Read Online Sewed Up Tight (A Quilters Club Mystery No. 5) (Quilters Club Mysteries) by Marjory Sorrell Rockwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Marjory Sorrell Rockwell
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estate. Aside from leaving the mansion to the town, Charlotte Beasley left the bulk of her fortune to this tiny craft museum.”
“Craft museum, you say?” muttered Maddy. There was always the debate on whether quilting was a handicraft, an art form, or simply a domestic activity. Of course, the Quilters Club favored the “art” designation.
“What’s the name of this museum?”
Cookie smiled. “The Beasley Heritage Museum, of course. Most of its contents are artifacts and objects from the founding of this town. But since they wouldn’t call it Beasleyville, Old Sam sent his collection back east.”
“A bad sport,” observed Bootsie.
“How come we’ve never heard of this Beasley Heritage Quilt before now?” Maddy wanted to know. “We’re supposed to be the experts on local quilting history.”
“I supposed folks were insulted by Old Sam’s attitude so they sort of wrote him out of the town history. His wife’s quilt along with it.”
“Then how did you learn about it?”
“Believe it or not, I read about it in Quilting Bee magazine.”
“What kind of quilt is it?” asked Maddy, always the curious type.
“Like many early 19 th -Century designs, it’s a wholecloth quilt decorated with pictorial needlework. The scenes depict the Beasley family’s trip west and their early days here in Indian Territory.”
Bootsie looked up from her squares. “Is there a photograph of this quilt? I’d like to see it.”
“Alas, not that I’ve been able to find,” said Cookie. Her disappointment was palpable, that of a historian missing a piece of the puzzle.
“Why don’t you just phone up and ask them to send us a picture?” suggested Aggie.
Out of the mouths of babes, Cookie thought. “What a good idea. I’m sure the Beasley Heritage Museum will be happy to accommodate our Historical Society. Professional courtesy and all that.”
“Problem solved,” smiled Maddy.
But maybe not. Later that day when Cookie Bentley placed the call she got an answering machine that refused to take a message. It merely stated that museum hours were 10 to 2 on Fridays, summers only.
Not a very active schedule.
≈ ≈ ≈
“Freddie dear, could I see you a minute?” called Willamina Haney. The petite woman was the grand dame of the Haney Bros. Circus, although for years she had passed herself off as a man in order to rule the two-ring Big Top alongside Big Bill. Now that the circus had a permanent home, she could just be herself.
“Hi Willie, what’s up?” he greeted her. She was one of the few people who seemed to not notice his ruined visage. She simply accepted him as one of the new members of the circus family that she watched over like a mother hen.
“Take a walk with me.”
“Sure. I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs. Riding around on that kiddy-car version of a fire truck cramps them up sometimes.”
“Your act’s doing well. The kids love Sparkplug. And your fire safety messages are a valuable public service.”
“Thanks. I want to make a difference. However, my options are limited, now that I look like Fireman Bill on that In Living Color TV show.”
“ In Living Color proved to be a springboard for Jim Carrey’s movie career. That Fireman Bill character worked out pretty well for him.”
“Problem is, I can’t take off the grotesque makeup like he could.”
“Is that what’s been bothering you? You seem down in the dumps lately.” She reached up to pat him on the arm. There was several feet difference in their heights.
“Partly. But I’ve pretty much come to accept I’m not going to look like a poor man’s Ryan Gosling any more.”
“What then?”
“Truth is, I miss being a real fireman.”
“Hmm, I guess I can understand that,” she said.
They walked along in silence for a while, skirting the perimeter of the flimsy fence that defined Happy the Elephant’s stomping grounds. Finally, Willamina indicated they should turn back. She wasn’t as agile as she used to
“Craft museum, you say?” muttered Maddy. There was always the debate on whether quilting was a handicraft, an art form, or simply a domestic activity. Of course, the Quilters Club favored the “art” designation.
“What’s the name of this museum?”
Cookie smiled. “The Beasley Heritage Museum, of course. Most of its contents are artifacts and objects from the founding of this town. But since they wouldn’t call it Beasleyville, Old Sam sent his collection back east.”
“A bad sport,” observed Bootsie.
“How come we’ve never heard of this Beasley Heritage Quilt before now?” Maddy wanted to know. “We’re supposed to be the experts on local quilting history.”
“I supposed folks were insulted by Old Sam’s attitude so they sort of wrote him out of the town history. His wife’s quilt along with it.”
“Then how did you learn about it?”
“Believe it or not, I read about it in Quilting Bee magazine.”
“What kind of quilt is it?” asked Maddy, always the curious type.
“Like many early 19 th -Century designs, it’s a wholecloth quilt decorated with pictorial needlework. The scenes depict the Beasley family’s trip west and their early days here in Indian Territory.”
Bootsie looked up from her squares. “Is there a photograph of this quilt? I’d like to see it.”
“Alas, not that I’ve been able to find,” said Cookie. Her disappointment was palpable, that of a historian missing a piece of the puzzle.
“Why don’t you just phone up and ask them to send us a picture?” suggested Aggie.
Out of the mouths of babes, Cookie thought. “What a good idea. I’m sure the Beasley Heritage Museum will be happy to accommodate our Historical Society. Professional courtesy and all that.”
“Problem solved,” smiled Maddy.
But maybe not. Later that day when Cookie Bentley placed the call she got an answering machine that refused to take a message. It merely stated that museum hours were 10 to 2 on Fridays, summers only.
Not a very active schedule.
≈ ≈ ≈
“Freddie dear, could I see you a minute?” called Willamina Haney. The petite woman was the grand dame of the Haney Bros. Circus, although for years she had passed herself off as a man in order to rule the two-ring Big Top alongside Big Bill. Now that the circus had a permanent home, she could just be herself.
“Hi Willie, what’s up?” he greeted her. She was one of the few people who seemed to not notice his ruined visage. She simply accepted him as one of the new members of the circus family that she watched over like a mother hen.
“Take a walk with me.”
“Sure. I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs. Riding around on that kiddy-car version of a fire truck cramps them up sometimes.”
“Your act’s doing well. The kids love Sparkplug. And your fire safety messages are a valuable public service.”
“Thanks. I want to make a difference. However, my options are limited, now that I look like Fireman Bill on that In Living Color TV show.”
“ In Living Color proved to be a springboard for Jim Carrey’s movie career. That Fireman Bill character worked out pretty well for him.”
“Problem is, I can’t take off the grotesque makeup like he could.”
“Is that what’s been bothering you? You seem down in the dumps lately.” She reached up to pat him on the arm. There was several feet difference in their heights.
“Partly. But I’ve pretty much come to accept I’m not going to look like a poor man’s Ryan Gosling any more.”
“What then?”
“Truth is, I miss being a real fireman.”
“Hmm, I guess I can understand that,” she said.
They walked along in silence for a while, skirting the perimeter of the flimsy fence that defined Happy the Elephant’s stomping grounds. Finally, Willamina indicated they should turn back. She wasn’t as agile as she used to
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