4 Hemmed In Read Online Free PDF Page B

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