3 Coming Unraveled (3 page)

Chapter
Five

Bootsie Purdue raised on her tiptoes to kiss her husband goodbye as he left for work. At 6’ 2” Jim Purdue towered over her by nearly a foot. He was pulling an extra shift because one of his deputies was sick, a summer cold. She thought he looked handsome in the blue police uniform with the shiny badge with
CHIEF
engraved on it, not bad for a man in his late 50s.

“Will you be late?” she asked. Bootsie liked to have a hot
meal on the table when he came home, so timing was a keystone to her household chores. Other than the Quilters Club meetings every Tuesday and playing bridge on Thursdays, her life revolved around making a good home for Jim.

“Dunno,” he grunted
. “This Lost Boys case is taking up a lot of time. The State Police have been in my hair all week.”

“You don’t have any hair,” she teased. “Least not since college.”

He put on his police cap to hide the shiny dome of his head. “Thanks for reminding me.” His male pattern baldness left a ring of dark hair that made him look like Chris Bauer, that actor who plays the cop on
True Blood
. He and Bootsie watched that television show every week, an entertaining vampire soap opera.

“
So your cousin Bobby Ray gets half interest in E Z Seat now that he’s returned from the dead?”

“That
’s the way his daddy set up his will, half to Newcomb Lamont and the other half to Bobby Ray once he turned twenty-one.”

Bootsie did the calculation in her head. “That would
have been back in 1991,” she said.

“
That’s the problem. Bobby Ray had been legally declared dead by then. The DNA test was key to Judge Cramer’s setting aside that declaration and giving him his birthright.”

“Bet N.L. is none too happy about all this.”

“Not very. He didn’t like his brother very much when they were boys. And he’s none too happy to be sharing the reins with him now.”

≈≈≈

Beauregard Madison IV had a new secretary – Martha Barnswell, a recent graduate of Caruthers High. She was very efficient, even if she was younger than his daughter Tilly.

Tilly could barely hold life together lately, what with the baby now walking and Agnes entering that prepubescent period known as “tweens.” Her husband Mark was busy with
his law practice, although it would have been more to Beau’s liking if he hadn’t taken on Bobby Ray Purdue as a client. But business is business.

“Martha, can you find me the Sammy Hankins file?”

“It’s on your desk,” she called from her post just outside his tiny office.

“Oh, thanks.” As mayor, he got entangled in all kind of disputes, like th
is property line quarrel between Sad Sammy Hankins and Errol Baumgartner. He’d known Sad Sammy since grade school when he’d got his nickname due to a worrisome nature. Surprisingly, Beau had never met this other guy. According to town scuttlebutt, Errol Baumgartner was something of a recluse. He’s inherited the farm from his grandfather, the last man to see the Lost Boys as they crossed his pasture and disappeared into the Never Ending Swamp.

Beau’s son-in-law was handling Sad Sammy’s case too. But that didn’t keep Sammy from petitioning
Beau – his old high school chum – to intervene. Friends in high places and all that.

The dispute didn’t need his two cents. It would be settled with plat maps and land surveys. But he’d have Martha send Sammy a nice note saying he was looking into the matter. Another problem off his desk.

And now that the DNA test had come back positive, another problem was resolved. The Quilters Club could go back to sewing patchwork quilts instead of playing detective.

Chapter
Six

At 10 o’clock that night the man claiming to be Bobby Ray found Maud Purdue standing just outside the gate of the Pleasant Glade Cemetery. Judging by the scowl on her face, it was not a pleasant reunion for mother and child.

“You showed up,” he said, as if surprised.

“I told Shorty Yosterman I would.”

The man
scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Yeah, but you’ve refused to see me since I returned to home.”

“This is not your home,”
snapped the old woman. “I don’t know who you think you are, but you sure aren’t my son Bobby Ray Purdue.”

“No, I’m not,” he said. “But you can’t prove otherwise.”

“Why did you get me out here in the middle of the night? You’ve stolen half the family business, isn’t that enough for you?”

The man shuffled his fee
t. “I told you there’s a way you can get the business back – ” he began.

That’s what your note said. And
it’s the only reason I’m here, who ever you are.”

“I’m
Harry Periwinkle, your son’s pal. Yeah, one of what they’re calling the Lost Boys.”

The woman’s head snapped up, eyed blazing. “Where’s my son
Bobby Ray?”

“Long dead.”

She leaned against the gatepost, shoulders heaving with sobs. “H-how did he die?”

“In quicksand, like they thought. The day we disappeared.”

“And the other boy?”

“Never you mind. I don’t want to talk about that.”

The old woman righted herself. “How did you fake the DNA test?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

Her angry gaze stared him down, making him lower his eyes as if studying his shoelaces. “So what is it you want from me?” she demanded.

“
Nothing much. Just your grandmother’s quilt.”

≈≈≈

Beauregard Madison was saying to his son-in-law, “Don’t get too involved in watching that TV show. You’re about to get a phone call.”

Mark Tidemore glanced up from a
summer rerun of
The Good Wife
. He liked shows about lawyers, not that they ever got it right. “Why’s that?”

Mark and Tilly had brought Aggie over to see
Freddie. The pair was becoming inseparable, ice cream pals and all. She wanted to talk about the seven-animal circus. She was wheedling for her uncle to take her over to Cookie Bentley’s tomorrow to see them.

Beau said, “You’ll likely be getting a call from your
client.”

“
Sad Sammy Hankins?”

“Your other client.”

Business was slow, so there weren’t that many clients it could be. “You mean Bobby Ray Purdue,” he said. “Why would he be calling?”

Beau cleared his throat. “I couldn’t say anythi
ng earlier, but Jim told me your client set up a meeting with Maud Purdue tonight … and that she asked Jim to be on hand.”

“You think Bobby Ray’s going to get arrested?”

“Likely. Based on the note he gave Maud, Jim thinks he’s trying to pull something shady.”

“But
–”

Just then the phone rang.

≈≈≈

“You’re under arrest,
Harry Periwinkle,” Chief Jim Purdue had said, stepping out of the shadows of a mausoleum.

The bearded man turned to run, but Ben Bentley
blocked his path. The big bear of a man had been deputized for this occasion. “Hold on, fellow,” he rumbled. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Crab apples,” cursed the cornered man. “You set me up, Maud Purdue!”

“That I did, Harry. You were a lying, thieving little boy. And now you’re a lying, thieving man who’s going to get his just deserts.”

Chapter S
even

Maddy carefully laid out her quilting squares, making sure they were going to form the design she’d sketched out on a yellow legal pad. Mark the Shark bought legal pads by the ream. She’d been collecting just the right fabric to make this patchwork quilt for weeks.

“Can you believe it?” gushed Liz
zie Ridenour, reveling in the juicy gossip. “We’ve got a Lost Boy. Just not the one we thought.”

The four women
– Maddy, Liz, Cookie, and Bootsie – had gathered for their weekly quilt-making session at the senior recreation center. Aggie had bowed out to go see the lions and tigers with her Uncle Freddie.

“
Harry Periwinkle passing himself off as Bobby Ray Purdue,” nodded Cookie Bentley. Her husband Ben had been there at the cemetery to hear the confession. “But why would he do that?”

“A scam,” said Bootsie, forever a cop’s wife. “He tricked
Jim’s cousin N.L. out of half the chair factory.”

Maddy spoke up. “There, there. Beau says N.L. will get the factory back. That it was a fraudulent conveyance or some such thing.”

The women all felt a connection to the day’s events. Bootsie was related. Cookie’s hubby was in on the capture. Maddy’s son-in-law was the crook’s lawyer. And Liz’s husband had arranged the DNA testing that proved to be somehow wrong.

“Ben says
Harry Periwinkle offered to trade those shares in E Z Seat for Maud’s grandmother’s quilt,” offered Cookie.

“Really?” said Liz
zie. That detail had not been reported in the
Burpyville Gazette
.

“
I know that quilt,” said Bootsie. “It was hand-stitched in 1899 by Amandine Gersbach Purdue, actually her husband’s grandmother.”

“Wasn’t she your husband’s great grandmother too?”

“Yes,” confirmed Bootsie. “But Jim’s side of the family was in disfavor.”

“Now why would
Harry Periwinkle want that old quilt?” mused Maddy, still sorting her fabric. “I’ve seen it. Not a particularly interesting design.”

“That’s a good question,” said Liz
zie. “If we figure it out, we’ll know why Harry Periwinkle put on this charade.”

“He still refuses to talk?” asked Cookie, dumping her quilt squares onto the other table in the rec room.

“Clammed up when Jim arrested him,” said Bootsie. “Other than asking to call his lawyer.”

All eyes turned to Maddy. “Don’t look at me,” said the pudgy blonde woman. “Client-attorney confidentiality is all Mark said when I asked this morning.”

Beau and Maddy had met their daughter and her husband for breakfast at the Cozy Diner. Having been up all night with his incarcerated client, Mark needed a pot of black coffee to stay awake.

“He was preparing a writ of
habeas corpus,” Maddy added.

Bootsie rolled her eyes. “Judge Cramer will never grant that,” said Bootsie. “Three witnesses heard him confess.”

“Well, it’s not exactly a full confession,” argued Lizzie. “He simply admitted he’s not Bobby Ray Purdue.”

“But he pretended to be in order to swindle Newcomb Lamont Purdue out of half the chair factory,
” Cookie pointed out.

“Yes,” nodded
the police chief’s wife. “That’s a felony.”

“I’m wondering what happened to that other boy,” said Liz
zie, sunlight reflecting on her Lucille Ball hair.

“Me too,” admitted Cookie.”

“I’m wondering why he wanted that old quilt,” said Maddy.

“Me too,” repeated Cookie.

“Surely it’s not worth as much as half interest in the chair factory,” mused Lizzie, thinking like a banker’s wife.

“Yes, why would he be interested in
that ratty old quilt?” said Bootsie.

Maddy looked from one to another. “Maybe the Quilters Club should find out.”

≈≈≈

Freddie Madison parked his mother’s SUV in
Ben Bentley’s driveway. Aggie’s face was pressed against the side window. Beyond the barn, she could see two canvas tents, the colorful circus wagon, a flatbed truck, several large cages, and two white horses grazing in the grassy field.

“The circus!” she cried. “It’s here just like Mr. Sprinkles promised.”

“Of course it is,” replied her uncle. “That’s why we came out here. To see the lions and tigers.”

“One lion and one tiger,” she corrected him. “And a bear and an elephant and a baboon.”

“Don’t forget the two horses.”

“Them too. Seven
animals in all. Not a very big circus.”

“Your grandfather says
it’s a kiddy circus. Plays at malls and shopping centers.”

“Caruthers Corners doesn’t have a shopping center,” said Aggie. “I g
uess that’s why they’re going to Burpyville.”

“C’mon,” said her uncle. “Let’s go peek in those cages.
Maybe I’ll feed you to the lion.”

“You will not.”

“And why not?”

“Because my mother would be very angry if you did.”

≈≈≈

Myrtle Periwinkle
had locked her door and pulled down the shades in order to avoid all the reporters gathered outside. Everyone wanted to interview her about her son Harry having returned from the dead to pull off a major swindle was news.

There were two television crews from Indianapolis, a
n investigative reporter from the
Indianapolis Star
, another from the
Burpyville Gazette
, and a freelancer who claimed to be working for the
National Inquirer
. Myrtle’s flowerbed had been trampled beyond recovery.

“Go away,” she shouted at the knock on her door. Damned reporters.

“Myrtle, it’s me – Chief Jim Purdue. Can I come in for a minute?”

“What do you want?” she continued to shout. “You arrested my son, you pig.”

“Myrtle –”

Before he could finish the sentence, the door swung
open and he was face-to-face with Harry Periwinkles wild-eyed mother. “Hurry up, before those reporters start taking pictures,” she beckoned him inside.

The living room was dark
, all the shades pulled down. He could make out the shape of a green Naugahyde couch, an upright piano, and a La-Z-Boy chair. A TV flickered in the corner, tuned to an Indy news station.

“Sorry to barge in,” Jim Purdue began
politely. “I can understand how you must feel, getting your son back under these circumstances.”

“
You arrested him, you storm trooper.” Myrtle Periwinkle had been a member of the Youth International Party (more commonly known as the Yippies) back in the late ‘60s. Despite settling down to raise a family, she’d never quite come to terms with trusting the police.

“Myrtle, he’s the one who tried to pull one over on ol’ N.L., not me.”

“Hmph.” She crossed her arms, a sign of her refusal to listen to reason.

“Gotta ask you a few questions,” the lawman continued
doggedly. His smooth head glistened in the flickering light from the TV set.

“Go ahead.” Arms still crossed.

“Did you ever hear from your son after he went missing?”

“No.”

“So you didn’t know he was alive till today?”

She raised her chin as if defying him to doubt her word. “That’s right. I heard it on the
morning news. The same station that’s on now.”

“
The weather forecast is looking good for the remainder of this week
,” a woman standing in front of a large map was saying. Her droning voice was enough to make you wish for a lightning storm to strike her down.

“Got any idea why he might do this?”

“Greed, I suspect. That chair factory’s gotta be worth a pretty penny. We Periwinkles have always been dirt poor. I expect he wanted more. Probably why he ran away from home.”

“Sorry about this,
Myrtle. I know it’s been hard for you. Thinking you’ve lost your only child. Then your husband drowning in the well a few years later.”

“
I was glad he drowned. He was a terrible husband.”

“Oh,” said Jim, realizing he didn’t know much about the Periwinkle family. Myrtle had been reclusive after her losses, living on a meager pension left by her husband from his job at the chair factory.

“If you don’t have any more questions, I’d appreciate if you’d run those reporters off my property. I’ve got absolutely nothing to say to them.” Sounding like her son Harry.