Authors: Marjorie Sorrell Rockwell
Chapter Eight
The Visiting Professor of Runology
T
he drive to Indianapolis was uneventful. They only had to stop twice for N’yen to pee. Once at a service station, another time at a McDonald’s. Ronald was still serving breakfast, so everybody but Bootsie had an Egg McMuffin; she ordered the oatmeal. This week she was dieting.
Visiting professor
Ezra Pudhomme, the expert on Runology, met them at his on-campus office. He was a fat man, a human Jabba the Hutt. At a quick guess, he probably weighed in at 400 pounds. Two metal canes helped him waddle to his desk, where he deposited his bulk onto a couch that served as his office chair. “What’s this question you have about runes?” he wheezed. “Dan Sokolowski didn’t give me many details.”
Cookie Bentley
laid the color photograph of the Wilkins Witch Quilt onto the professor’s desk blotter. “Are the symbols around the quilt’s border runes or some other half-forgotten language?” she got straight to the point.
“Ahem, runes are
not
a language
per se
. They are a form of writing developed by Germanic people before the adoption of the Latin alphabet.” You’d think he was teaching Communications History 101, one of his more popular freshman courses. “These are indeed runes, the Scandinavian variant known as
Futhark
. The name comes from the first six letters in that alphabet –
Fehu
,
Uruz
,
Thurs
,
Ansuz
,
Ræið
, and
Kaun
. The symbols originally meant wealth, water, giant, god, journey, and fatal disease.”
“That’s fascinating,” said Bootsie, barely able to hide her sarcasm. “But what has that to do with the price of ice in Iceland?”
Ezra Pudhomme sniffed haughtily, but refused to acknowledge her snide remark. “If you look at the photograph of your quilt, you will see some of those same runes. I’d say a loose translation might go like this –” He squinted over the image, using a magnifying glass because the inscriptions were small, even in this 8” x 10” color print. “‘
After a long journey, we are befallen by a fatal disease, so we hide our wealth in this deep water
.’”
“Wealth?”
“The rune also means cattle, that being a common source of wealth. But here I’d say it refers to some kind of money or treasure.”
“Viking money?”
“Vikings did use this form of writing, so possibly.”
“What kind of money did the Vikings use?” asked Liz
Ridenour, ever the banker’s wife. “Paper currency, metal coins, what exactly?”
“
The Vikings did sometimes strike coins, but their basic exchange was what we call ‘hack silver,’ small bars that could be carried and easily cut – or hacked – to the size needed. The Norse did not place a face value on coins. Value was based entirely on the weight of the silver.”
Maddy tried to pin the professor down. “So you think this writing around the edge of the quilt is talking about silver bars?”
“Well, yes. But of course, it’s meaningless here.”
“Meaningless?”
huffed Cookie. She would not allow the quilt’s authenticity to be challenged. There was an established chain of ownership – provenance, it’s called – from Matilda Wilkins to her relative to the Historical Society.
“What I’m saying, th
e runes on this quilt are likely decorative, taken from somewhere else. Vikings never would’ve left a message on a flimsy quilt. They carved their messages onto runestones and other solid structures. Bells, bracelets, horns, buildings.”
“This quilt was stitched in 189
7,” said Cookie. “Where would a turn-of-the-century witch woman learn how to write in – what did you call it? –
Futhark
?”
Pudhomme
sat up, his body moving like a geological upheaval. “Witch, you say? That changes things. Perhaps the rune symbols were handed down as an occult tradition. Some people believed runes were not simply letters to spell words, that they also had deeper meanings ... magical or divinatory uses. The word
rune
itself means ‘secret, something hidden.’ Prior to their use as an alphabet, runes were used for different magical purposes, such as casting lots or casting spells.”
Bootsie crossed herself. More out of superstition, for she wasn’t even a Catholic. “Heaven help us,” she said. “To think th
is witch’s quilt has hung in our Town Hall for over a hundred years.”
“Don’t be silly,” snapped Cookie Bentley. “We don’t believe in witches. Matilda Wilkins was just a crazy old woman who made money selling love potions to hapless farmers
– a snake oil salesman at best, a mad hatter at worst, but certainly not a woman with supernatural powers.”
“Yes,
I guess you’re right,” Bootsie acquiesced. “But it’s downright spooky. We never suspected that those decorative symbols on the quilt contained a secret message.”
≈ ≈ ≈
The Indiana State Police’s lead investigator Neil Wannamaker had determined that the quilt theft had been pulled off by someone who knew the building’s security code, allowing the burglar to escape by resetting it from the inside of the Town Hall after hours. An examination by the alarm company confirmed that someone reset the code at 1:03 a.m.
That hick police chief had pretty much exonerated all the city officials,
Wannamaker told himself, but the janitor remained a loose end. Maybe Jasper Beanie didn’t do the job himself, but he could have passed the alarm code on to a confederate. After all, Beanie was dirt poor, living in a shabby cottage provided by the Pleasant Glade Cemetery for its caretaker. And he had a history of drunkenness, often spending the night in jail in Burpyville. He drank over there because Caruthers Corners didn’t have any bars.
Jasper Beanie was a weak man with financial needs. The perfect motivation for a crime.
Lt. Wannamaker crosschecked Jasper Beanie’s telephone records against a list of his former cellmates, looking for any connection with a known criminal. Turns out, Beanie had been in regular contact with a petty shoplifter named Sam Stickley,
A/K/A
Sam Stickyfingers.
Aha!
≈ ≈ ≈
Liz Ridenour’s husband had
retired a couple of years ago as bank president. These days, he spent much of his time fishing. His scraggly hair, bushy gray beard, and grubby clothes belied his one-time executive appearance. Gone was the pinstriped suit and power tie, the wing-tipped shoes and $40 haircut. He could have easily passed as a hobo, a man without a penny in his pocket or a care in the world.
Edgar Ridenour was letting his aluminum flatboat drift with the current, his fishing line trolling behind. Fact was, he was snoozing in the afternoon sun, unconce
rned that his boat was ten miles downstream from where it was supposed to be. He didn’t have any board meetings or bank examiners to worry about. His pension was fully funded, more than enough for an ongoing life of leisure. And fishing.
Edgar
came awake when he heard voices above his head. Opening one eye, he noted that he was under a bridge, caught up in a little eddy that kept his boat in place. Maybe it was the word he’d just overheard that caught his attention:
Witch
!
He’d heard enough at home about the Quilters Club looking into the disappearance o
f that old quilt from the Town Hall. The one supposedly sewn by a witch. So what was this conversation coming from the bridge all about?
“Everybody thought
those were some kinda magic symbols on that patchwork monstrosity. Little did they know it was a secret message.”
“Secret message?”
“Yeah, like a treasure map. Giving the key to a hidden treasure.”
“Ah, c’mon
. That old rag has been on display forever. How come nobody ever figured out it was a secret message?”
“Beats me. Guess it
was hidden in plain sight. A message in some kinda foreign language nobody here spoke.”
“How do
you
know about it then?”
“Some kid figured it out. A
Lord of the Rings
geek. He was visiting the Town Hall with his mama to pay her property taxes when he spotted it.”
“
Lord of the Rings
, huh?”
“Yeah, there’s been three or four movies, so it has a
big following. Like Trekkies with
Star Trek
.”
“So the message is like written in Klingon?”
“No, you idiot. Klingon’s a made-up language. This is a real language that elves speak.”
“Elves. Now I know you’re bonkers. Ain’t no such thing as elves and fairies and pixies.”
“Well, there’s Hobbits. That’s a known fact. And they write in this secret language called runes.”
“
But how did you hear about this secret message?”
“My buddy’s
connected with the boy’s mom. The kid told him. That gave my buddy the idea to steal the quilt.”
“Because it’s valuable?”
“No, ‘cause it can lead to a Viking treasure worth zillions. That ol’ witch knew where it’s hidden.”
“Dang.”
“You can say that again, Bud.”
“Dang.”
Edgar thought he recognized one of the voices.
Chapter Nine
Jasper Beanie’s Hard Year
J
asper Beanie was sweating it out in an interrogation room at the State Police office in Indianapolis. There were no windows, so he felt a tad claustrophobic. The State Police’s Central District is located in the basement of the Indiana Statehouse, near War Memorial Plaza
,
a five-city-block memorial built to honor WWI veterans. Only Washington DC has more veterans’ monuments than Indy. But Jasper couldn’t see any of them from this cramped belowground dungeon.
“We’re looking for your accomplice, a guy named
Stickley,” said Lt. Wannamaker, pointing an accusing finger at his prisoner. The tip was yellow with nicotine. The policeman had developed a three-pack-a-day habit. It was a stressful job, catching crooks.
“S
am Stickley? Yeah, I know ’im, but he ain’t no accomplice of mine.”
“Admit it,” said Wannamaker. “You slipped ol’ Stickyfingers the alarm code so he could steal the
Wilkins Witch Quilt. How are you two splitting the money – fifty-fifty?”
“Hey, I told you before
, that robbery happened on my day off. I wasn’t even there. Matter of fact, I was sleeping one off in the Burpyville jail. They’ll confirm it. I’m a regular there.”
“You think that give
s you an alibi? You’re just as guilty as Sam Stickyfingers if you gave him the code. It’s like one of those contests where you don’t have to be present to win.”
Jasper Bea
nie screwed up his face as if about to cry. “You got it all wrong. Sam couldn’t have done it either. He was in jail that same night, arrested for shoplifting light bulbs at Home Depot.”
“Light bulbs?”
“Said his apartment was too dark. Needed some 100-watt bulbs.”
Wannamaker was at a loss for words. If Sam
Stickley’s alibi held up, he didn’t have a suspect.
≈ ≈ ≈
Jasper Beanie had survived a hard year. His wife Nan had divorced him to run off with the former mayor of Caruthers Corners, an old crook named Henry Caruthers. His great-great grandfather had been one of the town’s founding fathers, as had Beau’s.
The kick in the pants
came when Judge Cramer awarded Nan alimony. So in addition to his job as the cemetery’s caretaker, he’d been moonlighting as the Town Hall janitor and as a pool man at the Hoosier State Senior Recreation Center. No wonder he drank, he told himself.
Now this, being accused of stealing the
Wilkins Witch Quilt. He’d surely lose his job at the Town Hall over this. Maybe even be ousted from his cottage at the cemetery. This couldn’t get any worse.
But it did.
≈ ≈ ≈
Sam “Stickyfingers”
Stickley surrendered to the ISP and offered to turn state’s evidence implicating Jasper Beanie in return for a suspended sentence. He claimed to know where Beanie had hidden the quilt.
Fact was, both
Stickley and Beanie were innocent. But as a career criminal, Stickyfingers was used to playing snitch in return for favors. Truth be damned, this seemed like a good way to get the coppers off his back. And a good way to get back at Jasper for not loaning him the $50 he’d been phoning him about. He needed the money to buy a bus ticket to Des Moines to visit his daughter. His former cellmate had seemed like an easy touch, but no go. He’d be sorry.
“You’re sure about this?” asked Lt. Wannamaker. He wanted to believe Stickyfingers in the worst way, a chance to wrap up this case. But the Burpyville police confirmed that one Samuel L.
Stickley had been their guest on that Monday night in question. Hard to get around that.
“I swear on my mother’s grave,” the crook raised his hand as if taking an oath. “Me and Jasper did it. He has the quilt hidden in a crypt in the cemetery. Do we have a deal?”
“Not so fast. We gotta check it out. In the meantime you can bunk down in our holding cell. You’ll find it more comfortable than Burpyville’s accommodations.”
Burpyville!
That’s when Sam Stickley realized his confession was going to be proven false. He wondered how much jail time he’d get for that.
≈ ≈ ≈
On the way back from visiting Professor Pudhomme, the Quilters Club was abuzz with new theories.
“
I’ll bet Mad Matilda belonged to a witches’ coven that used runes as magical incantations,” posited Bootsie. “Maybe those symbols came over from the Old Country and were passed down through the centuries.”
“
Matilda’s maiden name was Süderdithmarschen,” recalled Cookie. This info came from her research in the Historical Society’s archive of
Burpyville Gazettes
. “That’s a Germanic or Old Norse name.”
Bootsie nodded. “Norway, they had witches over there, didn’t they?”
“Dunno,” shrugged Maddy
, eyes on the road. Folks in Caruthers Corners spent more time studying the Bible than Scandinavian folklore.
“No, I
don’t think it was anything to do with magic,” disagreed Lizzie. “I think she used that secret alphabet to mark where she hid a treasure.”
“
Where would Mad Matilda get a treasure?” argued Bootsie. “Her family had to be dirt poor, living in a tiny stone cottage in the middle of nowhere.”
“Legend has it she became wealthy selling potions,” Cookie
reminded them.
“
No, I mean Viking treasure,” said Lizzie. “Silver bars.”
“We don’t
know
there was a Viking treasure,” Maddy pointed out.
“That’s what the runes say,”
insisted Lizzie. Buying into the theory of Norsemen hiding a treasure while camping near the old Wilkins place.
“Good point,” Bootsie came around to that
way of thinking. “The runes did say there was a treasure. Why would Matilda Wilkins put that message on the quilt if she wasn’t leaving a clue?”
Cookie shook her head. “
I think it’s highly unlikely that an uneducated farmer’s wife in the Midwest would know how to read or write an obscure runic alphabet like
Futhark.”
“Then how did she manage to leave
that message if she didn’t know what the symbols meant?” argued Lizzie.
“Maybe she didn’t know what the symbols meant,”
Aggie spoke up from the backseat. “What if she simply copied the markings she found inside the well onto her quilt?”
“Inside the well?”
“You said those markings in the well looked like those on the quilt.”
“Kinda,” said her grandmother. “But we didn’t examine them closely.”
Aggie gazed out the car window, watching the rolling green countryside slide by. “Like I said, maybe she simply copied the markings she found on those rocks.”
“Why would she do that?”
said Lizzie. Still not convinced, she was stuck on the treasure map scenario.
“B
ecause they
looked
like magic markings.”
“
Actually, that makes sense,” admitted Cookie. “Copying those runes inside the well without a clue what they meant.”
Bootsie wrinkled her brow. “
Okay, but how did rocks with Viking writing get inside that well in the first place?”
“T
here’s credible documentation that Norsemen visited America 500 years before Columbus,” replied Cookie. “And there’s some evidence they made it this far west. The Kensington Runestone, for example. Also nineteen axes, seven halberds, four swords, twelve spears, five steel fire-strikers, and thirty-eight mooring-hole sites. Even rock carvings in Oklahoma have been attributed to Vikings. Who’s to say these explorers didn’t leave other runestones? Perhaps Mad Matilda’s husband used some of them to build a wall around his well. It’s not hard to imagine she copied the inscriptions onto her quilt because they looked magical.”
Lizzie looked triumphant.
“That would imply there’s a Viking treasure buried near here – just like I said.”
“Maybe there is,”
said Cookie. “People find pirate treasure all the time in the Caribbean. And sunken ships laden with gold bars and silver coins have been recovered off the Florida Keys. So why not Viking treasure just waiting to be found?”
“Here in Indiana?” scoffed
Bootsie. “This is a long way from Norway.”
“Maybe so,” said Maddy. “But we all saw the markings inside that well.”
≈ ≈ ≈
Edgar Ridenour caught the police chief at 5:15 p.m., just as he was punching out to go home. Jim Purdue and his four deputies kept track of their hours with a
sputtering old time clock.
“Hold up, Jim,
” the retired banker called to his friend. “I’ve got some information you need to hear about.”
“Can it wait till tomorrow? I promised Bootsie I’d be home on time. She’s making watermelon stew.”
“Hmm, I do love your wife’s stew.”
“Come home and join us for dinner. She’ll have made a big pot of that nectar of the gods.”
“Sorry, but I’ve been fishing all day. Need to get home, take a hot shower. I promised to take Lizzie to that new restaurant in Burpyville
– Jack Splat’s.”
“
Isn’t that a health food restaurant?”
Edgar removed his
baseball cap and ran his hand through his thinning hair. “Lizzie promises if I’ll take her there, we can go to Big Bob’s Steakhouse this coming weekend. I’m looking forward to chowing down on a 32-ounce Porterhouse, let me tell you that.”
“So what’s this news that won’t keep?”
“You know Boyd Atkins’s boy Charlie?”
“Know
Boyd better. He was chairman of the Planning Committee for last year’s Watermelon Days. I had the dubious pleasure of serving on it with that old tyrant.”
“Well, I was out fishing today. My boat
drifted under that bridge out on 101. I overheard Charlie Aitkens telling some fellow called Bud that he knew who stole the quilt.”
“Probably just big talk.”
“I don’t think so. They didn’t know I was under the bridge. Sounded pretty serious.”
“Okay, I’ll check it out. But not
until the morning. I’m going home for some of Bootsie’s watermelon stew. It’s her own recipe y’know.”