Old Secrets Never Die Page 3

  When they reached the third floor attic, MaryAnn headed for the shelves Richard had built into the eaves many years ago. There sat boxes of old encyclopedias, an erector set overflowing its wooden box, cartons of long unused Christmas ornaments and a wooden crate covered with a dust-laden towel. She sneezed as she removed the towel and began rummaging in the crate. Triumphantly she pulled out a brown scrapbook.

  “Ah, here it is. I’m pretty sure I saved it in this scrapbook. I kept pictures of all my friends in it,” she said as she sat down on an old wooden chair. “Let’s see if I can find it.”

  Richard looked about at all the stuff they had stored over the years. “Where in the world did all this junk come from? Why are we saving it?”

  “Huh! You’re the one who wouldn’t let me throw out that floor lamp or that erector set. ‘It’ll be worth some money one of these days,’ you said. And all these things are from our folks. Do you think our kids will want them someday? That’s why we’re saving them!” She turned the pages slowly, reminiscing over the pictures of her high school friends.

  “Yep, here it is, Arlene’s letter.” She handed it to Richard. “Can you make out the postmark?”

  “Not here, there’s not enough light. Let’s see if I can figure it out when we get downstairs. You’re right, it is cold up here!”

  In the warm kitchen Richard examined the yellowed envelope while MaryAnn reread the letter and stared out the window. It was so long ago. What happened to Arlene after all these years? she wondered.

  “Yeehaw! I think I got it. Lansing, Michigan. That’s where they made Oldsmobiles back then. Didn’t she say she was working for an auto company? I bet Jankowski will be happy to get this!” Richard grinned as he reached for the phone, paused, then decided to deliver it personally first thing in the morning. It would be good to get a strong “Atta boy” from the trooper.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Bashia Gordon carefully balanced the toast on top of her coffee cup in one hand and the morning newspaper in the other as she walked to the dining room table. The room was filled with sunshine and sparkles of light from long icicles dangling off the porch roof.

  “Thank God, winter is almost over,” she said to herself, placing the paper and cup down at one end of the long maple trestle table. She pushed back her uncombed curly auburn hair, gathered her robe about her and sat down. Unconsciously she rubbed her forehead, hoping to get rid of the headache from her recurring nightmare. It had been a long time since she slept without revisiting that terrifying scene.

  As she nibbled on her unbuttered wheat toast, she glanced at the headlines of The Norwich Bulletin. She often just drank coffee in the morning, even though she knew it didn’t make sense. Dieticians always said breakfast was the most important meal of the day. But she was trying to drop a few pounds and usually did well by changing her eating habits.

  Previously she might skip a meal while working, then pig out at a fast food restaurant. Now, she concentrated on several small meals and refused to keep ice cream in her freezer, much to the chagrin of her grandchildren.

  She turned to the Windham County section for news directly related to the northeastern corner of Connecticut and gasped at a headline that made her sit up and forget about her toast and everything else: “STATE POLICE DISCOVER BODY”.

  Late yesterday afternoon, the article stated, State Trooper Mark Jankowski was dispatched to the home of Gladys Goodell in Woodstock following a call from a concerned neighbor. After searching the house, he found the elderly woman dead in her bed. The medical examiner had not yet specified a cause of death, but it appeared she died of natural causes.

  The name made Bashia pause. So, Mark is on the case! And wasn’t that one of my clients? She had decorated so many homes in the area; surely, she had been in that one. She gazed out the window, the paper forgotten, as she mentally ran through a list of her clients in the Woodstock area. Her business, Tunk City Workshop, had developed quite a following. It was one of the few businesses that provided custom workroom decorating service.

  Aha! She finally remembered. There had been two elderly Goodell sisters! Several years ago, before her decorating business took all of her time, she volunteered to deliver Meals On Wheels. When Gwendolyn fell and broke her leg Bashia was asked to make the deliveries. Her sister was unable to care for her and prepare meals as well. But this is Gladys–what happened to Gwendolyn? she wondered.

  The two had received meals five days a week, with freezer meals for the weekend. Bashia often spent a few minutes talking with them as she placed their meals on the kitchen table. She wondered how the two women managed in the stately two-story home that seemed frozen in time.

  Now and then they had asked her to help with small tasks. Once she carried a bulky laundry basket upstairs to a bedroom where she admired a beautifully carved hope chest below a window. I wonder if that chest is still there. Who did it belong to? she thought, staring at the steady stream of water dripping from the icicles.

  Then Bashia recalled an earlier visit to the Goodells. The sisters had called to ask if she would make a slipcover for a settee out of some bedroom drapes. She visited their home and examined the threadbare drapes, then refused to do the work. The faded, sun-weakened twill fibers would disintegrate quickly, she explained. It would be a waste of money. A quick glance at the surroundings in the room had given her the impression that the women had little to spend on decoration, but this conversion was not a good way to save a few dollars.

  Bashia could almost hear their soft voices agreeing with her and saying they appreciated her candor. Gladys and Gwendolyn, thin and drawn, had nodded their heads in unison, mirror images of each other, thin dresses over thin bodies, thin white hair pulled back from their faces, held in place with matching turquoise combs.

  Bashia recalled that much of their furniture was very old, antiques probably, and had wondered if they would be likely to part with any of it even if it would improve their cash flow problems. She didn’t think so, so she hadn’t mentioned her friend, Hiram Lazarus, an antique dealer who lived in the area. The wiry, middle-aged man would have been able to look around the house and immediately judge the furniture’s value. He often told her he had price tags on all the furniture in his home. “Everything is for sale except me and my lady, of course.” It seemed to be his personal motto.

  Returning to the newspaper, Bashia continued reading. The family name went back to the beginnings of East Woodstock, settled in the 1850s–along with the Averills, the McClellans and the Chandler families. Gladys’ father, Thomas Goodell, had been an attorney in nearby Putnam for many years. Hmm, Bashia thought, the reporter has really done some research.

  I’d love to give Mark a call and get the scoop on this! Maybe it’s another mystery we could work on together. It would be a good excuse to see him again. When they first met a few months ago there had been an immediate attraction. The thought of him brought a smile to her face.

  What drew Bashia to him wasn’t his looks. His uniform stretched tightly over his tall, chunky body. His holster and bulletproof vest added to the bulky look. A stubborn lock of brown hair barely covered a ragged scar on his forehead, the result of a glancing bullet when he worked in New Haven.

  His sensitivity to her made her feel as if she were very important, the only person in the room. She felt a schoolgirl thrill whenever he gave her a shoulder a friendly pat or flashed a winning smile her way. She hoped to develop a closer relationship, but her deep-seated dread over a past trauma stood in the way. It was fully her problem. He didn’t even know she had a problem.

  Of course, she didn’t expect Mark to reveal any trade secrets, but she knew she would learn more than what was reported in the newspaper. Always interested when something happened to someone she had worked for, Bashia was immediately intrigued about the Goodell home and its aged, beautiful furnishings. Gwendolyn and Gladys had never mentioned any other family members, and now they were both gone. Was there anyone who would care about Gladys’ death, or he
r historic home on the village green?

  Bashia sighed and said a silent prayer of thanks for her own large family. What a comfort to know that there were children and grandchildren who might want her “things” when she was gone. At least there would be someone who cared.

  In fact, she had so many things she cherished; she thought there might be a few friendly or unfriendly squabbles about some items. With three daughters so close in age, she knew they all had a fond eye for her collection of Polish crystal. And the two sons always joked with great spirit and humor over who would get “Ma’s” old Toyota when she was finished with it.

  Now there were several grown grandchildren scattered about the country who remarked wistfully how much they loved her watercolor paintings, the old rocking chair her late husband, Norman, had caned or one of his other hand-crafted pieces. More than one of them had wished aloud that they could own “something like that some day”. Subtlety was not a strong family trait, but all their wishful comments were said with great love in their voices and she knew they were not trying to rush her to the graveyard.

  She could feel her adrenalin rise as she dialed the Woodstock State Police office, a number she had put in speed-dial while working with Mark on what they fondly referred to as the “Bones in the Backyard” mystery.

  “Trooper Jankowski, how can I help you?”

  His voice sounded deeper than when she last spoke to him, before his visit to his son in Maine over the holidays.

  “Mark, it’s Bashia. Do you have time for a bagel this morning? I see you’re investigating Gladys Goodell’s death. You know, I knew her and her sister. Got time for a break?” She had spoken too fast and stopped to catch her breath.

  “Hi. It’s good to hear from you,” Mark replied. “Miss Goodell? I’m not exactly sure where the investigation will go, because it looks like she died of old age, but I’d love to have coffee with you. I’m in the middle of some paperwork right now, but I can meet you, say at noon. Is the Better Brooklyn Bagel okay? I should be free by then.”

  “Great. That’ll be fine. See you there.” Just the thought of being with him revived long dormant feelings. In spite of her fear of getting too close to a man, she had quickly learned to trust this one and she really wanted to learn more about him. A warm blush came to her cheeks as she cut the connection and dialed her friend, Dottie. They also hadn’t seen each other since the holidays. Bashia wondered if she had read the paper. Of course, Dottie Weeks wouldn’t have known the Goodell sisters, having just moved to the area last fall.

  “Dottie, it’s your personal home decorator,” she began when she heard her cheerful voice. They had served in the Peace Corps together in Jamaica two years ago and Dottie had moved last year from Trenton, New Jersey into an old colonial in Woodstock to be near her friend. One of the reasons Dottie bought the Stoddard property was for its large outbuilding, formerly a dog kennel. She thought it would be perfect for a ceramics studio. Bashia helped transform the house into a cozy home for Dottie and her two Siamese cats.

  “Hey, what’s up, gal? Long time no talk.”

  Bashia could almost picture Dottie, her long, straight, blond hair falling gracefully to her shoulders. She probably was wearing one of her favorite short wraparound batik-dyed skirts she had bought in Jamaica.

  “Did you see the paper this morning?” she asked, and described the article about Gladys Goodell.

  “You know, Bashia, people are going to start calling you Jessica Fletcher. Every time you turn around in this so-called quiet corner of Connecticut, a body or two shows up and you have to get involved. That’s just like that television show, ‘Murder, She Wrote’. Remember, every time Jessica began writing a new mystery, someone suddenly was murdered in that sleepy Maine town. Are you writing a book now, besides your decorating business, internet tinkering, and watercolor painting? What’s next?”

  “Oh, stop!” Bashia laughed. “I don’t have a lot of time, Dottie. I called Mark a few minutes ago and asked if he could join me for coffee–nothing special, just at the Three B’s. In case you forgot, that’s the Better Brooklyn Bagel.”

  “Oh, you’re finally taking the initiative with Mark? Good for you. Should I start looking for a hall? Or will you two old folks be eloping to Jamaica?”

  “Hold on,” Bashia protested. “You’re getting way ahead of yourself and me! I’m just really interested in what he has learned about the Goodells and what might happen to the house. You should see all the gorgeous antiques those women had. I’m sure it will be a treasure trove for someone. In fact, I’m thinking that Hiram Lazarus, an antiques dealer I sometimes work with, should be interested. He has a home west of town and a shop in Essex.

  “But you’re right, I do enjoy Mark’s company–nice to have a date once in awhile. I like having the best of both worlds–being with someone when I want and being alone when I want. So forget about planning anything.”

  Although they had assignments near each other in Jamaica and became close friends, Dottie wasn’t aware of the traumatic hillside incident that led to Bashia’s early return to the states. No one, not even her children, knew the real reason her volunteer tour was cut short, but she was beginning to think it would soon be necessary to discuss it with someone. She wanted to tell Mark, so he wouldn’t think she was pushing him away because she didn’t like him.

  “Listen, Dottie, I’ve got to dress and check with my gals before I go out this noon. We’re working on another big order of cubicle curtains for the hospital. When I sewed on them yesterday I found it was tricky to keep the mesh in line with the fabric without puckering, and I want to make sure the curtains are done correctly.

  “I’ll keep you posted if I learn anything new,” she paused, then added, “I presume your ceramics classes are going well.”

  “It’s an interesting group of people in this first class. A small group, but one of the students, Lucinda Litchman, has become an instant good friend and she’s quite amusing. You’ll like her. We even went to dinner and a play at Bradley Theater. Whoop-de-doo! Just like the big city, which I don’t miss at all.”

  “Sounds great, but I’ve really got to go. We’ll catch up on all that later, okay?” Bashia knew she had heard the name Lucinda somewhere, but couldn’t picture her. It was such an unusual name she should be able to remember, but she didn’t know any Litchmans.

  She threw a sweater over her robe, ran out of the house, into the decorating workroom in the barn and greeted her friends. They worked for her more for the companionship than the money. The three of them had raised their children together, faced graduations, disappointments, weddings and deaths together. Bashia treasured their devotion and friendship.

  The smell of new fabric, machine oil and hot coffee filled the room. A radio blared to be heard over the hum of the sewing machines. When she was satisfied that Marie and Francis were able to handle the long cubicle curtains, she packed fabric samples for her afternoon appointment with a client and returned to the house to dress.

  She quickly searched her closet for her red outfit, the one she thought made her look slender. She paused to brush her hair. When she looked into the mirror, an old woman with wrinkles on her neck and puffy eyelids met her glance. Surely that’s not me! I guess I’ll have to start wearing high collars like Katharine Hepburn. She shook her head, remembering a clipping she had taped to her sewing machine once when she had been discouraged.

  It said, “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?”

  She still felt and acted like a nineteen-year-old. No, a thirty-year-old was more like it. At thirty she had experienced life, including her five children, and countless other successes and failures, loves and hates, too. But when did I begin to look old? She frowned. How could Mark become attracted to me and what does he want? She sighed, What do I want of him?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Trooper Jankowski considered calling Henry Battles again as soon as he turned the lights on in his office the next morning, but he decided to wait a whil
e. Maybe the attorney was out of town or didn’t come in this early.

  When the telephone jangled, he pitched his hat to the wall hook, hurried to his desk, shrugged his jacket off, grabbed the pen from his drawer and punched the speaker phone button as he eased into his chair. Jankowski had been hoping it would be the Hartford attorney returning his call and was surprised to hear Bashia’s voice.

  Once he and Bashia decided to meet at the Bagel shop, he began to concentrate on the Goodell case.

  The medical examiner had left a callback message overnight. When he returned the call Jankowski learned that Dr. Rodow reached Gladys Goodell’s personal physician, who confirmed that she had been in frail health for some months. Both doctors, Rodow and Hansen, declared her death was not suspicious. Jankowski wouldn’t need the Crime Squad at the scene; he could send them his report electronically. He would leave the yellow tape surrounding the property until later today, however. He and Dupre might need to look around for more information on next of kin if the lawyer wasn’t reached today. Other neighbors might be another good source.

  “Patience is a virtue,” his mother used to say. Lately when this adage came to mind, he thought of his relationship with Bashia Gordon, who mystified him with her warm-spirited, cool-hearted treatment of him. Patience, patience, he thought. It must be applied to finding the missing Goodell sister as well.

  Just then, Richard Dupre burst through the door, removed his hat, stood excitedly behind the chair adjacent to Jankowski’s desk and blurted out, “You’re not going to believe this, Mark, I’ve found her.”

  “Take it easy, Constable, have a seat and tell me what you’re talking about.” Jankowski stood, shook hands and firmly guided the anxious Dupre forward around the chair.

  Dupre reached into the breast pocket for the tan-edged envelope containing Arlene Goodell’s letter to Mary Ann Collins, now Dupre. As soon as he told Jankowski what it was, the trooper reached into his bottom drawer, grabbed a plastic sleeve to protect the document and went to his photocopy machine to print several copies.