Bones in the Backyard

by Lois Blackburn

  * * *

  Mark trudged out of the Freeport International Airport, tired and grumpy, his lame leg aching after the day-long trip. The quick descent to the Palm Beach International Airport earlier in the day had blocked his ear canals and he almost missed the announcement for the island connection. Everyone else on the plane was dressed in breezy cool clothing, anticipating an exciting vacation. He wore lightweight khaki slacks, and a navy jacket, with a blue button-down shirt and tie. Oh well, he thought, someone’s got to work. Coming in for a landing, he could see the small island in a riot of color, the sand and sea a mixture of blues, greens, pinks and umber with lush palm trees swaying gently in the glare of the afternoon sun.

  A blast of hot tropical air hit him as he exited the plane. He could already feel the sweat dripping down his back before he found a cab to take him to the Royal Islander a few miles away. He loosened his tie as he glanced out the window, yawning to break the blockage in his ears and get his hearing back. He couldn’t wait to check into his room. How can anyone enjoy themselves in weather like this–I wonder how long it takes a body to get used to this climate. And this is supposed to be a cooler time of the year!

  The air-conditioned room felt super. He threw his jacket and tie on the bed, stripped off his shirt, opened the small refrigerator and drew out a Diet Sprite. Taking long swigs and collapsing in a leather lounge chair, he relaxed and thought of the task ahead of him.

  Earlier in the week he had called Harold Reagan to make the appointment for the next day, making sure he was still on the island, since Thompson had said he didn’t know how long Reagan actually stayed there at any one time. Commander Cuthbert hadn’t been too happy, letting Mark go to the Bahamas and having to cover his post for two days.

  Mark promised himself he would come back with some important information to justify the trip but, in the meantime, he had a free evening. He rolled the cool can across his bare belly and imagined what it would be like to bring Bashia here. Would they go to the casino, would they swim, would they make love? It was a while before he shook the pleasing daydream out of his head.

  Reagan’s Castaway Hotel was on West Mall Drive, a street running parallel to his own. Mark studied a small tourist map and decided he could easily walk the block and look for the hotel. He drew a short-sleeved plaid shirt out of his overnight bag, pulled it on and left the room. A noisy, young crowd milled about in the pastel lobby, cooled by lazily rotating ceiling fans, which opened to a large pool area where many near-naked glistening bodies lounged about. When was the last time I went swimming? he thought. It’s been ages. From the shape of the males, he was glad he hadn’t brought his suit; it would be an embarrassing scene.

  He paused outside the entrance and caught his breath as he stepped into the sauna-like heat. The street was more to his liking, quiet and empty. Too early for dinner, he decided to take a stroll and study the area. Two parallel streets, West Mall Drive and East Atlantic blended into East Mall, which led to Sunrise. To the right he could see the thirty-five-foot red lacquered arch at the entrance of the International Bazaar and the Goombay Park Straw Market sign. As he approached it, he stopped at a small bar and stepped inside.

  When his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he headed for the bar, settled on a stool, ordered a beer and looked about. There were few people inside at this hour, but at a bank of slot machines on the left wall a fat man stood feeding half dollars into a machine. Son of a gun! he thought. There couldn’t be two people that big, could there? Can that be Reagan? What did Thompson say–fifty years old and five-by-five? He remembered Thompson’s complaint that he had to buy a new chair whenever Reagan came to the office. A short chunky guy, three hundred pounds, a round face with a Buster Brown haircut was all the description Thompson gave.

  He swiveled in his chair and lifted his glass with a casual nod when the fat man returned to the bar. “No luck today?” he asked.

  When the man laughed, his ruddy jowls jiggled down into his shirt collar. He wiped his brow. “Get me another martini,” he called to the bartender. He dragged a stool over to Jankowski. Laughing, he almost fell from the seat that was all but hidden beneath him. Jankowski reached out and caught his arm. He looked closely at the fringe of short hair that lay plastered across his forehead, his flushed, fat face, and squinting eyes. Jankowski thought, he makes quite a picture of a lovable roly-poly guy.

  “Comin’ up, Harry.” The bartender apparently knew this man quite well.

  “Play the slots much?” Jankowski asked trying to start a conversation.

  “No, I just do this to kill time. The big money is at the casino, that’s what counts,” he answered. “How about you? Here to make a killing?” The fat man snorted.

  “No, I’m here on business, just a short trip,” Jankowski answered. They fell silent, each dissolving his thoughts into his drink.

  The fat man, who apparently had had quite a few drinks already, started bragging about his skill at the tables. But he made more money in the states, he added. Just came down here for the fun. He called the bartender again, “Another one for me and for my new friend, what’ll you have?”

  “Just a beer, thanks.”

  The barkeep delivered, and winked at Jankowski. He’d heard it all before. “Here you go, Harry,” he said, setting down the man’s drink.

  “You spend much time at the casino?” Jankowski asked, leaning his elbow on the bar as he turned and looked directly at him. Earlier he had noticed the famous Princess Casino on the tourist map. He was beginning to shake off the tiredness of the trip and wondered if he should go check it out.

  Harry shook with laughter; everything seemed funny to him. “Yeah, that’s what I come down here for. And to get away from my boring job. I’m a lawyer, you know.”

  “Is that right? That’s a boring job?”

  “Well, when you’ve filed as many deeds and wills and trusts for little old ladies as I have, it is. Real estate and commercial law is my specialty, and the paperwork gets to be murderous. I go north, do a few deals, then can spend the rest of the year down here. Sometimes I get lucky and pull off a really good one.” His eyes seemed to disappear into chubby cheeks as he wobbled his head.

  Jankowski was afraid he would fall off the stool. “Oh?” he asked.

  Harry slurred his words, and spoke in a slow deliberate speech. “Yeah, sometimes a really good deal comes along, it sets you up for life. What about you, Buddy?”

  “Well, I can’t wait until I retire in two years. Maybe I’ll get lucky in the casino and can retire earlier,” Jankowski answered.

  The fat man slapped his hand on the bar and laughed, a tired, lazy laugh. “You do that, Buddy, you do that!”

  * * *

  At nine the next morning Mark walked into the Castaway Hotel and asked the desk clerk for Mr. Reagan’s room number. The Castaway, a four-story budget hotel, was not the most attractive hotel in Freeport, but its location made up for the décor. A covered walkway connected it directly to the casino.

  “Mr. Reagan? Oh, you mean Harry? Everyone calls him Harry, he’s a regular around here. I think I saw him go into the dining room. Yes, sir, there he is, sitting at the window.” He pointed to the only person in the small dining area, a three-hundred pounder who dwarfed the table and looked like he was poured into the hotel’s green leather barrel chair. A large tray of fruit–papaya, avocado, grapefruit and mango, along with a pot of coffee filled the table. Reagan was slowly scooping the orange pulp from the ripe papaya.

  “Mr. Reagan?” he said as he approached the table. “I’m Trooper Mark Jankowski,” showing his badge.

  Reagan looked up, surprised. “You? You’re the one that phoned me? Son of a gun, have I seen you before? Your voice sounds familiar.” He motioned for Jankowski to take a chair.

  “Yes, we spoke at a bar last night. I guess you don’t remember.”

  “Well, I speak to many people and I don’t remember exactly who I spoke to last night. Hope I didn’t say anything to offend you. But what
is it that brings you here, you said you wanted to interview me?” Wiping his sticky fingers he reached for his coffee, studying Jankowski.

  “I’m investigating the death of Danielle Stoddard in Connecticut. Do you remember doing some work for her?”

  Reagan dropped his cup noisily into the saucer and stiffened in his chair. His round, fleshy cheeks seemed to sag and turn gray. “What? Danielle Stoddard? Dead?”

  “Yes. Do you want to talk here, or is there somewhere else you’d like to go?”

  Reagan looked about, the dining area was empty. “No, this will be all right. There are very few people who eat breakfast in this place. Will this take long?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on how much you cooperate.”

  “Yes, I did some work for her years ago. But obviously I don’t discuss my client’s private affairs.”

  “Oh, she is still your client? Even if she’s been missing for five years?”

  “Well, she was my client until a couple years ago. We presumed her missing, not dead, and treated the file as a maintenance sort of thing.”

  “You mean Chuck Thompson and yourself? How did you get involved with Ms. Stoddard, anyway? And if you don’t mind, I’ll tape the conversation. You weren’t interviewed when Ms. Stoddard was first reported missing, and we need to get some information from you.” He pulled out a small recorder and set it on the table. After turning it on, he said, “Harold Reagan interview, October 31, 1999.” Then he turned to Reagan, who no longer resembled the laughing man Jankowski had met last night.

  “Mr. Reagan, what type of work did you do for Ms. Stoddard and when?”

  Reagan puckered his lips and scowled. “You expect me to remember that? It was a long time ago. I don’t know.”

  “Let me refresh your memory. In 1989 you closed the sale of a home and property in North Woodstock, Connecticut. Does that jog your memory?”

  “Well, yes, I did. A client of mine died and I knew of her property in Connecticut. I told Chuck Thompson about it. Eventually he found a buyer–Ms. Stoddard. That was the first time I met her, when I drew up the paperwork for the sale. I’d have to check my files for the date.”

  “And what else did you do?”

  Reagan stared out the window.

  “Come on, your friend Thompson told us about your involvement.” Jankowski temporarily dropped his resolve to treat people more kindly. This man required a tougher approach. “Now, why don’t you tell me so I can see if he got it right?”

  Uncomfortably Reagan began, pinching his lower lip into a rosebud shape. “Chuck started doing a lot of work for her in the new place. He supervised construction of a building–a kennel, if I remember. He was there every minute he could spare from his own kennels. Sometime after that, he asked if I’d draw up a will for Ms. Stoddard. Sure, I said. That was when he told me about the power of attorney she had given him and about her trust.”

  “What about the trust?”

  “Ms. Stoddard had a trust account she lived off–a charitable remainder trust that allowed her to withdraw a specific percentage every year. It’s a type of trust people use to avoid paying taxes on large amounts of money. It had been set up some time before and she was making out fine. Chuck asked me to look at it, and I did.”

  “What did you think about the way the fund was set up?”

  “Oh, it’s perfectly legal. Lots of wealthy people use it.”

  “Did she have a will before you made out the new one?”

  “She said she did, but I didn’t see it.”

  Jankowski paused and asked the waiter to bring more coffee, his was cold. When the waiter left, he continued, “What was in the will?”

  “I shouldn’t tell you, it’s a private matter.”

  “Yes it is, but if you don’t tell me I may have to subpoena you to appear in Connecticut before a judge.”

  Reagan tried to remain calm, but his jowls quivered like a waterbed. After a long pause and an audible deep breath, he said, “When I went to her place to draw up the will, she had a lot of crazy ideas. Stipulated when she died, she wanted her ashes scattered over Madison Square Garden, if I remember correctly. And she named several dog associations to receive money and some sort of provision for that assistant of hers. She named Chuck as beneficiary and gave him the North Woodstock property. She named me as executor.”

  “Didn’t you think that strange? You apparently hadn’t known Ms. Stoddard very long and she appointed you executor?”

  Reagan tried to move his cumbersome body but was stuck in the leather seat. He arched his back instead. “No, it’s not. Chuck had known her for quite a while and clued me in. He already had a power of attorney and said he needed help with the trust. The gal was strange, he said, only paid attention to her dogs, acted as if there was nothing else that mattered. She wanted Chuck to take total control of her finances. He wasn’t sure about that, but after we reviewed the trust, I said we’d have no problem.”

  “How did the finances work?”

  “Chuck had a power of attorney, as I already said,” he paused to smirk at Jankowski. “He paid all the bills, saw that food and goods were purchased for the dogs, Danielle’s assistant salary, submitted entries to the dog shows and so on.”

  “And did you get paid for this work?

  “Of course. We were allowed to draw a salary for our work. I had the books reviewed annually and Chuck did the day-to-day bookkeeping. It was a charitable trust, Mr. Jankowski, but we were not doing charity work,” he chuckled at his cleverness.

  “Did Ms. Stoddard ever check the accounts?”

  “At first I think Chuck said she did, but she was pretty nonchalant about it. She trusted him and relied on him for financial advice as well as help with the breeding and care of her dogs. She was totally wrapped up with those creatures. Nothing was too good for them. She entered them in shows all over New England, and won a lot of ribbons.”

  “Did you ever think that she may not have been competent?”

  “Well, I asked Chuck about that, he knew her for a long time, but he laughed it off, saying she was weird, but not mental. When she wanted to do something, nothing was going to stop her. He told me about the time she went to Paris for medical treatments to become a man, or something, and brought back a boy to teach her how to act like a man. Can you beat that? She legally changed her name to Dan, so we had to go through all types of paperwork again. She was always wearing men’s clothes.”

  “On a slightly different subject, Mr. Reagan, did you ever go to any dog shows with Thompson or Danielle? Did you ever meet a man named Ransom Pierce?

  “No, the name means nothing to me,” Reagan pouted. “I never attended any of their competitions. I was strictly Ms. Stoddard’s attorney for the specific purposes Thompson requested I handle on her behalf.”

  Reagan seemed to carefully choose his words, Jankowski thought.

  “What happened when she was listed as missing?”

  “We kept to the same routine, paid the property taxes, household bills, food and care of the dogs. Thompson was able to access the funds so there was no problem.”

  “So for the next several years, you and Thompson continued to draw your salaries, even though Ms. Stoddard wasn’t there? What was your annual fee?”

  “That is a matter of client-attorney privilege and I refuse to answer that,” Reagan said.

  “How was the sale of the property to Ms. Weeks handled?”

  “Chuck had the power of attorney to transfer the title of the property to himself and he would have owned it eventually under the will. He sold the property for much less than it was worth, I remember. I tried to talk him out of it, but he said he wanted to wash his hands of the whole affair.”

  “You took care of the sale? Were there any extenuating circumstances?”

  “No, Chuck called me, I was here at the time. I flew up to prepare the necessary documents.”

  “What’s the status of the trust now? Are you still involved?” Jankowski pushed him further.


  “That I refuse to answer. As I told you before, that’s attorney-client privilege! I agreed to talk to you as a courtesy, Officer, and now I’m ending this conversation. If you want to question me any more, you’ll have to speak to my attorney!” He threw down his napkin, hoisted himself out of the chair with both hands and left the room, waddling like a babe in Pampers.

  Well, that’s interesting, thought Mark. He doesn’t want to talk about the trust. He shut off the tape recorder after making a closing comment, and walked out the door. It was past noon; the sun was beating down on him. He hadn’t eaten any breakfast and felt light-headed. Hugging the buildings for shade, he returned to his room.

  After making a few notes on the Reagan interview, he rewound the tape recorder, packed his bag, and checked his return flight. He had four hours to kill and decided to play tourist for a while, at the International Bazaar down the street. The heat was brutal, but it bothered him less than the day before. The Bazaar was a manicured tourist trap; narrow cobbled lanes wound between shops and stalls filled with all types of goods–silver, precious stones, clothing from outlying islands, souvenirs, woven baskets, printed T-shirts, the usual assortment of eye-catching merchandise.

  Looking for something to buy for Bashia, he finally settled on a pair of silver earrings. He remembered her complaining about a gold earring that was causing a skin infection. He stuffed the small package in his pocket, wondering if he would have the gumption to give it to her.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Terry placed the little chow in her cage, brushed hairs off her teal uniform shirt and turned to Jill Donigan. “I can hardly wait for tonight!”

  “Why, ‘cause it’s Friday? What’s going down tonight? Must be something, I haven’t seen you in such a good mood since you passed that chemistry test with flying colors. What is it?” her co-worker asked as they checked animal crates. Another hungry dog began barking in anticipation of being fed.