1 The Underhanded Stitch (2 page)

Chapter Three

T
he big red-and-yellow bus rolled to a stop in front of the Town Hall at precisely three on the dot. Tilly and her daughter were the first ones off when the door yawned open. And the last, being they were the only passengers. Rumor was that Trailways might discontinue service to Caruthers Corners for lack of traffic.

“Tilly!” shouted Maddy. Beau stood there beaming over his wife’s shoulder.

“Mom! Dad!” The slender young woman rushed forward to hug her parents. Then, glancing over her shoulder at the lagging ten-year-old, she motioned her child forward. “Aren’t you going to say hello to your grammy and grampy?” she urged.

“Don’t wanna,” whined Agnes. “I want to go home.”

“This is your home for now,” her mother snapped. A little to harsh, in Maddy’s estimation. But she knew better than interfere between a parent and child, even if they were her own flesh and blood.

“I want my daddy.”

“Well, honey, you can’t have your daddy right now. So please try to make the best of it,” sighed Tilly with a weariness that made it clear she’d been saying this to Agnes over and over to no avail. So she gently pushed her whining daughter forward to greet her grandparents. An awkward moment under any circumstances since the last time Maddy and Beau has seen Agnes she was only six years old.

“You’d best mind your manners, young lady.”

Agnes didn’t much look the part of a young lady. She wore a baggy sweater and faded blue jeans, her sex only revealed by the length of her hair. And these days that wasn’t a reliable measure. The freckles that covered the bridge of her nose reminded Maddy of her husband at a young age. Pale skin that became splattered with brown spots when exposed to the sun. Not that Agnes had seen much sun in smog-laden Los Angeles.

“Hi Grammy, hi Grampy,” the young girl offered a perfunctory greeting. Her heart obviously wasn’t in it. She fidgeted and tried on a smile, but it had an artificial look, like a Halloween mask that didn’t quite fit.

At that moment Maddy regretted they hadn’t made a trip to California last summer to see their daughter and her workaholic husband, a chance to have better bonded with this child who was practically a stranger. Instead, they had elected to visit the Grand Canyon with Bootsie and Jim Purdue. With the low crime rate in Caruthers Corners, it was easy for the police chief to take a two-week vacation. And Beau never hesitated to hang
a
CLOSE
D
sign on the hardware store door and take off.

“We’ve only got three bags,” said Tilly, sounding apologetic that her life had been reduced to a trio of small suitcases.

“I’ll get ’em,” offered Beau, stepping forward, his meaty palms reaching for the matching Sampsonite luggage. He balanced one in each hand, the third under an arm, like a stevedore aiming for a big tip.

“Thanks, Dad.” Tilly gave him a weary smile, one that said it had been a tough year. And sure enough, it had. A dozen years of marriage down the drain. Her dreams of a handsome, doting husband and a home with a white picket fence shattered. Now she and her daughter were adrift, like rudderless boats with no shoreline in sight.

“C’mon, dear,” said Maddy, wrapping an arm around her daughter. “Let’s go home. Melon Pickers Row is just as you left it.”

“Yes,” sighed Tilly. “But I’m not.”

≈≈≈

That night Tilly’s spirits seemed to pick up as her mother served pot roast, a family favorite. Dinner was mostly small talk, everyone studiously avoiding the subject of Tilly’s fractured marriage. Suffice it to say, you never want to divorce a lawyer, even one who specializes in taxes. Tilly thought there must be an elective course in law school called “Hiding Your Assets.” And her husband undoubtedly had placed at the top of his class.

Nonetheless, the pot roast was succulent – comfort food stirring up those secure feelings of childhood when the world was a friendly place. The mash potatoes were heaping mounds, “dirty taters” as her mom called them, mashed with the skin intact. The home-grown green beans melted in your mouth. And those fluffy buttermilk biscuits were as large and round as the bread plate itself.

“Yummy,” said Tilly, just like she did as a child.

Young Agnes was not so appreciative of the sumptuous meal her grandmother had laid out for their arrival. “May I be excused?” she mumbled.

“Why, dear, you’ve barely touched your pot roast.”

“Don’t like it.”

“Agnes, don’t be rude to your grammy,” Tilly reprimanded her daughter. “She went to a lot of trouble to make us this wonderful dinner.”

“Is there a Jack In the Box around here? I’d rather have a hamburger.”

“Agnes!”

“There, there,” said Maddy. “Don’t force her to eat. She gets hungry, she’ll come around.”

“I’d just soon starve to death as be here,” frowned the obstinate girl. “I want my daddy and I want to be in my own house!”

“Agnes, we’ve talked about that. Your father is much too busy to worry about us.”

“I want my daddy,” the girl repeated, face screwed up as if about to cry.

“Want to go for a ride into town?” asked Beau, ever the peacemaker. “We can get us an ice cream parfait at the DQ.”

Agnes pretended not to hear, but her eyes lighted up just a little. Taking that as his cue, Beau stood up and held out his hand. “Come along. We’ll leave your mom and Grammy to clean off the table.”

“But – ” Maddy was about to say she’d baked a watermelon pie, then thought better of it. “Never mind. You two go have some ice cream while we girls catch up on local gossip.”

“Okay.”

Crisis diverted, Beau and his granddaughter shuffled out the front door and down the walk to the big blue Buick in the driveway.

“Sorry about that,” said Tilly, close to tears.

“Don’t be,” smiled Maddy, giving her a reassuring pat on the arm. “More watermelon pie for the two of us.”

“Yummy,” repeated Tilly, a faint smile crossing her pale lips. “You always knew how to offer comfort foods at just the right time.”

≈≈≈

Late that night, after everybody was in bed, Beau rolled over to face his wife. “Are you gonna be up for this visit?” he asked quietly, voice little more than a whisper.

“I have to be. She’s our daughter.”

“It’s not Tilly I’m worried about. You think she’s delicate, but I’m sure she’s tough at the core. I’m more concerned about how you’ll do with Aggie.”

“Aggie?”

“She says that’s what her friends call her.”

“And you’re already her friend?” A feeling of failure crept over Maddy. Would she ever bond with this rude, damaged child?

“Sure we’re friends,” said Beau. “I bought her ice cream.”

Chapter Four

A
s her husband was heading out the door that morning, lunch bag in hand, Maddy realized that in the excitement of Tilly’s arrival she’d forgotten to ask Beau about the clue he said Chief Purdue had found. Not that she gave a fig about the missing statue. Rather, her precise mind wasn’t content to leave questions unanswered.

She stuck her head out the front door, but was too late to catch him. The ancient Buick was already lumbering down Melon Pickers Row, past the stately Victorian homes, headed toward the Ace Hardware building on Main Street. Oh well.

“Mom,” came Tilly’s voice from the kitchen. “Would you mind watching Agnes this afternoon? I have a conference call with my lawyer. Mark’s asking for custody.”

“Of Agnes?”

“He’s not talking about our parakeet.”

“Surely he’s not serious. A daughter belongs with her mother.”

Tilly shook her head, brown hair brushing her shoulders. “Try telling that to a man with too much money and power for his own good.”

“Of course, I’ll watch her. Perhaps she’d enjoy going to the Quilter’s Club with me. I’m sure all the girls will make a fuss over her.”

“Whatever. But don’t expect Agnes to take up quilting. She hates crafts – what she calls ‘busy work’.”

“Busy work indeed. Quilting is a very relaxing hobby. And it taps your creativity.”

“Hey, you’re preaching to the choir. I made my first quilt at ten. Don’t you remember?”

“Your daughter’s age,” Maddy pointed out.

“Good luck in converting Agnes. She’d rather play video games.”

“Nothing wrong with that. But quilting, knitting, crocheting – they’re all nice skills to develop.”

“Oh mom, who needs to knit when you can buy a sweater from China for a fraction of what your own time’s worth?”

Maddy gave her daughter a disapproving glare. “Tsk, tsk. There’s a special pride and pleasure in making things yourself. And we can’t depend on China for everything. Else we’ll wind up with all our money over there.”

“Thanks for that lesson on trade deficits. But I still like my new Afghan made in Hong Kong.”

“Have it your own way. But I’m taking Agnes to the Quilter’s Club this afternoon. Perhaps there’s still hope for
her
.”

≈≈≈

“Hi, girls. Meet my granddaughter Agnes,” said Maddy as she ushered the reluctant youngster into the room at the senior center where the Quilter’s Club met every Tuesday. It was a wonderful room. A dozen comfortable chairs scattered around the edges and a large table they used for cutting and measuring fabrics. They did a lot of work on their own, but having a table, cutting mat, cutters, plus iron and ironing board, gave them the option to work on any part of their quilt-making during their informal meetings. One long shelf along the back wall held baskets of fat quarters and scraps available to anyone who wanted them for their own project. They each added fabrics to these baskets on a regular basis.

“Hello, Agnes,” chirped Cookie Brown, offering a little wave.

“Welcome, my dear,” said Bootsie Purdue, raising a coffee mug. She was the caffeine queen, a ten-cups-a-day addict.

“Aha, a new member,” kidded Lizzie Ridenour. The club’s attendees had dwindled from eight to four, the last loss being Jennifer Brown, Cookie’s sister-in-law when her husband accepted a higher-paying job in Indianapolis.

“I’m not joining your stupid ol’ club,” said Agnes.

Lizzie ignored the rudeness, having raised two rambunctious daughters (one of whom ran away with the minister’s son). “We’ll wait to see if you pass the initiation test. Not just anybody can join, y’ know.”

“Pass the test?”

“Grab a seat over there and we’ll get you started on a quilt of your own,” Lizzie continued. “The test comes later.”

“But I don’t wanna take a test – ”

“That’s okay, my dear. We’re not looking for new members right now anyways,” Bootsie joined in, a quick study.

“But wait – !”

“Don’t beg,” said Cookie, catching on to the game. “Just because your grandmother vouches for you doesn’t guarantee you membership in the Quilter’s Club. We have very high standards.”

“What if I wanna join?”

“See that big basket of scraps on the end of the shelf? Pick out nine different pieces of fabric that you would like in your quilt. We’ll get you started with a small nine-patch quilt. It’ll be easy to make and it’ll be your own unique creation. Do you know how to sew?”

“No.”

“Here, let me show you,” said Lizzie, scooting her chair next to Agnes’. She was the best quilter in the group. “First, we have to thread the needle,” she instructed.

A half hour later, Agnes was proudly practicing small stitches on a folded piece of fabric. Her stitches were uneven lengths and too loose and crooked to work well on her quilt. But with practice she’d soon be good enough to start connecting her nine squares.

Maddy spoke up, just to be making conversation. “Bootsie, I heard your husband found a clue in the Missing Bronze Mystery.”

“What mystery?” asked her granddaughter, pausing, her needle in the air.

“Someone stole your great-great-great – I’m not sure how many greats – grandfather’s bronze bust from its place in the Town Hall building,” volunteered Bootsie.

“Two greats,” corrected Cookie, the genealogy expert.

“Wow,” said Agnes. “Is the Quilter’s Club trying to solve the crime?”

“Us? No way,” laughed Maddy. “We’ll leave that to Bootsie’s hubby, the chief of police.”

“Wow! Your husband’s a policeman? Just like on TV?”

Bootsie suppressed a chuckle. “A policeman, yes. But not exactly like you see on television. Mostly he hands out parking tickets.”

“The clue?” reminded Maddy. “What was the clue he found?”

“Oh that. A footprint.”

“What?”

“A muddy footprint. At the base of the pedestal the bronze bust sat on.”

“What size?” inquired Agnes. Out of the mouth of babes. “What size shoe was it?”

“Lordy, I didn’t think to ask,” said Bootsie, feeling upstaged by a child.

≈≈≈

“Size fourteen,” replied Beau Madison that evening. “Jim said the footprint was a size fourteen shoe.”

“Isn’t that rather large?” said Maddy. After all, Beau wore a size nine.

“A regular Bigfoot,” he agreed.

“There can’t be many folks in town with feet that large. It ought to narrow the list of suspects down considerably.”

“Maybe,” he replied vaguely.

“Do you know anyone with feet that size?”

Beau shrugged the question away. “Not offhand. But I don’t look down at everybody’s clodhoppers. You’d have to be a shoe salesman to notice something like that.”

Agnes tugged on her grandmother’s arm. “Didn’t I see a shoe store when mommy and I rode into town on that big bus?”

“Yes,” Maddy said thoughtfully. “Pic A Pair is located on Main Street. It’s been there since your mother was your age. Old Mr. Duncan has been selling footwear for the past forty years.”

“Why don’t we go ask him about Bigfoot?”

Tilly rolled her eyes. “Agnes dear, you should leave that to Chief Purdue.”

“Well, it wouldn’t
hurt
to ask,” she said.