3 Coming Unraveled (8 page)

Chapter
Twenty-Two

“No,” said Chief Purdue, “I’m not going to try to extradite that clown from Illinois. There’s not a shred of evidence that he has anything to do with this mess … other than your overactive imagination.”

“Not just mine,” Maddy pointed out. “Freddie’s too.”

“Runs in the family.”

“Okay, I guess we’ll never know the full story of the Lost Boys,” sighed his best friend’s wife.

“Madelyn Agnes Madison, I’ve known you since grade school. You’re not going to wheedle me into doing this. Judge Cramer would laugh me out of his office if I asked him to sign an extradition warrant for a clown who calls himself Sprinkles.”

“Your loss.”

“No, I’m confident Harry Periwinkle or Jud Watson will ’fess up. The state’s attorney has offered to lessen the charges if they tell all. They’d be crazy not to take the deal.”

“I think they were crazy to try to pull off this
cockamamie impersonation in the first place,” said Maddy as she huffed out of the police department into the warm August morning.

≈≈≈

Big Ben Bentley had been stacking bales of hay in the barn. He kept a couple of milking cows on the farm. Cookie liked fresh milk, not that over-priced pasteurized homogenized vitamin-added fat-free white liquid you found at Foley’s Grocery.

Ben was hot and sweaty, his mile-wide shoulders on display with no shirt. He only wore bib overalls, his usual uniform for farm work.
“Time to take a break,” he told himself, speaking out loud. There was a pitcher of cold lemonade waiting in the fridge.

As he walked across the barnyard, he glanced toward the open field behind the house. Only last week it had been festooned with tents and banners proclaiming HANEY BROS. CIRCUS & PETTING ZOO. Now it looked
so forlorn.

Big Bill Haney and his twin brother Little William were getting long in the tooth. He’d guess they were in their 70s. Big Bill had told him they were thinking of retiring, the only thing keeping them from it was
their menagerie. Elephants live a long time. What would happen to Happy and the other animals if they packed it in?

For that matter, what would happen to Bombay and Sprinkles, Ben wondered. “Circus performer” wasn’t a big draw on a resumé.

Swami Bombay looked to be in his mid-fifties. Sprinkles might be younger, although it was hard to tell under all that greasepaint.

Ben Bentley wondered if he could help
them. He was a kind-hearted man.

≈≈≈

Chief Jim Purdue drove out to the Baumgartner farm, ignoring the GO AWAY sign at the gate. It was unlocked, so he drove up the dirt road and parked his cruiser in front of the two-story house. Walking around back, he found Errol working on his Ford RAM-150 pickup. “Hello there,” he called to announce his presence.

Errol looked up with a start, not used to visitors. His face was streaked with grease. The carburetor in his hand looked like a mechanical heart from a failed transplant. “Guess nobody
pays any attention to that sign on the gate,” he groused, reclusive to the point of being rude.

“Knew it didn’t apply to me,” said Jim. “This badge on my chest is an Open Sesame.”

“You’re town police. Ain’t got no jurisdiction out here.”

“True, but I expect you’d rather ta
lk to me than the state boys. They tend to arrest people who withhold evidence.”

“Evidence? I ain’t
got no evidence. Unless you mean that Barlow knife Harry Periwinkle gave me to lead ’em across Never Ending Swamp. I still have it.”

“No, I mean the info you kept to yourself.”

Errol wiped his hands on a dirty rag and walked around the truck to where the police chief stood. “What info’s that?”

“Like the name of that circus the boys joined. You saw it as you wave
d goodbye to them across the field. Circuses tend to put their name on the sides of their wagons and on big banners. You forgot to mention that detail.”

“Hm,
didn’t pay much attention. And that’s been thirty years ago. The memory’s not as clear as if it happened yesterday.”

≈≈≈

Cookie looked it up in the old newspapers she kept on file at the Historical Society. “Here we are,” she told Jim Purdue. “The August 10, 1982 issue of the
Burpyville Gazette
.”

He lean
ed forward to read the faded newsprint:

Haney Bros. Circus To Perform

The world-famous Haney Bros. Circus will give six shows this weekend at the Gruesome Gorge Campground north of Caruthers Corners. The small two-ring circus promises a great time for the kids, featuring a tightrope act and a magician this year. Highlight of the show is a lion tamer in a cage with two big jungle cats. Happy the Elephant returns with dozens of other exotic animals. Admission is $2.

“Well now,” muttered the police chief, “maybe Maddy was on the right track after all.”

“Hmph,” said Cookie. “How many crimes do
es the Quilters Club have to solve to prove our detective skills to you?”

He laughed.
“What do you gals want? Badges?”

“Aggie would like that,” she grinned.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Police Chief Jim Purdue didn’t like it, but he agreed to drive over to Illinois with the four women to confront Sprinkles the Clown. He explained that this was unofficial – he wasn’t going as a lawman. “Since I can’t talk you out of it, I’m just going along to keep you gals out of trouble.”

Lizzie had offered to drive, her Lexus holding five comfortably.
Jim sat in the back with his wife and Cookie, letting Maddy ride shotgun.

“Do you know where the circus is playing?” he
asked as Lizzie barreled along at ten miles over the speed limit. It was going to be embarrassing for Jim if they got stopped by a state trooper.

“Peoria, they said,” reported Cookie.

“Shouldn’t be hard to find them once we get there,” said Maddy. “A circus tends to stand out.”

Jim leaned forward to make himself heard over the car radio, tuned to a Golden Oldie station.
“Couldn’t you have made a few phone calls in advance,” he groused.

“My husband doesn’t like flying blind,” offered Bootsie. “He likes to have all the facts.”

“That’s exactly what this is,” said Cookie, “a fact finding mission.”

Jim Purdue didn’t have much to say
for the rest of the trip, cursing himself for letting his wife talk him into this foolhardy misadventure. But then again, he wasn’t prepared to ask Judge Cramer for a warrant to extradite Sprinkles – or Bobby Ray – or whoever the heck he was – without more facts.

Maddy
was wrong about the circus standing out. The small entourage played malls and grade schools and Lions Clubs – not countrywide assemblies. Finally, they got a tip at a gas station that led them to the Salvation Baptist Church where Haney Bros. had set up its tent for a weekend run, a portion of the proceeds promised to the church’s Missionary Fund.

“Hello,” Big Bill
Haney greeted them. “Good to see you folks. But how come you didn’t bring the little girl?”

“Sh
e’s grounded,” replied Maddy. “It’s a long story.”

“Well, Sprinkles is going to be sorry he missed you.
”

“Missed us?” gasped Maddy. “He’s not here?”

“Alas, no. He left day before yesterday. Gave up the sawdust after thirty years as our clown.”

“He quit?” said Lizzie, irked that she’d driven all
the way to Peoria for naught. Her husband hadn’t wanted her to put that many miles on the new Lexus in the first place.

“Had to happen.
I didn’t want the boy to wind up like me, old and washed up. This is going to be the last season for Haney Bros. But it’s been a good run, forty-seven years under the Big Top.” He glanced toward the sagging tent. “Well, little top,” he amended.

“Do you know where
Sprinkles went?” interjected Jim Purdue, sounding like a cop, unofficial business or not.

“D
idn’t say. But he’ll be in touch. He’s a good son.”

“
He’s your son?” muttered Jim, giving Maddy a glance that said the credibility of the Quilters Club as detectives had just hit a snag.

“That’s right, the best of the bunch. Not counting Bobby Ray.”

“Y-you mean Sprinkles isn’t Bobby Ray Purdue?” sputtered Maddy Madison.

“Of course not,” responded Big Bill Haney. “Bobby Ray
is dead.”

Chapter Twenty-
Four

“Dead?” Maddy repeated. Her theory crumbling in front of Chief Jim Purdue and her fellow Quilters Club members.

“Sad story,” nodded Big Bill Haney.
“He got et by a lion. Back in ’08 it was. Didn’t you hear about it? Nearly ruined the circus.”

“No,” said Maddy.

“I vaguely remember hearing something about that,” volunteered Lizzie Ridenour. “But I had no idea it was anyone we knew.”

“Yeah, everything went downhill after that. Couldn’t get bookings. Performers left for other gigs. We reduced the show down to one ring. Turned ourselves into a for-rent
kiddy entertainment with a petting zoo.”

Maddy was still trying to digest the news. “If Sprinkles isn’t Bobby Ray Purdue, who is he?”

“Why he’s Jud Watson, of course.”

≈≈≈

Beau Madison had eschewed the trip to Peoria, choosing instead to go fishing with Edgar Ridenour. Since retiring from the bank, Lizzie’s husband had devoted himself mainly to fishing and other outdoor pursuits. Serving on the Caruthers Corners Town Council and sitting on the board of Burpyville Memorial were the only two official duties he had left ... unless you counted trying to catch the fat catfish that lived in a bend in the Wabash just south of town.

Beau had joined him in that
quest today. Even a mayor needs a day off now and again. “You sure he’s in there?” he squinted at the dark water.

“As sure as the sun rises,” Edgar assured him. “I’ve hooked that monster two or three times, but he’s a Houdini when it comes to slipping off a line.”

“Why didn’t you join the girls on their trip to Peoria? Jim went with them.”

The former bank president just shook his head and
continued to bait his hook. Dough balls were today’s tasty lure. No longer the immaculate businessman, Edgar had grown muttonchops and shoulder-length hair since retiring.

“C’mon,” persisted Beau. “You’ve got a vested interest. Burpyville Memorial is being sued by N.L. Purdue over that false DNA report.”

“That greedy ol’ goat is asking for a million dollars in punitive damages. Claims that fiasco did irreparable harm to E Z Seat’s reputation.”

“Think he’ll get it?”

“Who cares? It’s not my money. Or the hospital’s. It’s in the hands of the insurance companies. Burpyville Memorial has malpractice policies up the wazoo.”

“Has that guy Bernard Warbuckle confessed yet?”

“You mean Jud Watson? No, he’s still not talking.”

“Any question that he did it?”

“Not according to the investigators. They say they’ve got Jud Watson dead to rights.”

≈≈≈

“Jud Watson?” said Maddy. “Are you sure?”

“I oughta be,” nodded Big Bill Haney
. “I raised him like a son since he was twelve years old.”

“So he did run off and join the circus?” stated Cookie. She liked to get the facts straight.

“Him and Bobby Ray and Harry and Tom.”

“Tom?”

“Yes, he came a few years later. But he and Harry hit it off. Developed a pirate act. I taught ’em to juggle swords.”

“
Harry said he became a pirate,” the police chief remembered. “Guess he was telling the truth about that.”

Big Bill nodded. “Tom and
Harry were the jugglers. Jud became the clown. And Bobby Ray was supposed to be the lion trainer. But obviously he wasn’t very good at it. I had to take over the act after his fatal encounter with Grumpy.”

“Grumpy?” repeated Maddy. “My granddaughter said
you had a lion named Grumpy.”

“Same one. He’s getting pretty long of tooth now.”

“Didn’t they make you destroy him after he killed someone?”

“We told the authorities we did, but we lied. Do you know what a draw it is to a circus to have a man-eating lion?”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Let me get this straight,” said the police chief. “You’re admitting you kidnapped those boys?”

“No, no,” Big Bill Haney waved away the accusation. “My wife and I took them in. They were runaways. They needed a home, even if it was a traveling circus.”

“You have a wife?” said Maddy.

“Yes, Little William. Her name’s really Willamina. She passes as my brother for the sake of the circus. We wanted to call it Haney Bros.
– just like Ringling Bros.”

Bootsie rolled her eyes. “He’s a she?”

“Every inch of her. We’ve been married nearly fifty years. December will be our golden wedding anniversary.”

“Congratulations,” said Cookie. She considered wedding anniversaries to be significant historical events.

“Willamina was a good mother to them boys. Jud made us proud. Bobby Ray died too young. Too bad Tom and Harry turned out to be bad apples.”

That got the police chief’s attention. “Bad apples, you say?”

“About four years ago, they stole all the circus’s money and run off. Haven’t heard from them since.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re the two guys sitting in an Indianapolis jail cell at this very moment,” said
Jim Purdue. “Didn’t you hear about them trying to embezzle money from the president of the E Z Seat Company?”

“I heard something about that, but I didn’t realize it was my two boys.”
He shook his head sadly. “I told you they was bad apples. Willamina’s going to be heartbroken.”

≈≈≈

They were mostly silent on the drive home, contemplating the strange turn of events. All the mix-and-match identities had been confusing.

Harry
Periwinkle had pretended to be Bobby Ray Purdue to get at the money in the quilt. Bernard Warbuckle was actually a guy called Tom Appleby, not Jud Watson. And Sprinkles the Clown was really Jud Watson, not Bobby Ray Purdue. And Bobby Ray Purdue … well, he was dead … but mauled to death by a lion, now drowned in a pool of quicksand.

Even Little William turned out to be Willamina.

You needed a scorecard.