“Like this?”
“Perfect,” observed Lizzie.
“You know, we’ve accomplish quite a lot these last few weeks,” mused Cookie Bentley as she threaded a size 10 needle. “Captured a mad bomber, thwarted a disaster, and shut down a fraudulent museum with a quilt that didn’t live up to its claims.”
“Also we helped settle my crazy cousin into a nice home for Alzheimer sufferers,” said Maddy Madison. “The old girl was losing it.”
“And thanks to a grant from Bobby Ray Purdue, she’ll eventually be transferred to Beasley Assisted Living, as he’s calling the old Beasley place,” added Cookie. “Turning it into a special care facility was a stroke of brilliance.”
“Considering her obsession with Old Sam, she should be quite pleased to live in a housing development named after him,” nodded Bootsie. “Work’s already begun on converting the mansion.”
“Hope his ghost doesn’t mind sharing the place with a bunch of crazies,” sniffed Lizzie. The redhead was as sharp-tongued as Dorothy Parker, but without the wit.
“Memory impaired,” corrected Maddy.
“C’mon, she was pretty crazy,” said Cookie. “Trying to rewrite history with a fake quilt. Her diary showed that she’d made it herself. Beasley Heritage Quilt, indeed.” The town historian was obviously still miffed at being taken in by the scam.
“Unfortunately, we didn’t accomplish our original mission,” sighed Maddy, finishing off another 12” x 12” quilt square. It pictured the round, white face of a jolly-looking snowman. “We set out to solve Skookie Daniels’s murder.”
“But it wasn’t a murder,” the police chief’s wife responded. “He simply dropped dead.”
“What about that ghost, the one Skookie’s mom claimed scared him to death?” asked Lizzie.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Maddy’s granddaughter spoke up. She was getting quite adept at reciting that fear-chasing mantra.
“That’s right,” said Maddy. “Madam Blatvia was filling Mrs. Daniels’ head with nonsense.”
Cookie nodded her solemn agreement. “If Madam Blatvia were real, how come she didn’t foresee that bomb at the Town Hall? Answer me that. She was sitting right there, reading palms, and waving her hands over a big crystal ball.”
“Jim tells me the old humbug packed up shop and left town,” confided Bootsie. “He says her storefront in Burpyville has a FOR RENT sign taped on the door.”
“So Skookie Daniels just dropped dead on his own?” muttered Lizzie, unable to accept such a straightforward explanation.
“Not really,” said Aggie. “I know what killed him.”
Everybody turned to stare at the girl. “You know what killed Skookie?” repeated her grandmother.
“I told you I was going to solve the mystery on my own.”
“Okay, young lady,” said Bootsie, back to being a cop’s wife. “Let’s hear your theory.”
“Yes, give,” urged Lizzie, hoping for juicy gossip.
Cookie just sat there, all ears.
“Go ahead, dear,” said Maddy, giving her granddaughter an encouraging nod.
Aggie set aside her lap quilt. She brushed her blonde locks away from her face and took a deep breath, as if gathering her thoughts. “Well, it’s quite simple, actually. Everybody knows Skookie was engaged to marry Miss Pritchard, that pretty Latin teacher. But what he didn’t know was that she was seeing somebody on the side, a man named Charlie Kurtz. He has a house next door to the Beasley Mansion. When Skookie went over to check out the Mansion for the Halloween Festival, he saw Ellie Pritchard coming out of Charlie Kurtz’s house. They may have been playing kissy-face. The shock caused him to drop dead on the spot.”
“How can you know that?” said Cookie.
“Deductive reasoning. Like Sherlock Holmes. When we went trick-or-treating we stopped at Charlie Kurtz’s house. He gave us M&M’s. I had to pee and he let me use the bathroom. You had to go through his bedroom to get there. I saw a framed photo of Miss Pritchard on his nightstand. It was inscribed TO MY DARLING CHARLIE. They were obviously an item. And the house was right next door to where Skookie Daniels dropped dead. Too bad he had a weak heart, otherwise he could have marched over there and punched that Charlie fellow in the nose and demanded that Miss Pritchard give him back his engagement ring. After all, it had belonged to his mother.”
“How do you know it belonged to his mother?” inquired Cookie.
“I used to see a diamond ring on Mrs. Daniels’ hand. Then she quit wearing it and Miss Pritchard started wearing one. Guess Skookie couldn’t afford a new ring on a principal’s salary.”
“What about the ghost in the window?” asked Lizzie, reluctant to give up on a supernatural explanation.
“Uncle Freddie saw that guy Stinky Caruthers. He’d been hiding out in the mansion. Left his candy wrappers all over the place. Uncle Jim found more of them in his car.”
“That’s true, he did,” confirmed Bootsie.
“What about that bank robber Jim caught in the basement?” pressed Lizzie.
“Oh, Moose and his partner robbed the savings and loan, all right. Then they hid the money in the basement of the abandoned house. Moose was coming back to get it, but Stinky had already found it.”
“How do you know this?”
“Cause Moose looked like he’d lost his best friend when Grammy came upstairs with that empty sack. And since Stinky was squatting there in the Mansion, he’d be the logical one to have found it.”
“You’re right on the mark,” nodded Bootsie. “Jim and Pete recovered most of the missing money from the trunk of Stinky Caruthers’ old car.”
Aggie smiled with satisfaction. “Stinky’s big mistake was buying a Halloween costume with it.”
“Because that turned up some of the marked money?” guessed Cookie.
“No, because his dressing up as The Phantom of the Opera attracted Uncle Freddie’s attention. And he recognized Stinky as the man he’d seen out near the quarry where somebody set off a bomb. Testing it probably. Otherwise, Uncle Freddie wouldn’t have got suspicious when I smelled something funny in the haunted house.”
“Wow!” said Lizzie. “You’ve got this case sewed up.”
“I’ll say,” agreed Bootsie.
“You’re one smart kid,” nodded Cookie.
“I belong to the Quilters Club,” she reminded them. “We’re all pretty darn smart.”
“Aggie,” chided her grandmother, “don’t say “darned’.”
“Yes ma’am,” she said, picking up her lap quilt and nonchalantly beginning to work on the center square.
= = =
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About the Author
Marjory Sorrell Rockwell says needlecraft arts – quilting, crocheting, knitting – are pastimes every woman can appreciate. And she particularly loves quiltmaking. “It’s like painting with cloth,” she says. But when not quilting she writes mysteries about a midwestern sleuth not unlike herself, a middle-aged lady with an unpredictable family and loyal friends. And she’s a big fan of watermelon pie.
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Sewed Up Tight (A Quilters Club Mystery No. 5) (Quilters Club Mysteries) Page 15
