2 The Patchwork Puzzler by Marjory Sorrell Rockwell Page B

noted Cookie. “I read in the paper she’s getting a two-million dollar settlement in her divorce.”
    “Apparently she married well,” commented Bootsie, an edge of sarcasm in her remark.
    “What’s the name of that rooming house on Fourth Street?” asked Maddy.
    “Mrs. Fogerty’s,” Cookie read off the name.
    “Who’s this Mrs. Fogerty?” Bootsie wanted to know.
    “Deceased. Apparently Henry bought the property from her estate about ten years ago.”
    “Maybe Henry keeps a room there,” Maddy speculated. “What say we go pay Mrs. Fogerty a visit?”
    ≈≈≈
    The rooming house was an old pre-war brick home that had been subdivided into four apartments. The names on the mailboxes identified the residents as T. Kelly, D. Birmingham, M. Martin, and N. Jacz, all neatly typed.
    “Wait a minute,” said Cookie as she studied the mailboxes. “Jacz was Nancy Beanie’s maiden name.”
    “How do you know that?” asked Bootsie, impressed.
    “I recall when she married Jasper Beanie, people joked that she’d gone from Jack’s to the Beanstalk – a play on her names.”
    “Are you saying Nan Beanie has an apartment here?” Lizzie asked.
    “Maybe it’s a love nest,” said Bootsie, back to her theory that Nan Beanie and the former mayor had something romantic going.
    “Henry owns the building,” Maddy agreed. “It would’ve been simple to set aside a room for himself and his lady friend.”
    “We think Nan’s in Canada,” Cookie mused. “But are you saying Henry could be hiding up there in Apartment 4?”
    “Let’s go look,” suggested Lizzie. This was almost as good as reading about Britney Spears in a supermarket tabloid.
    “Maybe we should be cautious,” Maddy said. “Stake the place out until we see him come in or go out.”
    “Why not just call Jim and have him come over with all his deputies?” Bootsie offered another approach.
    “He only has two deputies,” Lizzie pointed out. “Not exactly an army.”
    “That’s three counting Jim, How many is it going to take to arrest a puny little guy like Henry Caruthers.”
    “We should make sure he’s here before we call Jim and his deputies,” advised Maddy. “It would be embarrassing if it turned out to be a false alarm.”
    “I think Maddy’s right,” said Cookie. “Henry may not be in there right now. If Jim pulls up with siren blaring, it could scare him away. We might never see that little weasel again.”
    “Good riddance,” offered Lizzie.
    “Yes, but Henry’s the one who can explain this mystery to us.”
    “Okay, but I’m not going to hide in the bushes waiting for Henry to show up. I don’t even go camping with Edgar if I can avoid it.”
    “We’ll park the car up the street,” suggested Maddy. “We can keep an eye on the front door from there.”
    “What if I have to go to the bathroom,” Lizzie hesitated. She had a weak bladder, all her friends knew that.
    “The Exxon station’s one block over,” Maddy reassured her. “They keep their restrooms nice and clean.”
    “I hope this doesn’t take all day,” grumbled Cookie. “I have a hair appointment at three-thirty.” Now that she was married to Ben Bentley, she’d been paying more attention to her looks. Her naturally gray locks looked good in a frosty shade of blonde.
    “You hair looks fine.”
    “I can’t cancel my appointment. My hairdresser was supposed to have today off, but I talked her into coming in this afternoon.”
    “Okay,” capitulated Maddy. “We’ll keep watch ’til three o’clock. If he doesn’t show up by then, we’ll turn the matter over to Chief Purdue.”
    ≈≈≈
    At precisely 3 p.m. Henry Caruthers strolled down the sidewalk and entered the rooming house. Maddy had her hand on the ignition, ready to call it a day when Cookie pointed and said, “There he is!”
    “Goodness, you were right,” Bootsie admitted. “Now let’s call Jim to come arrest him.”
    “Why don’t we go talk with him first,” proposed