Bones in the Backyard Read online

  She paused to gulp down some milk. “At any rate, if I can get the name of your former owner we might find out where he or she is now. I suppose I could do that by looking up deed records at the county courthouse, but that’s doing it the hard way. I think I’ll call Trooper Jankowski. Don’t get too tired moving boxes and furniture around. Call if you need help.” She stood at the sink, absently squirted detergent on her plate, ran water over it and watched the soap bubbles disappear down the drain, then dialed another number.

  “State Police, Trooper Jankowski speaking.”

  “Trooper, umm, Mark, this is Bashia Gordon. Have you heard anything from the crime unit? I was wondering.”

  “No I don’t expect to hear anything until next week. The CU will send the bones to the Forensic Science Lab in Meriden to see if they can develop a DNA profile. It may not be possible to get a reading at all. But I did find something interesting in our files. We have a report of a missing person who previously owned that property! It’s never been solved!”

  “WHAT? A missing person? You’re kidding! What’s their name? May I come up and read the file?” Intrigued by the news, Bashia’s imagination and curiosity took over. “Is your office in North Woodstock? May I come over?”

  “No, I’m in the Woodstock Town Hall. I cover all of Woodstock–North, East, West and South, although most people just think ‘Woodstock’. Do you know where the Town Hall is? My office is on the lower level, in the rear.”

  “Yes, I know where that is. I put in a bid to provide window blinds when the building was erected. May I come up now, read the file and talk with you?”

  “Well, I guess it’ll be all right. It is public record. I was planning to cruise around the town, but that can wait. Then again, I might be called out on some emergency and not be here when you arrive.”

  “That’s O.K. I’ll take my chances. I’m really curious as to how a skeleton got into that septic tank.”

  “I’m afraid the file won’t tell you that. This is an old missing persons report and might not even connect with our apparent homicide,” he explained. “But I’ll be glad to see you. In an hour?”

  “Yes, I should be there by then. Thanks a lot.” Bashia hung up, feeling a rush of adrenaline. Was it because she was about to find out something about the skeleton, or because she was going to see Mark again? She glanced in the mirror, wiped a bit of jelly from the corner of her mouth and ran out the door.

  * * *

  Bashia was surprised when she opened the door marked “Connecticut State Trooper” and found Mark alone. “Oh, I thought you’d have a secretary or something. Are you the only person in this office?” The small room contained a desk cluttered with papers, a phone and books. A few chairs and three filing cabinets with radio equipment on the top took up the remaining space. “WANTED” posters on a bulletin board were the only wall decorations.

  He stood to greet her. She seemed even more attractive than he remembered. “Yes, it’s just me, and half the time I’m not even here. I’ll be down at headquarters in Danielson, cruising around, or out on a call.”

  Mark looked quite professional in his surroundings, even distinguished, and a bit tidier. His hair was neatly combed, except for one unruly lock that fell to his forehead. Was yesterday just a bad day for him? She wondered, as she grinned and sat down. “Well, where’s this file you talked about? I’m really curious.”

  “It’s right here,” he said, pushing the file across the desk. “I’ll just finish my day report while you read it.”

  They sat in silence for the next half-hour, both concentrating on their papers, Bashia intently writing names from the case in a small notebook she carried in her purse. Finally, she sat back and looked up at Mark.

  “Wow! Is this a usual report for a missing person? There’s no further information?” She looked at the file. “This is more than five years old! This woman has been missing all that time?”

  “It appears so. I checked and there hasn’t been anything on the state teletype since then to indicate any action. And the officer in charge at that time, Trooper Murphy–his signature is on each of these reports–didn’t pursue it any further. Now the case of the found skeleton is in the hands of the Crime Unit in Norwich, but I intend to stay involved.”

  Bashia’s eyes lit up at the prospect. “I’m going to keep tabs, too. After all, it will take a while for Dottie to feel really comfortable in her new home and, somehow, I feel responsible for her. I’m going to check these names out on the Internet when I get home.

  “I get off duty in half an hour. Would you like to get a cup of coffee? I’d be interested to learn how you think you’ll find something on the Internet.” Suddenly shy, he hammered a pencil into the palm of his other hand. It had been a long time since he asked anyone out, even if it was just for a cup of coffee. Since his wife died he had turned into a loner and hadn’t made any effort to socialize in his new community.

  Bashia flipped her notepad closed and looked at him. “I think that would be nice! I’m no expert on the computer, but I’ve found some interesting stuff on it.” She laughed, “Sometimes I don’t even know how I got to a web site! Isn’t that dumb? The easiest site I’ve found to use is ‘Ask Jeeves’.” She smiled, thinking about it.

  “Jeeves?” Mark looked confused.

  “Yes, you type in a question and, bingo, he’s got an answer. I don’t know how it’s done but, then again, I don’t know how a VCR records a TV program either! Well, don’t let me keep you from your work. Shall I meet you somewhere?”

  “Do you know the Windy Acres place, a small restaurant near the college? They’ve got good donuts and sandwiches there,” he grinned and patted his stomach.

  “On Route 169? Oh, that will be fine. See you later then.”

  * * *

  Shortly after three, Mark entered the restaurant and found Bashia at a corner table. “Hi,” he said as he took off his hat and slipped into a chair. “I hope this place is O.K. When I first transferred here I stayed at the Inn on Woodstock Hill until I found an apartment, and got in the habit of coming here.”

  “You stayed there? Isn’t it beautiful? And I’m proud to say I helped make it beautiful! I made all the slipcovers, bedspreads, dust ruffles, shower curtains, pillows and I forget what else. I had to hire some women to help with all that sewing!”

  “Boy, you certainly get around with your business.”

  “Well, I’ve been covering the area for twenty-five years and worked for a lot of individuals and companies during that time. What room were you in at the Inn?”

  “It was over the former stables. It was a small room, with small windows. I felt claustrophobic with all that floral pattern on the spread and walls,” he shook his head, thinking of it. “But the hostess was nice and friendly. She’d invite me to have coffee and a snack if I came in when she wasn’t busy.”

  “That must have been Margarette. She’s the one I worked with, a very nice woman.” Looking about the room, she continued, “And this is a nice place, too. They have such an interesting menu. These sandwiches sound first-rate! I wonder why I haven’t stopped here before.”

  Bashia had made some notes on things she wanted to ask Mark, but by the time their order had arrived, they were talking about personal things. “So you like Polish food? I’m not surprised.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s all my late wife cooked. We ate all that stuff they tell you not to eat now–pork and beef kielbasa, plenty of butter and eggs, and pies made with lard. She was a great cook.” He poked at his apple pie and sighed, “This is good, but not as good as I remember my wife’s used to be.”

  “I know what you mean. My mother used to eat everything and she lived to be 87! She just died two years ago. What do you eat now? Do you cook Polish?”

  “No, I didn’t cook much before and I hardly ever cook now. I just can’t be bothered. Those packaged frozen meals at the grocery store are probably bad for me, but that’s mostly what I eat. That’s why I’ve put on so much weight, I guess,
”

  “Well, I’ll have to cook a meal for you one of these days. It will be an excuse for me to come up with a three-course dinner. I’ve gotten out of the habit of Polish food, though. My husband wasn’t too fond of pierogi or golumki, but he did like kielbasa and sauerkraut. His folks were German and English, and liked sauerkraut with bratwurst. The English side made him a plain meat-and-potatoes man.

  “Now I seldom bother with a full meal but when the mood strikes me I can make a mean biscotti–a jawbreaker if you forget to dunk it in your coffee. I experiment by adding different things–apricots, dates, raisins, cashews or walnuts. The results aren’t always predictable, but it’s fun to see how they come out. And of course, there’s even a low-fat version. But, I agree, it’s too much trouble to cook for one.”

  “I’d like that. I mean, you cooking a meal for me. I bet you’re a good cook.”

  “When the kids were home, I’d cook up a storm. We canned vegetables from the garden and raised two pigs one time–and only one time.” She giggled. “We would get a five-gallon can of cracked eggs from a chicken farmer every other day and dump them into the trough. What a mess, slop all around, but the pigs sure got fat. It took three men to get those pigs up into the truck when it came time to take them to the slaughterhouse.

  “At any rate, when I became busy with the business, everyone at home learned how to cook. Then the kids left and my husband died quite suddenly. That’s when I went into the Peace Corps and discovered a lot of different fruits and vegetables and meals and ate things I never knew existed. And one of my daughters-in-law is Mexican, so we learned to eat Mexican. Now we love it!”

  “So you’re in the sewing business?” Mark asked, as he pushed his empty plate away.

  “You could say that. I don’t consider myself an Interior Decorator. They don’t do the work themselves, they place orders with workrooms. That’s me–I do the work for them. But most of my orders come from my clients in the area, many of whom give me a lot of repeat business.”

  She told him about the workroom her husband had created in their barn, and how the entire family helped at times. The girls made cording, the boys hung rods and Norman machined unique fixtures. Since returning from the Peace Corps, she had started to get calls from some of her old clients again, she told him.

  An hour slipped by before Bashia rose to say goodbye. “This has been great; we’ll have to do it again sometime.”

  Mark smiled, his eyes sparkling in anticipation. “Sure thing! And as soon as I have any information, I’ll be sure to call you,” he said as they walked out of the shop.

  “I’d like that,” she said, looking up at Mark as she slid into her station wagon. His direct gaze warmed and chilled her at the same time. Flustered, she turned and reached in her handbag. “Here’s my card. Do let’s get together.”

  “Don’t forget to let me know what you find on the Internet,” Mark called as she started the car and drove away.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The next morning Bashia hurried to her computer, clicked to the Internet and brought up the “Ask Jeeves” web site. After typing in the name Danielle Stoddard, she leaned back in her chair and waited. In a few seconds the screen brought up The Hartford Courant newspaper’s reference to articles in its archives. Scanning the headlines, she was excited to see several articles about Stoddard. She typed in her credit card number, chose a few interesting ones and minutes later copies of the entire published articles came spitting out of her printer.

  Marvelous! Wonderful! thought Bashia. This computerized world does have some great benefits! Saves me a trip to Hartford, or hours at the library! She collected the printouts and headed for her favorite rocking chair to read.

  Bashia’s adrenaline surged when she flipped through the collection of reprints and noticed two pictures of the long-missing woman. Reproduction of black and white newspaper photos to archives and then to Bashia’s printer lost some of the details, but the shots clearly showed dramatic changes in Danielle Stoddard over a ten-year period.

  In the May, 1982 article, a full-length three-column picture showed a joyous young woman running next to her dog in a full skirt and jacket, shoulder-length hair seeming to float in a breeze created by her pace. A June, 1992 piece included a half-shot of a serious face wearing a man’s hat tipped forward in the jaunty style of movie stars of bygone days. If the caption hadn’t identified the person as Danielle Stoddard, she wouldn’t have associated the two.

  The text of the first article described the Avon dog show and Danielle parading her Welsh springer, Millhaven Prince, to First in Breed. It was the first time any of her dogs had won a ribbon in a competition.

  The June 1992 piece showed a headshot of a person dressed in a man’s jacket and tie and Bashia thought she could detect a trace of a mustache. The article noted that entries from Millhaven Kennel had won numerous awards and ribbons at the Passaic show. Her German wire-haired pointer, nicknamed Flash, had been named Best of Group in the Sporting Dog category. Flash, who weighed 60 pounds and was six years old, performed admirably in any situation, Danielle had told the reporter. The dog’s ears were smooth-haired, but the rest of his brown coat was harsh and wiry, which prevented twigs and other debris from becoming entangled when he was working, the story explained.

  An article dated late March, 1994 was longer but the information provided little that Bashia didn’t already know from the police reports. Mrs. Stearns, concerned with her sister’s disappearance and the financial situation at Danielle’s home, had first initiated the missing persons report. She felt the police didn’t seem to take it very seriously and said she planned to hire a private investigator.

  The last article contained important new information. On September 10, 1999, Mrs. Stearns, of Avon, had petitioned probate court to declare Danielle dead to enable her to settle the estate. The judge postponed making a decision for sixty days, saying she needed to study the case more thoroughly. “Wow, that was just this past month!” Bashia exclaimed.

  Bashia went back to her computer and submitted the other names she had copied from the police file, without any luck. At any rate, here’s something I bet Mark doesn’t know, she thought, as she dialed his number.

  “Mark, this is Bashia, I’ve got some news for you!” She hurried on, telling him about her Internet search and the newspaper articles. “What do you think about that?”

  “Mrs. Stearns petitioned the court in the middle of September to declare Danielle dead? Hmm–that’s interesting. She must be in a quandary, trying to have her sister declared dead–a depressing act in itself–and then a policeman calls her! I just found out that Detective Horton from the State Police Homicide Division phoned to tell her that a skeleton had been found on Danielle’s property. He requested that she meet him at Saint Frances Hospital to give a blood sample so the Forensic Lab can do a DNA comparison.”

  “Geekers, I feel so sorry for her. That must have been terrible news. After all these years, everything comes crashing down. The judge delaying any action on her petition for sixty days, and now the discovery of a skeleton. Mrs. Stearns must have a strong feeling that the skeleton is her sister, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Another thing, Detective Horton has requested that I be assigned to assist him! The Forensic Department is known to drag its feet when it comes to finalizing a report but he’ll get on them to hurry it along. It would certainly help Mrs. Stearns’s case. If the DNA tests match, Danielle would be declared dead and Mrs. Stearns can have the will probated. I’m sure she’s anxious to do that. There’s a lot of money involved, you know.”

  Bashia said she had seen something about a trust in the police reports, but it didn’t sink in that Danielle was wealthy until she read the newspaper articles. She hadn’t connected Danielle Stoddard with the famous Stoddard Mills, she added. She held her breath slightly before telling him that she and Dottie planned to visit a fabric showhouse in East Hartford next week and she thought they would call on Mrs. Stearns while they were there.<
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  “Are you serious? I’m not sure she would talk to you, you’re a stranger!”

  “But Dottie owns the property now. We found the skeleton! Maybe she would be more receptive to two women than a strange police officer. I don’t mean to probe or be intimidating, but I’m curious about a death that happened six years ago. My God, how does a person stand the uncertainty, not knowing, all these years. Even though they weren’t very close, I’m sure it is distressing. Who knows how she feels at this point?”

  “Maybe you’re right. It won’t hurt to try. But remember, your visit isn’t official business! I have the feeling you would like to jump right into the middle of all this,” Mark chuckled. He admired her initiative and he loved her compassion. This is a gal after my own heart, he thought.

  Bashia grinned at what she thought she heard in Mark’s voice. She visualized his face, that stray lock of hair and the kindness she knew was in his eyes. “I’m jumping right now,” she laughed. But first she had to see a long-time client in Worcester before they could go to East Hartford. Mrs. Eldridge had moved to a smaller home after her husband died and wanted to redecorate.

  “You do keep busy, don’t you? Do you ever have any free time?”

  “Oh, I don’t always have orders to work on, and my evenings are usually free. How about you?”

  “Most times I have day duty and am on call in the evening. Oops, I’m receiving a call from headquarters. Gotta go.”

  Bashia looked at her phone, startled by the quick hang-up. Was he cutting her off intentionally? Naw, After all, he is a policeman, she thought. She dialed again, this time to confirm her appointment with Mrs. Eldridge.

  * * *

  Bashia relaxed as she slid into a worn red leatherette booth at the Halfway Diner. It was one of her favorite stops when traveling in the area, mostly because she enjoyed the friendly waitresses. By the time she was seated, plump and talkative EmmaMae was at her side with a pot of piping hot coffee in her hand.