Old Secrets Never Die

by Lois Blackburn

  “People have been doing it for a century or more, so I don’t think we’ll have any trouble.”

  Dottie held her breath as the ferry pulled into the landing and the operator anchored it to telephone poles sunk deep in the water. When the Mercury drove off and Bashia eased her Toyota station wagon onto it, Dottie closed her eyes and said a silent prayer. She prayed they would make it across the river safely and that they would find some innocent excuse for Hiram’s odd behavior.

  Dottie had called Bashia soon after Lucinda left the ceramics shop that day. It had been very upsetting to see how worried Lucinda was that Hiram might be having an affair. Dottie thought Bashia’s innate curiosity would engage her in this new adventure. Sure enough, Bashia had immediately volunteered to check out the situation.

  Bashia suddenly realized Lucinda was the ‘my lady’ Hiram spoke of. She told Dottie she had been to Hiram’s Essex shop once to cut a slipcover for a large, old sofa with shaky, wooden carved feet. Its fragile condition discouraged moving it. The store was open six days, managed by Hiram’s business associate, Caroline Mathis.

  “She’s here more than Hiram, and has her own pieces to sell; they both have a stake in the shop but Hiram owns the building,” Bashia said.

  Dottie glanced at Bashia, who concentrated on the directions the ferry operator was giving her. The car jolted at the ramp edge and Dottie tightened her grip on the door handle, squeezing her eyes shut. The ferryman secured their car and gave them a friendly nod as he reversed the motor and eased into the narrow strip of the river.

  Dottie filled Bashia in on Lucinda’s past life and her relationship with Hiram and dealing with his post-war drug addiction. She had been shocked to learn that, although Bashia had worked with Hiram for several years, she had never met Lucinda.

  They slid across the surface as easily as a water snake and in a few minutes they bumped into the opposite bank.

  “Ohmigod!” Dottie let out a sigh of relief. “First you decide to snoop around Essex to help me learn if Hiram is cheating on Lucinda, then you take me over this rickety ferry.”

  “Oh, come on, it isn’t that bad. These men are old-timers in rafting, shipbuilding and fishing. Just think, this used to be done by men hauling the ferry back and forth with ropes. That took some muscle! Now watch for the Route 154 sign, will you? It should be coming up shortly. We’ll drive south on it for about six miles.

  “After we do our nosing around, I hope I can find the quaint tea room Michael took me to when I came down for a job.”

  “Who’s Michael?”

  “An interior decorator who had a shop here and I came down to slipcover one of his sofas. He knew Hiram and purchased some items from him. And, while we’re here, I thought you would like to see this village and others nearby if we have time.”

  “Yes, I’d like that–the area looks so interesting. I haven’t had a chance to do much exploring since I moved.” Dottie watched quietly after bringing Bashia’s attention to the route marker. Leafless trees standing as sentinels along the road soon gave way to old homes, groomed lawns and red barns.

  At the town square, they turned south on Main Street. The homes and shops were closer together, each with a plaque fastened to the building. Dottie tried to read them, usually only succeeding in catching the dates.“1803, 1812, 1797. Wow, they are old.”

  Bashia crawled down the street and turned onto Gillway Lane. It had been a few years since she had been there. She pulled up to the curb and studied the storefront sign–“New England Antiques”.

  The building once was a garage for the house on Main. A glass storefront fitted with a sliding security grill replaced the old garage doors. A handsome bottle-glass door stood at one end. Its shiny brass handle caught Bashia’s eye even before she got out of the car. She frowned. Was that new?

  “All right, we’re here,” Bashia said as they left the car. “Now don’t act too anxious, or we won’t get any information from Caroline. Hopefully, she’ll have a sense of whether there’s some hanky-panky going on.”

  “I hope, for Lucinda’s sake, she hasn’t anything to tell us,” Dottie said. “Oh, look, there must have been a break-in. The door is gouged.”

  “Hmm, that’s funny. No, it’s really not funny. Let’s see what Caroline has to say.” Bashia ran her fingers down the chipped door to the brass handle. It was locked.

  Caroline Mathis came out of the back room when she heard their knock. She had a large paintbrush in her hand. Oversized glasses and wisps of gray hair framed her face beneath a painter’s cap. A large, droopy, paint-stained sweatshirt covered most of her slender body. All of her five-foot stature seemed to be one big tangerine paint splash. “Excuse my appearance,” she said. “May I help you?”

  “I don’t know if you remember me, I’m Bashia Gordon, from Danielson. I did some work for Hiram a while back.”

  Suddenly, she realized she had no reason be there. “I, ah, um, would like to introduce my friend, Dottie Weeks, who recently moved near me. We’re sightseeing and I wanted Dottie to see the shop. I’ve been telling her about the beautiful collection you and Hiram have here.” She beamed at Caroline.

  Caroline squinted from beneath the brim of her cap. “Oh, yes, Bashia, I remember you now. You did such good work, Hiram comments on it often. Those pieces sold quickly. Glad to meet you, Dottie. Perhaps you’ll see something here for your new home. Look around. But first, come on back and have a cup of tea with me. I’m tired.”

  Bashia and Dottie looked at each other, smiled and nodded in agreement.

  “Caroline, I noticed the gouge in the door. Did you have a break-in?” Bashia asked, as they followed her into the back room that served as an office and storage area.

  Taking off her cap and putting down her paintbrush, Caroline turned on the electric kettle. She cleaned her hands with a waterless sanitizer, pulled open a desk drawer and took out three cups, spoons and napkins. “Yes, someone broke in a few days ago, that’s why we keep it locked now. We did want to keep the door, it’s so old, but the handle was a mess, so we had to replace that. We also added two deadbolts to secure it.

  “But I think I know who did it,” she said, frowning. “Last week this fella’ came in. He didn’t look like a person interested in antiques, but he tried to look like he was, picked up this and that. I was getting a little nervous. Then, out of the blue, he asked if Hiram was around. I was surprised, ’cause he didn’t look like anyone Hiram would associate with. He was kind of grubby, shuffling his feet. Needed a shave, and smelled, I don’t know, sweet, somehow. You know what I mean?”

  She reached for the whistling teakettle, poured the boiling water into their cups and offered them a selection of herb teabags.

  “What did he want with Hiram?” Dottie asked as they sipped their tea.

  “He wouldn’t say. I told him Hiram is usually here on Thursdays and could I give him a message. ‘No,’ he says, never looking at me. ‘I’ll be back Thursday.’ He was diddling with a vase, a valuable Ming. I was afraid he would drop it. As he left, he ground his cigarette into a card tray certainly never designed to hold ashes. I’ve seen him hanging around town since then.

  “Hiram has been here more often lately because he’s anxious to begin the showroom expansion and wants to get the contractor to move faster.”

  Aha! So that’s why Hiram has been spending so much time down here! It isn’t a woman after all, Bashia thought.

  Caroline set her cup down and continued, “That Thursday I came to work around noon, ’cause Hiram said he would open up in case this guy came back. They were here in the back room. Arguing. When I came in, they stopped and the guy shouted, ‘We’ll see about that.’ They both looked as if looks could kill–angry and flushed. The man pushed past me and stomped out.

  “When I asked Hiram who he was and was there a problem, he blew it off as nothing and wouldn’t say another word. I could tell he was angry, though. He didn’t say any more all afternoon. The next thing I know the shop was broken into!”r />
  “That’s terrible. Was there much damage or loss?” asked Dottie, her cup in midair.

  “Thank God, no. In fact, the police couldn’t figure why we were broken into. They said someone was trying to make a statement. And I’ll put my money on that guy! Hiram was upset, of course, especially since he’s been loading the place up with more furniture.”

  “You must have been upset, too,” Dottie said.

  “You can say that again. That’s why I decided to paint this room. Work keeps me from worrying if there’ll be another break-in or that fella’ will come back and cause a ruckus.”

  “Does Hiram usually have friends drop in? Where do you think this man came from? Did he have an accent or anything?” asked Bashia.

  “Hmm, I never thought of that,” Caroline commented. “Now that you mention it, it wasn’t a local accent. But I knew he wasn’t local–he’s definitely not a local. We have more visitors than locals dropping in and, of course, I know most people in town. I never saw him before and I hope I never see him again.”

  “Hiram didn’t say anything more? What do you suppose it was about?” Bashia asked as she sipped her tea.

  “I have no idea. I’m telling you, I don’t like that man, and when I saw Hiram’s face, I knew he’s bad news! I wish I knew what it’s all about. I don’t like to see him upset like that. He’s a good man.” Caroline gathered their cups and put them on the counter at the end of the room.

  “Yes, I know,” said Bashia. “He has been a friend to me for many years. I hope things work out all right.”

  “Caroline, you have so many lovely things here. I’d love to browse but we’re running out of time. Bashia promised me lunch in that tea room we passed on the square,” Dottie explained.

  “Oh, that’s fine. Stop in next time you’re in the area. It was a nice break for me. Maybe I’ll be able to finish this painting today and start straightening things up.”

  “Whew,” Dottie said as they left the shop. “What do we do now?”

  “You need to call Lucinda and tell her what we learned. It sounds as if Hiram’s busy, spending a lot of time here, but married to his work, not another woman.”

  “I will, and what do you make of that stranger and his argument with Hiram?”

  “I wish I knew. In the years I’ve known Hiram, he warned me he has a bad temper, but I have never seen it. He always is very pleasant with me.”

  “I didn’t even realize you knew him. And it’s strange that you never met Lucinda. She told me they never had been married, but I guess after all these years, she must be considered a common-law wife.”

  “Well, my dear Dottie, there are probably a lot of things you don’t know about me. I’ve known Hiram for ten years or so and I have been in his house twice, but I never gave his marital status a thought. Come to think of it, the few times he has mentioned Lucinda he has called her ‘my lady’,” Bashia said, as she drove to the town square and parked the car.

  There was a lot she chose not to tell Dottie. She had never told her the real reason why she left the Peace Corps and she didn’t intend to ever mention her planned weekend trip to Jamaica with Mark.

  “Here we are, I think you’ll like this old English tea shop.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Ready for some good news, Trooper Jankowski?”

  Mark Jankowski guessed it was Henry Battles’ political background that encouraged his dramatic tendencies. Most people at least said “Hello” and identified themselves when calling someone they barely knew on the telephone. He wouldn’t quibble with Battles’ methods, however, if he already had results in their search for Arlene Goodell.

  “Hello to you, too, counselor. I always welcome good news. What have you got?” He jubilantly shot his fist up in the air just as Richard Dupre walked in the door. He motioned for Dupre to sit down and mouthed “Battles” as he punched speaker on the telephone console.

  “Well, there wasn’t much help in my Goodell files even though they go back to the old man’s will as well as Gwendolyn’s and Gladys’, but that letter the teenaged Arlene wrote was a tremendous starting place for my investigator, Julie Johns.”

  “I don’t mean to interrupt, Mr. Battles, but could you apply the lawyer’s catchphrase–be brief? I’m extremely curious what you have learned. Cut to the chase, please.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, Julie is really good at what she does. She knows who to call and how to treat them so she learns what she wants to know. She has found a lot of people who don’t want to be discovered. Folks with unlisted phone numbers don’t realize they can be located through reverse directories, or through city directories which local police departments are willing to share upon legitimate request.

  “There are a lot of ways to uncover someone who prefers to remain an unknown face in a crowd. Julie knows most of those ways.”

  Trooper Jankowski sighed and decided not to repeat his request for the short version. He didn’t want to be rude. Henry Battles apparently intended to disclose what he knew in his own way. Jankowski could wait a few minutes for the bottom line, since he knew the investigation had been successful.

  He was ready to make careful notes but, instead, drew a birdhouse and small picnic bench, labeled them and turned his paper around so Dupre could see. Jankowski smiled broadly. These were two woodworking projects under way at his home, an outbuilding on a woman’s estate, who rented to him because she liked the idea of having a state trooper’s car on the property overnight.

  He tore off the doodles page, crumpled it and pitched it into his corner “circular file” with a wall-mounted basketball net above. He was tempted to start a new sheet for a game of tic-tac-toe with Dupre but decided to pay close attention as Battles continued.

  He labeled the new page “Henry Battles, Re: Arlene Goodell” and put the date in the top right corner.

  “You know, people think everything is on computers now, but anyone who undertakes this kind of research is aware that there is considerable data that hasn’t caught up yet,” Battles said.

  “Governmental units and companies might be keeping up with the input of current information, but population growth and the record-keeping requirements have mushroomed so tremendously, many organizations are hard-pressed to get historical data into their computer system.”

  “Could you put that into English and what it means for us finding Arlene Goodell, please?” Jankowski hoped to avoid a lesson in investigative techniques.

  He had planned to call Bashia this morning to confirm that she definitely would go to Jamaica. She was a little shaky on his suggestion last night when they parted. If they were going, they needed to make arrangements for flights and accommodations. He knew he could get Greg Horton to cover his one-man post. He didn’t want Bashia to back out; she needed to get rid of those terrible memories. And that might improve their relationship in his favor.

  “Of course, Trooper. Well, Julie checked Michigan driver license and motor vehicle registrations and came up empty. No Arlene Goodells. Of course, we didn’t expect to find it that way since her letter indicated she got married and women almost always took their husband’s name back then. So she wouldn’t be in current records with that name.

  “Julie found a very helpful person, Elaine Arnez, who has been in Oldsmobile’s Human Resources Department for a long time. However, she couldn’t go back that far in personnel admits because they’re not in the computerized records yet, and the Goodell name didn’t show in current payrolls.

  The Hartford attorney was on a roll, pleased with his investigators’ work. “Together, these two gals decided to check pension recipients since Arlene Goodell would be close to Social Security age and if she’d stayed at Olds all that time, she might have been entitled to an early retirement with good benefits.

  “Julie said it took her and Elaine quite a while to come up with this idea. They considered looking at other lists where Arlene Goodell’s name might appear in the various computer databanks–health plans, union membershi
ps, training courses and so forth.”

  “So? They must have been successful, right?” Jankowski could not restrain himself any further. “You said you have good news, Mr. Battles. You’ve got me on the edge of my seat. What did they find? Please.”

  “You got it, Trooper Jankowski. It turns out that recent retirees’ records are up-to-date in the computer because benefits are currently being paid. General Motors has blanks on its retirement application for ‘Original hire date’ and ‘Original hire name, if different’.

  “Luckily for us, after she married Dwayne David Moore, she retained her maiden name as middle in her official records, so she is receiving retirement benefits as Arlene Goodell Moore in Holt, Michigan, not too far from Lansing.

  “The benefits form also has space for next of kin, but only one son, Donald Edwin Moore, is listed–no Goodells. Her husband’s record shows other Moores, but they’re all in Michigan, so she must have met him there as that letter says.”

  Jankowski wanted to shout. Instead, he wrote, “Address found”, and gave Dupre a thumbs-up.

  “That’s great, Mr. Battles. Tell your Miss Johns she deserves a medal for such quick work. Now, if you’ll just give me the vital information, I’ll contact Arlene Goodell Moore and we can see what needs to be done to close this case.”

  “Even better, we’ve already done that for you and saved you a load of trouble, by the way. As Gladys Goodell’s attorney, I contacted Mrs. Moore and she is a pistol. She must have fit in well with the hard-drinking, hard-cussing factory workers of past years. Not a pleasant person to talk to about her family.”

  Jankowski frowned. He wished Battles had just found her and left the initial contact to him. He might have taken a more tactful approach. Well, it was already done. No sense revisiting that decision.

  Battles continued, “She doesn’t want anything to do with the house on Doctor Pike Road, anyone who associated with her two sisters, or anyone who might have known her back then. She’s a tremendously angry person, considering the many years she’s been away from there. She softened a little when I mentioned we had found her because of her letter to Mary Ann Collins. She remembers her old friend, it seems. She even joked that Mary Ann always did collect a bunch of trash, ‘especially people like me’.”