She said she had last seen Danielle on the afternoon of September 13th, when they had discussed next week’s show, the Bay Colony Cluster, in Boston. Danielle had entered her favorite dog, Millhaven Golden Fantasy, affectionately called Sandy. The clumber spaniel was Terry’s favorite, too. Large, with long, lemon-marked ears and whitish blond hair, he was devoted to her and always responded well at a show. Danielle was excited and planned to handle the dog herself this time. She seemed in good spirits, showing Terry a new hunting jacket she planned to wear.
Terry said she could not bear to think of her as Dan, although it was eerie how much Danielle looked like her father since her return from Paris. The Frenchman, André Lizotte, and Danielle’s gradual growth of mustache had puzzled her, she had told Trooper Murphy.
When she and Thompson went into the house the next morning, no one was there. They found the living room a terrible mess. She became upset, wondering what could have happened. Thompson told her to calm down and sent her to the post office to express-mail the Oyster Bay application. He had assured her that Danielle would be back in time for next week’s show and would want everything to be correct. She left, went to the post office then spent the afternoon at the movies, as Thompson had suggested.
A week later, she and Thompson took Golden Fantasy to Boston, where he won the Best of Breed and then took a Group One in his Sporting Group. Terry said she had been very excited and couldn’t wait for Danielle’s return so she could tell her about it.
When questioned, she admitted Danielle had been increasingly eccentric and moody recently. She never knew what to expect, perhaps Danielle was going through menopause or something. She told Trooper Murphy she remembered the date so well, because of her long habit of keeping a journal. She had written in detail about the upcoming Boston show–Danielle’s enthusiasm, the new hunting jacket and their lovely obedient dog. She added an entry the following week about her part in the Boston show and the fact that Danielle had not yet returned, she said.
She said she noticed a change in Thompson’s attitude; he stopped by every day and was very helpful with the dogs since Danielle was gone. It was almost as if he were spying on her. Otherwise her life wasn’t much different with Danielle away. Thompson continued to write her a paycheck and she cared for the dogs–training, exercising, playing, bathing, feeding and grooming them. But it made her nervous, the way he seemed to be keeping close tabs on her. Trooper Murphy made a note that Terry, herself, seemed nervous when they talked about the days and months since Danielle left.
After visiting the Stoddard home and kennel, Trooper Murphy had conducted several briefer and less informative interviews with an old friend and three people from the dog circuit. A couple of the nearest neighbors said they didn’t see Danielle often and had not seen her for quite some time. One woman, however, stated her appointment book recorded a lunch with Danielle during a show more than a year earlier.
Jankowski noticed that Johnny Larrock, the man who lived immediately east of Danielle’s home, was not among the neighbors interviewed by Murphy. He didn’t know the street addresses of properties in that area, so he couldn’t tell if Johnny hadn’t lived there at that time or perhaps just hadn’t been found when the Trooper was checking the area residents. Jankowski made a note on his pad to check on Johnny soon.
He also noticed that two different people had said Danielle told them she would, “take care of me”–Terry Vaselekos and André Lizotte. What a strange expression from two grown people, he thought.
Trooper Murphy accepted Danielle’s associates’ assurances that her erratic behavior was not as unusual as it seemed. He had concluded the file with, “Since it appears Danielle Stoddard’s disappearance is probably voluntary, no further investigation will be conducted at this time.”
The file lay dormant and unsolved until Bashia’s and Dottie’s gruesome discovery brought Mark Jankowski to the scene.
Despite the fact that the case was now officially in the hands of the State Police Major Crime Unit, his curiosity about the skeleton and curiosity about Bashia Gordon made him determined to remain connected with the case. First, he wanted to keep his investigative and analytical skills polished, and second, to perhaps spice up his social life! He hadn’t made many friends since his relocation and he was lonely. If he were able to establish a relationship with Bashia, as premature as the thought might be at this time, perhaps the coming years would be something to look forward to. Until his injuries in a drug-related shooting while he was on stakeout, he had never thought about his own mortality. Since his transfer from New Haven six months ago to this quiet area, he stopped being hard-nosed and became a gun-shy cop who thought it was more important to show compassion to the people he dealt with.
It was well after midnight before Jankowski closed the “Stoddard, Danielle/Dan” file, and left his office on this long, busy, heart-racing day. He would sleep well tonight.
CHAPTER FIVE
Driving down Interstate 95 with the morning sun to her back, Bashia watched for the Old Saybrook exit. She had the directions to Mrs. Clements’s home on the passenger seat, along with her portfolio of past works and a collection of fabric samples. Since returning from the Peace Corps she vowed not to take any new clients, but a long-time client had given her name to Mrs. Clements. At first she had hesitated to drive the distance, but now she was happy to have a distraction from yesterday’s incident. As she drove she wondered how Dottie was feeling this morning and regretted not calling her. An alluring image of Mark lingered in her mind, but it vanished as she turned off at exit 67 and concentrated on the heavy traffic in the narrow road.
The house was a stately two-story Georgian on a side street of the shore town. A tinge of dark red accented the edges of thick English ivy leaves climbing the brick walls. Bashia parked her car on the circular gravel drive, gathered her samples and gave the brass doorknocker a resounding whack. She was admiring the decorative triangular pediment and transom light over the door when Mrs. Clements answered her knock with a glass in her hand.
“Good morning. My, you’re right on time, come in!” she smiled, as she reached for the samples hanging over Bashia’s arm. “Let me help you.” Tall and thin, she wore a tailored, silk aqua print dress. Her perfectly styled blonde hair was frozen in place by hair spray. For a woman obviously in her late forties, her exquisitely applied makeup gave her the appearance of youth. As she led the way into her home, she walked with an air of graciousness and self-assurance.
“Thank you. I’m Bashia Gordon,” she said, following Mrs. Clements. “What a beautiful home you have!” In the foyer, a huge bouquet of flowers was artfully arranged in a tall Chinese vase on the floor, next to a low table in front of a gilded floor-to-ceiling mirror. In spite of the reflected beauty, an aseptic coolness prevailed.
“We do enjoy it. The library is this way; it has just been remodeled.” She led Bashia down a wide hall with an Oriental rug runner covering polished oak floors. As they passed the dining room Bashia caught a glimpse of an imposing Queen Anne table and chairs.
“Nancy said you were very good at selecting fabrics and color schemes. And the best in making slipcovers! I need something to complete this remodeled library. My husband insisted on tall built-in bookshelves on either side of the fireplace and left the rest to me.”
“What a delightful room, all this beautiful wood–oak, isn’t it?” Bashia asked as she removed her jacket and looked about. “And I don’t know about being the best slipcover maker. It’s just that there aren’t many people making slipcovers any more, and I try to do my best.” She smiled as she thought of her process of helping to make pleasing selections by giving the client a few appropriate samples and letting them choose. Right or wrong, the client would select something she would be comfortable and happy with. Sometimes they needed a push to be more adventurous and there were other times when the choice was so atrocious, clashing with the room décor, that Bashia had to skillfully maneuver to better selections. On occasion a client h
ad already purchased fabric and she felt forced to use it, regardless of its suitability. How could she ever diplomatically tell a client he or she had made a poor decision?
The library contained a few fine pieces of furniture, but had little warmth. Massive hand-worked bookcases surrounded a fireplace. A green, leather wing chair by the fireplace had been placed at the corner of an old Oriental rug and the contemporary sofa, facing the fireplace, in a dull, solid green did little for the room. A brass reading lamp sat on a small end table, and on the floor a basket overflowed with fashion magazines. At the other end of the room a handsome corner chair was poised at a magnificent roll-top desk.
“Is that a Louis XV chair?” Bashia said, catching her breath. “It’s gorgeous!” The caned seat and back were in perfect condition. The framework was elaborately hand-crafted and its feet ended in small claws.
“Thank you. Yes it’s a Louis XV–but a reproduction. I don’t think there are genuine Louis XV’s around any more. We like it very much.”
Turning to the fabrics, Mrs. Clements said, “I was thinking of lined drapes on wooden poles–poles stained to match the shelving–and a sofa slipcover to match the drapes. Can you do that for me?”
“Of course! Would you be interested in nauticals, being so close to the shore? Here is a nice collection in a variety of colors. You didn’t give me any preferences over the phone, so I brought an assortment of fabrics. Would you like a print or solid?” Bashia asked, as she began arranging the sample books and spreading fabric lengths over the backs of the furniture.
“Why don’t you look through the collection while I take measurements?” she continued as she pulled out a steel tape and began to measure the two windows, making a note of the width and length and looking for any possible obstructions. While measuring she thought of the fabrics that might work best, now that she had seen the room and had a little feeling for the home and woman. “I’ll figure the yardage while I’m at it,” she added, before joining Mrs. Clements on the sofa.
“I’m so excited!” Mrs. Clements said as she sank into the soft down cushions and reached for her glass. “Oh, this is rude of me! Would you like something to drink? A soda? A coffee? Let me get you something.”
“Yes, coffee would be fine.” She smiled at Mrs. Clements and watched her leave the room. She wondered about this woman, so self-contained, so meticulous. But her eyes held a glazed look. From longing for companionship, or from drink, or from aloofness?
When Mrs. Clements returned with a tray holding a china cup of coffee, silver creamer and sugar bowl, Bashia had arranged a few fabrics she thought would be appealing. A print in the right color would work well with the green wing chair and bring some life into the room. She laid out a pattern called ‘Narcissus’ with green leaves and yellow and white flowers, the nautical print with bold reds and blues, a green English floral documentary glazed chintz and English toile in yellow. A book of solid twills finished the assortment.
“Here are some prints I thought you might like. Perhaps something will catch your eye.” She carefully reached for the dainty china cup and poured some cream in it.
“Oh, what a wonderful assortment! How can I ever choose?” Together they examined each sample, held it to the window, against the chair, laid it on the floor and threw it over the back of the sofa. With each one, Mrs. Clements agreed it was lovely, but she was indecisive.
“Is there something else you would like to see? There are plenty of prints here, or would you rather use a solid?” Bashia asked.
“No, I like the prints much better. Makes the room come alive. I love the narcissus print, but the floral documentary is so exciting. What do you think?” she asked, sinking back into the sofa and sipping her drink.
“Well, let’s eliminate the others and lay them both on the Oriental.” Bashia dropped to the floor, spread out the fabrics and sat back on her heels to ponder the situation. Both prints would be suitable for the room, and she tried to discern which one Mrs. Clements liked best. At last she decided to elicit a decision, if she could. “I think the documentary colors blend better than the narcissus. They seem to be of the same hue as the rug. And it’s more in keeping with the Oriental and Louis XV chair. What do you think?”
“Well, I agree, but I’m a little wary about making a decision of a floral for the library. My husband uses the room very often.”
“Let’s pick a secondary pattern, then the two of you can decide later.”
“No, he won’t take the time. He’ll just say, ‘You decide’. Oh, I do love that documentary. Yes! I’m going to go ahead with that. I think it will do nicely!” She smiled, and breathed a sigh of relief, having made a decision, and relaxed in the wing chair to finish her drink.
“It’s 100 percent cotton chintz, Scotchgarded and has a sturdy weave. It will hold up nicely on the sofa, and these soft downy cushions will look gorgeous. I’m glad you made that choice. Let me take a minute to calculate the cost.” Bashia took out her calculator to work up the estimate.
Handing the bill to Mrs. Clements, she said, “If you approve this I’ll order the fabric and, when it comes in, I’ll call for an appointment to cut the slipcover. The entire project should be completed within the month if the fabric comes right in. Two pairs of lined drapes, 87” long, a slipcover for the three-cushioned sofa, labor and fabric. It includes two extra yards of fabric due to the large pattern repeat.”
Mrs. Clements took the bill without looking at it. “You cut the slipcover here? Interesting. I thought you would take the sofa with you.”
“No, I usually cut the covers in the home. Besides, I don’t think you would like to be without a sofa for that length of time. I’ll return in a week or so and cut and pin right on the sofa. That way, it’s bound to fit perfectly. It will look like a new piece.”
“Yes, Nancy told me how pleased she was with her slipcovers and your dressmaker details with welting, hidden zippers and knife-edged kick pleats. And the drapes?”
“I’ll line them and I’d like to recommend bullet pleats instead of French pleats. It will look a little unique; they will hang nicely from the wood rings. The pleats will stand out rounded instead of the standard three-fold,” she explained. “Would you like them to the floor or puddled?”
“Just to the floor will be fine. My husband doesn’t like anything dragging on the floor. In fact, make them one inch from the floor, will that be all right?”
“That will be fine,” Bashia nodded as she made a note of the request. “And do you have someone to put up the wood poles? They should be installed at the mark I made on the frame. Otherwise, the drapery length won’t be right.”
“Yes, the carpenter who did the remodeling will install the poles. He said he can get the rings, also.” Finally glancing at the bill, she asked, “Do you want a deposit?”
“Yes, please. I will need one third down, one third at the cutting and the balance on delivery.”
“Oh, let’s not bother with that, let me give you half now.”
With check in hand, Bashia left the home thinking it was profitable trip. The extra income would be welcome. With winter coming, there would be huge fuel bills for her four-bedroom farmhouse and barn workshop. Since Norman died, she wondered how long she could keep the house. It really was too large for one person and her children were encouraging her to move. But her business–a business started on a shoestring–had prospered for over twenty-five years, with many faithful clients. She laughingly told her clients, “Making a slipcover is like making a dress, and I don’t have to worry about it gaining or losing weight!”
As she drove north her thoughts turned again to Dottie, Trooper Jankowski and the skeleton. She wondered if Mark knew more than he had said last night. When they first met, she was sure something had transpired between them. She didn’t know what it was, but she felt there was an immediate strong mutual attraction. She was eager to learn more about him. If only she could get past her edginess about being touched, it would be nice to have an eligible bachelo
r to go to the movies with once in a while. She knew deep down that if she could get over the fear, she would once again enjoy the feel of masculine arms around her.
Shaking her head to dismiss the matter, she thought, I’ll just call Mark to see if he has learned anything more about the skeleton! If I only had some names, I could do some research on the Internet. Maybe there would be something about a missing person. Would Mr. Thompson’s name come up in a search on the Internet? Perhaps on www.Whowhere or Askjeeves.
* * *
“Dottie, how are you doing?” Bashia asked, her phone propped in her shoulder. She was standing at her kitchen sink trying to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “I’ve just gotten back from Old Saybrook, am eating my lunch and finishing the paperwork on a substantial order! What are you up to?”
“I’m in a mess again!”
“What? Another skeleton?” Bashia choked on her sandwich.
“No, nothing like that. My furniture arrived this morning! I’m surrounded with boxes! I’m lucky I found the phone just now. I was about to go out when the moving van drove in this morning. I don’t know how they managed to find me without calling, but they did. Now I have so much to do, I haven’t even thought about the skeleton. By the way, have you heard anything?”
“No, I presume you would be called and, at any rate, I’ve been out all morning. I was just checking on you. Do you know who owned the house before Thompson? Did he ever say?”
“No, he just vaguely said the previous owner raised a lot of champion show dogs. Why?” asked Dottie.
“I thought I might be able to find something through an Internet search. I’ve found a lot of interesting things that way. Why, just last month my aunt was contacted by a long-lost cousin in Chicago through E-mail. No kidding! Years ago one of our uncles had a disagreement with his brother, moved to Chicago and we never heard from him again. A while ago his son found another aunt through the E-mail address search. How many people are there in the country with a name like Abeniewski?”
Bones in the Backyard Page 5
