“No, just sweet and sour spare ribs, fried rice, chicken wings and egg rolls. I don’t suppose you have beer?”
“Sorry, no beer. I have some after-dinner liqueurs, that’s all. Once in a while I like a little amaretta on the rocks or crème de menthe. I don’t drink much, how about you?”
“Beer is what I usually drink, and I’m really trying to cut down on that, now, so coffee will be fine.” He began to take the containers out of the bags, then paused. “These will need warming up.”
Bashia emptied the food into serving bowls and put them in the microwave. “I’ll make some coffee and we’ll be all set. Why don’t you take these into the dining room?” She handed him some silverware, napkins and plates.
A long maple trestle table and an odd assortment of antique chairs took up most of the dining room. Atop the well-polished table, pine candlesticks flanked each side of a large wooden bowl filled with eggs–Mark thought they looked like Polish eggs, pisanki. A tall matching maple hutch filled one wall, its shelves displaying several pieces of crystal and photographs. Mauve vertical blinds framed the large double windows, which overlooked a wide porch. A low chest of drawers stood below the windows, displaying containers of Christmas cactus covered with dozens of pink-red buds. The pine floors were scratched and bare. Through open doorways Mark could see a small cozy den and a long living room. An oil painting of an old kitchen scene hung over the fireplace. He returned to the kitchen, standing awkwardly in the doorway, “Can I help you?”
“No, the food is heating, it will be ready in a minute. We don’t have to wait for the coffee, but it’ll be done soon.” Licking her lips, she continued, “Umm, I like Chinese. Do you eat it often?
“There, the microwave’s stopped. Here’s a tray for the food, and I’ll bring the cups and creamer. Anything else?” She looked at him; he looked lost and awkward to be standing in her kitchen.
Hesitating, he asked, “Do you happen to have soy sauce?”
“I think so.” She searched the refrigerator until she pulled out a bottle. “I guess we’re all set now,” she said, leading the way into the dining room.
“Aren’t those Polish Easter eggs?” Mark asked as they sat down.
“Yes, they’re some of the pisanki my children and I made with my mother. She really was into teaching us Polish traditions and customs. We’d make quite a project of it.” Bashia gazed at the eggs and became lost in thought.
She visualized the kitchen table covered with newspapers, cans of colored vegetable dyes, wooden styluses with copper cones wired on the ends, and dozens of clean white eggs in a basket. Mom encouraged everyone to join in, no matter how young. A container of beeswax was heated in a pan of water simmering on the stove, then brought to the table. Everyone was eager to dip into the wax with her stylus to begin drawing thin lines of a design around their egg before the wax hardened.
She smiled to herself remembering the efforts of her daughters when they were young. Janie’s chubby fingers had crushed her egg before she even got started and she squealed with terror as the raw white and yolk slithered down her hand. Artistic Chrissy would quickly draw out a complex design, while Peggy would scribble extremely wild patterns on her egg, like a miniature Picasso.
She thought of the many time-consuming steps–covering a part of the egg with wax, dipping it into a dye, taking it out after a few minutes, then repeating the process. Chrissy, impatient to finish, would take her egg out of the colored dye after a short time and only work in one or two colors. Her eggs always emerged as a medley of pastels. Mom, on the other hand, would produce an intricate design, with crosses, flowers, stars and borders in as many as six brilliant colors. When the eggs were all decorated, they were placed in a slightly warm oven until the wax softened. Then as it was gently rubbed off, the design came alive with a beautiful sheen. It was a surprise and delight to see how each egg turned out.
“Well?” Mark asked, after a long silence.
“Oh, excuse me, I was daydreaming, remembering that this was the last batch we made together before Mom died.” She looked down, suddenly misty-eyed.
“Oh, sorry. About your mother, I mean. I don’t remember my family ever decorating eggs, but I do remember seeing them in church on Easter Saturday when all the people brought baskets of food to be blessed by the priest. I always wondered where the people got such colorful eggs, when all we had were white ones. Never thought to ask, though. Yours are really dynamite!”
“Thanks, I treasure the collection. You know some people would make two pinholes in the egg and blow out the inside. That made them very fragile. Mom always used raw eggs. The insides would eventually dry up into a small rattling ball, but once in awhile an egg would explode long after they’ve been decorated.”
“You mean I’ve got to watch for flying missiles?” he laughed.
Bashia waved his joke aside. “Our food is getting cold! Oh, let’s light the candles. This calls for a celebration, the first time a policeman has had a meal in my home. And I’m glad it’s you!” She found some matches in the hutch and lit the candles. “Isn’t this romantic?” she asked, and immediately wished she hadn’t said it.
But Mark didn’t seem to mind. Smiling, he loosened his tie and wriggled comfortably in the captain’s chair. “This is great, Bashia. I’m glad I took a chance that you’d be home! Let’s eat.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bashia drove down Route 44, while Dottie flipped through the notebook full of sketches and measurements of her home, excited to begin her decorating. The morning was crisp and cool, the sun streaming into the rear of their car as they headed down the highway toward East Hartford. She pointed out a few landmarks as the two-lane road gave them a roller coaster ride past the University of Connecticut, and homes and apartments that grew as an extension of the college.
In Mansfield, they passed a cluster of massive brick buildings on spacious, sloping, manicured lawns. The six-story buildings, once a state mental institution, now stood empty and ominous. When they turned onto Route 84 and drove through Bolton, she reminisced about visiting in this area as a child.
“I had an uncle who was an undertaker in Hartford. He wanted my father to work with him, but Dad couldn’t stand being around dead bodies. We would visit them in the summer, they lived on the second floor over the funeral parlor. It was a very elaborate home, though. The whole bunch of us–aunt and uncle, three cousins, my mother, brother and me–would ride in the funeral limousine to their fishing camp in Bolton. I remember the first time we drove down Silver Lane; it was a spanking new highway then, four lanes, straight through the cucumber fields. I don’t know if Silver Lane got its name from the Silver Lane Pickle factory there, or if it’s the other way around. But I know the cucumber fields were here long before the road. Look at it now–not a pickle in sight!” She pointed to the rows of houses and convenience stores.
“The camp consisted of a summer cottage,” she recalled, “a large pavilion where they held Polish dances on Sundays, and a pond full of leeches. When you went swimming you were sure to come out with a leech or two on your body. The slimy brown worms would cling to you until they were full of your blood, then fall off. Ugh!” Bashia shuddered.
“I was just as daring and brave as my cousins! We did crazy things. One night my two cousins and I went to the park near their home in Hartford and met some boys. They walked us home and we sat on the porch talking and kissing in the dark. It was late when my aunt and uncle returned from their party and turned into the driveway. Well, you never saw three boys jump over the side railing and run so fast, like so many jumping frogs! We ran upstairs, hopped in bed, and pulled the covers to our chin just before Auntie opened the door to check on us!”
The traffic grew heavy as they drew closer to the Hartford area skyline and Bashia fell quiet, concentrating on her driving. The Connecticut River, hidden by dikes and tall buildings, separated the two cities, one old as the hills and the other just beginning to develop its own identity. Bashia was cheerful wh
en they came to the exit for the new Riverwalk section of East Hartford—they were almost there. She drove down the ramp into the congested street and began searching for the Design Center and a parking garage. “It’s times like these that I’d like to see better bus service or a train into the city, but I guess that will never happen in my lifetime.”
They soon found a garage, parked the car, and walked along the busy sidewalk toward the new mirrored building where they bumped into a tanned, muscular man in his fifties.
“Oh, hi,” Bashia called. “I haven’t seen you in ages! Dottie, meet Spada, a decorator I do work for.”
Flipping her long hair to one side and fluttering her false eyelashes, Dottie smiled, offered her hand and said hello to the tall, handsome man. His silver hair curled at his shirt collar. He took her hand with his left one, the right holding a long plastic-wrapped bolt of striped blue fabric.
“Hello, Dottie, it’s so nice to meet you! Did Bashia charm you into buying something near her? It is gorgeous there, isn’t it? Peaceful and quiet, not like here.” He waved his bolt of fabric at the noisy street traffic. “But this is where I make a living.”
Turning to Bashia he teased, “Did you bring any pies with you?”
“If I knew I’d a met ya, I’d a baked a pie,” she sang, laughing. “My friend and I are here to look at fabrics for her new-old Cape. She’s in my neck of the woods now, in North Woodstock.”
Turning to Dottie she explained, “When this famous decorator comes to my workshop he expects me to have a pie ready for him! He’s crazy about coconut cream pie!” Laying her hand on his arm, she continued, “Spada, I haven’t seen you for a while, what are you up to?”
“Oh, I’ve got news for you. I’ve set up a satellite office in Palm Beach, and will probably have some work for you to do down there. I have a client that I’m working with right now and they have a winter place in Key Largo. Would you be interested in going down there to cut some slipcovers? I don’t have to worry about the fit when you do the work. I have a friend who has a houseboat in Jupiter; he’s in Europe now and said I could use it any time. Wouldn’t you like to spend a few days on the Intracoastal? Didn’t you tell me you have a son in Florida? You could take a mini-vacation with him.”
“Sounds really interesting, especially when winter sets in here. But right now, I’m busy with Dottie and we’ve got a mystery to solve.”
“What? Let’s stop for a cup of coffee and you can tell me about it.” He tucked his bolt more tightly under his arm and led the way to a nearby deli.
When Bashia finished telling him about Dottie’s new home and discovery of the skeleton, he threw back his head and laughed. “I’ll be dammed! And here I kept thinking northeastern Connecticut was safe from all the crime that goes on in most places. I know it’s no laughing matter, but I recently met Mario Buatta at a decorating conference and told him about a great gothic house right on the village square in Thompson. He wanted to get away from New York for a while. That’s not far from Woodstock, is it?”
“No, not very. And I heard he did buy the place. But don’t you give him my name. All that floral chintz he uses would drive me insane. I’m glad you’re low-key, things always seem so restful when you’re finished with a room.
“Listen, it’s been nice talking with you, but the morning is almost over and we need to get going. Sorry to cut this short, we’ve got to get to the Design Center and then pay a visit to a lady.”
“The fall lines are out, you’ll have a great time,” he said, paying the waitress as they left. “I’ll be calling you soon.” He gave Bashia a peck on the cheek and waved to Dottie as they crossed the street and entered the decorator’s resource building.
For the rest of the morning the pair visited several “houses” where Bashia still had open accounts. Each company displayed their line of fabrics and trims in elaborate room set-ups, wooing decorators to use their line. In two hours they had collected an armful of fabric samples that Dottie had fallen in love with. The new colors were exciting–mist, van gold, moulin rouge, provenance–giving an overall feeling of serenity; 100 per cent decaffeinated relaxation, they were told. In the foyer they made a phone call.
“Mrs. Stearns, my name is Dottie Ann Weeks. I purchased your sister’s property in North Woodstock last month. My friend and I were hoping we could drop by for a few minutes to offer our sympathies. I know you must be upset, but I feel we have a bond with you now. I’m truly sorry your sister has been missing for all this time.
“We’re in East Hartford today and would like to talk with you.” She paused, almost expecting to hear the phone crash in her ear. It didn’t happen, so she continued, “I think you know we found a skeleton on the property.”
Mrs. Stearns’s voice quavered, “Who is this? Oh, yes, poor Danielle. But I don’t think I can see you today.”
She sighed, “Yes, it has been a trying time, but now I know a little more than before. Well, if you must, I can see you for only half an hour; I am going to a benefit tea later this afternoon.”
“Thank you, we’ll be there in thirty minutes,” Dottie promised.
When they reached the car, Bashia searched the glove compartment for her tattered, detail map of the Hartford area and located Chaplain Street in Avon. She traced a line from East Hartford to Avon and then drove hurriedly through the heavy noonday traffic.
Exactly half an hour later, they breathlessly knocked with an engraved brass ornament on the large double door of a two-story brick colonial set well back from the street.
“For a while, I didn’t think we’d make it,” panted Dottie, just as the door swung open.
A uniformed maid admitted them to the cool, dark, high-ceilinged foyer. “Mrs. Stearns is expecting you. Please follow me into the drawing room,” she said.
When the maid left, they sat and waited, straightening their clothes, smoothing down their hair, and trying to regain their composure to match the stunning surroundings. Bashia glanced around the small room, crowded with antiques and Tiffany lamps. The dark furniture with a satin sheen smelled of lemony furniture polish. Colorful needlepoint pillows sat on each chair. She rose to examine the tassel-trimmed swags at the windows. Nice job, she thought.
A woman appeared in the doorway, tall, erect, dressed in a gray wool business suit that matched her hair. “How do you do? You must be Dottie,” she said, offering her hand. “I am Elizabeth Stearns.”
“How do you do?” Dottie said, rising to shake her hand. “This is my friend Bashia Gordon. She is helping me decorate my home; that’s why we’re in East Hartford today, to look at fabrics. And we thought it would be a good time to pay you a visit. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”
“Well, as I said, I do not have very much free time, but I am pleased to meet you. How does the property look? Has anyone been taking care of the land? I understand all the dogs are gone.” She stopped suddenly, and seemed to droop before their eyes.
“Please sit down, Mrs. Stearns. We didn’t mean to upset you.” Bashia reached out to her. She thought she noticed a slight family resemblance to the newspaper photo.
“No, no, it’s not your fault,” she answered faintly, waving an arm in the air. “It has just been so horrible, not knowing, all these years. The police called, you know. They are going to do a DNA analysis on the remains and asked if I would submit to a blood test for comparison. They insisted I meet Detective Horton at Saint Frances Hospital the next day. He escorted me to the lab.
“That was last week, and I haven’t heard another word from them. Just a few weeks ago I was in probate court asking the judge to declare Danielle dead! It seems strange that one thing followed so quickly upon the heels of the other.” She invited the women to sit as she lowered herself stiffly into a Queen Anne chair with a gold silk brocade cushion.
“I don’t know if it is a premonition, but there must be some word for it. A similar thing happened when my husband died. There was a furious afternoon thunderstorm and I was worried about ge
tting struck by lightning. I went around the house disconnecting all the appliances, then sat listening to the clashing thunder and lightning in the living room. And then I received a call that my husband had been hit by lightning while playing golf! By the time I reached the hospital he was dead. It seems every time I do one thing, something terrible follows.” She paused, then shook herself from the past.
Bashia and Dottie sat quietly, barely glancing at each other and waited for her to regain her composure.
Mrs. Stearns began in a hushed voice saying she decided to go to court to have Danielle declared dead because after five years of worry and wonder, she felt it would be nice to have matters decided so she could settle Danielle’s estate. She also was prompted to go to court, she said, by a recent TV news feature about a Massachusetts case involving a Mr. Fagan, who had disappeared with his two young daughters nearly twenty years ago, and just recently had been found hiding, as they say, “in plain sight” in Palm Beach, Florida.
At first she wondered if something like that might have happened to Danielle. Not that anyone had kidnapped her, but could she be hiding somewhere? No, she loved her dogs too much to leave them, she decided. But it was equally incomprehensible that Mr. Fagan had been willing to kidnap his little girls to get them out of harm’s way even though it meant changing his identity, losing his livelihood as a lawyer and starting a life elsewhere. He certainly had been extremely dedicated and successful at maintaining a ruse throughout the years. The daughters grew up with a “Mr. Mom” father who told them their mother had died in an automobile accident.
“I’ve never even discussed this out loud with anyone, and it seems peculiar to be doing so now with two people I’ve just met. However, your genuine concern touches me.”
Mrs. Stearns took in a deep breath before continuing. “The subsequent newspaper articles about the Fagan case caused me to wonder what circumstances led Danielle to leave. How desperate was she and why? But, since we had so little recent contact before she disappeared, I could not even imagine what additional changes had taken place in her life or what was on her mind.
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