4 Hemmed In (11 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Another Pig’s Eye

“T
his is not a silver bar,” said Maddy, holding up a dirt-encrusted Mason jar.

Cookie asked, “What’s in it? Another pig’s eye.”

“I can’t tell.” She rubbed at the dirt off the glass. “There’s something inside. Pebbles or something.”

“Open it,” urged Lizzie
. Her red hair blazing in the noonday sun.

“No
way,” barked Bootsie, taking the shovel from Maddy. “It might be evidence that only the police should handle.”

“Can’t open it anyway,” said Maddy, having tried. “The lid’s rusted shut.”

“I’ll open it,” said a strange voice. Everyone looked up to see an odd-looking man standing above them on the sandstone slab. He was as slender as Jack Skellington. A thin mustache crossed his upper lip. His raven-black hair was slicked back with a thick gel. In his hand he held an ugly-looking P-08 parabellum Luger. “Give that jar to me,” he ordered, “or I’ll shoot.”

“
Hey, who’s that man?” asked little N’yen, confused by the intruder’s sudden appearance.

“That’s
Maury Seiderman,” answered Cookie Bentley. “He’s with some paranormal research organization.” She couldn’t quite remember the name on his business card.

“The Greater Midwest Occult Phenomena Association,” he
reminded her haughtily. “By now you’ve probably figured out I’m on the same mission as you: To find the Viking silver that Rev. Billingsley Royce took from Matilda Wilkins.”

“Well, it’s certainly not in this jar,” said Maddy, handing it up to him. “Last
Mason jar we found contained spunk water, feathers, and a pig’s eye.”

“A witch’s potion,” he snorted.

“Exactly. This is probably something similar.”

“Open it.”

“Can’t. It’s rusted shut.”

“Lemme
take a look at it,” he ordered. Tucking the pistol under his belt, he attempted to twist the lid but it refused to open. “
Umph
!” he grunted, face twisted with the exertion.

“Told you,” said Maddy.

“Oh well,” shrugged Maury Seiderman, then smashed the Mason jar against the unyielding surface of Steppin’ Rock.

Kra-ack
!

“You shouldn’t’ve done that,”
admonished Aggie. “The jar didn’t belong to you, Mr. Seiderman. We found it, so it was ours – fair and square.”

“Too bad, so sad, little missy
,” he sneered. “Mine now because I’ve got the gun.”

“Not f
or long,” said Bootsie as she swung the shovel –
klang!
– knocking the Luger from his hand.

“Ow,” he cried, stepping back.

Lizzie retrieved the gun, but in her hands it looked about as effective as a child holding a bazooka. She didn’t even have her finger on the trigger. Probably afraid of smudging her nail polish, Cookie joked later. “Stop right there, buster!” barked Lizzie with enough authority to stop Maury Seiderman in his tracks.

“Look, ladies, this was just a joke,” he pleaded. “I saw you digging down here and thought I might have some fun.”

“With a gun?” retorted Bootsie. She often accompanied her husband to the shooting range out on Field Hand Road so she knew the damage a bullet could do. Sometimes they used watermelons as targets, making a big red splash when the 9mm slug hit its target.

“That pistol
’s not even loaded,” he said.

“Then it will be okay if I point it at your head and pull the trigger,” smiled Lizzie. She adjusted her aim
, one eye squinted.

“No, wait. Don’t do that. Gun safety and all.”

“Right,” said Lizzie, shifting her finger to pull the trigger.

Ka-bam!

The bullet zinged past Maury Seiderman’s ear. “Holy rollers, you almost killed me,” he shouted at her.

“I thought you said it wasn’t loaded.”

“Good thing you’re a lousy shot,” he muttered, a tremor in his voice.

“Right,” said Lizzie. Not volunteering that she and Edgar often w
ent to the shooting range with Jim and Bootsie. She was actually a very good shot.

Maddy
spoke up: “Perhaps you don’t mind telling us what you’re doing out here waiving a gun around?”

“Looking for the treasure
,” he muttered. “I’ve got as much right to it as you have. Maybe more. I’m related to Matilda Wilkins on my mother’s side. She was a Süderdithmarschen – although the family shortened it to Marsch generations ago.”

“So you’re not really an occult researcher?”

“Of course I am. That’s why my cousin called me in to help locate the family treasure.”

Bootsie had been talking on her cell phone. “Jim
has a deputy on the way,” she announced as she hung up.

“The police?
” Seiderman offered a weak smile. “C’mon, we don’t need to get them involved, do we?”

“When you start waving guns at the police chief’s wife, the police get involved,” s
tated Bootsie, an angry set to her jaw.

“Hey now –”

“Don’t try to run away,” warned Maddy. “Our friend Lizzie could have shot your ear off, if she’d wanted too.”

“Okay, okay. But this is all a
silly misunderstanding.”

“I’ve got a question,” said
little Aggie. Hanging back, with a protective arm around her younger cousin.

“Yes dear?”
Maddy turned to her granddaughter.

“What was in the jar he broke?”

Chapter
Twenty-Five

The Shattered Mason Jar

E
verybody circled the shattered Mason jar there on the sandstone surface of Steppin’ Rock. The syrupy water formed a puddle, like a miniature pond with a couple of feathers and another eyeball floating in it.

“Aw shucks, another jar of goo,” said Lizzie.

“A witch’s potion,” Cookie corrected her.

“Is that an eyeball?” squealed Aggie, pointing at the greasy orb. Yellowish from a century of slow pickling.

“Yes, dear,” said Cookie, patting
the girl’s shoulder. “Probably another pig’s eye.”

“No silver?” grumbled their prisoner.

“Not an ounce,” said Lizzie, sounding equally disappointed.

“Nothing to do but wait,” s
ighed Bootsie, putting her cell phone back into her purse. “Deputy Hitzer will be here in another ten minutes.”

≈ ≈ ≈

Beau Madison was sitting at his desk. Being mayor was quite an honor, but sometimes he didn’t feel up to the task. Life had been much simpler when he ran the small Ace Hardware on South Main Street. Had he accepted the mayoral position out of fear of competing with the big Home Depot outside of town? Yes, probably.

Maybe he should just retire, take his Social Security, draw
on his 401k, and spend more time with his grandkids. Little N’yen was fast becoming his favorite.

Let someone else worry about stolen quilts, witches, and Viking treasure …

Chapter Twenty-
Six

The Witch’s Great-Great Granddaughter

T
hat next day at 9 a.m. Cookie Bentley met her Quilters Club pals for coffee at the Cozy Diner. You could tell she was excited by the way she nervously batted her eyes, the lashes fluttering like twin butterflies. “Last night I was doing some more research,” she gushed. “And I may have stumbled onto something important to the case.”

“I thought the case was
pretty much over,” replied Maddy Madison. “The police have given up on finding the missing quilt. Charlie Aitkens’s murderer may never be solved. Maury Seiderman is in jail for threatening us with a pistol. And as we’ve discovered, there’s no Viking treasure.”

“Maybe there
’s no treasure,” said Cookie. “But I think the Quilters Club can still solve the theft and murder.”

“Do tell,” said Bootsie. A little defensive
of her husband Jim’s failed efforts.

Cookie
mistakenly took that as a go-ahead. “I decided to do a little more digging on Matilda Elizabeth Wilkins to see if she has any living relatives.”

“And
–?”

“I found one,” said the town’s historian.

Maddy said, “You mean, Maury Seiderman?”

“No, someone else
– his cousin.”

“You
’re saying you were able to piece together the old woman’s genealogy chart?” asked Lizzie, always impressed with lineage.

“Well, not me. I went online to YourAncestors.com and looked
up Matilda Wilkins. The website taps into everything from birth records to wedding licenses.”

Maddy sipped at her coffee.
No chicory to her disappointment. “Surely they didn’t have any of that stuff back in the mid 1800s when Mad Matilda was born…”

“L
ots of people share Family Bible listings as well as their own genealogical research with the website. Happens, one of Matilda Wilkins’s relatives had filled in the genealogy chart pretty well. And recently too.”

“
Who?” said Lizzie.

“
Yes, who?” repeated Bootsie.

“Do we know this relative?”
echoed Maddy.

Cookie paused to build up the
suspense. “As a matter of fact, you do. The clue was in that history book by Martin Caruthers. He referred to her as Mrs. Wilkins. Matilda married one Benjamin Wilkins back in 1892. He died shortly after that. Her maiden name on the marriage certificate was Süderdithmarschen. That’s a Germanic or Old Norse name.”

“
Maury Seiderman told us that yesterday,” said Lizzie. “That’s nothing new.”

“Yes, but he said the name got shortened to Marsch.
Remember?”

“Oh my,” gasped Maddy. “Beau’s new secretary is Becky Marsch.”

“Bingo,” said Cookie. “It was none other than Rebecca Matilda Marsch who posted the updated genealogical chart on YourAncestor.com. She’s Mad Matilda’s great-great granddaughter on the old witch’s brother’s side of the family. Maury Seiderman’s first cousin.”

“Are you suggesting Becky stole the quilt?” asked Bootsie,
always looking for a culprit. A policeman’s wife through and through.

“I
n a sense. I think she provided the Town Hall’s alarm code to the actual thief. We always knew it was an inside job, but everybody kept focusing on that ol’ reprobate, Jasper Beanie. He was just a red herring.”

“Becky
Marsch,” Maddy repeated the name as if trying to get used to this new theory. Her husband’s secretary of all people!

“Why did she do it?” asked Lizzie.

“The money?” said Bootsie. “The thrill?
Because she didn’t get a big enough raise?”

“Maybe Becky wanted to
reclaim something she thought rightfully belonged to her family,” speculated Maddy.

“I
suppose I could understand that,” said Bootsie. “But she certainly went about it the wrong way.”

“
Don’t forget that somebody was her accomplice. And he may have killed Boyd’s boy Charlie.”

Lizzie sat down her coffee cup. “How can we find out
who was in on it with Becky?”

“Why don’t we
just go ask her,” said Aggie as she finished off her chocolate milk. “The Town Hall is only a block and a half away.”

≈ ≈ ≈

They stopped by the police station on the way and picked up Bootsie’s husband. He strapped on his gunbelt, pulled his cap over his balding head, and joined the parade up the sidewalk to the Town Hall.

Jim Purdue was thinking that t
he state boys were sure going to be irked if he solved both the murder and the theft. Jim had to admit he’d like that. Neil Wannamaker was just too darn pushy for his liking. The Nail indeed!

They found the pretty blonde at her desk, stationed just outside Beau Madison’s inner sanctum. She looked up as the entourage entered and mutter
ed, “Uh-oh.”

“Becky Marsch,” said Chief Purdue, “why didn’t you tell me that you’re related to the woman who created that missing quilt?”

“Uh, I’m only distantly related. Not enough to count.”

“You must have thought it counted for something,” interjected Cookie Bentley. “You updated her genealogy chart only last week.”

“That doesn’t mean I stole the quilt.”

“Makes you our Number One suspect
,” countered the police chief. “I think the SBI’s gonna want to talk with you, young lady.”

“Okay, I did it,” she gave in. “But I don’t have the blasted thing.”

“Who does?”

“
Bern Bjorn. He took it.”

“Bern?” said Chief Purdue. “We had him in custody only yesterday.” It irked him that Bjorn had been Lt. Wannamaker’s chief suspect. The Nail would never let him live this
one down, letting Bjorn go for lack of evidence.

“W
hy would Bjorn do a fool thing like stealing the quilt?” asked Beau Madison. The mayor had come out of his office when he saw all the people gathered around his secretary’s desk. “Bern’s the manager of the Dairy Queen, for gosh sakes.”

“Just got a confession,” said the police chief. “Becky and Bern Bjorn di
d it.”

“
Y-you’re sure?” sputtered the mayor. Bern Bjorn was a leading citizen. He’d been in Beau’s office the day before the robbery for a meeting of the Town Square Beautification Committee.

Becky M
arsch started to cry. “Bern’s my boyfriend. I did it for him.”

“
Aha, your mystery man,” said the police chief. Her alibi had been that she’d spent the night with her boyfriend. But she’d never named the man. And small-town decorum had kept Jim from asking.

“I’ve been seeing
Bern off-and-on since he and Wanda split up,” she sniveled.

“So you talked
him into stealing the quilt?” said Maddy.

“No, the other way round. Stealing the quilt was
his
idea.”

“Bern’s idea?”

“Yes,” she nodded firmly. “His son Pinky translated the symbols on that ratty old quilt. Told his dad what it said, that there was a treasure buried in my great-great grandmother’s well. He took the quilt so nobody else would be able to figure out the secret message.”

“We have lots of photographs of the Wilkins Witch Quilt,” offered Cookie. “That’s how we figured out what the runes said.”

“Guess he didn’t think of that. Bern’s no genius, that’s for sure. A miracle he has such a smart son.”

“Pinky’s a clever boy,” agreed Bootsie.
“I had him in a few classes last year.”

Becky nodded.
“True. But he needs to get out more. Always playing those stupid video games. Living off potato chips and Pepsi-Colas. The only friends he has are geeks just like him.”

“Without those video games, he’d never have learned how to read runes,” Cookie pointed out.

“Charlie Aitkens got it right,” said Lizzie, whose husband had overheard the conversation while under the bridge. “A kid with a single mother figured out the message and told someone. But it turns out he told his dad, not his mom’s boyfriend.”

“It’s only natural he’d confide in his dad
,” sniffled Becky. “Pinky doesn’t particularly like Teddy Yost.”

Chief Purdue pressed on with his questions.
“You’re saying you didn’t want the quilt for yourself?”

“Why would I want that old rag?”

“Well, for one thing, it’s worth a hundred thousand dollars. Some people might find that pretty tempting.”

“Particularly
a great-great granddaughter who thought the quilt rightfully belonged to her family,” added Maddy.

“
Poo,” replied Becky. “That Viking treasure will be worth millions, so why worry about an old quilt?”

“There is no Viking Treasure,” Maddy told her.

Becky Marsh turned to Cookie. “Mrs. Bentley, you’re the town historian. Tell her she’s wrong.”

“Sorry, honey. T
here’s no conclusive proof Norsemen ever made it to the Midwest.”

“But my cousin Maury says
–“

“So
Maury Seiderman’s in on this too?” said the police chief.

“
Of course he is. I asked him to help Bern find the treasure. My cousin’s a little nutty, but he’s been chasing treasures all his life. He’s fixated on witches and goblins and ghosts and buried treasures. He’s a one-man paranoid organization.”

“
Don’t you mean ‘paranormal’?” corrected Maddy.

“No, I think she’
s got it right,” said Chief Jim Purdue. “My night guy says Seiderman has been blathering about how Mad Matilda is gonna come save him from false imprisonment. False imprisonment … in a pig’s eye.”

Aggie
yelped, “What is it with pig’s eyes?”

“Mad Matilda
certainly seemed fond of using them in her potions,” said Lizzie.

“I think I can answer that,”
grinned Cookie. “According to YourAncestors.com, Matilda Süderdithmarschen’s family came from St. Paul, Minnesota. They were chased out of town for being witches. So those potions we found were actually curses on the people of St. Paul. Before its current name was established, the city of Saint Paul was known as Pig’s Eye.”

“You’re making that up,” accused Lizzie.

“No, really. It was nicknamed after a one-eyed tavern keeper, Pierre ‘Pig’s Eye’ Parrant. Today there’s even a Pig’s Eye Brewing Company in St. Paul.”

Bootsie was confused. “
Then why would she bury one those curses under the foundation of the Church of Avenging Angels?”

“Simple. The Avenging Angels were witch hunters, a threat to Mad Matilda. So she put a curse on them. Rev. Billingsley Royce was originally from St. Paul.”

“How do you know this?” challenged Bootsie.

“
From
A Personal History of Caruthers Corners and Surrounding Environs
. It says Rev. Royce came from St. Paul. Page 321.”

“Tha
t’s true,” admitted Becky Marsch. “My ancestors came here from St. Paul. They were run out of Minnesota by those witch hunters who called themselves the Avenging Angels. Those creeps even followed the Süderdithmarschens to Indiana.”

“And they killed Mad Matilda?” asked
Lizzie.

Becky nodded. “Matilda’s mother and father died in the Great Tornado of 1889. And
a few years later her husband was killed in a farming accident involving a mule. Kicked him in the head. So that left Matilda alone with her daughter to face those religious zealots. They killed my great-great grandmother for the Viking treasure she’d discovered in her well.”

“
I told you there’s no Viking Treasure,” Maddy said gently, patting the young woman’s hand. “That was just a silly legend. We would have found it if there had been a hoard of hack silver around here. We’ve certainly looked.”

“No, you’re wrong. A
family friend named Reggie Evers took Matilda’s orphaned daughter Griselda – my great grandmother – and raised her as his own. Griselda recalled seeing the silver as a child. ‘A dozen or more thin shiny bars that reflected the sun like a mirror,’ she described them in her diary.”

“Reginald Wentworth Evers
was a Master Warlock who lived near Burpyville,” remembered Cookie.

“Warlock, ha!” snorted Becky.
“Reggie Evers and the Süderdithmarschens were members of
Seiðr
. That’s an Old Norse religion based on Germanic paganism. You can find references to it in
Eiríks saga rauða
.”

“In what?” said Beau.

“
The Saga of Erik the Red,
an account of
Norse exploration of the Americas.”

“You seem pretty up on all this stuff,” observed
Lizzie.