4 Hemmed In (3 page)

Chapter Six

At the Ruins of the Wilkins Cottage

T
he next morning the Quilters Club – the four women and little Aggie – set out on a field trip to inspect the ruins of the Wilkins cottage. N’yen was at home pouting, seeing his exclusion as nothing short of sexism, girls ganging up against the lone boy.

About a half-hour north of Caruthe
rs Corners, Maddy turned her big SUV onto a sandy road that cut through flat watermelon fields belonging to Aitkens Produce, the biggest farm in the county. About four miles in they came to an oasis in the farmland, a cluster of oak trees that shaded a stonewalled well. Someone – Boyd Aitkens most likely – had installed a pump to draw water up to a large cattle trough. Not that there were any cows in sight.

“Over there,” Cookie pointed. “That clump of rocks must be where the house stood.”

They strolled over to inspect the remains of Matilda Wilkins’s cottage. Most of the foundation stones had been carried away, probably to build some other structure on the watermelon farm.

Lizzie paced it off. “Not a very big house,” she assayed its diminutive size.

Bootsie was peering into the well. “I can’t see the bottom,” she said.

“Don’t lean too far,” advised Maddy. “That didn’t work out too well for Mad Matilda.”

“Did people really kill her?” asked Aggie, still learning about the inhumanity of fellow humans.

“Bad people,” Lizzie told her, red hair blowing in the breeze that came off the surrounding fields.

“Church people?” The girl had heard them talking.

“A cult,” c
orrected Cookie. “The Avenging Angels were more like a gang of murders and thieves hiding under the cloak of piety.”

“And nobody knows where their hideout was?” asked Aggie.

“Well, they called it a house of worship, but that was certainly a misnomer.”

“Miss who?”

“Misnamed.”

“Oh
,” said Aggie. Her blonde locks brushed her shoulders, a tomboy look. “Why don’t we go find it? Didn’t you say they buried the treasure there?”

Cookie cracked a smile
. “One newspaper article speculated they buried the money they stole from Mad Matilda at the church. But there’s no basis for it, other than a local farmer who claimed Rev. Royce told him that.”

“Why would Rev. Royce tell anyone where he hid the money?
” scoffed Maddy. “What would keep that farmer from digging it up for himself?”

“Good point,” nodded the bank president’s wife.

“What’s this?” said Bootsie, still staring into the well. “Looks like some markings on the inside.”

The women gather
ed round the well. “Markings?” said Cookie, straining to see. Her eyes followed Bootsie’s pointed finger. There on some of the stones about three feet down were scratches that might have been writing of some kind.

“Hard to make out,” muttered Lizzie. Afraid to lean over the rim. “It’s
awfully dark down there.”

“I’ve got a flashlight in the glove compartment,” volunteered Maddy. “Hang on.”

“Let me see the markings,” begged Aggie, but her protective companions refused to let her near the open well.

“
Better stand back,” warned Lizzie. “It’s dangerous.” She stepped backward, away from the well, as if following her own advice.”

“Awwww.”

Maddy returned with a small penlight. It was more powerful than it looked. She aimed the beam at the scratches, tracing the indentions with the light. “Hm, could be the same kind of symbols that were on the quilt’s border,” she noted.

“Ruins?” said Aggie.

“I think you mean ‘runes,’ dear,” Bootsie corrected.

“That reminds me
,” said Cookie. “We have an appointment this afternoon with Daniel Sokolowski. He’s going to recommend someone who knows Old Norse writing.”

“Why Norse?” asked Lizzie. “Didn’t you say those markings could be
Sumerian cuneiform writing or Egyptian hieroglyphics?”

Cookie glanced at the scratches before answering. “No, they’re certainly not Egyptian hieroglyphics
or Japanese kanji. Those forms of writing are more pictorial. As for cuneiforms, ancient Sumer was located a long way from Caruthers Corners. However, there is some evidence of Norsemen coming this way.”

“Norsemen? You mean Vikings?”

Cookie nodded. Despite her plain-Jane hairstyle and spectacles, you could see she was a beauty underneath. “The Old Norse feminine noun
víking
refers to an expedition overseas. We know they came to Vinland – probably eastern Canada – around 1000 AD. And the Kensington Runestone was found in Douglas County, Minnesota, some seven hundred miles northeast of here.”

Maddy looked skeptical. “You think Vikings carved these markings inside the well?”

“I doubt this well is that old. The Kensington Runestone dates back to 1362.”

“Looks pretty old to me,” muttered Lizzie.

“Maybe whoever dug this well picked up some runestones along with the other rocks when they built this wall,” said Bootsie.

“Where did Mad Matilda get the markings on her quilt?”
asked Aggie. Trying to piece it all together, without much luck.

“Maybe she copied them off these rocks,” said Lizzie.
Like Occam’s Razor, always looking for the simplest explanation.

“We’re all guessing,” Cookie pointed out. “Let’s wait to see what Daniel Sokolowski’s expert has to say.”

≈ ≈ ≈

Daniel Sokowloski rubbed his gray-streaked beard with one hand, as if petting a cat, while he thumbed through an old-fashioned
carousel-style Rolodex with the other. “Here it is,” he said. “Ezra Pudhomme. He’s an expert on Runology. You may be familiar with his biography of Friedrich Bernhard Marby, the noted rune occultist.”

“Must have missed that one,” said Maddy.

Cookie spoke up. “Wasn’t Marby the Germanic neopaganist who developed a set of occult exercises he called runic gymnastics?”

“Yes, the exercises
were used as a means of channeling runic power. Or at least that was Marby’s theory.” Sokolowski grinned like a Cheshire cat, delighted to have found someone who shared his esoteric trivia.

“So where is this
Ezra Pudhomme located?” asked Bootsie, eager to get them back on a subject she understood. Runic power – what the heck was that?

“
Ah, it seems you ladies are in luck,” said Sokolowski. “Professor Pudhomme happens to be doing a lecture series at ISU this semester.”

“In Indy?” asked Lizzie. Her son Josh went to school there.

“Yes. A visiting professorship.”

“Will you introduce us?” asked Maddy. “We could drive down for lunch tomorrow.”

“Hold on and I’ll phone him right now.”

“Oh boy, a trip to Indianapolis,” said Aggie.

“You’ll have to ask your mother,” her grandmother warned.

“What about N’yen? Can he come along? He’s feeling left out.”

Maddy was about to say he’d have to ask his mother, but caught herself. Kathy was still in the hospital – in traction, for goodness sake. N’yen was her responsibility for the next two weeks. “Alright, the two of you can come along,” she acceded.

≈ ≈ ≈

Mayor Beauregard Hollingsworth Madison IV was unhappy about the meeting he’d had that morning with that pushy SBI agent. Lt. Neil Wannamaker was much too aggressive for Beau’s taste. How dare he insinuate that one of Beau’s office visitors might be a cat burglar capable of stealing the Wilkins Witch Quilt. All 13 names in his appointment book were leading citizens, the
crème de la crème
of Caruthers Corners society you might say. Not a shady character among them.

“Becky,” he called to his secretary, “cancel my afternoon appointments. I’m going home
. My stomach’s acting up.” In a small town like this, the term “administrative assistant” had not yet caught on.

“
Okeydokey,” she replied. All but snapping her chewing gun. Becky Marsch was fresh out of high school. This was her first job, according to the application. Beau wasn’t sure she was going to work out. The girl daydreamed too much.

He wandered across the town square, pausing to watch the Poindexter twin
s play catch. Looked like Larry had a new catcher’s mitt, while Lonny seemed content with his old glove.

As he turned onto Melon Pickers Row, the sidewalk got wider. One of the perks of having Public Works report to him. The street was lined with maple trees, tall and leafy. In autumn it looked as if the entire block was ablaze.

He noticed a black SUV, a Toyota, parked in his driveway. That was strange. Maddy was off with her Quilters Club cronies, so who would be at his house. Burglars didn’t usually operate in broad daylight, he assured himself.

“Hello!” a tall man in a
loose-fitting dark suit hailed Beau as he approached. The man had been standing behind the big leafy witch-hazel in the yard, having himself a smoke.

“Can I help you?”

“My card,” the man brandished a sliver of paper that announced:
Maury Seiderman, Field Investigator, G.M.O.P.A.

Beau stared at the card. “What’s G.M.O.P.A.?” he said.

The man gave him a crooked smile. His face was thin, his eyebrows hooding purplish eyes (color contacts?), and he sported a pencil-thin moustache like a Lounge Lizard or silent movie star. “Greater Midwest Occult Phenomena Association. We’re a non-profit organization out of Chicago.”

“Never heard of it.”

“We’re an under-the-radar organization. Not seeking publicity.”

Beau sized up the visitor. A beanpole
, kids might’ve called him. Over 6’ 5” but barely breaking 120 pounds. “Tell me how I can help you. We’ve got all the magazine subscriptions we need.”

“Oh, we only publish a newsletter. And it’s free to members.”

“Well, my wife and me, we’re not the joining type either.”

The weird smile flickered,
and then became fixed, like the face on a wax mannequin. “We’re not recruiting right now.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I’m here on official G.M.O.P.A. business. It has to do with that witch’s quilt you lost.”

Chapter Seven

Worrying About a Witch

M
addy Madison prepared duck a la orange with dirty mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, and an arugula salad with watermelon dressing for dinner. N’yen’s favorite. She was making up to the boy for leaving him in the care of Aggie’s mother today. He was still pouty.

Beau pil
ed a mound of potatoes onto N’yen’s plate. The two had grown close. “Eat up, young man. You want to grow as tall as Grampy, don’t you?”

Beau Madison was well over 6’, a James Cromwell type. N’yen looked
up at his grandfather with a twinkle in his brown eyes. “Not likely. We
Kinh
are usually short.”

Aggie looked up. “
What’s a
Kinh
?”

“
That’s the kind of Vietnamese I am. I was born in Chicago, but my first parents came from the
n
g
ư
ờ
i Kinh
.”

“Do you remember your … first parents?” Maddy asked.

“No, I was little when they died in a car crash. Now my new family has been in a car crash too.”

“Your mommy and daddy are going to be all right. They broke some bones, but those will mend.”

“You promise?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Good. I like my new family.”

“That’s my boy,” said Beau. A Viet Nam vet, he’d been reluctant to accept the boy at first. But that went out the window once the two met. Now they were fishing buddies, often accompanying Lizzie Ridenour’s husband Edgar on hook-and-line forays along the Wabash.

“Want to go to Indianapolis tomorrow?” asked Maddy. “The Quilters Club is going to meet a man who might be able to read that writing on the quilt. You and Aggie can come along for the ride, if you like.”

“
Oh boy, we’re going to play detective!”

Beau shook his head, the wispy
white hair stirring with the effort. “Don’t encourage this fantasy that you’re the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency.”

“And why not?”

“Because you’re not. You’re a quilting society with nosey members.”

“Same thing,” said Maddy, nose in the air.

Beau rolled his blue eyes. “Heaven help me,” he sighed.

About then, their son Freddie and his wife Amanda dropped by. “Is it too late for desert?” grinned Freddie. He was very fond of watermelon pie.

“Pull up a chair,” said Maddy. “We are just about to cut the pie. But this is your sister Tilly’s recipe, so it has strawberries mixed in.”

“Strawberry-watermelon pie?” said Amanda.
“That sounds interesting.” She was followed into the dining room by their adopted daughter Donna Ann, the latest addition to the Madison clan (not counting Tilly’s newest baby).

“I
did say it was Tilly’s recipe, didn’t I?” Maddy grinned. Tilly was not known as a cook. “But I promise you’ll like it.”

“Whose black Toyota was parked in the driveway this afternoon?” asked Freddie. “I drove by on my way to clown practice.” After being horribly scarred in a
n Atlanta fire, he’d returned to Caruthers Corners with his family to become a clown who entertained children at the Haney Bros. Zoo and Exotic Animal Refuge on the outskirts of town. The greasepaint may have covered his disfigured face, but it didn’t disguise his pleasure in entertaining the local kids.

“A car in our driveway?” repeated Maddy.

“Well, I was going to mention that,” said Beauregard Madison. “Just hadn’t got around to it.”

“Was it anybody we know, dad?” pressed Freddie. “I didn’t recognize the car.”

“No, no. It was just some quack. A field investigator for some witch-hunters organization. A real kook.”

“Witch hunters?” said Aggie. “Is he hunting for Mad Matilda?”

“H-has she come back to haunt people?” stuttered N’yen. The Vietnamese boy fervently believed in witches and spirits of the dead. In Asia they were known as
vong
hồ
n, oan
hồ
n
, or
bách linh
.

“Beau, you’re frightening the children,” chastised his wife.

“No, he’s not,” protested Aggie.

“I’m not afraid of no ghosts,” parroted N’yen.
But there was a quaver in his voice. He still thought
Ghost Busters
was a horror film.

Beau Madison motioned everyone to calm down. “Take it easy,” he said. “
There’s no ghost of Mad Matilda running around Caruthers Corners. Just this guy from the Greater Midwest Occult Phenomena Association looking for information about the missing quilt.”

“What kind of information?” Maddy wanted to know.
Her suspicions were easily aroused.

“Something about those symbols around the border of the quilt being a prophecy. Or a curse. Or something like that.”

“A prophecy?” said Aggie. “What’s that?”

“A prediction of the future,”
her Aunt Amanda offered. “But nobody can really predict the future.”

Freddie laughed. “What about your Uncle Bernie? He’s correctly predicted the Super
Bowl winner for the last ten years.”

“We don’t talk about Uncle Bernie
– he’s a bookie. He handicaps sporting events based on stats and such. Nothing occult about that.”

Maddy sliced the pie and
served it on her special Blue Willow desert plates. She added a scoop of vanilla ice cream as she passed the pie around the table. “What kind of prophecy” she asked her husband.

“Didn’t say. The guy was nuts. You could tell that
just by looking at him. He could’ve been a character out of
Plan 9 From Outer Space
.”

Amanda looked up from her strawberry-watermelon pie. “Isn’t that supposed to be one of the worst movies ever made?”

“My point exactly,” said Beau. “The guy was downright creepy.”

“I’ve seen that movie,” grinned N’yen. “There’s a zombie and a vampire and invaders from
another planet.”

“Thank goodness we only have a witch to worry about,” said Maddy, giving the boy another slice of pie.