3 Coming Unraveled (7 page)

Chapter
Eighteen

Something about those photographs he’d gotten from Sad Sammy Hankins kept nagging at Mark Tidemore. What was it that danced just outside his recognition?

He fingered the two snapshots of the Baumgartner pasture. Fence. Elm tree. Grass. The dark tangle of the Never Ending Swamp in the background. Wait
– what were those dots in one of the photos?

He reached in his desk drawer, fumbled around till he found the 6x magnifying glass, and held it over one of the photographs. The older one. There, climbing over the fence that separated the swamp from the pasture were four kids.

He turned the photo over to check the date – that was what had been nagging at his mind. August 12, 1982, the day those boys disappeared. Could this photograph taken by Sad Sammy have accidentally captured the Lost Boys?

No, something was wrong. There had been three Lost Boys
– Harry Periwinkle, Jud Watson, and Bobby Ray Purdue. The snapshot pictured four tiny figures.

How silly of him to have thought this was a photograph of those missing boys … it would have been too much to hope for.

≈≈≈

Freddie Madison drove out to the Bentley farm, hoping to say goodbye to the circus performers. They had been nice to him, a freakish fire-scarred ghoul. He appreciated their acceptance.

As he pulled his mother’s Toyota SUV into the barnyard, he could see the two tents, trucks, and animal cages out there in the field. The elephant was getting a bath, Swami Bombay scrubbing him with a soapy brush on a long handle. Big Bill was brushing down the white horses. Little William was playing with Sneezy the Baboon. Mr. Sprinkles was nowhere to be seen.

He strolled toward the tents, waving a hand in greeting.

“Hey, where’s your niece?” called Big Bill Haney.

“Grounded. Her mother is punishing her for some mischief.”

“Too bad. I know Sprinkles was hoping to see her before we roll out. We’re heading to Peoria first thing in the morning.’

“I’ll pass along
your goodbye to everyone. Things are pretty crazy in town today.”

Big Bill stopped currying the horse. “Yeah, we heard. You mother and her friends found a lot of money in an old quilt.”

“A local antique dealer estimated the loot might be worth a hundred million. Too bad my mom and her friends don’t get to keep it.”

“I’ll say,” laughed the tall ringmaster.

Freddie glanced around. “Where’s Sprinkles?”

“In the tent,” said Little William. “Took to his bed. Seems upset about something. Maybe he wishes he’d found that money.”

Chapter Nineteen

First thing next morning, Mark Tidemore walked over to his mother-in-law’s house on Melon Pickers Row. It was only a few blocks from where he and Tilly lived in one of those big houses facing the town square. He found her scrambling eggs for Beauregard. She gestured for him to sit down at the table and broke another three eggs into the hot cast-iron skillet.

“Something’s bothering me,” he said as she poured him a cup of coffee. Beau was
dutifully ignoring them, reading the morning paper.

“What?” she responded. “The way you kicked us out of the police station yesterday?”

“No, I had to do that. Something else.”

“I know you were only doing your job,” she said, serving the eggs along with toast and two slices of bacon. “It’s just frustrating to have loose ends.”

“Seems the case against Harry’s pretty air tight,” he commented. “I’ll deny saying it, but most I can hope to do is get him a reduced sentence. It would be easier if he’d cooperate a little.”

“What brought you over here this time of morning? I
know it wasn’t my watermelon jam.”

“That would be reason enough,” he said, spreading the pink jam onto his toast.

“But –?”

He produced
the snapshot he’d got from Sad Sammy. “Do you have a magnifying glass?” he asked.

“There one over there in the junk drawer,” Beau spoke up without lowering his newspaper.

Maddy pulled it out and handed it to her son-in-law. “What are we looking at?”

“A photograph of Baumgartner’s farm on the day those boys went missing in 1982. I think they may be in this picture.”

Maddy bent over the color snapshot, squinting through the magnifying glass. “Yes, I see them. That boy climbing over the fence looks like Bobby Ray. I remember him. His parents went to our church. The one in the middle might be Harry, judging from the way he’s hanging his head. Reminds me of that hangdog look he had at the jail yesterday.”

“Hm, you could be right.”

“I assume one of the other two boys is Jud Watson. I don’t remember him very well. But why are there four figures in this picture? There were only three Lost Boys.”

“
Yes,” nodded her son-in-law. “That’s the question of the day.”

Chapter
Twenty

“The ICE folks stopped Bernard Warbuckle as he was trying to cross into Canada at Windsor,” Chief Jim Purdue told the mayor when they met for coffee at the Cozy Diner that afternoon.

“That a fact?”
Beau was blowing on the hot liquid to cool it down enough to be drinkable.

“
They picked him up about an hour ago. That ol’ boy was hightailing it out of the country,” the chief nodded. “Windsor’s Ambassador Bridge is the southernmost US-Canada border crossing.”

“They were watching for him, huh?”

“There was a BOLO on him. But the reason they caught him was because he tried to run the crossing gate. Must have panicked.”

Beau Madison sipped at his coffee, careful not to burn his lips. “Have they been able to prove that he’s Jud Watson?”

“Not yet. But the state boys are on their way out to Myrtle’s place to take a swab to map her DNA. Just a matter of time.”

“I take it, he’s not talking.”

“Said he’s Bernard Warbuckle and that he’s on his way to visit a cousin in Winnipeg.”

Beau snorted. “How does he explain running the barrier?”

“Claims his accelerator pedal stuck.”

“Good luck with that story.”

“State’s filing to bring him back to Indy. His goose is cooked.”

“Like a
Thanksgiving dinner,” agreed Beau Madison.

≈≈≈

Maddy gathered up the Quilters Club and drove out to the Baumgartner farm that same afternoon. It was a pretty summer day with puffy white clouds filling the blue sky. The temperature was hovering at 98° when they pulled up to the wooden gate that blocked entrance to the farm. They could see the two-story house in the distance.

“Not very inviting,” observed Maddy.
There was a thick padlock on the gate. A handpainted sign said GO AWAY!

“Jim said Errol Baumgartner doesn’t welcome v
isitors. Not even the FedEx man,” said Bootsie, staring out the car window toward the forbidden citadel.

“We’re here to see his wife,” said Maddy. “At least that’s the cover story.”

“Okay,” nodded Cookie. “Let’s climb over the fence and hike up to the house.”

Ten minutes later they were knocking on the door. “Hello,” called
Maddy. “Anybody home?”

The door swung open and a wild-eyed man said, “
Didn’t you see the sign on the gate?”

“We knew you didn’t mean us,” said Maddy. “We’re the Caruthers Corners Quilters Club and we’re here to see your wife Janey. We brought her
some watermelon tarts. We heard she just had twins, so we wanted to see if she needed anything.”

“My wife is napping.”

“Well, can you give her this basket of tarts?” Lizzie thrust the offering toward him. “They’re quite tasty.”

Errol Baumgartner looked at the basket suspiciously, but took it. “Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me
–”

“Did you hear they found another of those Lost Boys?” Maddy continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “You must’ve known them. They were about your age.”

“Yes, I went to school with them,” he admitted, eyeing the four women cautiously.

“You were with them the day they disappeared, weren’t you?”

“Uh, what makes you say that?” A look of panic crossed his face. He was a slender man with dark hair and unshaven stubble on his chin. Handsome in a way.

“There
’s a photograph of you with them.”

“That’s impossible,” he protested. “No one saw us go into the swamp.” The blood drained from his face as he realized what he’d just said. “Uh, I mean
–”

“What happened that day?” demanded Bootsie. Always a policeman’s wife.

“Perhaps you’d better come in,” said Errol Baumgartner, stepping aside to let his visitors enter the house. “But keep your voices down. We don’t won’t to wake up the babies.”

≈≈≈

“Bobby Ray brought his friends over that day,” Errol Baumgartner told the story. “They wanted me to take them into the swamp. Living out here, I’d explored some of it, knew a few trails that were safe. No quicksand.”

They were sitting around the kitchen table, listening to Errol while his wife served coffee. Everybody was munching on the watermelon tarts.

“I’ve never told this to anybody other than Janey,” he sighed. “I swore I’d keep their secret.”

“What secret’s that?” asked
Cookie, fascinated with this untold history.

“That they were running away to join the circus. There
was one camped on the other side of the swamp. They needed me to guide them across.”

“Circus?” muttered
Maud, reminded of her granddaughter’s excited tales of Haney Bros. Circus and Petting Zoo. What kid wouldn’t be tempted by the romantic idea of joining an entourage of lions and tigers and clowns?

“That’s not so surprising,” said Cookie, handy with her historical facts. “There were lots of circuses passing through.
At one time Peru, Indiana, was known as the “Circus Capital of America.”

“Did those boys push Bobby Ray into a pool of quicksand?” asked Liz
zie, looking for a sensational tale of murder.

“No,” the man chuckled. “He fell into a marshy area and got his clothes wet. But last time I saw those boys
– that was thirty years ago – all three were alive and well. They waved goodbye to me as the headed across the field toward those circus tents.”

“Why didn’t you tell anybody?” challenged Bootsie. “Their poor parents thought they were dead.”

“The boys made me promise not to tell. Gave me a pocketknife as payment. But I had another reason too. My grandpa would have beat the tar out of me if he found out I’d been in the swamp. It was off limits.”

“Your grandfather has been dead for years,” Cookie pointed out. “You could have come forward and put their parents’ minds at ease.”

“By then I was afraid I’d get into trouble with the law for not telling. I had a wife, this farm to take care of. I couldn’t risk it.”

“You’re going to have to talk to my husband,” said Bootsie. “He’s the police chief.”

“I know who he is, Miz Purdue. I may live out here like a hermit, but Janey and I go into town once or twice a month. Right, hon?”

The woman moved around the table refilling the coffee cups. “I told him it’d catch up with him one day,” she said flatly. “Just be my luck that he goes
off to jail leaving me stuck with twins to support.”

“
How are the babies?” inquired Maddy.

“Th
e doctor says they’re doing fine. I’m seeing a pediatrician over at Burpyville Memorial.”

“Them two babies need a daddy.
I don’t know what we’ll do if I go to jail,” said Errol. He was a guy used to having bad luck.

“You needn’t worry about
that,” offered Bootsie. “The statute of limitations has passed a long time ago.”

“Then I’m willing to confess all. Especially since them
boys have started turning up again. If I don’t tell, they will.”

Chapter
Twenty-One

A week later, both Harry Periwinkle and Jud Watson were sitting in jail cells in Indianapolis, awaiting arraignment. They both refused to talk, not willing to further incriminate themselves in the identity scam.

Maud Purdue and her oldest son N.L. were meeting with the
police chief to get an update.

“
I demand that justice be done!” exclaimed N.L. “Those men deserve punishment, trying to bilk me out of half the chair factory. Not to mention trying to take my mother’s life savings.”

It was amazing, Jim Purdue thought, how that money hidden in the old quilt had morphed into a savings plan. Maud hadn’t even known it was there till the Quilters Club got involved.

“They’ll get some stiff prison time,” predicted Chief Jim Purdue. “No question about it.”

“
Forget about them,” snapped Maud Purdue. “What about my son Bobby Ray? According to Errol Baumgartner, he’s alive.”

“Those boys
know where he is,” the police chief nodded. “Just be patient. Eventually they’ll talk to cut a deal.”

“
I’ve waited thirty years,” she sighed. “Guess I can wait a little bit longer.”

“How can you be so sure they know where my brother is?” asked N.L. Purdue.
He was a skinny man with bushy eyebrows and thinning hair. His black suit made him look more like an undertaker than a furniture maker.

“
Because they had to get a DNA sample from Bobby Ray to substitute for Harry’s.”

“Are you saying he was in on the swindle?”
frowned N.L.

“
I doubt it. He could’ve stepped forward to claim ownership in E Z Seat, or retrieve his great-grandmother’s quilt, without resorting to a scam that involved switching identities.”

“My brother was declared legally dead
more than twenty years ago. Don’t see why I’ve gotta share ownership in the chair factory with a dead man – even if he comes back to claim it.”

“That’s a question for lawyers,” said
Jim Purdue.

≈≈≈

Tilly allowed her brother to come over that night to watch a Netflix movie with Agnes. She was still grounded.

With the Haney Bros. Circus
lingering on Aggie’s mind, she elected to watch a rerun of “The Greatest Show on Earth,” a story built around the Ringling Brothers Circus.

The big train wreck scene
was exciting enough to make Aggie squeal when the engine went off its tracks and wild animals broke from their cages.

She thought Charlton Heston with his leather jacket and fedora looked like Indiana Jones. “Where’s his bullwhip?” she asked.

Freddie explained that the reason Jimmy Stewart never removed his clown makeup was because he was hiding from the law. “It’s like a disguise,” he said.

“Is that why Mr. Sprinkles never takes off
his
greasepaint?” she asked with childlike innocence.

That gave Freddie pause. Come to think of it, he’d never seen Sprinkles the Clown without his “face” on. Why was that?

“Sprinkles is like a Method Actor,” he made up an explanation. “He likes to stay in character.”

“Oh,” she said, not really understanding the answer.

≈≈≈

That night when Freddie got home, he knocked on his parents’ bedroom door. “Mom, are you asleep?” he called.

Maddy appeared at the door. “What is it? Has there been an accident?”

“No, no,” the disfigured man assured his mother. “I just
wanted to talk with you about something.”

“You’re al
l right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What do you want to tell me?” She stepped into the hallway so as not to wake Beau. She tightened the belt on her old blue bathrobe.

Freddie hesitated.
“I’m not sure it means anything, but I’ve been thinking about the Lost Boys.”

“And
–?” His mother brushed her hair back, fingers combing through the blondish locks with little effect. It still looked like she’d stuck her finger in a light socket.

“Remember I told you about tha
t little circus that was camping out at Ben Bentley’s farm?”

“Yes, it’
s all Aggie could talk about for days.”

“Well,
Ben Bentley told me that when they heard about the Quilters Club finding all that money, the clown said it was
his
money.”

“Oh?
That’s a strange thing to say.”

“
There’s more. He never takes off his makeup, like he’s hiding his face. Just like Jimmy Stewart in ‘The Greatest Show on Earth’.”

“What made you think of that old movie?”

“Aggie and I watched it tonight.”

“Go to bed,” sighed his mother. “You’re just letting your
imagination run away from you. Next you’ll be seeing monsters in your closet like when you were five.”

“Mom,
Sprinkles the Clown fits into this somehow. Maybe he’s really Bobby Ray Purdue.”

“Go to bed,” repeated his mother.

≈≈≈

Around 3 a.m. Maddy Madison came
awake. She’d been having vivid dreams, something about the Phantom of the Opera swinging on a gigantic chandelier. When he reached up to remove his mask, she expected to see her son’s scarred countenance underneath – but it morphed into a monstrous clown’s face. She woke up with a start.

Maddy
glanced around the darkened room, disoriented. She recalled the late-night conversation she’d had with Freddie, realizing that had been the basis for her nightmare.

Maybe she shouldn’t have dismissed Freddie’s comments about that clown.
Could he have been Bobby Ray Purdue? After all, hadn’t the boys run off to join the circus? Had he recently been here in Caruthers Corners, right under their very noses?

No, surely not.

She rolled over and tried to sleep.