Bones in the Backyard

by Lois Blackburn

  Bashia acknowledged that the old days always seemed better than the present, then decided it was time to change the subject and move on. “Trooper Jankowski had said he hadn’t located Terry yet; she seemed to have disappeared.”

  “Oh, my, I hope that is not the case,” said Mrs. Stearns. “All I know about the girl is that she was very good with the dogs at the shows. Devoted to the dogs and Danielle, I would say. Danielle mentioned that Terry wanted to go to veterinary school and she was going to help her. Perhaps she is in a school.”

  “Hmm, she worked for Danielle for quite a few years, didn’t she?” asked Dottie.

  “Indeed. She began working for her when Danielle still lived in Nashua. Danielle said she had built an apartment in the kennel for Terry when she agreed to move to Connecticut.”

  “We are truly sorry this has happened. You really have had a difficult time–first your husband dying and now, this. Tell me, do you like it here in Avon?” Bashia asked as they sipped their tea.

  “We moved here when my husband retired–we wanted a simpler lifestyle.” She relaxed and continued to talk about the development, their friends and the bridge group they enjoyed until her husband’s death. She nodded her head, nostalgically, “Now I prefer to listen to my operas on tape while I work on my needlepoint.”

  “Yes, we were admiring your work on these pillows. They are beautiful, with such unusual designs!” Bashia drew a light finger across the lavish picture so carefully stitched on the canvas pillow top.

  “Oh, I do counted cross-stitch on plastic, but nothing this elaborate,” Dottie added.

  Mrs. Stearns smiled, grateful for their interest in her work. “I am afraid that is my passion now. There is a designer in New York who creates these wonderful scenes. Would you like to see my area rug?”

  Both visitors answered at once, “Oh, yes, please.” They returned their cups to the tray and followed Mrs. Stearns into the expansive dining room. There, under the polished mahogany table, lay an exquisite needlepoint rug made up of two dozen large squares. Each square depicted beautifully detailed bouquets of bright, colorful flowers.

  Bashia dropped to her knees marveling at the variety of stitches. “And you did this?” she asked. “I could never master needlepoint. How long did it take?”

  “Oh, I have no idea. I worked on it off and on for so long. When it was finally finished, I rolled it up and shipped it to New York to have it padded and backed. My designer was very pleased with my work.”

  “I would think so. It is really stunning, the colors are just gorgeous!” Dottie exclaimed. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Pleased with the praise, Mrs. Stearns stood looking at the rug. “It is my best work, I think. I have happy memories in working it.”

  “Well, I think we’d better leave you now, with your happy memories,” Dottie said. “I’m afraid we’ve overstayed our welcome. We can’t thank you enough for spending so much time with us. I feel like we’ve become fast friends because of this unfortunate experience of yours. We didn’t want to intrude, but we’ll keep you informed of any new developments, if you like.”

  “Yes, I would like that. Yes, this has been very enlightening and interesting. I, too, have enjoyed meeting you both and, for the future, my friends call me Zibbs and I hope you will also. And please let me know how your decorating goes. I would like to see your home when it is not covered with snow!” Promising to keep in touch, they said their goodbyes, hopped in the car and buckled up.

  “What a nice, gracious and refined woman. Danielle must have had the same upbringing as she. I wonder what made her turn out the way she did. How could two sisters be so different?” Bashia said, as they drove away.

  She craned her neck, watched for an opening in traffic before she sped up to join the stream of cars heading out of the city. “I think our trip was pretty successful, don’t you? You sure got over your shyness as soon as we walked in the door, my friend. I’m proud of you! We learned a few things from Mrs. Stearns, made a friend, and you’ve gotten some fabric samples to work with.

  “I should have emphasized the fact that we’ve learned a lot—I think we’ve got ourselves a clue in this mystery,” Bashia said. “In fact, I wonder if we should stop to call Mark on the way home. I might have missed something in those old police reports, but I didn’t see anything about a Ransom Pierce anywhere. And I think, like Mrs. Stearns, that name might have jumped out at me because it’s so odd. Mark will have a new lead to follow if he hasn’t already come across it. And I didn’t look him up on the Internet either.”

  “Bashia, Bashia, slow down. You’re getting ahead of yourself–and look at the speedometer, your right foot is getting carried away, too,” said Dottie. “It’s been a long, interesting day, but can’t you wait until we get home to call Mark?”

  “I guess. Maybe I’ll look him up on the Internet–and then maybe I’ll even know something more about him.”

  The two spent most of the hour-long drive home talking about Mrs. Stearns and the likelihood that the skeleton would be her sister. After six years the only possible identification would be through the DNA. Forensic specialists should be working on the test now, if they weren’t backed up with other cases. Mark had warned it could take a while. And how would anyone be able to solve the case? Surely all evidence had disappeared by now. They wondered what the outcome would be.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” Dottie said. “You know, I need to find suppliers for my ceramics studio. I’ll need a kiln, slipware, greenware, paints, tables, and lots of tools. I’ll have to look up the distributors I knew in New Jersey and find out if any come this way.”

  “Well, you’ve got me there. I have jobbers visiting me, but I don’t know anything about ceramics. Just how do you do your thing, anyway?”

  “I’ll give you a quick lesson. My dream has been to buy the slip–the liquid clay–pour it into molds and set it up to be hardened. This clay shell is called greenware or bisque. Then it is fired in a kiln, a tremendously hot, huge cement oven to harden–that takes quite a while. Then it’s painted and glazed and fired again. But lots of studios just sell the greenware and offer classes to people who paint their object, then it’s sent out to be fired, so the paint won’t come off and you can use the dish for food or whatever. It’s really an old craft, you know.”

  “Oh, yeah, now I remember when I visited Poland, we were taken to a potter’s village. Everyone in the village was involved in one of the steps. They had dozens of huge kilns outdoors, almost as many kilns as houses! The brick ovens were pretty ancient, resembling teepees, and the people used traditional methods passed down from one generation to the next. The village grew around an area that had very good clay. We were told each potter dug his own clay from the riverbeds and had to rid it of any impurities before it was ready for use. We also saw some people making pottery using foot-powered turntables.” Bashia added as they drove into North Woodstock.

  “Well, I have no intention of digging up my own clay. That’s a bit much,” Dottie said, then changed the subject. “Well, I suppose you can’t wait to get home and call Mark.”

  Bashia smiled at the innuendo. “You betcha! I hope he’s at the Woodstock office. I’d feel pretty foolish calling the barracks. I’ve driven past that building for years and never realized that Troop D barracks covered so much territory. I wonder how many troopers are stationed in Danielson.”

  “I don’t know, but if I know you, you’ll soon find out! Don’t you ever run out of curiosity and energy?”

  “Right now I am! It’s been a long day, and I can’t wait to get home and soak in the tub. It’s times like this that I’d like a hot tub. Wait a minute! I have some Finnish friends in the next town. Norman and I used to visit them on Saturday nights, have a sauna, then play cards and have a drink. The women would go in first, Elsa would make a switch of branches and beat herself with it and sit on the highest bench, where it’s the hottest. We’d all jump in the brook afterward–honest–in the midd
le of the winter, too! Then the men had their turn and they would throw water on the rocks to really sizzle and steam up the place. We’d fix snacks at the house before they came back. We sure had good times then! I haven’t seen Elsa since I returned from the Peace Corps. I’ll have to renew our friendship.”

  As they drove into the driveway, Dottie said, “I’m more interested in sprucing up the yard before we get a frost than switching my body with a stick! Do you think I should ask my neighbor, Johnny, to help? I still haven’t even seen him. He sure is a mystery man.”

  “Well, you have a lot of work to do. I’ll come over on the weekend to help, and maybe we’ll get lucky and find Johnny at home. But let’s talk to him before you ask him to do some work. You might not want him around.”

  Bashia declined the offer to join her friend for tea. She was anxious to get home. Once there, Bashia flung her coat over a dining room chair, ran to flip the switch on her computer and poured herself a glass of iced tea while the computer did its warm-up routine. She hated to wait for it, or much else.

  I’ll just look up Ransom Pierce, then maybe I’ll be able to give Mark more than just a name, she thought. Frustration set in quickly. Her modem always seemed to click more slowly, dialing into the Internet, when she was in a rush.

  Momentarily, Jeeves came back with numerous references but they were either to the auto industry, the once-famous Merrill, Lynch, Pierce, Fenner and Smith stock brokerage, literary references to “king’s ransom” or a Miami private school, Ransom-Everglades. She had forgotten to add the Boolean symbol to tie the two names together in the search.

  Oh well, I’d rather talk to Mark about it anyway, she thought, as she got off the Internet and dialed his office.

  “Connecticut State Police, Woodstock Office, Troop–“

  “Mark, do I have news for you! Mrs. Stearns says she thinks her sister was threatened by a man named Ransom Pierce. I didn’t see him in your reports from that other trooper’s interviews when Danielle went missing, did you? Maybe he’s our murderer!”

  “WHOA! It’s nice to hear your voice, too, Bashia, but back up. Give me that name again and tell me exactly what Mrs. Stearns said,” Mark said, slowly and deliberately.

  Bashia began at the beginning. She wished she had taken notes, but she had a good memory for conversational details, especially the same day she heard them. Once she was finished, Mark thanked her and said he would “look into it.”

  “Look into it?” Bashia shrieked. “Aren’t you excited? Doesn’t it sound like a good clue? Don’t you think you should put out an APB or something and pick this guy up?”

  “I’ll pass it along to Detective Horton as soon as I get off the phone, and we’ll look into it—that’s what we do in cases like this. But, yes, it could be important and I’m glad you were able to come up with something new. I’ll talk to you later, I’ve got to get working on this.”

  He was gone again, but this time she was certain it was on official business.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  For the tenth time Terry threw a rumpled sheet of paper in the wastebasket. She swore and rubbed her eyes. I just can’t do it, she thought. This algebra is just too much! I’m going to flunk the course. Turning and scooting her chair over to the refrigerator, she opened the door. A half-quart of orange juice, yesterday’s tuna salad and a head of lettuce were not at all appealing. The milk smelled sour, the leftover potato salad a pale mushy lump full of indistinguishable specks of color. She slammed it shut and rose to heat a kettle of water. She had spent all afternoon eating leftover Halloween candy at work and now felt sick. Unable to eat dinner, her stomach cried for relief. Hot chocolate always soothed her before and she hoped it would do the trick again.

  Waiting for the water to boil, she looked around her efficiency apartment. A tangle of sheets and a tiger-striped comforter lay in a ball at the foot of the bed. The top of the tall bureau was covered with tissues, lipstick, combs, brushes, notebooks, pencils, and a handful of change. A small round table with a Formica top was also covered with papers and books. Her three-shelf bookcase, a 13-inch TV on a cheap tubular stand and a small kitchenette on the back wall filled the room, but not the void in her life. Almost four years already, she thought. This isn’t my home; this apartment is just like a motel room.

  But it was close to the Auburn Animal Hospital and working nine to five wasn’t too bad. It had been pure luck to find the apartment furnished, since there was little she could take from Danielle’s. The cost of books and tuition to the community college left her strapped, no money for the little extra things of life. Luckily she could pick up pencils and pens from work.

  But when I get my degree, she thought, when I’m a veterinarian, things will be different, and Chuck Thompson will be sorry he let me go. She pulled her checkbook from her worn fanny pack and examined already familiar figures. Her small salary, plus the stipend from Thompson, barely left any extra spending money, so most months ended with a zero balance. It was hard, but at least she had been smart enough to deposit one hundred dollars that wasn’t recorded, so she never had an insufficient funds charge. Putting her checkbook away, she sighed, I’ll be needing some new clothes soon, even though we wear jackets at work, things are getting pretty threadbare. I guess I’ll check the Goodwill Store tomorrow. She kicked at her scuffed sneakers. Time for new shoes, too.

  Terry glanced at the books stuffed in the bookcase and on the nightstand, books for chemistry, nutrition and algebra that had cost big bucks, but at least her tuition for the half-year was paid. The lower shelf held two dozen neatly aligned blue denim journals. It had been pure luck to find an office supply store going out of business back in Nashua. She remembered buying the batch so she would have a nice matching set of journals to write in, and thought they would last a long time. Lovingly, she ran her hand over the books that held her life story since she left home. ON MY OWN, she thought. My first years out of high school, getting a job working with such high class dogs and with Danielle, moving to North Woodstock where I didn’t know anyone, learning to get along with Danielle and her eccentric ways, and that heart-wrenching fear the last time I saw Danielle. A shudder ran through her body as she thought of those awful days. I’m so glad I wrote all about that, that last time. I was so scared!

  I need to talk to Chuck about more money, I’m just not making it on my own. When he sold the dogs and moved me out, he said he would take care of me just like Danielle did, but he’s doing a lousy job of it. That awful day just before Christmas, ’96, when Chuck told me I no longer had a job! I could kick myself now for breaking down in front of him and crying, “My life is over.” But all I could think of at that time was Danielle saying she would take care of me and encouraging me to go to vet school, and now she’s gone and I’m poor, working full time and trying to earn my Associate degree so I can apply to Tufts Vet School. I don’t know if I’ll ever get there!

  Maybe I should just be a dog handler. It wouldn’t be as good as being a vet, but it’s a pretty good job. Maybe I should just find a mentor to train me, she thought. The show-grounds were like a three-ring circus on show day and a good handler was well respected in the sport. Terry had seen a father and son team running the rings with fourteen dogs–owned by different individuals–at one show. They sped from their grooming tent to the staging areas and back at a fast pace, the son bringing well-pampered entries to each ring for his father to show. The son entered the ring only once, when two of the dogs they were handling were scheduled for breed judging at the same hour. It had been amusing to see, both entries won at that level, so father and son would face each other in the group judging the following day. Terry had missed seeing that competition because she and Danielle were busy with their own dog. It was Terry’s understanding that handlers did very well financially, once they established themselves as competent in bringing out the best characteristics of their charges, and when a dog won in a category they usually received a bonus from its owner.

  The whistling teakettle jos
tled her back to the present. She poured the boiling water into her cup of cocoa powder, absently stirring and thinking of the years with Danielle. It had been a wonderful time, grooming the beautiful dogs, all twenty-eight of them, feeding them, helping condition and train them, and helping Danielle at the shows. And the first time Danielle had let her handle a dog at a show, in that brand new pants suit, it had been so awesome. Wealthy owners sitting in their boxes, voices over loudspeakers announcing the next category, benches under the tents for last minute grooming, thousands of people watching her with Danielle’s marvelous dog at the other end of the lead.

  How she missed it all! She wondered where Flash and Sandy were now? What about all the other dogs? Did anyone at the shows ever ask where we were, what happened to us? No matter how many times she asked herself these questions, they remained unanswered.

  Unlike Danielle’s purebreds, the dogs at the vet’s were usually ill or abandoned. These dogs required medical attention, or were being boarded while their owners were away. Well, she was getting practical experience, at any rate. Vet school certainly wouldn’t be handling purebred dogs.

  She turned from the stove and looked in her mirror. She was gaining muscle, handling these dogs–some weighed 60 or 70 pounds–but fat, too. It amazed her that she managed to gain weight, eating oatmeal for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

  Brushing back her straight, short-cropped black hair, she stretched out her body, trying to distribute the extra weight on her five-foot frame. Her oversized sweatshirt hung loosely over her slacks, the usual outfit she wore to her evening classes. She knew her classmates were struggling, too, but she had little time to think of them or to make any friends. Her one special friend–lover, if she cared to call him that–had found other interests. It was nice while it lasted, to feel loved, but here she was, she thought bleakly, thirty years old, no romantic prospects and if she didn’t pass this course she wouldn’t have to worry about professional prospects, either.