Hemmed In (A Quilters Club Mystery No. 4) (Quilters Club Mysteries)

by Marjorie Sorrell Rockwell

  Bootsie laughed. “You mean under this giant slab of sandstone? No way.”

  “Maybe not under the entire rock, but under a corner of it,” suggested Maddy. She studied the reddish-brown sandstone platform, looking for a likely entry point.

  “We’ve dug four feet down and haven’t come to the bottom of the rock,” Cookie groused.

  Bootsie rubbed her back. “Will Rogers said, ‘If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging.’”

  “Thanks for the helpful advice.” Lizzie’s tone meant just the opposite.

  Maddy hadn’t given up. “Perhaps we can get under it better on the other side. With the ground sloping, there’s already four or five feet of rock showing over there.”

  Cookie acquiesced. “One small hole just to see how deep this rock goes.”

  Ten minutes later, Cookie said, “There it is, the bottom of this big slab of sandstone.”

  Steppin’ Rock proved to be about six-feet thick. The remnant of a long-ago ice age, when glaciers moved boulders about like a game of marbles.

  “Now dig under the edge,” instructed Maddy.

  “Hey, your turn.”

  “Oh, all right,” said Maddy, stepping into the hole and taking the shovel.

  Another ten minutes. “Anything yet?” asked Lizzie, trying to peer into the hole. Maddy had been tunneling under the bottom of the rock.

  “Nothing. And my back’s getting tired. Want to take over Lizzie?”

  Lizzie grimaced. “No more digging for me. I’ve already broken a fingernail.”

  “Here, I’ll dig for a while,” volunteered Bootsie.

  Ten minutes more. “The shovel just struck something solid,” announced Bootsie. Sounding excited.

  “Is it a silver bar?” Lizzie asked.

  “Not sure.”

  “Brush away the dirt,” ordered Maddy, taking charge as usual. “Let’s see what you’ve found.”

  Bootsie bent down to scoop the dirt away with her hands. A rounded shape came into view. “Oh, shoot,” she said. “Just another rock.”

  “Pull it out and keep digging,” said Cookie. “Maybe there’s something behind it.”

  “Your turn. I’m tired.”

  Cookie Bentley took the shovel. She’d borrowed it from her husband’s toolshed this morning before setting out on this “picnic.” Scraping away the loose dirt, the rock became more defined. An oblong chunk of limestone, about the size of a loaf of bread. “If there’s another stone behind this one, I’m quitting. This was a stupid idea.”

  “Wasn’t it your idea?” Lizzie asked with a false innocence.

  “Rub it in,” sighed Cookie. “I deserve it.”

  “Here,” said Maddy, climbing into the hole with Cookie. “Let me help you pull it out.”

  The two women struggled with the rock, wiggling it side to side. It was starting to give. “On the count of three,” said Maddy. “One … two … THREE!”

  With a pop! the rock slid out, leaving a dark hole. “Okay,” said Cookie, “unless there’s a Viking sword and a bar of silver in there, I’m going home.”

  “Hey,” wailed N’yen. “What about the hot dogs?”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Maury Seiderman was lurking behind a large oak tree, a good vantage point for spying on those busybody women from Caruthers Corners. He recognized the one from the Historical Society. What were they doing out here?

  He’d been scouting the area in his ’75 LeSabre, looking for ruins of a church. Nothing. Just watermelon fields and grassy countryside. An occasional Amish farmhouse, identifiable by the lack of power lines. Then he’d spotted the SUV filled with women and kids. That Bentley woman from the Historic Society had been sitting there in the front seat, big as life. So he’d decided to follow them. They had led him down an unmarked cow path along the upper rim of Gruesome Gorge. Could they be looking for the treasure too?

  Now he knew the answer.

  They were pulling something out from under that big sandstone outcropping. Obviously, they had found the Viking silver.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Down to No Suspects

  Chief Purdue didn’t like it one bit, but he had to cut Ted Yost free. No evidence, other than he was dating the mother of a Lord of the Rings fanboy. No crime in that, Lt. Wannamaker pointed out.

  The police chief had brought in Bern Bjorn, just as Neil the Nail had instructed. That meant no more free sprinkles for him. Bern was pretty irked.

  In the end, he’d had to let Bern Bjorn go too. Came down to the word of Lt. Wannamaker’s witness versus Bern’s. No real evidence.

  Quite a coincidence that Bern was the ex-husband of Ted’s girlfriend. But this was a small town, a population of 2,577 give or take.

  “Back to square one,” grumbled Wannamaker, as if it were Jim’s fault he’d taken the word of an unemployed ne’er-do-well over that of a local business owner.

  “Yeah, I’ll be in touch if I turn up anything new,” said the police chief, his sarcasm as thick as watermelon jam.

  “You do that.”

  “I’m not paying that invoice for the DNA testing. It was a clue.”

  “It was a hundred-year-old pig’s eye, for goodness sake.”

  “We didn’t know that till we tested it.”

  “You wasted the time of the state lab.”

  “That’s what it’s there for, to help us examine clues.”

  “Magic potions aren’t clues.”

  “D’you think we’ll ever find the Wilkins Witch Quilt?”

  “Naw,” admitted Wannamaker. “I’ve got a feeling that quilt’s gone for good. Probably already in the hands of some private collector where it will never again see the light of day.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Pinky Bjorn was hiding in Burpyville at the home of his cousin. He hadn’t phoned his mother, afraid she’d tell the police where to find him. Somehow they had connected him with stealing that old quilt. Not that he’d had any active part in the burglary. But he knew who did. After all, he was the one who had translated those runes. Pretty simple when you’d spent the last two years playing Relic of the Runes, an online Tolkien-inspired game that required a basic knowledge of Scandinavian Futhark or its Anglo-Saxon variant called Futhorc.

  The Early Futhorc was identical to the Elder Futhark, except for the split the a-rune into three variants, resulting in 26 runes. No harder to learn than the ABC alphabet, truth be known.

  He’d been there in the Town Hall waiting for his mother to pay her property tax when he noticed that quilt hanging on the wall. He remembered being fascinated by its depiction of angels and devils fighting each other. Cool beans. Like a video game. Then he noticed the symbols around the quilt’s border, clearly runes.

  It took him less than fifteen minutes to decipher them. He was working from memory, without any reference books. But after two years of playing Relic of the Runes he was getting pretty good at it. He held the rank of Exalted Grand Wizard of the Elfin World.

  The message went something like “After a long journey, we are hiding our money in deep water.” He didn’t know why anybody would put that on an old quilt, but it sounded like a clue on a treasure map. Money hidden in deep water … you’d have to know something about the old woman who made the quilt to figure that out.

  The bronze plaque on the wall said this Matilda Wilkins claimed to be a witch. She must have been nuts. He didn’t believe in witches, although he did believe in wizards, elves, and Hobbits. He wondered if the old woman had lived around here? And did she have a pond or a well?

  He’d have to ask somebody about that, he remembered thinking. Now he was sorry he’d ever seen that blasted quilt. Or told anybody about the message. How did he know that the person he’d confided in would steal it!

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Ted Yost went straight home, where Wanda was waiting for him. “Have you heard from Pinky?” he asked the boy’s mother.

  “Not a word.”

  “The police are still looking for him.”
r />   Wanda pressed her fingertips against her temples, as if suffering from a severe migraine. “W-what did you tell them?”

  “Nothing. I clammed up, took the Fifth.”

  “Thank you for protecting Pinky.”

  “Your boy didn’t have anything to do with stealing the quilt. We both know that.”

  “But he translated those symbols on the Wilkins Witch Quilt. They might arrest him as an accomplice.”

  “Nobody knows he broke the quilt’s code. We’ve just gotta keep our mouths shut and he’ll be all right. They can’t prove anything.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Why else would they have let me go?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Another Pig’s Eye

  “This is not a silver bar,” said Maddy, holding up a dirt-encrusted Mason jar.

  Cookie asked, “What’s in it? Another pig’s eye.”

  “I can’t tell.” She rubbed at the dirt off the glass. “There’s something inside. Pebbles or something.”

  “Open it,” urged Lizzie. Her red hair blazing in the noonday sun.

  “No way,” barked Bootsie, taking the shovel from Maddy. “It might be evidence that only the police should handle.”

  “Can’t open it anyway,” said Maddy, having tried. “The lid’s rusted shut.”

  “I’ll open it,” said a strange voice. Everyone looked up to see an odd-looking man standing above them on the sandstone slab. He was as slender as Jack Skellington. A thin mustache crossed his upper lip. His raven-black hair was slicked back with a thick gel. In his hand he held an ugly-looking P-08 parabellum Luger. “Give that jar to me,” he ordered, “or I’ll shoot.”

  “Hey, who’s that man?” asked little N’yen, confused by the intruder’s sudden appearance.

  “That’s Maury Seiderman,” answered Cookie Bentley. “He’s with some paranormal research organization.” She couldn’t quite remember the name on his business card.

  “The Greater Midwest Occult Phenomena Association,” he reminded her haughtily. “By now you’ve probably figured out I’m on the same mission as you: To find the Viking silver that Rev. Billingsley Royce took from Matilda Wilkins.”

  “Well, it’s certainly not in this jar,” said Maddy, handing it up to him. “Last Mason jar we found contained spunk water, feathers, and a pig’s eye.”

  “A witch’s potion,” he snorted.

  “Exactly. This is probably something similar.”

  “Open it.”

  “Can’t. It’s rusted shut.”

  “Lemme take a look at it,” he ordered. Tucking the pistol under his belt, he attempted to twist the lid but it refused to open. “Umph!” he grunted, face twisted with the exertion.

  “Told you,” said Maddy.

  “Oh well,” shrugged Maury Seiderman, then smashed the Mason jar against the unyielding surface of Steppin’ Rock.

  Kra-ack!

  “You shouldn’t’ve done that,” admonished Aggie. “The jar didn’t belong to you, Mr. Seiderman. We found it, so it was ours – fair and square.”

  “Too bad, so sad, little missy,” he sneered. “Mine now because I’ve got the gun.”

  “Not for long,” said Bootsie as she swung the shovel – klang! – knocking the Luger from his hand.

  “Ow,” he cried, stepping back.

  Lizzie retrieved the gun, but in her hands it looked about as effective as a child holding a bazooka. She didn’t even have her finger on the trigger. Probably afraid of smudging her nail polish, Cookie joked later. “Stop right there, buster!” barked Lizzie with enough authority to stop Maury Seiderman in his tracks.

  “Look, ladies, this was just a joke,” he pleaded. “I saw you digging down here and thought I might have some fun.”

  “With a gun?” retorted Bootsie. She often accompanied her husband to the shooting range out on Field Hand Road so she knew the damage a bullet could do. Sometimes they used watermelons as targets, making a big red splash when the 9mm slug hit its target.

  “That pistol’s not even loaded,” he said.

  “Then it will be okay if I point it at your head and pull the trigger,” smiled Lizzie. She adjusted her aim, one eye squinted.

  “No, wait. Don’t do that. Gun safety and all.”

  “Right,” said Lizzie, shifting her finger to pull the trigger.

  Ka-bam!

  The bullet zinged past Maury Seiderman’s ear. “Holy rollers, you almost killed me,” he shouted at her.

  “I thought you said it wasn’t loaded.”

  “Good thing you’re a lousy shot,” he muttered, a tremor in his voice.

  “Right,” said Lizzie. Not volunteering that she and Edgar often went to the shooting range with Jim and Bootsie. She was actually a very good shot.

  Maddy spoke up: “Perhaps you don’t mind telling us what you’re doing out here waiving a gun around?”

  “Looking for the treasure,” he muttered. “I’ve got as much right to it as you have. Maybe more. I’m related to Matilda Wilkins on my mother’s side. She was a Süderdithmarschen – although the family shortened it to Marsch generations ago.”

  “So you’re not really an occult researcher?”

  “Of course I am. That’s why my cousin called me in to help locate the family treasure.”

  Bootsie had been talking on her cell phone. “Jim has a deputy on the way,” she announced as she hung up.

  “The police?” Seiderman offered a weak smile. “C’mon, we don’t need to get them involved, do we?”

  “When you start waving guns at the police chief’s wife, the police get involved,” stated Bootsie, an angry set to her jaw.

  “Hey now –”

  “Don’t try to run away,” warned Maddy. “Our friend Lizzie could have shot your ear off, if she’d wanted too.”

  “Okay, okay. But this is all a silly misunderstanding.”

  “I’ve got a question,” said little Aggie. Hanging back, with a protective arm around her younger cousin.

  “Yes dear?” Maddy turned to her granddaughter.

  “What was in the jar he broke?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Shattered Mason Jar

  Everybody circled the shattered Mason jar there on the sandstone surface of Steppin’ Rock. The syrupy water formed a puddle, like a miniature pond with a couple of feathers and another eyeball floating in it.

  “Aw shucks, another jar of goo,” said Lizzie.

  “A witch’s potion,” Cookie corrected her.

  “Is that an eyeball?” squealed Aggie, pointing at the greasy orb. Yellowish from a century of slow pickling.

  “Yes, dear,” said Cookie, patting the girl’s shoulder. “Probably another pig’s eye.”

  “No silver?” grumbled their prisoner.

  “Not an ounce,” said Lizzie, sounding equally disappointed.

  “Nothing to do but wait,” sighed Bootsie, putting her cell phone back into her purse. “Deputy Hitzer will be here in another ten minutes.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Beau Madison was sitting at his desk. Being mayor was quite an honor, but sometimes he didn’t feel up to the task. Life had been much simpler when he ran the small Ace Hardware on South Main Street. Had he accepted the mayoral position out of fear of competing with the big Home Depot outside of town? Yes, probably.

  Maybe he should just retire, take his Social Security, draw on his 401k, and spend more time with his grandkids. Little N’yen was fast becoming his favorite.

  Let someone else worry about stolen quilts, witches, and Viking treasure …

  Chapter Twenty- Six

  The Witch’s Great-Great Granddaughter

  That next day at 9 a.m. Cookie Bentley met her Quilters Club pals for coffee at the Cozy Diner. You could tell she was excited by the way she nervously batted her eyes, the lashes fluttering like twin butterflies. “Last night I was doing some more research,” she gushed. “And I may have stumbled onto something important to the case.”

 
“I thought the case was pretty much over,” replied Maddy Madison. “The police have given up on finding the missing quilt. Charlie Aitkens’s murderer may never be solved. Maury Seiderman is in jail for threatening us with a pistol. And as we’ve discovered, there’s no Viking treasure.”

  “Maybe there’s no treasure,” said Cookie. “But I think the Quilters Club can still solve the theft and murder.”

  “Do tell,” said Bootsie. A little defensive of her husband Jim’s failed efforts.

  Cookie mistakenly took that as a go-ahead. “I decided to do a little more digging on Matilda Elizabeth Wilkins to see if she has any living relatives.”

  “And –?”

  “I found one,” said the town’s historian.

  Maddy said, “You mean, Maury Seiderman?”

  “No, someone else – his cousin.”

  “You’re saying you were able to piece together the old woman’s genealogy chart?” asked Lizzie, always impressed with lineage.

  “Well, not me. I went online to YourAncestors.com and looked up Matilda Wilkins. The website taps into everything from birth records to wedding licenses.”

  Maddy sipped at her coffee. No chicory to her disappointment. “Surely they didn’t have any of that stuff back in the mid 1800s when Mad Matilda was born…”

  “Lots of people share Family Bible listings as well as their own genealogical research with the website. Happens, one of Matilda Wilkins’s relatives had filled in the genealogy chart pretty well. And recently too.”

  “Who?” said Lizzie.

  “Yes, who?” repeated Bootsie.

  “Do we know this relative?” echoed Maddy.

  Cookie paused to build up the suspense. “As a matter of fact, you do. The clue was in that history book by Martin Caruthers. He referred to her as Mrs. Wilkins. Matilda married one Benjamin Wilkins back in 1892. He died shortly after that. Her maiden name on the marriage certificate was Süderdithmarschen. That’s a Germanic or Old Norse name.”