4 Hemmed In (5 page)

Chapter Ten

A Picnic at Gruesome Gorge

M
addy got sidetracked again. Her son Bill called to say Kathy had taken a turn for the worse. Her fractured hip had become infected and there was talk of another operation. Maddy knew the couple didn’t have any hospitalization insurance and the bills would be piling up. As inner city youth counselors they barely made minimum wage.

Bill’s sister Tilly and Mark the Shark decided to drive up. Mark thought he might look into the insurance coverage of the trucking
company whose rig had broadsided Bill and Kathy’s Subaru.

That meant Maddy would be watching over Aggie and her younger siblings as well as N’yen. With four kids underfoot, it would be like running a
Day Care. Quite a few years had passed since she’d cared for Bill, Freddie, and Tilly under one roof.

Thankfully, Freddie’s wife Amand
a had offered to help out. But that meant adding her daughter to the milieu.

“Don’t worry,” Beau assured his grandson. “Your mommy will be just fine. Doctors work miracles these days.”

“You sure, Grampy?”

“My word of honor.” He knew the
boy was afraid of being orphaned again. “Your Uncle Mark is going up there to see to it.”

“Can I go too? I want to see my mommy.”

“Not yet. But soon. Meanwhile, you stay here and I’ll take you fishing. I’ve got a few days of vacation saved up.”

“Fishing? Oh boy.”

“And your Uncle Freddie promises to take you out to Haney Bros. Circus. He and Sprinkles have worked up a new clown act.”

“I like those clowns – even if I know one of them’s Uncle Freddie under the makeup.”

After being horrible scarred in that fire, Freddie had retired fro
m
Atlanta Fire Rescue Departmen
t
and moved back to Caruthers Corners with his wife. His disability check allowed him to spend most of his time entertaining local kids as Sparkplug the Clown, his disfigurement hidden behind clown makeup.

“Meanwhile, your Uncle Mark and Aunt Tilly will check on your mommy and daddy, make sure they’re all right.”

“Okay. But I still miss them.”

“I know you do,” Beau Madison nodded. “I know you do.”

≈ ≈ ≈

“I’m so worried,” Maddy told her friends.
She and her
Quilters Club cronies phoned back and forth every morning. “Kathy has been such a good wife for Bill. He’d be devastated if her lost her. We all would.”

“This second operation is not life threatening, is it?” asked Lizzie. Always
trying to minimize life’s worries, the result of a privileged upbringing.

“
Supposedly not. But you never know what could go wrong.”

“Nothing’s going
to go wrong. They’ll just clean out the infection, pump her full of antibiotics, and send her home before you know it. That’s the way these things work. I have a cousin who had a toenail infection –“

“Liz Ridenour, don’t tell me that
story. Your cousin lost her toe.”

“Only one. She has nine others.”

Bootsie was more sympathetic. “Little N’yen has really bonded with Kathy. I know he’s worried about his mom.”

The adopted Vietnamese boy had been with his new home for about a year, but
other than his differing skin tone you would have thought he was born into it. His biological parents had survived the Vietnam War, only to come to America and have a bus hit their Honda Civic. N’yen was the only survivor of the crash, fastened safely in his car seat in the backseat. His folk and the drunken bus driver died. Fortunately, it had been 2 o’clock in the morning and the bus was empty, heading back to the garage. Windy City Transport’s insurance company paid out two million – one mil per parent – to the orphaned infant. The money was tucked away in a college fund. But he’d spent nine years in foster homes before Bill and Kathy came along.

Cookie came through in a more practical way. With all the children under Maddy’s care, she organized a day at
Gruesome Gorge. Despite its name, Gruesome Gorge was a wonderful state park with a campground, hiking trails, and a waterfall that flowed into a lovely oval-shaped pond. There on the small sandy beach the Quilters Club had a picnic with the menagerie of kids. Aggie and N’yen splashed about under Bootsie’s supervision in Bottomless Pond. (Contrary to its dread description, the pond was no deeper than three feet at any given point.)

“This was a good idea,” Maddy told her friend Cookie. “Everybody seems to be having fun.” She was cradling her daughter
Tilly’s youngest in her arms, the infant zonked out after a bottle of warm milk. Lizzie was watching the others.

The sun was bright in a cloudless sky, a perfect day for an outing. The mood belied the park’s sordid history, hinted at in its name. Back in the early 1800’s, Indian fighters slaughtered a tribe of
Potawatomi, trapping them in the gorge like fish in a barrel. No one wrote of this shameful episode in the history books, merely implying that settlers pushed the indigenous natives off their lands.

The state's name
actually means “Indian Land,” an appellation that dates back to the 1760s. Then in 1800 Congress officially incorporated Indiana Territory, setting it off from the Northwest Territory.

Picnickers sometimes found arrowheads and pottery shards on the grounds of Gruesome Gorge, the only remnants of the
Potawatomi. The 1838 removal of the Potawatomi in northern Indiana to designated areas west of the Mississippi was known as the “Trail of Death” (not to be confused with the Cherokee’s “Trail of Tears” – although both were carried out under the Indian Removal Act signed into law by President Andrew Jackson).

“We need to go back to Mad Matilda’s cottage and check out those runes in the well,” Cookie was saying.

“Not really,” argued Maddy. “The old woman copied them onto her quilt, and we have a picture of the quilt. Professor Pudhomme gave us a good enough translation. We know all that we’re going to know about the location of the treasure.”

“An excursion of thirty Norsemen
could have carried quite a lot of silver. It would be a valuable find.”

“More valuable than a hundred thousand dollar quilt?”

“Oh yes. Millions maybe.”

“But anyone who knew
runology could have translated the message without having to steal the quilt.”

Cookie laughed. “
True. But what a clever double crime, the thief got the quilt
and
the treasure map in one fell swoop.”

Lizzie wandered over to
join Maddy and Cookie in the shade of a leafy elm tree. “According to Edgar’s story,” she interjected, “it was a
Lord of the Rings
fan who spotted the runes. His mother’s boyfriend stole it.”

“Who do we know that’s dating a single mom?” Bootsie
called from the water’s edge. Sound carried in this boxy canyon.

Maddy turned in her direction.
“Good question. But we’ll find out. The guy Edgar overheard was Boyd Atkins’s son, Charlie. I imagine your husband is calling on him at this very moment to find out his buddy’s name.”

“Yes,” said Bootsie.
Her short dark hair was plastered against her head from standing under the waterfall. She looked like a plump little sausage in her black one-piece swimsuit. “I predict we’ll have that quilt back on the wall of the Town Hall by the end of the week.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” sighed Cookie. As secretary of the Historical Society, she felt responsible for the quilt.

“Don’t worry,” said little Aggie. “The Quilters Club will find it.”

≈ ≈ ≈

Police Chief Jim Purdue and his deputy drove out to Aitkens Produce to interview Charlie. This was a delicate matter, considering his father was the biggest landholder in the county. The farmer pulled a lot of weight on the town council.

The main house reminded you of South Fork, that stately edifice
you see on the opening credits of
Dallas
. Over to the west was a gigantic watermelon warehouse, a steel-framed building as big as a city block. Positioned between them was a two-story red barn. A blue Ram pickup was parked in front of the open barn door. The vanity plate –
Aitkens 3
– identified it as Charlie’s. Boyd was
Aitkens 1
and his oldest boy Ralph was
Aitkens 2.

Jim
Purdue pulled his squad car next to the pickup. He wondered if Charlie might be inside the barn. “Let’s peek inside before we try the house,” he suggested to his deputy.

Pete Hitzer nodded as he unholstered his Glock.

“Hey,” said Jim, “you’re not going to need that.”

“Don’t be too sure. I know Charlie Aiken. Went to high school with him. He’s
a hothead. Got a mean streak.”

“Keep it holstered.”

“Yes, chief.”

The interior of the barn was dark. Jim didn’t like standing there silhouetted in the open door. Pete had spooked him, no doubt. “Hello,” he called. “Anybody in here? It’s
Police Chief Jim Purdue.”

No answer.

“Hello,” he repeated.

Same lack of response.

“Must be over at the house,” said Pete.

“Wait. Find a light switch.” He had a feeling.

Click!

The barn was flooded with bluish light. There in the center of the floor was a body sprawled facedown. Jim Purdue recognized it as the
Aitkens boy.

Talk about a dead end. Without Charlie
Aitkens, they’d never be able to identify his buddy who stole the Witch Quilt.

“Looks like somebody konked him in the head with this rock.” Pete Hitzer pointed to a fragment of stone
laying on the dirt floor beside the body.

“Nothing we can
do here. Charlie’s dead as road kill. Let’s see if any suspects are home.”

“Gee, Jim. I’ve never worked a murder before.”

“We don’t get many of them around here,” the police chief acknowledged. “I’ve not worked many myself.”

Pete picked up the murder weapon, unmindful of fingerprints. But it was unlikely the limestone fragment would hold a latent print anyway. “Lookit this,” the deputy said. “Some kind of chicken scratches on this rock.”

Jim leaned forward to squint at the angular stone. Sort of a trapezoid shape, like it had been broken off a larger chunk. There were markings on it, sort of like stick figures. Where had he seen that before? Then it came to him: These were like the decorative border on the Witch Quilt.

How did these markings get on a rock
used to kill Charlie Aitkens?

Chapter Eleven

Cookie in the Witching Well

O
n the way back home from their picnic, Maddy and her entourage stopped off at Mad Matilda’s cottage. Well, the ruins of the old farmplace. With all the kids under wing, there were two cars – Maddy’s SUV and Amanda’s hatchback. Maddy’s car led the way down the narrow dirt road that dead-ended at the oasis of oak trees.

“There’s the well with
the funny rocks,” Aggie pointed.

“
Can I see them?” wheedled N’yen, nose pressed against the car window.

Maddy
shook her head. “Too dangerous, young man. The writing’s inside the well. If you slipped and fell your mom would be very upset. You’re her treasure.”

“I thought we’re looking for silver treasure,” said the boy. Disappointed that he
wouldn’t get to see the magic writing.

Maddy brought the car to a stop. “Everybody out,” she called. “But keep the children away from the well. I’m surprised Boyd A
itkins hasn’t had it topped off. An open hole like this could be a legal liability.”

The Quilters Club and Aggie stood on one side of the SUV. Amanda and the other children were
next to the car in back. “Why did we come back here?” she asked. “This place is kinda spooky, a few trees in the middle of a vast watermelon field. Must’ve been lonely for Matilda Wilkins out here.”

“No doubt,” said Lizzie. The redhead was f
eeling a little uneasy herself.

“Where did they bury Mad Matilda?” Freddie’s wife asked.

“They didn’t,” replied Cookie. “According to the
Gazette
they left her body in the well. Too dangerous to retrieve it, 80-feet down.”

“That’s no big deal,” huffed Bootsie. “They were probably just scared of going down there for a witch’s corpse.”

“Ooo,” said N’yen. “I’m afraid that ol’ witch’s gonna get me.”

“Don’t worry, dear,” his grandmother assured him. “Matilda wasn’t really a witch. There’s no such thing. Just a crazy old lady who fell in the well.”

“Got thrown in,” Aggie corrected her. “By those bad angels.”

“Well, yes, but
–”

“Don’t sugarcoat it,” said Cookie. “Aggie’s smarter than the lot of us.
”

That may have been true. Her recent school test clocked the girl in with an IQ of 160. Genius level, to be sure.

“Got your digital camera?” Cookie addressed the redhead. “And do you have the flashlight?” she turned to Maddy.

“Camera,” Lizzie replied, holding up
a boxy little Vivitar.

“Flashlight,” echoed Maddy, turning it on and off by way of proof. Like the winking of a firefly.

“I’ve got the rope,” Bootsie volunteered, displaying a strand of nylon cord guaranteed at 200 lb. tensile strength.

Cookie set her jaw with
grim determination. “Okay,” he said, “let’s get proof that these are the exact same runes as shown in the photo of the Wilkins Witch Quilt. Lower me down.”

≈ ≈ ≈

Later, they would laugh about how Cookie nearly fell in the well. Being the lightest of the Quilters Club members (excluding Aggie), she was the one hanging by a rope over the lip of the well to get a digital shot of the runes. Lizzie says her hand slipped, but Cookie accused her of being worried about breaking a nail. Bootsie grabbed the rope just in time to prevent a disaster. Maddy dropped her flashlight in the well as she struggled to help Bootsie with the rope. Amanda fainted, although she later claimed to have tripped on the damp grass.

The kids thought it was grand fun.

One thing was settled: The comparison between Cookie’s digital photo of the well stones and the Historical Society’s photograph of the Wilkins Witch Quit was conclusive. Even though the markings on the rocks were hard to see, they clearly matched the quilt markings stroke for stroke.

“Okay,” Maddy summed it up. “It’s likely Mad Matilda copied the runes on the well stones onto her magical quilt.
”

“
And somebody who could read runes finally saw the quilt and stole it,” added Bootsie.

At this point the women
were gathered around the patio table in Maddy’s backyard. Amanda was riding herd on the little kids. Aggie and N’yen were sitting with the grownups, having appointed themselves as Quilters Club detectives.

“
Couldn’t someone have stolen the quilt for itself, not knowing about the secret message on it?” called Amanda from across the yard. Her daughter Donna had managed to turn on the garden hose, squirting one of Tilly’s kids.

“No,” Bootsie shook her head. “B
ased on what Lizzie’s husband heard the Aitkens boy saying, the quilt
was
stolen because some kid translated the runes.”

“That’s right,”
confirmed Lizzie as she refilled her lemonade glass. “Edgar got it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“Horse?”
asked N’yen.

“
Just an expression,” his grandmother explained.

“I’d like to have a pony,” said N’yen.

“I think you’d have trouble keeping one in your Chicago apartment,” laughed his cousin Aggie.

“Uncle Freddie said I could keep a pony at the Haney Bros. Zoo.”

“Hey, then I want to get a pony too,” rejoined Aggie.

“Nobody is getting a pony today,” shushed Maddy.
“They cost too much money.”

“Yes, but we can afford ponies aft
er we find that Viking treasure,” said Aggie.

“
If we find that treasure, all of us can afford ponies,” laughed Lizzie as she inspected her nail polish. She
had
chipped one out there at the well.

“First, let’s think about who
is dating a single mother with a nerdy son,” Maddy suggested.

“Why bother
,” said Bootie. “Jim and his deputy went out this morning to talk with the Aitkens boy. He can tell us who he was talking about.”

“
That was hours ago. Hasn’t Jim told you what he learned?”

“Lordy no.
I haven’t heard from Jim all day. I’ve been on a picnic with all of you.”

“But you ha
ve a cellphone …”

Bootsie shook her head. “Battery’s run down. Forgot to charge it last night.”

Lizzie held out her iPhone. “Here, use mine. We’re all dying to hear what the Aitkens boy had to say.”

≈ ≈ ≈

Beau Madison was the first person the police chief called after discovering the body of Charlie Aitkens. The second was Lt. Neil Wannamaker of the ISP.

Both had responded with the same word: “Dead?”

“That’s right,” Jim Purdue had told Wanamaker. “Head bashed in. Big rock laying nearby covered in blood and hair, clearly the murder weapon.”

“Any witnesses?”

“Nobody has turned up. Boy’s father was over in Burpyville buying a new Peterbilt to haul his watermelon crop. Hired hands were in the field. Charlie’s bother Ralph is the foreman. He was out there supervising the pickers.”

“Nobody else at the farmhouse?”

“Boyd’s wife died about ten years ago. They have an Amish woman who keeps house, cleans and cooks, but this was her day off.”

“Well, I can tell you Jasper Beanie and his pal Sam
Stickley didn’t do it. We’ve had them in lockup since yesterday.”

Chief Purdue cleared his throat. “I could’ve told you ol’ Jasper didn’t have anything to do with this. He hasn’t got the gumption to
steal a paperclip. Beau Madison only keeps him on as janitor at the Town Hall out of pity. His wife used to be Beau’s secretary before she ran off with the former mayor.”

“Henry Caruthers? We’ve got a file on him six-inches thick.”

“There you have it. Point is, we don’t have a suspect.”

“Sure we do,” Wannamaker contradicted him. “The guy Edgar Ridenour overheard Charlie
Aitkens talking about. The one he said stole the quilt. Probably killed the boy to shut him up.”

Jim Purdue was frustrated. His hand gripped the phone as if he were choking it. “
Yeah, but how are we gonna find that guy?”

“Figure out who Charlie
Aitkens was talking to on the bridge and ask him.”

“Isn’t that your job? You’re the state’s lead investigator.”

“Don’t like to step on local toes.”

“
You don’t say?” Was he being set up to take blame for a failed investigation? Those state boys were tricky like that.

Lt.
Wannamaker wrapped it up. “I’ll check in tomorrow and see how you’re doing with your murder investigation. We’ll keep looking for the quilt.”

“Hey, aren’t they the same case?” said Jim Purdue. But th
e phone clicked in chief Purdue’s ear. Conversation ended.

≈ ≈ ≈

Beau Madison had already heard from Boyd Aitkens. Distraught over the death of his son, the powerful landowner wanted assurances that the villain who murdered Charlie would be brought to justice. Lynching’s probably what ol’ Boyd had in mind, but he had the smarts not to say it out loud.

“Beau, I backed you in your election campaigns. If you want to serve another term, you’d better kick Jim Purdue in the butt and get him to find the murderer. So
mebody’s gonna pay for this.”

“Sorry about your boy, Boyd. He was a good kid.
I feel for your loss.”

The farmer’s weathered face looked as sad as Iron Eyes Cody. “Who would’ve done such a thing? Charlie didn’t have an enemy in the world.
He was a little lazy, not a go-getter like his older brother. But everybody liked him, what you’d call a hail-fellow-well-met.”

“Chief Purdue thinks it may have been the person
who stole the Wilkins Witch Quilt. Edgar Ridenour overhead Charlie telling somebody that he knew who did it. Jim thinks the thief may have killed Charlie to shut him up.”

“What would he know about that mangy old quilt? He never paid it no mind.”

“Don’t know. But you can be sure Jim will find out.”

“Forget the police. Jim Purdue has got more experience
directing traffic than solving murders. Put your wife on the case.”

“M
-my wife?”

“C’mon, Beau. Everybody know
s that her so-called Quilters Club is like an unofficial private detective agency.”

“Whoa, hold on there, Boyd. You’ve got that all wrong
–”

The
watermelon farmer stood up, cutting off the conversation. “Let me put it this way, Beau. You get them gals to find the murderer of my son and I’ll pony up a hundred grand toward your next election. Use it for radio advertising or take a vacation to Cancun, I don’t care which.”