Every day as he drove out to the Zoo, he passed Caruthers Corners Volunteer Fire Station No. 1, a big brick building with a shiny red pumper truck pointing nose-out, ready for an alarm to sound. It was a sad reminder of the life he used to live, a decorated foreman who saved both lives and property. Now he rode around on a kiddy-car fire truck, squirting seltzer at a laughing audience.
But he was going to change all that.
≈ ≈ ≈
Swami Bombay was worried about Freddie. Lately the guy seemed more sullen, more withdrawn, a scowl on his distorted face. Even his alter ego – Sparkplug the Clown – was less funny.
He wasn’t sure how to approach his co-worker about this. His recent attitude had a certain “Don’t Tread On Me” cast to it. He sensed his intervention might be unwelcomed. Yet, something needed to be done before this foul mood spilled over into the circus act.
Instead of confronting Freddie, he took the problem to Willamina. She was better at handling people than Big Bill.
“Yes, I’ve noticed a change in Freddie too,” she confessed. “But I hoped it was just a mood swing. He’s been through a lot with that fire burning away his face.”
“True, but we can’t let that get him down. He’s got a nice wife, that cute little child, a supportive family.”
“We’re his family too,” noted Willamina. “Can’t let him forget that.”
“So what do we do?”
“I’m going to call Bobby Ray in Chicago. Hate to interrupt his business dealings, but this is important. He’s been Freddie’s mentor, kinda like a big brother. I think Freddie might listen to him. And if Freddie needs any kind of therapy, I know Bobby Ray would be more’n happy to foot the bill. He’s a generous guy and he likes Freddie.”
“That’s true.”
“Another thing. Let me know next time Freddie’s wife drops by. I’ll have a little heart-to-heart confab with her to determine how things are going home.”
“Say, that’s a smart idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Don’t act surprised, Swami Bombay. You’re supposed to be the psychic.”
“Yes, I guess I am,” he smiled, having accomplished his intended mission. Freddie was now in good hands.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Inspection
When Mark Tidemore’s mother-in-law asked for the key to Beasley Mansion, he couldn’t very well say no. But it seemed a tad dangerous for Maddy and her three comrades to be traipsing around a dilapidated old building on their own. Even his daughter Aggie wanted to go along.
Being a man of quick thought, he’d suggested they combine their visit with Chief Jim Purdue’s inspection into a single, well, pilgrimage. It did seem like some kind of holy pilgrimage, like going to Mecca or a trip to Lourdes or walking on your knees to Fatima. With Maddy’s entourage and Jim and his deputy, that added up to six pilgrims, not counting Aggie. No way was she going to go on this crazy tour.
Wait! Cookie’s husband Ben decided to join them too. That made seven.
Did Mark the Shark want to come along? No thanks, he had better things to do. And traipsing around an abandoned house was not one of them.
They assembled that Sunday morning after church. Maddy had talked him into letting Aggie join them. Against his better judgment, that made eight.
Being an out-of-the-way side street, Melon Ball Lane wasn’t used to so much traffic. Maddy’s Toyota SUV was parked behind Jim Purdue’s police cruiser. And Mark pulled his silver BMW 328d up behind Maddy’s car. Yes, he made nine. If his daughter was going inside the Beasley Mansion, so was he.
As they lingered in the yard while Jim Purdue tried the key on the giant wooden front door, a fourth car rolled to a stop behind the others – a Chevy driven by Maisie Daniels, Skookie’s mother. She wore a wool-lined green coat to ward off the chill and a gray scarf covering her dishwater-blonde hair. Dark circles ringed her eyes like a mournful raccoon. Ten even, it looked like.
No, eleven. Maisie Daniels had somebody else in the car with her, an austere-looking woman who might have been in her seventies. She wore a purple turban with a jewel in the front. Her black dress was fit for a funeral. Turns out, she was a mystic known to her followers as Madam Blatvia.
Maisie Daniels explained their presence: “I want to confront the ghost of Samuel Beasley. He killed my son.”
“Now, Mrs. Daniels, you ought to go on home,” urged Mark Tidemore. “There are no ghosts here.”
“We’ll see about that,” she snapped. It wasn’t clear whether she was referring to the ghost or refusing to go home. “I’ve brought an expert with me. Madam Blatvia is a well-known spiritualist who contacts the other world through her spirit guide named Poncho.
A spirit guide – did that make twelve?
“Look, Mrs. Daniels, we don’t want to turn this into a carnival sideshow,” the mayor protested.
“Are you challenging my religious freedom, young man? I have been a member of the United Congregation of the Spiritualist Church ever since my husband died back in ’02. We have received three signals from him in the great beyond. Why, he may even be here with us today.
Thirteen?
“Got it,” came Chief Purdue’s voice as he swung open the front door.
“Come along, ladies,” said Maddy Madison, fearlessly leading the way. The four members of the Quilters Club, followed by Aggie, marched past Jim Purdue into the foyer of the humongous structure.
“Ooo, look,” said Bootsie, eyeing the giant living room beyond. “The crystal chandelier’s still hanging.”
“I wonder if that the same one that fell on Ol’ Sam?” mused Cookie.
“The place is a mess,” sniffed Lizzie. She was put off by the peeling yellow wallpaper and tattered Oriental rug. Dust covered everything.
“I don’t see any ghosts,” said Aggie with clear disappointment.
“Just you wait,” Maisie Daniels spoke up, having entered the house right behind them. “One will turn up.”
“I feel a presence,” said the seer, hand to her forehead.
“My poor Skookie, is he here?”
“No,” said Madam Blatvia. “Someone else, someone sinister.”
“Skookie’s murderer no doubt,” blubbered his distraught mother. “He had so much to live for. A good job, just got engaged, was going to pay off the mortgage on my house – a good son!”
“Try to calm down, Mrs. Daniels,” offered Mark Tidemore from his position near the front door. “Chief Purdue will give this house a top-to-bottom inspection. If there’s anybody here – real or ghost – he’ll find them.”
“Pete, you take a look upstairs,” ordered the police chief. “I’ll check out the basement. You ladies look around the first floor here, but be careful where you step. The floorboards may be rotted out in some places.”
“I’ll wait right here,” offered the mayor, barely inside the foyer.
Ben Bentley came stomping past him. “Hey, Cookie, wait up for me,” he called to his wife. “I wanna see the ghost for myself.”
“Hey, watch where you step,” warned Deputy Pete Hitzer. “This is a crime scene.”
Chief Jim Purdue rolled his eyes. “How can this be a crime scene?” he said to his deputy. “There hasn’t been a crime. Skookie was ruled a death from natural causes.”
“But –“
“Take your pick – the coroner or Madam Blatvia,” growled Jim Purdue. “Who you gonna trust?” As a lawman, he’d heard of this spiritualist. She plied her questionable trade out of a storefront over in Burpyville, its large plate-glass window displaying a red neon sign that advertised PALM READINGS & SÉANCES. She had been run in a few times, charged under the fortune-telling law. But she employed a slick lawyer – almost as slick as Mark the Shark – who always had her out in a matter of hours, howling about religious freedom and constitutional rights and such. The kicker was Madam Blatvia (A/K/A Ruby Blatstein) had a degree as a psychological counselor. So what if she called her counseling services “palm reading” or “spi
ritualism”? No crime in that. What’s more, her license to practice was up to date.
Jim tramped down the steps to the basement. A few of them sagged under his weight, so he had to be careful where he put his size 10 feet. It was kinda dangerous. Nonetheless, Maddy Madison insisted on coming down with him, sticking close because he had a big Ray-O-Vac flashlight. With no electricity, the house was pretty dark and gloomy. And the basement was as black as the Pit of Hell. Not that the police chief was scared. He just didn’t like delving into the unknown, not sure what might be encountered down here. A pack of man-eating rats was more likely than Samuel Beasley’s ghost, not that either was a very reassuring thought.
“Hello,” Chief Purdue called out to the dark.
“Jim, do you expect a ghost to answer you?” teased Maddy. Ghost indeed! Even so, she wished Beau were here with her, because she always felt safe with her husband at her side. A Vietnam vet, he had faced far worse than imaginary wraiths. But the rapscallion had chosen to go fishing with Lizzie’s husband Edgar instead coming along on this inspection tour.
Everybody said Maddy was levelheaded, a practical thinker. While she might believe in Heaven and an afterlife, the idea of spirits lingering around to go Boo! at you was a silly concept, a superstition fueled by separation anxiety and ignorance. She knew that she and Jim were alone down here in the dank basement.
That’s why she almost jumped out of her shoes when a voice answered him back with an eerie “H-hello.”
≈ ≈ ≈
The police chief fumbled with the safety catch on his holster and managed to pull out his .38 Smith & Wesson service revolver. “Hold it right there,” he ordered. “Put your hands up.”
“D-don’t shoot.”
Jim Purdue shined his Ray-O-Vac in the direction of the shaky voice. The light swept over a chubby man huddling in a corner next to a stack of moldy old steamer trunks. The intruder’s hands were high over his head, eyes as big a goose eggs in the yellow light.
“Who are you? And what are you doing down here?” demanded the police chief. “This is town property.”
“M-my name’s Marvin Johansson. Folks call me Moose. I was … looking for a place to sleep. My wife kicked me out.”
“Okay, Marvin. We’re going to walk up those steps. Lock your hands behind your head. Don’t make any sudden moves.”
“W-whatever you say. Just be careful with that gun.”
As they emerged on the main floor, Pete Hitzer was coming down the stairs from the second floor. “All clear up there,” reported the deputy. “Not a ghost in sight.”
“Look what I found,” Jim Purdue indicated his prisoner. “But I don’t think he’s a ghost.”
“What was he doing down there?” asked the mayor, stepping further into the dust-covered living room.
“Says he was looking for a place to sleep,” repeated the police chief. “Claims his wife kicked him out.”
Bootsie and Cookie rejoined the entourage in the living room. “Nothing in the back rooms,” Jim’s wife reported. “But there really is a ballroom. As big as the school gymnasium. It would have been a good place for a Halloween party.”
“That deal’s off the table,” said Mark Tidemore, still worried about the image of the future Beasley Arms project.
“Ugh! This place is so dirty,” complained Liz, standing near the mayor. “I shouldn’t have worn my cream-colored dress.”
Maisie Daniels came down the stairs with her seer in tow. Madam Blatvia had her hands to her temples as if suffering a bad migraine. “I feel vibrations,” she said. “A spirit has been in this house.”
“Where is it now?” asked Cookie, rather dryly. She could spot a hoaxer a mile away. “Down at Pleasant Glades visiting friends?”
“Spirits, smirits,” scoffed the police chief. “We’ve got the guy Freddie Madison saw in the window – the guy that frightened ol’ Skookie into a cardiac arrest.”
“Hey, you can’t blame that on me,” protested Moose Johansson, looking around wildly. “I just got here maybe an hour ago.”
“Where’s Maddy?” Cookie just noticed her friend’s absence.
“She was right here with me just a minute ago,” said Chief Purdue as he clicked the handcuffs onto Moose’s thick wrists. “We were down in the basement together.”
“Here I am,” called out Maddy Madison as she huffed up the stairs. “I was just checking out those trunks next to where Mr. Johansson was standing. She had a penlight in her hand. She always carried one in her purse, prepared for any eventuality.
“Did you find it?” asked Moose Johansson, looking at her anxiously.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Scene of the Crime
Freddie Madison had deliberately stayed away from the inspection of the Beasley Mansion. He tried to avoid the limelight, except when wearing his Sparkplug the Clown makeup. He didn’t need credit as the guy who’d discovered Skookie Daniels’s dead body. Instead, he dutifully went out to the Zoo to help the Haneys prepare for Sunday afternoon’s performance. That was always the biggest show of the week.
More than just an exotic animal refuge, the Zoo was actually the remnant of the once-famous Haney Bros. Circus. Turns out, there were no brothers, just Big Bill Haney and his wife Willamina. The Haneys had bequeathed the circus to the town, Ben Bentley had donated the land, local zillionaire Bobby Ray Purdue had put up the money, including funding a home for retired circus performers, and – presto! – Caruthers Corners had itself a new attraction that drew visitors from all over the state. This year the Zoo had made it into Frommer’s EasyGuide to Indiana under “Attractions Not to Be Missed.”
Freddie had been spending more and more time at the Zoo as of late. Things had been rocky at home. It was his fault, he knew that. Still having trouble adjusting to being a disfigured circus clown instead of a handsome heroic fireman. Adjusting to this new self-image had been tougher than he’d expected.
Amanda was the perfect wife – loving, caring, a great helpmate, and a wonderful mother for their adopted daughter. He’d saved Donna Ann from the conflagration in Atlanta that had left him a wreck of a man. Miracle of miracles, he and Amanda had been allowed to adopt the parentless girl. That had made them a complete family, if he could ever get over his changed appearance and proletarian new occupation.
He’d been proud of being a fireman. He saved property, he saved houses. But more importantly, he saved lives. Now he wondered if he could save his own sanity.
“Hello there, Freddie,” a tall man with slicked-back hair and a walrus mustache greeted him. This was Big Bill – ringmaster, lion tamer, and once-upon-a-time circus strongman. Now in his golden years, he could barely snap his whip loud enough to make the lion jump through the hoop. Old Grumpy was getting pretty long of tooth himself, barely able to go through the growling motions. The aged cat would be getting a well-deserved retirement after this season. A new lion – Lionel – was being trained as replacement.
Big Bill’s assistant was doing the training. He would be taking over as lion tamer after this season too. A few years younger, Swami Bombay was clearly the “heir apparent.” For years he’d worked as a mind reader and elephant handler and general factotum. He now knew the interworking of a circus as well as Bill and Willamina. Even the interworkings of a circus that had been converted into a children’s zoo.
Freddie greeted Big Bill and Swami Bombay with a bonhomie that belied his morose state of mind. “Everything set for the afternoon show?” he asked with a strained cheerfulness.
“Mostly. I think your clown car may need some gas,” answered Big Bill. “But everything else seems to be right on track.”
“Brought a gallon,” said Freddie, holding up a red gas can. The clown car that looked like a miniature fire truck was actually a children’s pedal car converted to run on a lawn-mower motor.
“You’ll be performing on your own today,” said Bombay, whose real name was Juan Martinez. For years, the Mexican had passed himself off as an Indian swami while trav
eling on the carny circuit. Now that Haney Bros. Circus had found a permanent home, it seemed like too much effort to go back to his birth name.
“What happened to Bobby Ray?”
“Had to go to Chicago for a bank meeting.” Having come into a fortune, Bobby Ray Purdue had responsibilities that sometimes interfered with his role as Sprinkles the Clown – and Freddie’s new mentor.
“Nothing serious I hope.”
“He didn’t say,” shrugged Bombay. Not interested in matters of high finance.
“Something about a real estate transaction,” offered Big Bill. “He didn’t elaborate. Just asked me to tell you he’d be gone a couple of days.”
“Oh well,” said Freddie. “The show must go on.”
“Atta boy,” said Big Bill Haney, a wide grin splitting his walrus moustache. “You’ll knock ‘em dead.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Freddie knew about the real estate deal. Matter of fact, he’d put the idea into Bobby Ray’s head: Buy up all the property on Melon Ball Lane and turn the entire neighborhood into a retirement village. Once the town saw the scope of this plan, it would be motivated to sign over the Beasley Mansion. A retirement village, low-income housing … weren’t they practically the same thing?
Everybody thought his brother-in-law Mark the Shark was so smart. But Freddie had a card or two up his own sleeve. The town didn’t have the funds to renovate Beasley Mansion, but Bobby Ray did. And that one-time Lost Boy would be lost without Freddie’s advice. This deal was going to show his family that he wasn’t just a barbequed-brain has-been hose-jockey.
CHAPTER NINE
A Witness Steps Forth
“Find what?” asked Chief Purdue.
“Never mind,” gulped Moose Johansson, realizing he’d already said too much.
“Do you mean the money?” asked Maddy Madison, tilting her head as if she expected an answer.
Sewed Up Tight (A Quilters Club Mystery No. 5) (Quilters Club Mysteries) Page 4
