“Let’s cut across to Melon Pickers Row,” suggested Freddie. “Mom and Dad won’t be home, but the Duncans always have homemade cookies.”
“Yummy,” agreed little Donna Ann. The girl was a Cookie Monster in the making. At 45 pounds, she was a little pudgy, despite a moratorium on DQ Blizzards.
“Only one cookie for you, young lady,” said Amanda. “Promise?”
“Yes, mommy. But I want chocolate chip. It’s my favorite.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Duncan will have her famous Double Chunk Chocolate Chip Delights,” said Freddie, thinking back to years past. “The woman should open a bakery. She’s that good.”
“That sounds like a lot of calories,” his wife cautioned.
“Calories don’t exist on Halloween night,” he said, “thanks to an ancient witch’s spell.”
“What witch’s spell?”
“Maybe it was a magician. I forget,” he grinned.
The shortcut to Melon Pickers Row took them down a lonely stretch of Melon Ball Lane. By now Freddie knew every house on the street, having gone over the town plats with Bobby Ray a hundred times while planning the new housing development. “We can cut through Cornelia Tutley’s yard and come out near the Duncan house,” Freddie explained, leading the way.
“Isn’t this the street that old haunted house is on?” asked his wife. She glanced around nervously, a bit spooked by the fact they had ditched the hoards of Trick or Treaters and were now on their own, just two adults herding four children.
“You mean the Beasley Mansion?” he responded with a chuckle. “It’s about as haunted as the Hoosier State Senior Recreation Center.”
“With all those old folks shuffling around, some of them could actually be Walking Dead and no one would notice,” she huffed, peeved that he was amused by her being such a scaredy cat.
“Okay, we’ll walk on the opposite side of the street so you won’t have to be near that old haunted house.”
“Ghosts don’t scare me,” said Aggie. “That’s ‘cause they’re not real.”
“Right,” agreed her aunt. But there was little conviction in her voice.
“You’re safe with me,” Freddie assured his wife, taking her hand.
A breeze rustled the leafless tree branches, making Amanda walk a little closer to her husband. “Let’s not test that premise,” she muttered, glancing about the deserted street. Not many lights were on, probably to discourage Trick or Treaters.
The Beasley Mansion loomed on their left, a hulking stone monolith that looked like the set for a Boris Karloff movie. “The upper window on the corner is where I saw a face,” Freddie pointed. The mansion was a darkened silhouette, so any ghostly faces that might be lingering in the windows were not apparent.
“You didn’t recognize the face?” Amanda had asked this question before, but though repetition might jog his memory.
“No, but I can’t help thinking I should. Like it’s lingering there on the edge of my memory.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t Major Beasley?” asked Aggie.
“No, I’m sure it wasn’t a ghost because –”
“I know,” she said. “Because there’s no such thing as ghosts.”
“Keep saying that enough, you may eventually believe it,” teased Freddie.
As they skirted the Beasley Mansion, the little children walked cautiously, as if a ghost or goblin might jump out of the bushes. Aggie skipped along, demonstrating she wasn’t frightened of the spooky old house.
There was a light in the house next door, one of the tiny row houses that lined the street. Future duplexes in Freddie’s mind. A shadow passed by its front window. “I wouldn’t want to live next door to that old crypt,” said Amanda, pushing the stroller a little faster.
“Wait,” Aggie tugged on her sleeve. “Somebody’s home. Let’s ring the doorbell and see if they’ve got candy.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Down the street Cornelia Tutley was keeping watch. Those kids up near the Beasley Mansion were the first Trick or Treaters she’d seen tonight. Nobody ever showed up on Melon Ball Lane, a neighborhood known for its poor pickings.
She watched as the group crossed the street heading toward the only house with a porch light on. The guy that lived there worked odd hours. He had a pretty girlfriend who visited him on occasion. She didn’t know his name. People on Melon Ball Lane were not very friendly, many of them older folk her parents had known.
Thank goodness the police had arrested Moose Johansson. That meant they’d picked up Peewee Hickensmith too. She hoped those two would get sent to the federal penitentiary in Terre Haute for a nice 20-year stretch. It would be a relief not to worry about them anymore. She’d lived like a prisoner in her own home for the past two years.
The federal prosecutor would probably call her to the stand. After all, she was a key witness, having spotted Peewee’s birthmark during the robbery. She wondered if there might be a reward. She’d like to take a vacation to Hawaii, the island of Maui maybe. She’d never been there. For that matter, she’d never been west of Peoria.
≈ ≈ ≈
Aggie was still hoping for Kandy Korn. So despite her Aunt Amanda’s trepidations, they rang the bell at 1203 Melon Ball Lane and yelled “Trick or treat!” as the door swung open.
“W-what?” said the pale man in horn-rim glasses as he stood there in a checkered bathrobe.
“Trick or treat,” repeated Aggie, holding out her goodie bag.
“Oh, uh, right, it’s Halloween,” said the man as if reminding himself. “We don’t get too many kids on this street. Probably because of the old Beasley Mansion. Hold on a minute, I think I’ve got some M&M’s.”
He disappeared into the interior of his house, leaving the door wide open, then returned with a large cellophane bag of M&M’s. He held them out, saying, “Go ahead, help yourself.”
The children dipped into the bag, each taking a handful.
“Oh,” joked Aggie as she examined the candy. “These aren’t M&M’s; they’re W&W’s.”
“W-what?” said the man, confused.
“See?” said Aggie, holding up one of the candies for his examination, the piece deliberately turned upside down.
Donna Ann eyed the candy and said, “Ohhhh.” Not that she could actually read, but she could recognize the basic letters.
“She’s just kidding around,” apologized Freddie, stepping up to the door. “Being funny, silly girl that she is.”
The man blinked at Freddie’s face, but quickly recovered his bland expression. “You’re Fred Madison, aren’t you? I’ve seen you out at the zoo.”
“My friends call me Freddie,” nodded Aggie’s uncle. He hadn’t been wearing his mask, so it wasn’t surprising that somebody recognized him. There weren’t many people who looked like him. “And you’re Charlie Kurtz. I think you were a grade behind me in school.”
“Yeah, I’m surprised you remember.”
“You wore the same style eyeglasses back then.”
“Guess I did,” he nodded.
“Excuse me, but may I use your bathroom?” interrupted Aggie. “Gotta go tinkle. Too much soda pop this afternoon.”
“Uh, sure,” nodded Charlie Kurtz, standing aside to let her enter. “That door over there. It’s off the bedroom.”
“Thank you,” she curtsied politely, then rushed toward her urgent destination.
“Excuse the unmade bed,” said the man. “I was just getting ready to turn in. I work for the garbage company. Gotta get up at four every morning.”
“No problem,” Aggie called over her shoulder, disappearing into the bedroom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A Long-Lost Cousin
“I checked out Eunice Smith-Cardwell,” whispered Cookie Bentley. She was standing next to the punch bowl with her girlfriends. It was her assignment to make sure no overzealous football player spiked the Blood and Guts Punch. “Just heard back from a friend at the American Textile History Museum in Lowell, Massachusetts. She call
ed as I was leaving the house. Ben got all fidgety, afraid we’d be late.”
“And?” said Maddy, impatient. She was supposed to monitoring the women’s restroom, to make sure nothing funny went on in there. Ben Bentley was covering the men’s restroom. The only other one was the mayor’s private john, accessible through his office.
“She’s your cousin.”
“What?” Maddy was at a lost for words.
“Your long-lost cousin,” chided Lizzie. “And … she’s a charlatan.”
“Don’t be too harsh,” said Bootsie. “We haven’t heard what Cookie found out.”
“Sorry,” said the quick-to-ignite redhead. “But as a member of the Caruthers Corners Quilters Club, I don’t approve of people faking historic quilts.”
“Forget about the quilt for a minute,” said Maddy. “What’s this about a cousin?”
“Seems Eunice Cardwell – she married a Smith – is a descendant of Old Sam’s wife’s sister. The Taylor side of the family, just like you.”
“My great-great grandmother had three children – Daniel, William, and Eunice. William was my great grandfather. Let me guess which one was Mrs. Smith-Cardwell’s forbearer.”
“Right you are. Turns out she started the Beasley Heritage Museum, not the Major as her letter stated. Although it’s a 501c3 non-profit, it doesn’t have accredited museum status. From what I’m told, it’s more like a roadside attraction in Hobson’s Landing, kind of a hobby located in a converted garage next to her house.”
“Okay, so Maddy has a big family,” Lizzie dismissed the lineage question. “Tell us about the quilt.”
“According to my friend, the Beasley Heritage Quilt has never been authenticated. Eunice Smith-Cardwell claims to have found it in a trunk belonging to her grandmother.”
“Passed down through the generations, uh?” grunted Bootsie, tasting the punch. It was a little too sweet for her liking, but there was no hint of booze. Cookie had been doing a good job as watchdog.
“Not necessarily,” answered Cookie. “My friend says one of the staff experts from the American Textile History Museum examined the quilt in situ and thought the thread in the stitching was of modern manufacture. But he couldn’t tell for sure, without testing.”
“In situ?” asked Bootsie. Her Word A Day Calendar hadn’t included that phrase.
“On site. That is, on display at the Beasley Heritage Museum. Old Eunice – she’s in her 80s by the way – refused to let him get any closer than the red velvet rope.”
“None of that’s surprising,” said Cookie. “We know the quilt’s bogus.”
“Should we speak with her?” asked Lizzie. “I’d sure like to find more about that quilt.”
“What have we got to lose,” Bootsie pointed out.
Maddy smiled impishly. “Let me make the phone call. I think we’re overdue for a family reunion.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Aggie and company arrived at the Halloween Festival around 8 o’clock. It was scheduled to run till midnight, the witching hour. The Town Hall was already crowded with high school students, little kids, and parents.
Most of them were dressed in a fanciful costume. Here was a pirate wearing an eye patch, there a zombie with peeling skin, up ahead a spaceman with a jetpack, beside you a princess in a gown, behind you a vampire swirling his cloak, over there a knight in plastic armor. A “cosplay contest” was scheduled for 10 o’clock, first prize a brand-new Vespa motor scooter. A $3,499 value.
Tilly took charge of her two younger children, disappearing into the crowd along with Amanda and Donna Ann. Aggie and her Uncle Freddie stood there surveying the crowd.
“Big turnout,” he commented. “Your dad should be pleased.”
“Uh-huh,” she replied vaguely, looking around for some of her classmates. But with everyone’s face hidden behind a mask, it was impossible to identify them.
“Want to do the haunted house?” he pointed to the converted storeroom. A sign over the door proclaimed: ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE. Beneath the words was an additional message: $2 DONATION. The money would go toward the motor scooter prize.
“Maybe later. I want to go bob for apples first.”
“Got any money?”
“Ten dollars. That’s this week’s allowance. But bobbing for apples only costs a quarter a turn.” Aitkens Produce had donated ten bushels of Braeburns.
“Okay, go do it. But do not leave this building. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Thanks for taking us trick-or-treating, Uncle Freddie.”
“You bet, kiddo.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Follow the Money
“Just heard from the FBI,” reported Chief Jim Purdue, sticking his head into the mayor’s office. Mark Tidemore was hiding away from all the raucous revelers downstairs. Screams and laughter could be heard over a rendition of “Monster Mash.” The noise was deafening.
“The FBI?”
“Seems some of that stolen savings and loan money turned up here in Caruthers Corners today.”
“No kidding?” said Mark the Shark. As an attorney, he knew what that meant. How could Peewee Hickensmith and Moose Johansson be guilty if someone else was spreading the stolen money around town?
“Barnabas Soltairé has already served a writ of habeas corpus. Those two crooks will likely be out in time to still go trick-or-treating.”
“Where did the money turn up?”
“Down the street at the Dollar General of all places. The invisible markings showed up when they deposited the receipts at the end of the day. The bank wands everything as a matter of routine.”
“That couldn’t have been more than an hour or two ago.” He glanced at his wristwatch. 8:32 p.m. The Halloween Festival had been going on three hours now.
“The Feebies work fast. I just got the call a few minutes ago. I was in the middle of breaking up a fistfight.”
“A fight?”
“Nothing big. Pete Hitzer took over. Two football jocks having a dispute over a girl.”
“Big surprise in that.”
“Otherwise, the Festival has been going pretty smoothly. The haunted house is a big hit. Lines stretching around the atrium.”
“Do the Dollar General clerks have any idea who passed the money?”
“FBI says not. Today was a busy day, selling last-minute Halloween costumes and trick-or-treat candy. Obviously it was a cash transaction. No records.”
“But there’s no question it took place today?”
“No question,” nodded the high school. “And Hickensmith and Johansson have been locked up all week.”
“Do you think they had an accomplice? Someone who thinks the money belongs to him, now that his partners have been nabbed?”
“Possibly. But if I were the third man in a deal like that, I’d skip the state with my suitcase of cash before those two yahoos rolled over on me. I wouldn’t hang around here shopping at the Dollar General.”
“I see what you mean. But maybe he’s as dimwitted as his partners.”
“Don’t sell those boys short. They did pull off a major heist. Two hundred thou is a darn good haul. The average take in a bank robbery is only $4,330.”
“Point taken. But what other explanation could there be?”
A small voice spoke up. “Maybe somebody found the money where they hid it in the basement of Beasley Mansion,” suggested Aggie. She’d been using the mayor’s private restroom and had overheard most of the conversation.
“Somebody found it –?” Chief Purdue repeated, trying on the idea.
“But who?” said Mark Tidemore, eying his daughter. He didn’t approve of her sneaking around, spying on people. Those Quilters Clubbers took this detective business too far.
“Maybe it was that ghost,” shrugged Aggie, adjusting the apron on her Alice in Wonderland costume. The Velcro kept coming loose, causing one of the straps to slip off her thin shoulder. But what could you expect for $19.95 from the Dollar General?
&
nbsp; “Ghost?” chuckled Chief Purdue. “Let’s not go there again.”
“Maybe not a real ghost,” conceded the mayor’s daughter. “But Uncle Freddie saw a face in that upstairs window. And you found that somebody had been staying in the front bedroom, eating all those candy bars. Dollar General’s the best place to buy candy in all the town. Everybody knows that, real ghost or not.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Lucius Plancus was standing on the sidewalk having a smoke, while the Halloween Festival raged on inside the Town Hall. He’d been cursing his luck, assigned to cover a high school party when bigger stories loomed just outside his grasp. There had to be graft involved in that rumored housing project. Something more to that S&L robbery. Maybe a scandal attached to the mayor and his pretty new secretary. Or corruption in the Zoning department.
Any of those would be headline news. But a bunch of high school kids getting drunk on spiked punch, that was a non-starter. Didn’t that stupid WZUR station manager have any kind of nose for news?
As the Jolly Red Giant lit up his second cigarette, he surveyed the families trolling the houses that bordered the town square, kids with trick-or-treat bags in hand, watchful parents trailing along behind. Ozzie and Harriet, he thought disdainfully. Clusters of people in colorful costumes milled in the park. That’s what made him notice Barnabas Soltairé, that big-time lawyer, standing near the Old Settlers Well, looking out of place dressed in a slickly tailored $2,000 silk suit. What was he doing here?
The big carrot-top reporter shambled across the street, waving to get the lawyer’s attention. “Hey, Mr. Soltairé, it’s me – Lucius,” he called, but the noise from the Town Hall drowned him out.
He was within yards of Soltairé before the mob lawyer noticed him, although how one could miss a 300-pound redhead in a bright yellow windbreaker is a little hard to understand. “Hi ya,” he greeted the reporter, extending a hand. “Where’s your costume? This is a Halloween party.”
Sewed Up Tight (A Quilters Club Mystery No. 5) (Quilters Club Mysteries) Page 12
