Old Secrets Never Die Read online

  “This is great, Richard. Thank your wife for having such a good memory–and for being such a pack rat, saving it all these years,” said Jankowski after he and Dupre read the note together and examined the envelope. The men decided the postmark said Lansing, Michigan but they couldn’t make out the date.

  “There probably aren’t any usable fingerprints on something this old, other than yours and your wife’s, but forensic technology is making such rapid advances these days, I never know what miracles will occur next in finding evidence and people. If we could get fingerprints from this, we might locate her in somebody’s system from a job application, military service or something.”

  Dupre told Jankowski everything his wife remembered about Arlene and her overbearing sisters from back when they were teenaged friends. She couldn’t add anything else, he said, because she had never heard from Arlene Goodell again and Mary Ann had kept her word not telling anyone about the note. “I’d never even heard of her–Mary Ann and I weren’t together yet when she got this.”

  “If Arlene Goodell went to Lansing, Michigan for a job as a teenager and met someone ‘on line’ way back then, we can be sure it wasn’t an Internet connection,” Jankowski commented. On line at that time would have meant factory work, most likely at General Motors’ Oldsmobile plant, the Lansing area’s biggest employer besides state government and Michigan State University.

  Lately GM’s various plants scattered across Lower Michigan had fallen on hard times. All GM divisions were sharply cutting back production and the state was paying dearly for its over-reliance on the automotive industry as thousands and thousands of jobs each year were lopped off the employment rolls.

  “The auto industry is having a tough time in Michigan, Richard, but this might be our lucky day.”

  Jankowski reached for the phone and dialed Henry Battles’ number. This new information was adequate reason to call again so soon. He motioned for Dupre to stay where he was and he punched speaker, so they could both hear the conversation.

  Henry Battles answered his own telephone, did his own typing and almost all the other tasks associated with running a one-man law office. At what he called “seventy-mmpfth”, most of his contemporaries were retired. Obviously, they had invested more wisely, created a retirement plan, saved more, spent less, married money or several of the above. He had done none of these things and couldn’t retire. He needed to keep working. Anyway, he had never enjoyed golf, gardening or other activities retirees use to fill their days.

  He loved having the getaway of an office in downtown Hartford. His enthusiasm for life was bolstered by regular contacts with other attorneys and business people who might help him make a buck, maybe even find that elusive big deal that would expand into multiple projects, or even a franchise operation to cushion his golden years. Surely that deal was right around the corner, maybe even in the next phone call.

  When his old-fashioned black desk phone rang, Henry jumped to consciousness, aware that he had been daydreaming, mentally calculating the potential riches of a land development project proposed by a long-time friend. They still needed to find financing for the deal. The town permitting requirements, infrastructure costs and community impact fees could eat into the profits unreasonably, but he relished the challenge of trying to develop a prospectus that would work, right down to the per-square-foot price of each house.

  “Good morning, this is Henry Battles,” he answered, rubbing his forehead to focus his mind. “How can I help you?”

  “Mr. Battles, my name is Mark Jankowski and I’m the State Trooper in Woodstock, Connecticut. I found a letter from you at the home of one Gladys Goodell. She was found deceased in her home yesterday, apparently of natural causes. We’re trying to determine and locate next of kin. Can you help? Your letter indicated she might be your client.”

  “Yes, she is my client. Hmm, that’s a surprise, but not too much of one I guess. She was up there, way past our allotted three score and ten. Sorry, Trooper, no disrespect, the Goodells were like family to me but I hadn’t seen or heard from Gladys in a while. Every few years, I try to contact clients whose wills or trusts I have made, to ensure they are kept up to date. Gladys made a new will after Gwendolyn died, just to remove her older sister’s name. I hadn’t heard from her since then.”

  When Jankowski asked Battles what he meant by them being “like family”, the attorney related a long version of his life. Henry had grown up in Woodstock, peddled papers in the wealthy section where Goodells lived. Thomas Goodell had seemed to look at Henry as the son he never had. On wintry Sundays, Mr. Goodell would invite Henry to come in for hot chocolate when he finished his paper route. They would talk about life–ambition, education, politics, the law, sometimes even religion.

  “Of course, he did most of the talking about life, but he seemed to think I was starting out well by working instead of sleeping in,” Battles said. “He’s the reason I went to law school, actually, and when I finished that, I returned to Woodstock to take care of my aged mother. He invited me to use a desk in his office while I was studying for the bar examination.”

  Battles had stayed in Mr. Goodell’s office for several years, he continued. Each of them worked independently, but the older man guided him through challenging cases and passed along some clients as Goodell approached retirement and began experiencing health problems.

  “My mother had passed away by that time and I was alone, so Mr. Goodell would take me home for dinner with his family at least once a week, sometimes several nights in a row if we were working on something he wanted to discuss further. I was never sure if he was trying to match me up with his youngest daughter, or just enjoyed my company.

  “Gwendolyn and Gladys were quite a bit older–isn’t it funny how age is such a relative thing? Back then, I thought they were a lot older but the gap closed through the years. Gladys must have been around eighty, right? That doesn’t seem as old as it used to.”

  “It’s that third daughter that we’re looking for; Mr. Battles,” Jankowski interjected to restore the one-sided conversation to the purpose of his call. “A neighbor tells me her name was Arlene.”

  “Right. She was a few years younger than I, but she tried to act older. Sometimes she would even pretend to be flirting with me, giving her father a hard time as she matured. He was a very stern man, but incredibly good to me. Boy, it’s a long time since I’ve thought of those times with him and his family.”

  Before Jankowski could ask his next question, Henry Battles rambled on about how Mr. Goodell encouraged him to circulate in the Putnam area to generate new law business and make friends beyond the small town. Soon, he became interested in politics, ran and was elected to the State Legislature and met his wife in Hartford. He decided to open his own firm in the capital after he lost a re-election bid. Mr. Goodell had helped him improve his life several times, once loaning him the down payment on a home and sending generous gifts when his first child, a son, was born.

  “He was a powerful influence in my life and I felt compelled to look out for his daughters after he died since none of them was married. Actually, I lost track of Arlene and don’t know if she ever married. Soon after I began spending most of my time here on legislative duties, one of my Woodstock friends mentioned that Arlene had disappeared. His wife taught at the high school and he said Gwendolyn and Gladys were acting as if nothing had happened. They told people she had ‘just left’. I didn’t feel it appropriate to butt in, but the next time I saw them–probably two or three years later–I asked about her. The old man was gone by then, of course.

  “I remember both were reluctant to put Arlene into their wills, but they said there was no other family. They said they never heard from her, that she had been upset about something and she packed a few things, left a mess in her room and went off one night while they were asleep. That was it, as if the two of them were close as sisters but she didn’t fit in the family. They didn’t seem surprised that she hadn’t been in touch with them.”


  “Do you think you might be able to find Arlene Goodell through any of your contacts here? Or do you still have any?” Jankowski asked.

  Battles said he still knew a couple people in the Woodstock area and was in touch with some who had moved away but were friends of the Goodell family “way back when”. He felt almost certain that Arlene was still mentioned in Gladys’ will. “At my age, it’s risky to say ‘I remember…’ without having the document in my hands, but I’ll dig it out and get back to you. There are numerous ways to look for someone, especially in this computer age, even when they’ve been missing for so long. I’ll check the Goodell file right away to see if I’ve forgotten anything significant that might be a clue to her whereabouts. Otherwise, I have a full plate today, so it might be a couple of days before you hear from me. But I’ll sure do my best to help you find her.”

  Finally Jankowski was able to get a word in. “Well, we’ve come up with one important piece of information. We have a letter Arlene wrote, sometime after she left here, to the wife of our local constable. They were high school friends. The letter doesn’t give much detail but it’s from Lansing, Michigan and says she met someone she was going to marry.

  “Well, why didn’t you say that in the beginning?”

  “Please give me your fax number and I’ll send it to you,” Jankowski said, exasperated. He needed this man’s help and didn’t want to aggravate him.

  “Okay, my fax is 860-555-0602. That letter probably will provide a more significant clue to Arlene’s whereabouts than I’ll find in the will file but we’ll follow both angles. I’ll sic my girl, Julie Johns, on the Michigan connection immediately. She helps me out now and then and I let her use my outer office for free. She’s not my secretary; she has her private investigator’s license but is still struggling to build a clientele among the Hartford bigwigs and attorneys. So she’s not real busy and she does excellent work.”

  Jankowski wondered if Battles called her “my girl” to her face. Maybe the esteemed Hartford lawyer needed sensitivity training. Surely, even as a fledgling attorney he would not have appreciated it if the late Mr. Goodell had referred to him as “my boy”. This probably wasn’t the right time to bring that up, Jankowski decided.

  He sensed that Henry Battles had an extremely good memory and cared enough about the Goodell family that he would press to find someone who knew something about Arlene. If he were successful, it would definitely solve the problem of dealing with an estate without heirs. The state of Connecticut might suffer, but Jankowski believed there must be someone who would care about some of the pictures and other furnishings in the beautiful old home.

  It didn’t seem possible there were families that split apart and stayed that way for decades. Jankowski couldn’t dwell on this idea without reflecting on his years of estrangement from his own three children, even though two of them lived relatively nearby in Philadelphia and Brunswick, Maine. He had just re-established contact with Paul, his eldest, this past holiday season and they planned another family gathering in Woodstock during his grandchildren’s spring break. Jankowski was still astounded that he had grandchildren in school and they wanted to get to know their “Granddad”. His wife, Dee, had been the peacemaker in the family. When she died his boys had lashed out in anger, saying his job was always more important than they were to him.

  Bashia, whose family was very close to each other, had encouraged him to mend whatever fences he could. He had decided to take a stab at it and went to Brunswick for the holidays. Paul and Cindy’s welcoming attitude gave him hope for a similar reaction from John and Dominic when he could get to Philadelphia and San Francisco. He had talked to each of them on the telephone and both seemed receptive to a face-to-face talk. Maybe we’ve all mellowed a little, Jankowski thought.

  For now, however, he needed to stay mellow with this attorney and hope Henry Battles would help him find Arlene Goodell.

  “Call me as soon as you learn anything, please,” he said.

  “Of course, Trooper Jankowski. You’ll hear from me soon.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sitting in one of the five booths of the bakery, Mark drummed his fingers on his coffee cup and savored the odor of fresh baked bread and bagels. The sweet yeasty smell reminded him of his childhood when his mother made “babka” bread for the holidays. It was a comforting thought in contrast to the confusion he had over Bashia Gordon.

  When he had first heard her name he knew she was Polish. Their shared heritage had given them some talking points early in their acquaintance. Then, too quickly and in surprising turns, the first rush of romance seemed to have slowed and now he wondered if Bashia really enjoyed his attention.

  He knew he had grown careless about his appearance since his wife died, not paying attention to his posture or his developing potbelly. His cheeks were puffy from eating too many donuts and his hair was starting to turn gray, especially since his forced recuperative leave. He had transferred to Woodstock with less than two years from retirement and was essentially starting over. If he was really interested in having Bashia as a companion, a friend–an exceptional friend–he’d better shape up.

  What is it–low fat, low cholesterol diet to lose weight? Exercise? I’ve never paid much attention to those things. Well, maybe I had better start.

  He frowned, stirring his coffee absentmindedly. How does Bashia feel about me? Where do I stand? Sometimes she seems eager to be close to me, then suddenly she will stiffen and pull away. What is bothering her? Is it me or something else? His thoughts were interrupted when a bell over the door tinkled and a cold gust of wind ushered Bashia in.

  She called to Brenda Boutier, “Hi, BB, how are you?” as she headed for Mark’s booth. She waved to a couple she recognized.

  Brenda followed with a pot of steaming coffee. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail and her apron, smudged with flour, wrapped around her slim body. “The usual?” she asked.

  “No, not today. How about a half bagel with low-fat chive cream cheese?”

  Brenda laughed and returned to the counter, “Sure thing. It will be ready in a jiffy.” Others might have wondered about the occasional meetings of Bashia and Mark, but Brenda was pleased to see their developing friendship. She knew it had been a struggle for Bashia since the death of her husband a few years ago.

  Bashia slid into the booth opposite Mark, slipped off her tan cashmere coat and grinned. It was good to see him again. She hoped her face wasn’t flushed.

  “Hi, how are you? What’s happening with that death reported in the paper? Are you on the case? Anything suspicious? I knew the sisters! Well, I went to their home a few years ago to bid a job, but never did any work for them. Then, later, when Gwendolyn broke her leg, I delivered Meals On Wheels to them for a couple months. What’s the story, huh?”

  Mark laughed, “Nothing like getting right to the point!” He loved her vitality and openness. It made him feel more alive as well. He held his cup up for a refill when Brenda returned with Bashia’s bagel.

  “You know I can’t reveal any information,” he said, more for Brenda’s ears. When she returned to the counter to clean and refill the donut trays, Mark continued, “There’s not much to say right now, the body was removed to the morgue awaiting notification of next of kin. We’re looking into that. Since you know them, would you happen to know if they had any relatives in the area?”

  “No, I don’t. I thought of that when I read the newspaper report. They apparently were pretty antisocial. How sad to not have anyone care if you live or die! I remember there was some neat stuff in that house. Did you notice the furniture? There are some beautiful pieces under all the dust. Or are they all gone? When I visited, the women seemed to be pretty low on funds. I was tempted to give them Hiram’s number, but decided to keep my nose out of their business.”

  “You keep your nose out of someone’s business? Hah! And who is Hiram?”

  “Hiram Lazarus is an antiques dealer who really knows his business. He moved to th
e area about ten years ago and is always interested in estate sales. He probably knows all about those large homes that belonged to the town founders and contain antiques.”

  “I don’t know him–I’m not in the market for antiques. In the back of my mind, though, I wondered about the furniture when I searched the house. Do you think its valuable?”

  “Could be, and he’s the man to tell you! I met him long ago when we were having a garage sale. He came earlier than the listed time, but one of my kids let him wander through the barn, even to the second floor where there’s a lot of old fire station equipment. After I scolded Peggy for letting him in, we talked, and I showed him my workroom and showroom. He was impressed and happy to learn about my business because he often wanted to slipcover chairs before putting them up for sale. I’ve done work for him a couple times a year since then and he’s given me some referrals out of the area. So it’s worked out well.”

  “What in the world were you doing with fire equipment?”

  “It was in the barn when we bought the place twenty years ago. Don’t forget, in a small community everyone is involved in the volunteer fire department. I guess it could be considered antique, but I don’t think there’s much of a market for old fire equipment.”

  She spread the chive cream cheese on her bagel and took a bite. “Do you think I could help you with this case? You know, like last year?”

  Mark almost spit out the coffee he was about to swallow, but held his hand over his mouth and laughed, “And what do you think you would be doing?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I could find out who was delivering the groceries from the IGA, when was the last delivery, look up whatever you need on the Internet in case you don’t have the time, get Hiram to look at the furniture–things like that. Huh?”

  “You’re crazy,” he laughed. Then seeing her downcast face, he added, “But I’ll think about it.” Bashia quickly grinned her approval.