Moose said nothing.
“What money?” roared the police chief.
“I expect the money from that robbery at the savings and loan a couple of years ago.” Maddy held up an empty canvas sack marked CARUTHERS CORNERS SAVINGS & LOAN. “I found this in one of the trunks, but there wasn’t any cash with it.”
The police chief eyed his prisoner. “Mr. Johansson, now is the time to speak up. Did you have anything to do with that robbery?”
“What robbery?”
“The one where this sack was filled with $212,000. Best to confess now or it’ll go much harder on you.”
“I’ve never seen that sack before.”
“Oh no? Then what did you mean, asking Mrs. Madison if she’d ‘found it’?”
Dang! They had him there. But he wasn’t ready to rat out his partner. He was gonna keep his big trap shut. Peewee would do the same for him, wouldn’t he? “I meant my wallet. I dropped it down there. That’s what I was looking for when you nabbed me.”
“Then what’s that bulge in your back pocket?” asked Little Aggie, standing there just behind him.
“Eh, whattaya know. Didn’t lose it after all.”
“Mr. Johansson, you’re under arrest for trespassing on town property,” stated Chief Purdue. “I must inform you that charges of grand thief and armed robbery are likely to be levied against you later today.”
“You can’t prove anything,” Moose laughed. “Just because I was in the same house where a bank bag is found some two years after a robbery. Just try and prove I was involved.”
≈ ≈ ≈
About twenty minutes earlier Cornelia Tutley had been conducting her daily behind-the-curtains neighborhood watch when she’d spotted Moose Johansson strolling down the sidewalk. Uh-oh. Was Peewee’s pal coming for her? No, he stopped halfway down the block at the old Beasley place, glanced around cautiously, then crossed the yard and disappeared behind the big stone house.
Whew! She could barely breath with all the excitement of seeing her old high school classmate in her neighborhood, forcing her to grab her inhaler and take a couple of huffs. There, that was better.
Then things got even more confusing as two police cruisers, a shiny black Toyota SUV, a dark-blue Ford pickup, and a vintage yellow Chevrolet Impala pulled up in front of the Beasley place, disgorging about ten people – quite a crowd for a somnambulistic Sunday Morning on Melon Ball Lane. As she watched, everybody went inside the big mansion. What was that all about?
Later when they filed outside with Moose Johansson in handcuffs, Cornelia Tutley knew her ordeal was over. Hallelujah! she sighed. Throwing all three deadbolt locks open, she rushed outside, waving her arms at the police and shouting, “Did you find the money?”
CHAPTER TEN
Gotcha!
Peewee Hickensmith was worried that Moose hadn’t reported in yet. Maybe he should’ve waited outside in the car like Moose wanted. But that would have been pretty obvious in a small neighborhood like Melon Ball Lane. Not smart to take chances like that, he reminded himself.
He paced the length of Mama Leone’s – twelve paces – and back again, waiting for the phone to ring. Silence, other than the clatter in the pizza shop’s tiny kitchen. Barely room back there for the big pizza oven, much less his sister, who was chief cook and bottle washer, the ersatz Mama Leone herself.
Mama Leone’s Cheese-Stuffed Pizza Parlor only had four booths, two on each side of the cramped dining area. Peewee and his pal usually took up one booth, but no matter – most of the business was take out.
“Where’s Moose?” asked his sister, taking a batch of calzones out of the wide oven. The Blodgett 999C’s thermometer read 450°F. It was hot in the tiny restaurant.
“Who knows?” he lied. “Finding him is like looking for a needle in a graveyard.”
“I just made a batch of three-cheese calzones with pork sausage, his favorite.”
“Moose was supposed to call me to pick him up, but I haven’t heard a peep from the jerk.”
Sometimes Peewee thought they had been stupid robbing that savings and loan over in Caruthers Corners. What good did having $212,000 if you couldn’t spend it. He’d read about how banks recorded serial numbers on currency, so stolen money could be traced. Surely, all these years later, the FBI had quit looking for the missing loot. Didn’t the Feds have lots of other crimes to pursue?
By now Moose had to be back at the rendezvous point, the parking lot at the chair factory, so why hadn’t he called for a pick up? Unable to contain his impatience, Peewee dialed his partner’s cell phone. He listened to it ring, then swallowed hard when a voice said, “Hello, who is this?”
But it wasn’t Marvin “Moose” Johansson’s voice.
≈ ≈ ≈
No, Moose hadn’t rolled over on his partner, but Cornelia Tutley had. Unmindful of possible charges of having withheld vital information in a police investigation, she made a clean breast of it, telling all.
Standing there on the sidewalk in front of her little house, Cornelia said she was absolutely positive that it was Peewee Hickensmith who had robbed the S&L. That birthmark on his forearm had been a dead giveaway. Even more unique than a tattoo. After all, she’d sat beside him in twelfth-grade English, copying off his test papers all year long. Staring at that damn pink penis-shaped port-wine stain.
And if Peewee was one of the bank robbers, the other had to be Moose Johansson. They were like peas in a pod, always together, even following high school.
That’s when Moose’s cell phone began to ring.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Amateur’s Luck
Deputy Pete Hitzer found a clue … but it did in fact have to bite him on the butt. Chief Purdue had sent him over to Burpyville to arrest Morris “Peewee” Hickensmith. The takedown had already been cleared with the Burpyville police. But on his way to Mama Leone’s Cheese-Stuffed Pizza Parlor he happened to pass James Dean Road, named after the Rebel Without a Cause actor who grew up in a town near here. Pete had been a big fan of Dean’s movies, so that’s why it’d stuck in his mind that this was the home address that Marvin Johansson had given on his arrest report. Said he and his wife lived at 1210 James Dean Road in Burpyville.
While he was this close, why not stop and take a statement from the wife. Peewee Hickensmith would keep. Two of Burpyville’s finest where babysitting him till Pete got there to make the formal collar.
As it happened, James Dean Road was just east of Eden Road. What irony, Pete thought as he piloted his cruiser up the narrow byway, searching for the right house number.
Spotting 1210 on his right, he pulled the Crown Vic over at the mailbox. There it was, the name JOHANSSON painted on the box in bright red letters. Thumbing through the paperwork on his clipboard, he noted that Marvin Johansson had given his wife’s name as Patsy. He wondered if Patsy would be sorry she’d kicked her husband out, forcing him to seek a place to sleep in the Beasley Mansion. Except for that, he might never have been connected to the savings and loan robbery.
The tract houses along this road all looked alike. Obviously, the developer had stinted on costs by using only one set of plans. Other than the number, the Johansson house was identical the ones on either side of it, right down to the aluminum siding, fake shutters, and fenced-in yards.
Opening the wooden gate, Pete headed up the slate walkway toward the front door. His mind was on how he’d break the news to Patsy Johansson that her hubby had been arrested. The deputy felt the pain even before he heard the dog’s growl. A humongous pit bull had bit him on the right buttock. “Aeoggh!” he screamed.
Before he could reach for his service revolver, a voice shouted, “Down, girl, down!” The pit bull immediately released him and backed away.
Pete squinted over his shoulder at a man in the next yard, leaning over the fence. “Is that your dog?” croaked the deputy, almost dizzy from the pain.
“Naw, that’s Moose’s. But I feed her when he’s off on a tear with his pal Peewee. She’s pre
tty well trained. Otherwise you’d be Alpo by now.”
“I’m here on official business. I came to inform his wife Patsy that he’s in jail over in Caruthers Corners.”
“Wife? Moose ain’t married.”
“Then who’s Patsy?”
“You just met her,” the man nodded at the slavering dog.
≈ ≈ ≈
The two Burpyville deputies brought in Peewee Hickensmith. They tried not to grin as they turned the prisoner over to Chief Purdue. Everybody knew Pete Hitzer was at Burpyville General getting stitches in his butt and a rabies shot.
“Did he confess?” Jim Purdue asked about Peewee Hickensmith.
“Didn’t say a peep,” replied the taller of the two officers.
“Just said he wanted a lawyer,” added the other one.
“Oh well, thanks for delivering him.”
“Hope you nail him. We’re pretty sure he and Moose are responsible for a series of convenience store hold-ups, but we don’t have enough evidence to make any of them stick.”
Chief Purdue nodded, his bald pate gleaming in the overhead light. “I think we’ve got these boys pretty solid on the S&L robbery. We have a witness who ID’s them both.”
“Glad to hear it. Burpyville PD wouldn’t mind losing these two characters for five to ten years.”
“Take the sister too,” offered the other cop.
“Guilty or not, I don’t think we can tie her in,” sighed Jim Purdue.
“Wouldn’t doubt if she’s the mastermind behind the S&L job,” mused the first officer. “She’s smarter than both of these yahoos put together.”
“That’s a fact,” agreed the second one. “She’ll have a lawyer here shouting habeas corpus in no time. She usually calls Barnabas Soltairé. He’s a hotshot out of Indy. A mob lawyer, not that these boys have any real mob connections. Small fish.”
“These small fish stole $212,000.”
“Amateur’s luck. Have you recovered the money?”
“Not yet. Matter of fact, I’m not sure Peewee and Moose know where it is. I kinda think somebody found where they hid it in the basement of the old Beasley Mansion and walked off with it.”
“Probably some kid. Next thing you know, one of your local teenagers will be driving a new Corvette.”
“Maybe not. When I went back out to the Beasley place and walked through it again, I found signs somebody had been camping out in an upstairs bedroom. Don’t think it was Moose. He had a house and – as Pete just discovered – no wife to kick him out.”
“And Peewee lived with his sister. No need to be squatting in a rundown old house,” opined the first cop.
“Who was it then?” asked the second cop.
“Beats me. But it sure wasn’t a ghost. There were candy wrappers all over the room. Paydays, Baby Ruths, Mr. Goodbars. Our mystery man sure has a sweet tooth.”
≈ ≈ ≈
The Phantom sat in his vintage Buick eating a Baby Ruth. The floorboard was littered with wrappers. Parked in the Home Depot lot, he considered his situation. He’d have to find some place else to squat now that the police had found his lair in the old Beasley Mansion. And he couldn’t sleep in his car lest he get rousted by the Home Depot security guards. They patrolled the lot on a regular basis.
Maybe he’d just rent a room. There was a motel just outside of Burpyville that wouldn’t ask too many questions if he paid cash.
He had plenty of money. Over two hundred grand. He’d found the cash in a moldy trunk in the basement of the Beasley Mansion. Had Old Sam or Sam Jr. died with that much moola stashed away, just waiting for an interloper like him to stumble across it? Not likely, for these bills looked crisp and new. Back in Old Sam’s day wouldn’t the currency have been gold standard notes or something?
Who left the money there? It wasn’t important. No need to look a gift horse in the mouth. This cash gave him the wherewithal to pull off the plan to put himself on top of Caruthers Corners society, where he belonged as a descendant of a town founder.
His head pounded, like a jackhammer rat-a-tat-tating inside his skull. It had been this way, off and on, for the past year. He’d tried aspirin but that didn’t help, mostly giving him a stomachache. Tylenol didn’t do much better. The candy bars helped, something in the chocolate he supposed. Or maybe it was the sugar.
Earlier this week he’d carefully mixed the benzene, polystyrene, and gasoline in the correct proportions, creating a crude version of Napalm B. He had three large canisters of the jellied gasoline stored in the mausoleum. Now he needed to get his hands on some white phosphorous to use as the igniting agent. A guy down in Indianapolis had promised to come through with a supply. He’d drive down to Indy tomorrow and pick it up. By Friday he’d be ready to test his incendiary device.
Everything was falling into place. This Halloween, he planned to go trick-or-treating – and the trick was going to be on the town of Caruthers Corners.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Beasley Heritage Quilt
Cookie Bentley was sitting at her desk in the cluttered office of the Caruthers Corners Historical Society, trying to catch up on her mail. The office might be a shambles – old newspapers, stacked files, dog-eared books, yellowed photographs, ancient correspondence tied with ribbons, handwritten diaries and journals, historic documents, engraved pocket watches, and even a dollhouse – but Cookie herself was a very organized woman. OCD, some might say.
Doing the mail had become kind of a ritual: She sorted the envelopes into two stacks: Junk and To Read. The Junk she swept into her trashcan without further ado. Then she re-sorted the To Read stack into Bills and Correspondence. She carefully opened each envelope in the Bills stack – Indiana Michigan Power, Embarq, etc. – and checked the amount due before putting it in her To Pay file. Then she tackled the Correspondence stack. These she re-sorted into Inquiries and All Other. Inquiries were mostly people looking for genealogical information, one from a college professor researching a paper on Swiss migration into the Midwest.
Caruthers Corners had a goodly number of families of Swiss descent, but nothing like the nearby towns of Berne and Geneva, whose very names claimed their Swiss heritage. Berne even had an annual Swiss Days Festival with booths selling chocolate pastries and fried cheese balls, and the local businessmen recently built a clock tower based on one located in its sister city in Europe.
That left the stack marked All Other. She tossed all the stray circulars into the trash with the junk mail, and then thumbed through the thick pile of magazines. Typically, she approached them alphabetically: American Heritage. American Historical Review, Journal of American Studies, Family Tree, Good Old Days, Harper’s, History Today, ICOM News, Journal of Illinois History, Just CrossStitch, Mennonite Quarterly Review, Native American Report, National Geographic, Ohio History, Psychology Today, Quilter’s World …
An article in Quilting Bee caught her eye:
Beasley Heritage Quilt On Display
In Massachusetts Museum
A small museum in northern Massachusetts claims to have an antique pictorial quilt depicting the early history of a town in Indiana. A distant relative of Major Samuel Elmsford Beasley, an early pioneer in the settlement of the so-called Indian Territory, has preserved this historic artifact, now on display at the Beasley Heritage Museum in Hobson’s Landing, MA …
≈ ≈ ≈
“Have you ever heard of the Beasley Heritage Quilt?” asked Cookie that Tuesday afternoon as her friends gathered around the big table in the Hoosier State Senior Recreation Center, sorting their scraps and stitching fabric squares together.
“Beasley? You mean as in the Beasley Mansion Beasleys?” asked Maddy.
“One and the same. Apparently Old Sam’s wife was a talented quiltmaker. And she captured the early history – the Indian battles, the early settlers – in a old patchwork quilt that’s now in a museum back east.”
“Where back east?” inquired Lizzie. She was the fastest sewer and her quilt was ready for its cott
on batting.
“In Old Sam’s hometown, a place in Massachusetts called Hobson’s Landing. Population about 1,200 on a good day, according to the latest US Census.”
“And it has a museum?” murmured Bootsie dubiously. “That town’s half the size of Caruthers Corners and we can barely support a few dinky displays at the Historical Society.”
“Amen,” said Cookie. “My portion of the town budget would barely keep a fruit stand open.”
“Then how does Hobson’s Landing do it?” asked Lizzie. As the wife of a banker, she was interested in financial matters.
“Apparently the museum has a large endowment. Money from the Beasley estate. Aside from leaving the mansion to the town, Charlotte Beasley left the bulk of her fortune to this tiny craft museum.”
“Craft museum, you say?” muttered Maddy. There was always the debate on whether quilting was a handicraft, an art form, or simply a domestic activity. Of course, the Quilters Club favored the “art” designation.
“What’s the name of this museum?”
Cookie smiled. “The Beasley Heritage Museum, of course. Most of its contents are artifacts and objects from the founding of this town. But since they wouldn’t call it Beasleyville, Old Sam sent his collection back east.”
“A bad sport,” observed Bootsie.
“How come we’ve never heard of this Beasley Heritage Quilt before now?” Maddy wanted to know. “We’re supposed to be the experts on local quilting history.”
“I supposed folks were insulted by Old Sam’s attitude so they sort of wrote him out of the town history. His wife’s quilt along with it.”
“Then how did you learn about it?”
“Believe it or not, I read about it in Quilting Bee magazine.”
“What kind of quilt is it?” asked Maddy, always the curious type.
“Like many early 19th-Century designs, it’s a wholecloth quilt decorated with pictorial needlework. The scenes depict the Beasley family’s trip west and their early days here in Indian Territory.”
Sewed Up Tight (A Quilters Club Mystery No. 5) (Quilters Club Mysteries) Page 5
