1 The Underhanded Stitch (10 page)

M
ayor Henry Caruthers had been surprised to receive the letter. The letterhead had a Caruthers Corners address, but he’d never heard of the firm.

MARK TIDEMORE

ATTORNEY AT LAW

Attention: Henry Jacob Caruthers,

You are hereby notified of a legal proceeding against you by Paul Ferdinand Johnson (“Complainant”), wherein it is alleged and sworn that you did willfully steal one valuable object, a ring set with a ruby stone (“Property”), on or about May of 1998 from said Complainant, and in addition to filing criminal charges with the Caruthers Corners Police Department, you are hereby being notified of a civil proceeding against you demanding return of said Property.

Et cetera, etc.

Sincerely yours,

Mark Tidemore, Esq.

“Well, jerk my chain and call me stupid,” cursed the mayor. He stormed out of his office, yelling to his assistant that he would be gone for the rest of the day, to cancel all his appointment. He headed straight to Caruthers Corners Savings and Loan on the south end of Main Street, a one-story brick edifice that looked like a cracker box, but was as sturdy as a maximum-security prison.

Mayor Caruthers asked to visit his safe deposit box, flashing his matching key. He kept it on his key chain at all times, along with his other important keys: home, office, Town Hall, car, gate to the town cemetery.

Spending about ten minutes with his lock box, he emerged from the bank like a man on a mission, walking with a fast stride toward his Cadillac Seville. He never made it to the car, intercepted by Chief Purdue and his deputy.

“Excuse me, Henry, but I have a sworn warrant for your arrest. I’m sure there’s been some mistake, but Paul Johnson claims you possess stolen property belonging to him.”

“Why that’s preposterous, Jim. You know me better’n that.”

Unfortunately, Chief Jim Purdue did know the mayor quite well, having gone to high school with him and worked on his first two election campaigns – before coming to realize the small-town politician was a lying, cheating snake. “I’m gonna have to ask you to show me what’s in that manila envelope in your hand, Henry.”

“This envelope? Personal papers, that’s all.”

“I’m afraid I have to insist.”

Shamefacedly, the mayor upended the manila packet and a ruby ring tumbled out.

“I
didn’t know you were licensed to practice law in Indiana,” said Mark’s father-in-law, patting him on the back.

“When I graduated from Ball State, I took the bar exam here. For some reason, I kept it up to date, even when we were living in California.”

“You did well, Mark the Shark,” said Maddy.

“Don’t call me that, mother person, or I’ll send you the bill.”

“But Paul Johnson’s your client, not me.”

“Yes, but he never would have come to me – my first client at my new law practice – if you hadn’t put a bug in his ear.”

“He deserved to know.”

Mark turned back to his father-in-law. “Are you going to let Paul Johnson keep that ring? It’s pretty valuable.”

Beau chuckled. “If he returns my thousand dollars. Otherwise you’ll have your second case.”

“Sorry, Dad, but I couldn’t represent you. It’d be a conflict of interest.”

“Well, whattaya know. Back in the family ten minutes, and you’re already working against me.”

“Calm down. I promise to have a word with my client. You’ll either get the ring or the money.”

“Take the thousand dollars,” Maddy advised her husband.

“You might want to think twice about that,” said Mark. “The ring appraised for twenty thousand dollars.”

“It’s historic significance?”

“It’s ruby,” said Mark, his arms around Tilly and Agnes.

≈≈≈

“We still haven’t finished off the mystery,” said Agnes as she licked on an ice cream cone. She and her grandmother were sitting at a picnic table at the DQ, a popular gathering place in Caruthers Corners. Lizzie and her husband Edgar were at the next table sharing a banana split. Cookie and Ben Bentley were two tables over, heads together, like that famous scene from
Lady and the Tramp
.

“Whatever do you mean, Aggie? We found the ruby ring.”

“Yes, Grammy, but how did you know the mayor was behind all this?”

“Simple my dear,” Maddy said, feeding her ice cream cone to Tige. The shaggy puppy was lying next to Agnes’ feet, already devoted to his new pal. “Mayor Caruthers is left-handed.”

“So what?”

“Well, the stitches in Martha Ray Johnson’s handmade quilt were looped right to left. But the section of the appliquéd Town Hall where the fake ring had been inserted was sewn left to right, the way a left-handed person might have done.”

“But when did you see the stitching. Lizzie’s the one who took the ring from the quilt when she and Bootsie were pretending to be housecleaners.”

“That day we first went to Tall Paul’s house to ask him about his size fourteen shoes, I noticed a lump in the quilt. That’s why I broke the latch on the screen door. I came back alone that same afternoon, when Paul was at the hardware store getting his replacement. Bertha was more than happy to let me look at the quilt. She doesn’t get many visitors.”

“You deliberately broke that latch?”

“Of course. I had to get him out of the house.”

“So why didn’t you look inside the quilt when you went back.”

“Didn’t have a chance. Bertha was hovering all over me, so happy to have a guest.”

“That’s why you refused to pose as one of the housecleaners. Bertha would have recognized you.”

“I was the only one of us she’d seen.”

Agnes giggled at her grandmother’s duplicity. “So Lizzie was wrong when she said you were too good to get your hands dirty.”

“As many a time as I’ve helped her plant flowers at the garden club, she should know better!”

“I like your friends. I like being a member of the Quilter’s Club.”

“You still have a quilt to finish, young lady. Watermelon Days is fast approaching. No slacking off allowed.”

Agnes giggled. “I can’t believe it, Grammy. You solved the mystery because of a stitch. The things you learn when sewing a quilt.”

“Yes dear, the mayor’s stitching was quite amateurish, him doing it backward because he was left-handed.”

Agnes smiled at the thought. “We could call it an underhanded stitch,” she said, her laugher drifting across the town square of Caruthers Corners, her new home.

===

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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 middleaged lady with an unpredictable family and loyal friends. And she’s a big fan of watermelon pie.

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