“A ghost?”
“Well, not that, but you get the idea.”
“I saw something.”
“You?”
Freddie nodded. He wasn’t in his clown makeup, so he looked more like Phantom of the Opera without the mask. “I was passing by the Beasley Mansion about the time Skookie Daniels died. At least I spotted him laying there on the Beasley lawn.”
“And you drove on by? With your fireman’s paramedical training you might have been able to save him,” his mother said accusingly.
“Matter of fact, I did stop, but he was dead as a garter snake on a busy highway. I’m the one who reported his death to Chief Purdue.”
Beau stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Funny that Jim didn’t mention your involvement.”
“I asked him not to tell anybody. I wanted to remain anonymous. Didn’t want this scarred face being flashed all over the six o’clock news. Even this close to Halloween, it still scares children if not covered in thick greasepaint and a big red clown’s nose.”
“You’ve got to quit being so sensitive about your looks,” his mother advised. “It’s no big deal.”
“Says you. You look like a kindly Ellen Burstyn in Playing By Heart. No kid’s gonna burst into tears at the sight of you.”
“Pshaw. I’m not as glamorous as Ellen Burstyn on a good day even after going to the Wonderama Beauty Parlor.”
“Now, Maddy, don’t talk yourself down,” said Beau, patting his wife’s hand. “You’re still the good-looking cheerleader I dated in high school.”
“Oh, you old flatterer. But forget about my looks. I want to hear about Freddie finding the dead body.”
The fireman-turned-circus-clown sat there in the kitchen in the house where he grew up, composing his thoughts before speaking. Finally, he said, “I was on my way to work at the zoo last Tuesday and I was running late so I took a shortcut across Melon Ball Lane. You know how it connects Highway 33 and Fourth Street. As I was driving past the Beasley Mansion I saw Skookie laying there on the front lawn, looking like he was taking a nap.”
“You recognized him?”
“Sure. As you’ll remember, Skookie and I went to high school together, same grade. He was always a cut-up. Funny that he wound up as the school principal. When I spotted him stretched out on the grass I thought he was playing another practical joke of some kind, so I stopped the car to say hello. But when I went up to him I could see he was stiff as a popsicle.”
“So you called the police.”
“No point in calling the ambulance. He was long gone.”
“Must have been quite a shock, coming across a dead man like that,” said his father.
“Well, no, that didn’t bother me too much. I saw lots of dead people as a fireman in Atlanta, although most of ‘em were crispy critters. What shook me up came after I found Skookie. Something I didn’t tell Chief Purdue about.”
“What was that, dear?” asked Maddy, patting his arm reassuringly. “You can tell us. We’re your parents.”
“I saw somebody – or some thing – moving about in an upstairs window of Beasley Mansion.”
CHAPTER THREE
Looking for the Apparition
Mark Tidemore – a/k/a Mark the Shark – sat behind the uncluttered desk in his clean-as-a-whistle office at the Town Hall. Mark was a neatnik. The historic brick building was located on Main Street facing the square, a grassy expanse with a picturesque gazebo and a marble statue of Colonel Beauregard Hollingsworth Madison. Mark and Tilly owned the old Taylor house, that Victorian edifice on the far side of the park, making it an easy walk to work each day.
Mark liked being mayor better than he’d liked being a lawyer, although he knew he’d have to return to private practice after completing his term limit. His father-in-law had served only one term, but Mark intended to go the limit – four, according to town covenants. It had been changed after Henry Caruthers held onto the position for nearly twenty years.
There was something about public service that appealed to Mark. He liked helping make the town a better place in which to live. Why, in his first nine months he’d repaved Main Street, recruited a John Deere dealership to town, and raised money to add a wing to the library. Now if he could manage to convert the old Beasley Mansion to low-income apartments …. but that would be a challenge.
It didn’t help matters that Maisie Daniels was telling everybody the place was haunted and that the ghost of Old Sam Beasley had murdered her son. Everybody knew Skookie had been born with a bad heart valve. That’s why he couldn’t play football in high school.
A little damage control was called for here. So he phoned Jim Purdue. The police chief was his father-in-law’s best friend, so Mark knew he’d help out. “Hey Jim, I need a favor. Can you issue a statement saying you searched the Beasley place top to bottom and found it empty as a beggar’s cup? We’ve got to stamp out this ghost business.”
“Well, Mark, I’m not sure I can do that,” said the voice in the phone. “Cause I didn’t search the Beasley Mansion.”
“Why not?”
“Wasn’t any reason to do that. Just because the high school principal dropped dead on the front lawn isn’t proper cause to search surrounding buildings. You’re a lawyer; you know that.”
“How do you know there wasn’t a murderer lurking inside?”
“Because there wasn’t any murder. Skookie died of natural causes.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“Then, there you have it.”
Mark sighed to mask his frustration. “We still have the problem of Skookie’s mother telling everybody he was murdered by a ghost. Nobody will want to live in Beasley Arms with that hanging over it.”
“Beasley Arms – is that what you’re gonna call the new apartments?”
“That or Beasley Vista,”
“How ‘bout Beasley Towers?”
“Jim, the building’s only two stories high. That not exactly a tower.”
“Those rundown row houses along the street don’t exactly constitute a vista either.”
“That’s why I’m thinking Beasley Arms.”
“Whatever.”
“C’mon, Jim, just go over to the old Beasley place and give it a look-see, then announce it’s clean as a whistle – that you didn’t encounter any ghosts or goblins.”
The police chief cleared his throat nervously. “Look, Mark, I don’t wanna go traipsing inside that rat-infested old building.”
“Dave Winterbottom didn’t have a problem going inside. A ghost didn’t get him.”
“Who’s Dave Winterbottom?”
“He’s the architect we hired out of Indy. Thinks he can squeeze twelve apartments out of the place.”
The chief chuckled. “We got more’n twelve needy people here in Caruthers Corners by my count. Speaking of which, I picked up Jasper Beanie again this morning, drunker’n a skunk.”
“Jasper’s not needy. He has a good job as caretaker out at Pleasant Glades. Also he works part-time as janitor here at the Town Hall. All told, he makes a decent wage.”
“Maybe so. But ever since his wife ran off with our former mayor – Henry Caruthers, not Beau – ol’ Jasper’s been drinking more. Spends all his money on rotgut; barely has enough left for food.”
“I hope that doesn’t become a problem for the big funeral home conglomerate that manages Pleasant Glades. Being caretaker of a cemetery’s not a job just anybody will take.”
“Oh, I didn’t book him. Just let him sleep it off in the cell. Matter of fact, he’s still in there, snoring like a sawmill.”
“Thanks, Jim. I’d sure hate to see those empty suits replace him. He’s always had hard luck, like that guy in the Li’l Abner cartoons.”
“That was Joe Btfsplk, the world’s worst jinx. Had a perpetual raincloud hanging over his head. I’m surprised a guy of your tender age would remember those old Al Capp comic strips.”
“Hey, I’m pushing thirty-five. I don’t feel so tender.”<
br />
The police chief laughed. “You just squeaked into office. There’s an age requirement that you’ve gotta be at least thirty-four. They set that up ten years ago when Henry Caruthers was angling to have his twenty-year-old nephew succeed him. Folks thought that was a tad too much nepotism, even for a small town like Caruthers Corners.”
“Whatever happened to Stinky Caruthers? I’d almost forgotten about him.”
“He prefers to be called Stanley. Left town after that brouhaha. Last I heard, he was working for a real estate outfit down in Indy.”
“He was about five years younger than me. A real pest as I recall. Always trying to hang out with the big boys on the football team. They finally made him the waterboy.”
“You remember how he got the nickname Stinky?”
Mark Tidemore laughed. “Yes. Comes from that time he fell in the outhouse on his family’s farm.”
“If you can call that overgrown weed patch a farm. His mother still lives out there, y’know.”
“So promise me you’ll go look around the Beasley Mansion and issue a statement to the Burpyville Gazette. Take along one of your deputies if you’re afraid to go it alone. Pete Hitzer would probably find it kind of fun.”
“Pete’s a good guy. But he couldn’t find a clue if it bit him on the butt. So don’t hold out too much hope that he’ll find your ghost.”
The mayor sighed. “That’s just the point,” he said. “I don’t want you to find a ghost.”
“Then why do I have to go out there, if I’m not going to find one?”
“Take along your trusty Ectoplasmic Proton Gun. Gotta ring off now. My daughter Aggie just showed up for lunch. I take her to the ice cream parlor on Saturdays.” He hung up the phone before the Chief could get in another word of protest.
Ectoplasmic Proton Gun – ha! Ghostbusters was one of his favorite movies. He wondered if an old fogey like Jim Purdue even got the reference.
“Hi, Daddy,” the girl greeted him. She had her dog Tige in tow, hooked to a yellow leash. He was a Heinz 57 mutt, but looked something like that dog in Benji. “Can I have a watermelon milkshake with my cheese sandwich today?”
“Whatever you like, hon. But you know Tige can’t go into the Dairy Queen. Health codes and all that.”
“But Daddy, you’re the mayor now. You can ignore those stupid old codes if you wanna.”
Mark Tidemore stood up to pull on his suit coat. The weather was getting nippy here in early October. “No, Sweetie. As mayor, I have to set an example in upholding the law.”
“Oh, okay. Guess we don’t want Uncle Jim to arrest you.”
He chuckled. More to himself than to his daughter. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “Chief Purdue is off on a big case. I sent him to arrest a ghost.”
“Don’t be silly. Grammy says there’s no such thing as ghosts.”
“Hope you’re right. Otherwise, I’ll have to call in an exterminator for Beasley Arms.”
“Beasley Arms? Do you mean that spooky old house where the high school principal dropped dead?”
“One and the same,” he admitted. The name Beasley Arms was growing on him.
“Then you’d need an exorcist, not an exterminator.” She’d seen the rerun on TV too. Not that her parents had approved.
Sometimes Aggie’s Grammy was much too permissive … although Mark had to admit his wife had turned out just fine. Tilly was off to the weekly meeting of the Garden Club, giving him lunch duty with Aggie. Always a highlight of the week. A nanny had the younger two.
They strolled down Main Street past Pic A Pair Shoes, Dan’s Den of Antiquities, and the Dollar General. In the distance they could see the fire station and Caruthers Corners Savings & Loan. Wedged in between were Cozy Café and the Dairy Queen.
The DQ menu was somewhat limited: chili, hot dogs, cheese sandwiches, and BLTs. Plus the usual array of sundaes, blizzards, banana splits, malts, and shakes. But a cheese sandwich and watermelon shake was a well-balance meal in Aggie’s humble opinion.
“Look, Daddy,” she pointed. “There’s Aunt Cookie’s husband.” She always addressed her Grammy’s friends as aunts and uncles.
Standing at the DQ counter was a man who looked like a shorter version of the Incredible Hulk (minus the green skin, of course). Ben Bentley had been state wrestling champion in his younger days, but his muscles still bulged his shirtsleeves. Now a retired farmer, he spent his spare hours as a volunteer ambulance driver and helping out at Haney Bros. Zoo and Exotic Animal Refuge. He’d donated the land for the attraction to the town.
“Hi Ben,” called Mark Tidemore.
The thickset man turned at the sound of his name. “Hello there, Mayor.”
“C’mon, it’s still just Mark,” he corrected. He’d never gotten used to the formality of his office.
“You and Aggie having lunch?”
“You bet. Why don’t you join us?”
Ben Bentley nodded his bearded head. “Don’t mind if I do. I hate eating alone … and Cookie is off at the Garden Club meeting.”
“Tilly too.”
“Probably all the Quilters Club gals are there,” Ben said, referring to his wife’s best-est friends – Maddy, Bootsie, and Lizzie.
“Not all,” pouted Aggie. “I’m here.”
“That’s right,” her father humored her. “Aggie is an honorary member of the Quilters Club.”
“Are you super-dooper-snoopers gonna solve the principal’s murder?” Ben asked the girl, more teasing than not.
“Yes, the Quilters Club is on the case,” she stated flatly. “We’re going to find the ghost who did it.”
“Hon, you just said there’s no such thing as ghosts,” admonished her father. The PR problem was going to be enormous. It would take a lot of damage control to keep Beasley Arms from being branded a haunted house.
“Just a figure of speech,” she smiled. “Ghost, goblin, ax murderer, whatever.”
“Ax murderer?” gulped Ben Bentley.
“No axes were involved,” the mayor hastened to correct this false impression. “Skookie dropped dead from a heart attack – nothing more, nothing less.”
“Something scared him to death,” asserted Aggie, sotto voce, as if conveying a secret.
“Now, Hon, don’t be saying things like that. It was just the stress of his job. Being a school principal put Skookie – uh, I mean Mr. Daniels – under lots of pressure.”
“He was over there checking it out to be the haunted house for the upcoming Halloween Festival,” declared Aggie. “But it turns out the house was already haunted.”
“Haunted, you say?”
“No, not haunted,” corrected Mark Tidemore. He gave his daughter a warning look. It had been a mistake to let the high school consider Beasley Mansion for its annual haunted house party. What had he been thinking? Now everything was getting out of control.
“Maybe not haunted by a real ghost. But by somebody. My Uncle Freddie saw a face in the window right after he found the dead body.” She’d overheard the adults talking.
“Probably just a reflection. Tree limbs or something,” tried Mark Tidemore. “The building’s all locked up. Only two keys. Skookie had one, but Chief Purdue has it now. I have the other.”
“Grammy wants to borrow it,”
“What – the key to the Beasley place?”
“I told you the Quilters Club was on the case. We’re going to check it out, see if we spot any ghosts … not that there are such things.”
“You’re not going in there, young lady. That place is practically falling down.”
“You were going to let the high school throw a party there,” she accused. “So surely it must be safe enough for the Quilters Club.”
“We’ll see about that.” Fact is, the architect said the place was sound as Fort Knox, just trashed with rotted furniture and peeling wallpaper. A hundred years of not being occupied will do that.
“You couldn’t pay me to go in there,” said Ben Bentley, licking on his
double scoop vanilla cone. He had a sweet tooth, no doubt about it. “I told Cookie she was crazy to set foot in that old deathtrap.”
“Deathtrap?” Not exactly the description the mayor wanted applied to the future Beasley Arms.
The stout-bodied man nodded, dark hair bobbing. He had ice cream on his beard. “Skookie Daniels died there, didn’t he?”
“Skookie died on the front lawn. He never even entered the house.”
Ben frowned. “Close enough. He’s dead, ain’t he?”
“The ghost of Beasley Manor did it,” said Aggie ominously, carrying her cheese sandwich and milkshake to a Formica table at the front window.
“Don’t say ‘ghost’,” her father warned. “That word is now on the no-say list!” That was the list of bad words young Agnes Tidemore was not allowed to use. The usual cuss words, plus a few other restrictions like calling her Aunt Bootsie fat.
“Whatever,” the girl shrugged, tossing back her blonde locks. “I won’t say the G-word, but somebody better go looking for that nebulous apparition that might be the lost soul of a dead person.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The Big S&L Robbery
Over in Burpyville, the county seat, a skinny, semi-balding man known as Morris “Peewee” Hickensmith was talking to his partner in crime, a tubby, BB-eyed guy called Moose. Their heads were nearly touching, their voices low, assuring privacy as they sat there in Mama Leone’s Cheese-Stuffed Pizza Parlor. Mama Leone’s was a hole-in-the-wall joint known for its thick, cheesy pies, more like quiche than pizza. But as Mama Leone (née Myrtle Hickensmith, Morris’s sister) liked to say, “Real men eat pizza, not quiche.”
“We gotta move the money,” Morris Hickensmith was saying. “We was crazy leaving it there so long. Wonder somebody ain’t stumbled on it afore now.”
Moose Johansson crunched on a slice of cheese-stuffed pizza, a little burnt around the crust, but who was complaining as long as he could eat on the house for free. “I agree, Peewee. That’s why I went over to get it. But who knew that schoolteacher was gonna come knocking.”
Sewed Up Tight (A Quilters Club Mystery No. 5) (Quilters Club Mysteries) Page 2
