Old Secrets Never Die

  Copyright © 2007 by

  Florence W. Clowes and Lois J. Blackburn

  All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Print ISBN 0-7414-4348-1

  eBook ISBN 0-7414-9188-5

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  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Several years ago, Florence W. Clowes attended a writing workshop at which the speaker, renowned author David McCullough, told her she was “a born storyteller”. He confirmed this opinion in a letter when we sent him a copy of our first novel, Bones in the Backyard. For his encouragement, we are extremely grateful.

  Numerous writers, friends and family also generously shared their time and talents to comment and critique, notably our Backroom Writers critique group in Palm Beach County, Florida. Thanks to all for your ongoing comments and for sharing our enthusiasm. Now, we bring you our new, second Bashia Gordon cozy mystery.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sally Wickard adjusted her glasses and peered through the lace-curtained window. She smiled as she gazed at the familiar surroundings–the village green encircled by old stately homes, the tall white-spired Woodstock Congregational Church at the corner. Early morning sunshine was melting the snow on the lawns, but did little to warm her or her old home.

  A shiver ran through her arthritic body and she pulled her paisley shawl closer about her stooped shoulders and gathered up her cat, Calico.

  Sally’s home was opposite Gladys’. Ancient maple and fir trees lined the road, restricting her view of the Goodell home, but Sally could see the snow-covered walk and front door.

  “I wonder if Gladys is all right”, she said to her cat. “That old gal lives alone, like me, but she doesn’t have you, does she?” She hugged Calico as he purred in her ear.

  “We know she always comes out to pick up the paper. Do you think something has happened?” Now there were several wet newspapers lying in the snow. Earlier this morning Sally had begun to clip grocery coupons from her own issue.

  “See there, Calico, those papers are just sitting there, getting soaked. I could use those coupons if she isn’t. She probably doesn’t use them anyway.”

  As the morning wore on, Sally fidgeted. Every few minutes she would put aside her knitting and return to the window. Calico abandoned her to nap in the knitting basket. The newspapers still lay on the sidewalk in a soggy mess.

  Sally lingered at the window when she saw Reverend Peter Mann walk up the deserted country road through the snow toward Gladys’ home. The collar of his long black coat was turned up and his bright yellow scarf fluttered in the breeze. He stomped his feet on the steps, rapped on the door and waited. He knocked again, shuffling his feet. He tried the door, but it was locked.

  Uneasy, he knocked again. When he received no response, he shrugged, tugged at his yellow scarf, and retraced his steps, silently trudging down the road.

  “He must be making his monthly visits to shut-ins. She won’t invite me, but she usually asks him in! Calico, this is not good. Something must be wrong.”

  She worried, now that Gladys was alone. Gladys rebuffed Sally’s friendly gestures since her sister Gwendolyn died, insisting she could manage by herself. Still, Sally felt compelled to keep an eye on her eighty-year-old neighbor. When their parents were living, a mutual friendliness existed. Christmas cards and fruitcakes were exchanged. Now, Sally and Gladys were the only ones left.

  It wasn’t her business, but she finally picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

  “My name is Sally Wickard and I thought maybe you should check on my neighbor, Gladys Goodell. I haven’t seen any activity about the house recently. I’m worried because she lives alone and something might have happened. I don’t want to knock on her door…What? Oh yes, the address is 676 Doctor Pike Road.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  State Trooper Mark Jankowski knocked on the door of the Goodell residence at 676 Doctor Pike Road. The mid-morning sun was turning last night’s snow into slush and he impatiently stomped his feet on the steps. Was this a crank call, a nosy neighbor or a genuine problem? he wondered, responding to a neighbor’s 9-1-1 call. Tugging at his slate-blue uniform jacket, taut over his pudgy waist and equipment belt, he pulled himself up to his full six-foot height. Although his wide-brimmed hat shaded his steel-blue eyes, he squinted at the sunshine reflecting off the stained-glass door windows. Anybody home?

  He still couldn’t get used to the isolation of some people. This past year in rural Woodstock, Connecticut had made him acutely aware of the differences from city life in New Haven. His last assignment, a dangerous stakeout that ended with a fractured tibia and a bullet-grazed forehead, made him appreciate the opportunity to spend his last two years as a state police officer in this laid-back area. The travel brochures called it the “Quiet Corner of Connecticut”.

  He agreed, it was just right for him. Not a lot of traffic, not a lot of people, but plenty of open land. Nothing much happening around here, or at least at a rate ten times slower than New Haven.

  After his wife died and he transferred to the Danielson Troop D barracks, covering Northeastern Connecticut, he had become a loner. That is, until he met Bashia Aniela Ciekawy Gordon last year while investigating a suspicious death. The woman, a Polish-American like himself, had become an amateur sleuth when she discovered a skeleton in a friend’s septic tank. She wasn’t the typical Polish blue-eyed blond: her eyes changed from green to gray and she had a head of unruly auburn hair that seemed to have a mind of its own. There had been an instant attraction. Now his life had taken on new meaning and he looked forward to its possibilities.

  The wind had picked up, calling his attention to the letters flapping in a weather-beaten brown straw basket tacked to
the wall of the Goodell house.

  Taking the mail, he stepped back for a better look at the two-story, gray clapboard house. Dead branches from the ancient, leafless maple trees swayed in the wind, scratching against the walls. A tall fir tree stood near the entrance, its heavy branches weighed down while the tips turned upward like dainty fingers reaching out to God. Jankowski noted other colonial homes surrounding the green appeared to be in much better condition.

  “Mrs. Goodell, Mrs. Goodell,” he called, looking about. He tried the front door; it was locked. There wasn’t a person in sight, but traces of footprints in the melting snow indicated someone else had been to the door earlier. He placed his size eleven boot next to them–his were a lot larger.

  “Hmm, doesn’t seem like anyone’s around.” He wondered if Mrs. Goodell had gone away and hadn’t bothered to tell the nosy neighbors. He followed the path to the back of the house, pushing past the wet overgrown shrubbery that blocked the way. The branches showered his shoulders with water. “Damn!” he said.

  At the rear of the house he entered an empty screened porch. He stomped his snowy boots to rid them of the wet slush, shrugged the water off his shoulders and knocked on the door. No answer. He sighed and pounded on the door, “Anyone home? Mrs. Goodell!” The only sound came from bluejays chattering in the fir trees.

  He rattled the loose handle and the door opened. His hand automatically reached for his gun as he cautiously entered a narrow hallway. The walls and wainscoting were dark and dingy with age.

  With each step, he called, breaking the eerie silence. A dark brown, shapeless cloth jacket hung on a wall peg, a purple umbrella on another.

  The kitchen was cold, no warmer than outdoors. A coffee cup and saucer sat on the wooden counter next to a half-opened loaf of bread. He felt the bread–it was hard. The large old-fashioned porcelain sink was chipped in places, the drainboard held a lone carving knife. He examined it carefully without touching it, but saw nothing unusual. A small Hotpoint refrigerator gave off a low hum, as if chanting a mantra for the dead.

  He began a room-by-room sweep of the house. The adjoining room appeared to be a sitting room. Dropping the mail on a table, he called out a “Hello” once more. Closed drapes at the windows made the room so dark he had to use his flashlight to find a light switch and continue his search.

  He stepped around footstools and short, small tables stacked with old newspapers. A writing desk held piles of unopened mail. Two upholstered chairs, worn and dark with age, had small, yellowed pieces of lace pinned to their backs. A worn green sweater lay over one of the arms. A large brick fireplace dominated one wall, its yawning mouth empty. The mantel held three small vases. He wrinkled his nose and made a face at the age-old musty smell.

  In the foyer, he passed the stairs and entered a dining room on the opposite side of the house. He studied the dust-covered Queen Anne dining table, six chairs, a low-hanging chandelier and a glass-front china cabinet. “Just what Ma always wanted,” he muttered, recalling how much his mother had admired the hand-carved scrolled style.

  The china cabinet was full of delicate-looking dishes. An Oriental rug under the table showed its age around the edges.

  Some old stuff here. He wondered if it was valuable, maybe antiques. He’d check with Bashia, she would probably know.

  Wide oak stairs dominated the central hallway area. The massive, dark banister gave the house a sense of stability. A somber collection of family ancestors in large ornate frames on the wall stared back at him as he climbed the stairs. Faded flocked cabbage-rose wallpaper had begun to peel off the wall, seemingly held in place only by the portraits.

  On the second floor, three bedrooms contained plain furniture. He snapped on lights and scanned the rooms. All were dark, drapes or shades covered the windows. Homemade quilts topped wrought iron beds. Decoration apparently wasn’t considered important here, where guests ordinarily weren’t apt to visit.

  In a utilitarian bathroom at the head of the stairs he glimpsed a claw-foot tub, freestanding sink and toilet. A few thin pale yellow towels hung on a rack. His voice echoed, as he continued to call, now in a lower tone as if unwilling to break the silence of the house.

  In the fourth bedroom Trooper Jankowski was surprised to see a figure in the bed. As much as he had dealt with death in his career, he still squirmed every time he came across a body. Usually they were violent, ugly deaths. But here lay a tiny, emaciated woman perfectly serene in her high four-poster bed. He felt for a pulse in her pale, white neck, then quickly made a sign of the cross on his chest.

  Well, I’ll be! Dead for a couple of days, he thought. The caller was right to be worried.

  Half-open drapes allowed a streak of light to fall across the bed, forming a jagged cross. The sunlight drew his attention to a uniquely carved blanket chest. It was covered with a white dresser scarf embroidered in tiny purple flowers and a single photograph, a casual snapshot of two women in their early forties.

  The room had a stifling odor and he stepped back into the hall before pulling out his cell phone and calling headquarters.

  “Got a death here, Tony,” he reported to the duty sergeant in the barracks. “Get hold of the ME for me, will you? Who’s on this month?”

  “Dr. Rodow. And I think he’s in town,” the dispatcher answered. “I’ll send a constable to cover you.”

  “Thanks, it’s Dupre, isn’t it? And this is my lucky day. Rodow gets things done without giving us a bunch of bull.” Now he wouldn’t be stranded here all day.

  He retraced his steps while he waited. In the bathroom he noticed some prescription bottles. Downstairs, at the desk he rifled through the unopened mail and found a letter from a Hartford attorney.

  Ten minutes later Constable Richard Dupre slid his car in the slush behind Jankowski’s patrol car, slammed his door shut and sprung up the steps. He was an old-timer, one of six constables who covered Windham County.

  “Come on, I’ll show you the house and body. And I don’t have to tell you not to touch anything, right?” Jankowski didn’t expect an answer and led him through the house to the second floor.

  “Don’t go in, just tape the door. I don’t want anyone in there until the ME arrives. Do you know who lives here?”

  Dupre shook his head, “Nope, I know some locals around here, but this one–the quiet ones–don’t cause no problem. So we don’t know them very much.”

  “Yeah, right. Well, I’m going to check outside while we wait for the doc. Come help me cordon off the house.”

  Once outside, Jankowski checked all the windows and doors and searched the grounds. The footprints he had noticed earlier had vanished in the sunshine. There wasn’t any evidence of a break-in, but he knew the back door had been left unlocked. The woman’s dead, that’s all. But why did she die? Old age? How could an old woman die and not have anyone know or care? Doesn’t she have any relatives?

  He returned to his car, began making notes, then stopped and stared across the village green. The last of the snow shimmered and glistened in the blinding noonday sun. He imagined the neighbor who had called in the report would be staring out her window right now, watching everything. He would pay her a visit later; after the ME had checked the body and ordered Gladys Goodell removed to the morgue.

  Dr. Rodow parked his car and gave a whistle before Jankowski saw him. “What have we here?” he asked, and started toward the house.

  Jankowski hurried from the car to catch up with him. “Gladys Goodell, dead in bed. No apparent cause of death that I could see,” Jankowski answered to Rodow’s back. At the door, he hurried ahead of the doctor and led him upstairs.

  “No struggle, no forced entry? No injury to the body?” Rodow shot his questions rapidly. To each, Jankowski gave a snappy negative reply.

  “Any weapons around?” Rodow asked as he put his bag down near the bed and searched for his latex gloves. Donning them, he quickly examined the woman. “There doesn’t seem to be any trauma, we’ll see what happens at the autop
sy. Has the crime lab been notified?” He grunted as he straightened up and tore off his gloves.

  “Yeah, Paul, and there’s some prescription bottles you might be interested in.”

  “Good. Get them, please,” he answered as he handed Jankowski another pair of gloves and a paper bag.

  Jankowski headed for the bathroom, pulled on the gloves and retrieved the bottles.

  Rodow tipped the bag and squinted at the labels. “Let’s see–Soma for sleep, Latril for blood pressure, Celebrex for arthritis. Aha, Hansen is her doctor. Good, I’ll call and tell him his patient has expired! He may have some answers to this.”

  “EMTs here,” Constable Dupre called from the open front door. He stepped aside as the men trudged up the stairs with their gurney and equipment.

  “No need to check her, boys. Just take her to the hospital morgue. I’ll talk to Hansen to see what he thinks about an autopsy.” He tucked the bagged medicines in his case.

  Turning to Jankowski he asked, “Any relatives we can contact?”

  “Not that I know of. There’s no one around and the 9-1-1 call came in from a neighbor. She hasn’t been seen for a couple days. I found an attorney’s letter on the desk and I’ll contact him,” Jankowski said.

  “Okay, I’m out of here,” Rodow said. “Glad to see the house cordoned off. The crime lab will take it from here.” He quickly left the room and hurried out of the house.

  “Dupre, have you heard from the crime lab guys?” Jankowski asked as he followed the doctor out the door.

  “They won’t be here for a couple hours. I’ve called Benny Lupe to stand watch with me.”

  “Great,” Jankowski replied. “I’ve got an interview to make before I leave the area.” He stared at the small yellow house directly across the green.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The sun had dropped behind the trees when Jankowski crossed the village green. The wet slush was beginning to freeze as the temperature dropped. Sally Wickard’s home, a low Cape Cod, was unlike the other two-story homes. It was surrounded by a yellow picket fence, the same color as the house. A row of shrubbery lined each side of the walk, which had been cleared of snow. He approached the front door and knocked.