Indiana boys went missing, thought to have been lost in a large marshy expanse known as the Never Ending Swamp. Bobby Ray Purdue and his two companions Jed Watson and Harry Periwinkle disappeared on August 12, 1982, while hiking near the public land. Despite the posted No Trespassing signs, it is thought the trio wandered into the area known for its quicksand, poisonous snakes, and sightings of bears. But now, someone claiming to be Bobby Ray has turned up. A grown man with a full beard, he says he became “a pirate.” Other than that, the mystery man has refused to make any further statements to the FBI ….

Everybody was asking Maddy Madison’s opinion on the matter, as her son-in-law Mark had been appointed by Judge Cramer to represent the claimant. Turns out, Bobby Ray Purdue’s father had left him half-ownership of the E Z Seat chair factory, the largest single employer in Caruthers Corners. The other half had gone to an older brother, Newcomb Lamont Purdue – commonly known as N.L. And he, of course, was contesting the pretender’s identity.

Bootsie got lots of questions too, being a member of the Purdue clan. But she said she couldn’t comment due to the impending lawsuit. N.L. was peeved that Mark Tidemore had taken the case, even though it had been by a court appointment.

Liz didn’t let that stop her. She loved good gossip. It was she who reported that a DNA test was planned, a move that would scientifically settle the identity question. Her retired banker hubby happened to be on the board of a hospital over in Burpyville, the facility where the test was taking place.

“What’s DNA?” asked Aggie. She was a precocious young lady, a straight-A student at Madison Elementary.

“That’s deoxyribonucleic acid,” answered Cookie, the Brainiac in the group. “It’s a material in your body that is unique to you and you alone, what they call a ‘genetic marker.’
”

“Oh.”

“That should settle the matter,” nodded Lizzie, red hair bouncing with the energetic motion. She was a gaunt woman, her expression a little pinched, but you could tell she’d been a beauty in her day.

“N.L. is paying for the test,” Bootsie broke her silence. Her rounded features made her look like a
vintage Baby Huggums doll. “He is convinced the guy’s an imposter.”

“Why is he so certain?” asked Maddy.

“The eyes. This guy has brown eyes. His brother had blue.”

“If he’s a fake, will he be in trouble?” Cookie asked the police chief’s wife.

Bootsie nodded. “N.L. plans to press charges. Jim will have to arrest him for trying to swindle N.L. out of half of E Z Seat. If he doesn’t arrest the guy, we’ll never get invited to another Purdue family dinner.”

Being the wealthiest man in town,
Newcomb Lamont Purdue ruled family members like an Arab potentate overseeing his tribe. He’d hired L. Wainscott Gabney as his lawyer. A senior partner of the Indianapolis law firm of Preston, Whitney & Gabney, he had a reputation for winning cases involving fraud and other white-collar crimes.

Mark Tidemore was going to have a tough time keeping his client out of jail if the DNA backed up N.L.’s accusation.

≈≈≈

As it turned out, Maddy and Beau Madison didn’t learn the results of the DNA test until much later. Their son Freddie was badly burned in an Atlanta apartment house fire while rescuing a two-year-old girl trapped on the third floor. Doctors gave him a fifty-fifty chance of surviving
the second-degree burns that covered 30% of his body.

Maddy spent a month at her son’s bedside, with Beau commuting back-and-forth to Indiana. The town needed its mayor.

When Freddie was finally released from the Northside Atlanta Burn Center, she brought him and Amanda back to Caruthers Corner to recuperate. It would be a long and painful process.

The Atlanta Fire
Rescue Department had pensioned Frederic Hollingsworth Madison out on full disability as well as giving him a medal for his bravery. Founded in 1882, the AFRD protects an area of approximately 132 square miles. Freddie Madison had been assigned to Battalion 6’s Engine 27.

Fellow firefighters
of Battalion 6 chipped in and bought him a 60” Magnavox HDTV as a retirement present. Maddy had shipped it to Indiana and installed it in his old bedroom in the Victorian home on Mellon Pickers Drive.

“Thanks, Mom,” Freddie said as his mother brought another serving of watermelon pie to his room.
It had been a favorite of his since childhood. The Caruthers Corners Watermelon Festival had been an annual highlight for him.

“Just lay back and relax till you’re feeling better,” Maddy said. “You and Amanda are welcome to stay as long as you want. Forever would be about right for me and your dad.”

“You’re going to get sick of living with the Phantom of the Opera. I’ll scare the neighborhood children.” The fire had left Freddie’s face looking like melted wax.

“Don’t be silly. You’re the same guy that won the regional
wrestling championship for Caruthers Corners High. And the winner of the greased pig competition at the 1999 Watermelon Festival.”

“Back then they called me Fantastic Freddie. But now
it’ll likely be Freddie Krueger.”

“Oh shush. No feeling sorry for yourself. You’re alive.
And so is that two-year-old girl.”

“Donna
Ann Maypole, that’s her name. Too bad her mother didn’t survive the fire. She handed me her child and said, ‘Save her, don’t worry about me.’ Then she was swallowed by flames.”

“What will happen to that little girl. Is there a family?”

“No, her mother was all alone. Her father died in a car accident about a year ago.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Amanda and I are talking about adopting her. She has no one. And we need someone.”

“Would the state let you?”

“The fire chief says he can pull some strings. Maybe.”

“We’d welcome a granddaughter.”

“Amanda plans to go back to teaching. I’d become Mr. Mom. After all, nobody’s going to hire a scarred-up goblin like me.”

“You’re disabled, hon. Your body may never be quite the same.
You can’t go back to work for a long time – if ever.”

“I know. But it’s hard to get used to. I was always the athletic one of the Madisons. Bill was a bookworm. Tilly a dainty little social butterfly.”

“Your prowess served its purpose. You saved that little girl’s life.”

“You should have seen me, Mom. I jumped from that burning apartment building
onto the roof of the grocery store next door, that kid in my arms, my hair on fire. The guys on my truck said I looked like a superhero character, the Flaming Skull.”

“Oh my.”

“And I’d do it over again in a heartbeat.”

“Yes, Freddie, I’m sure you would.”