“The required time to declare a person dead has passed now, so I thought that if Danielle were someplace watching what was going on at her kennel and in the area, a court filing to have her estate settled might provoke her to resurface. But of course, I guess that’s ludicrous.”
Bashia and Dottie had read of the Fagan case also, so it was easy for them to agree with Mrs. Stearns. “But,” Bashia added, “If Danielle were living close enough to keep tabs on the kennel, surely she would have come forward before now. Perhaps she is living far away with a whole new identity and lifestyle.”
“Well, the Fagan case made me think I might get some answers. It is so sad, so sad. When I think of our lives as children in Nashua, I wonder whatever caused Danielle to change so. She has always loved dogs. Even while our parents were alive, she was entering shows with her purebred spaniels. The dogs meant more to her than the family, I think, even back then. Could she have changed her intellect along with her physical appearance enough to take on a totally new personality?” The three women sat silently, each deep within her own thoughts.
A few seconds later, Bashia broke the silence. “I understand she lived with your father. Did she have many friends then?”
“She was very devoted to our father, living with him after mother died. And her beloved dogs! But she kept up relationships with her school chums from Miss Hall’s School for Girls in the Berkshires. That’s where we both went to school. I have heard from some of Danielle’s friends after they read about her disappearance in the papers. I think they keep in touch with each other much more than my own group due to the murder.”
“What murder?” Bashia leaned forward.
“Oh, it happened about two years after I graduated from Miss Hall’s, but Danielle was still there. Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Calvelli were the groundskeepers. They lived in a small cottage on the school property, he did some maintenance and kept the lawn and trees trimmed. But if one of the girls needed a book strap repaired or roller skates oiled, he would do it. And we could always depend upon Mrs. Calvelli for a shoulder to cry on if we were worried about something or just plain homesick. They were kind and helpful, just like surrogate parents. Some of the girls never saw their parents during the entire school year. The Calvelli’s would have us in for tea on occasion, even though the administration frowned upon it.”
“But what happened with this murder?” Bashia prodded.
“Well, one fall day he was working in a wooded area deep into the eighty acres, clearing broken branches. He met some young boys who were hunting and he told them to get off the property. They said something like, ‘Who’s gonna make me, old man?’ Mr. Calvelli told them who he was, and he would see they got off the property. Well, one of the boys just raised his rifle and shot him! He died the next day. The administration tried to keep it quiet, but the newspapers got wind of it and created quite a ruckus for this private girl’s school. I don’t believe anyone was ever accused; it was dismissed as a hunting accident. But no one felt safe for a long time and I think that caused a strong bond to develop between Danielle and her friends. They kept in touch with each other for many years. Everyone was shocked to think something like that could happen in those lovely serene hills.”
“Wow!” Bashia exclaimed. “I remember Miss Hall’s School–I grew up in Pittsfield! But I never did learn much about it. My parents never considered sending me there; it was a posh school for the wealthy.”
“It did not start out that way,” explained Mrs. Stearns. “We were taught the history of the place–Miss Mira Hinsdale Hall went to Smith College at a time when girls did not have much of an education and she felt duty-bound to start a school in the Berkshires. It was fashionable for educated women of means to establish schools for girls at that time. She began her school in 1898, in a corner building on South and Reed Streets when she took over Miss Salisbury’s school. In 1900 she moved to the Learned Mansion on Bartlett Avenue where she taught all grades. The lower grades were coeducational.
“She met Colonel Walter Cutting, a wealthy entrepreneur from New York City who had just built a magnificent villa on 160 acres on Holmes Road to raise horses. It was a rural area at that time. The three-story wooden structure contained thirty rooms, with chimneys, dormers, bay windows and marble floors. Snug in the Berkshire Hills with Sackett Brook running through it–wonderful ice skating in the winter! It was a gentleman’s manor, competing with many other ostentatious estates in the surrounding area. Wide sloping lawns, old maple trees and impressive stone walls surrounded the property.
“He came from a long line of wealthy businessmen, beginning with Bryant Cutting, Sr., a successful post-Civil War tycoon. Later, I understand William Cutting and John Jacob Astor were railroad barons.”
Mrs. Stearns paused. Her face glowed pink as she continued, “Miss Hall’s School was becoming popular and she needed more space for her pupils and, in 1908 when Col. Cutting became very ill, she bought the property from him. He kept some of the land, but she used the villa, added a gym and turned it into a girls’ college-prep high school.
“Fire leveled the building in February, 1923, and one of the maids who lived on the third floor died. Miss Hall was so devastated she sought the New York architects, York and Sawyer, who were well known for designing fireproof buildings. They designed a brick school building for her, with some walls sixteen inches thick. It was built the following year and school reopened in the fall of 1924. It has since grown into a lovely private school, with a lab, music and art studios, dormitories and so on. I enjoyed myself and received excellent training and education there.” She sat quietly for a few seconds, her hands in her lap.
“What an interesting story,” Dottie said, then returned to their discussion of Danielle. “When Danielle graduated, you said she returned to your family home and lived with your father and her dogs?”
“Her days were filled with exercising, training, grooming and showing her dogs, mostly spaniels and pointers. They were her ‘boys and girls’–the family she didn’t have. In her early years of competitions the dogs did well, but what happened later, I really do not know. When she purchased the property in Connecticut we saw less and less of her–my husband and I were still in New Hampshire at that time. It was almost impossible to get her on the phone. It seems she was always away, or not available.
“I called when we moved to Avon and again when my husband died. She never even acknowledged my calls. I last saw her in the fall of 1991, at the Hanover Shoe Farm Dog Show. I was stunned by her appearance! I knew she had been wearing men’s clothing for some time, but the way she looked, exactly like my father! Her hair was cut short and her face had taken on a mannish look. I think there was even a slight beard! She was even smoking cigars. It was very embarrassing, shocking! I did not know what to think.” She shook her head sadly.
“Do you know anyone who would want to hurt her?” Bashia asked.
Mrs. Stearns didn’t respond immediately. “No, not that I can think of,” she said slowly. “Well, wait a minute. There was talk about a man in the dog circuit who was not too pleased with Danielle’s accomplishments.”
“Oh, what do you mean?”
“If I remember correctly, Terry made a brief offhand comment while we were waiting for Danielle to present her dog at the show. I did not give it much credence at the time, because the sport is reputed to be very straightforward and friendly, but Terry’s remark indicated that a competitor was spreading rumors to the effect that Danielle’s dogs were not properly registered. Terry seemed to be under the impression that this man was not happy when Danielle’s dogs so consistently trotted off with the Best of Breed award.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Let me think. It had something to do with machines. It struck me as strange at the time. Oh, yes, it was Pierce, Mr. Ransom Pierce, and he was from Michigan so I associated him with the name of the automakers, Ransom E. Olds and Pierce Arrow–that’s the only reason I remembered it so quickly.”
“Had
you ever seen him?”
“No, as I say, I was not very close to Danielle at that time and I did not even think to ask her about it later. She might have felt I was prying into her affairs.”
Bashia and Dottie looked at each other. “Did you know Mr.Thompson at all?” Bashia asked.
“My husband and I met him very informally long ago, at one of the shows, when Danielle still lived in Nashua. We were invited to sit with Danielle while her trainer showed her dog. It was unusual for Danielle to invite us and I was delighted for the get-together. At that time, I remember remarking about her lovely sequined jacket and skirt. She was in high spirits, hoping her dog, a German pointer, I seem to recall, would capture a blue ribbon.
“She introduced us to Mr. Thompson, saying she had purchased some dogs from him. I met him again later at the Hanover show, and once more when I drove to Danielle’s home, when I was looking for her in 1994. That drive, through the snow and ice, was stressful enough, and meeting Mr. Thompson made me even more upset.”
“What do you mean?” Dottie asked.
“He certainly was not very hospitable; he refused to let me in the house! We stood out in the cold talking. I did not see anyone else around, or the dogs either. I could hear some of them barking, though. Mr. Thompson was curt and short with me, simply saying Danielle was most likely off on one of her jaunts.”
“My, that sounds pretty rude,” Bashia said, shaking her head. “I understand that you were the one who reported Danielle missing.”
“Yes, I could not get it out of my mind after her friend, Mary Jane Mullins, called to say she did not receive Danielle’s Christmas letter. How could Danielle leave like that and not be in touch with someone? And the indifference of Mr. Thompson worried me so I filed a missing persons report.” Mrs. Stearns lost her composure, became flushed and was breathing rapidly. She leaned back in her chair taking slow deep breaths, until she became serene again.
“Tell me about the body–skeleton,” she said quietly.
Bashia searched her face before deciding to speak. Mrs. Stearns was agitated but dry-eyed, with clear brown irises. Bashia then related the details of the day they found the skeleton–touring the new house for redecorating, viewing the kennel, the foul odor, the spongy section of field, digging to expose the septic tank lid, the bubbling water and the skull rising to the surface.
Tears welled in Dottie’s eyes and she bowed her head as she pictured the scene again.
“My dear, do not feel sorry for me.” Mrs. Stearns handed her a handkerchief. “I have already cried myself out, so please go on, Bashia.”
Bashia continued on about calling the police. A friendly state police trooper came, took down some information, called the Crime Unit and had the septic tank drained. Bones were retrieved. “Oh, Mrs. Stearns, are you sure you want me to continue?”
“Yes, it is quite all right, The police have already given me some information.”
“Well, they took the bones to the Forensic Lab in Meriden. Mrs. Stearns, the trooper remarked about the nice teeth in the skull. Did Danielle have good teeth? I guess they plan to make a DNA profile from a tooth.” Bashia said.
“She never went to a dentist as far as I know. It is just too sad. She was so pretty, healthy, and determined. Stubborn, our father used to say. She became an embarrassment to me and we drifted apart more than geographically, you know, but I never would have wished something like this to happen to her. Do the police have any idea of what happened?”
“No, not at this time. That’s why I’m so curious. How could a skeleton get in that septic tank?” Bashia commented. It was a question none of them could answer.
Suddenly Mrs. Stearns rose and asked, “Would you like some tea? I don’t think I will go to the benefit after all. It is such a relief to talk with someone about this. My few friends are tired of listening to my frustrations and fears. Let me call Beatrice for our tea and then you can tell me what happened to the dogs.” She excused herself and left the room.
Dottie and Bashia relaxed and simultaneously raised their hands in a thumbs-up salute; they had won the confidence of the woman. When Mrs. Stearns returned, Dottie smiled at her and said, “First, I hope you will come visit me. It must have been lovely when Danielle lived there, and I hope it will be again when we finish decorating.”
Mrs. Stearns nodded her head in agreement, then Dottie returned to the subject of the dogs. “I don’t know if Mr. Thompson still has some of the dogs in his kennels. When he sold me the house, he didn’t give any explanation, I had no knowledge how many dogs there were. Everything had been cleared out of the kennel, except a few odds and ends of equipment and a little furniture in the apartment. What I think was the outside dog run is now overgrown with weeds.”
“Oh, my,” Mrs Stearns sighed. “She loved those dogs so much! They were her whole life. I could not believe she would leave them without orders for Terry, her trainer-handler. Even when she went to Paris, Terry said she was told what to do with the dogs. I have always wondered about that trip.”
“What do you mean?” Bashia asked.
The maid entered the room carrying a sparkling silver tea set on a matching ornate tray. “Thank you, Beatrice. We can certainly stand a cup of hot Darjeeling tea.” She poured the tea and passed the cups to the women. “And here is some lovely shortbread Beatrice made. Please help yourselves.”
“What do you mean?” Bashia repeated after the maid had left.
Wistfully Mrs. Stearns replied, “I would have loved to accompany her to Paris. I loved Paris. That man she brought back with her, André, was a puzzle to me. I had the feeling that Terry was not comfortable with him, either. She ignored him when she returned to our box that day at Hanover. André was not like anyone I thought Danielle would associate with. But at the time I met him Danielle and I were not close and I did not feel that I could question her. André seemed odd–well, what do they say today–gay?”
“Gay?”
“Oh, I know I shouldn’t judge anyone, but he seemed so feminine to me. He was of slight build and his mannerisms were annoying. I could not understand Danielle’s attraction to him. She seemed to be trying to act like a man in her dress, actions and looks. Was she thinking of herself as a man? I couldn’t imagine what her relationship was to this André. Oh, God, I abhor the thought of it.” She seemed to shrink before their eyes as she spoke.
Bashia could see that Mrs. Stearns was becoming upset again. She hoped she could calm some of her fears. “I’ve read that a lot of lesbians, or women with gender identity problems, find homosexual men attractive because they are safe–no threat of making a pass at them. Plus the stereotype of homosexual males is that usually they are intelligent, charming, sensitive, caring and considerate–besides being handsome. Maybe your sister and André Lizotte just enjoyed a stimulating intellectual relationship.”
“Well, he could have fooled me on most of those characteristics,” commented Mrs. Stearns. “I was not around him very long, but it was enough for me. Whatever happened to him anyway? Is he still around, do you know?”
Bashia answered quietly, “Well, the initial police report said he was living in the Worcester area. Who knows if it’s a homosexual community or not, but André told police that Danielle said she would take care of him, whatever that means. And he also said he visited Danielle periodically after he moved out. Did you ever think of your sister as a lesbian?”
Mrs. Stearns dropped her cup noisily into the saucer. “No! The thought never occurred to me. We, of course, had intense friendships with our school chums, but boys were invited to our dances and parties. I remember Danielle was quite popular with the boys. I don’t know if she had any dates–she was two years younger, and our parents were quite strict about dating.” She frowned, “Strange, now that I think of it, she was always so comfortable with the businessmen in father’s mills.”
Changing the subject, Bashia asked, “You were responsible for having a detective search for Danielle, weren’t you?”
&
nbsp; “When the police did not seem too responsive, I went to Mr. Morris, our trust officer at the bank. He became concerned and said he would check the trust records and possibly hire a detective. He hired Mr. Felsgate who worked on the matter for two years with no clues, except that Mr. Thompson was showing some of Danielle’s dogs under his kennel’s name and had sold several others, but he had not made any progress in locating Danielle. Mr. Morris would not tell me anything about Danielle’s funds because I was not listed on her accounts. But I knew Mr. Morris was apprehensive about her long absence.”
“How did Danielle live?” Bashia asked as she carefully put a shortbread cookie on her napkin. “I mean how did she meet her expenses? I don’t mean to pry into private affairs, but she apparently didn’t have to work.”
“We both have substantial trust funds our father established which we are able to draw from monthly. I know she was frugal about everything except her dogs. I suspect that’s why she bought a smaller home. Our family home in Nashua was quite large and the upkeep would be expensive. And perhaps it reminded her of our parents too much. I know I do not like to return to Nashua. Danielle was not one to be concerned with household matters, only her dogs’ health, well-being and training.” She rose, went to a small desk and took a framed picture out of the drawer. “Would you like to see something?”
Bashia and Dottie studied the picture she handed them. Two pre-teen girls, their hair in braids, with a beautiful buff-colored cocker spaniel pup, its slightly wavy dense coat shining in the bright sun. A large brick home could be seen among the oak trees in the background. “This was taken when our parents were both still living,” Mrs. Stearns explained. “It seems as if it were another time, another world,” she added sadly. A silence fell over the room as each of the women contemplated the picture.
Bones in the Backyard Page 9
