Bones in the Backyard

by Lois Blackburn

  “And so you went there September 14, 1993?” Jankowski asked.

  Thompson nodded and described the disarray he found at the house and her apparent disappearance. Some clothes and jewelry were gone, the living room a total mess, the phone cord pulled out of the wall. And the van was gone. But he wasn’t concerned at that time, he said, since she was known for her irrational behavior and he believed Danielle would return after cooling down. He was accustomed to her sudden stormy tantrums and erratic moods. He sent Terry to FedEx the application and cleaned up the rooms himself.

  This guy is smooth, Jankowski thought, he has all the answers, the exact story he had told Trooper Murphy five years ago. “What happened to her dogs?” he asked.

  “I was expecting Danielle to show up any time, so we maintained the routine–Terry exercised the dogs, did her job, and I took care of the place. I phoned Lizotte, but he hadn’t heard from her, either. After a couple weeks I was notified that the van was found at Logan Airport. The parking ticket was stamped on September 16th and the police were no help at all.

  “We took Sandy to the show that Danielle had been so excited about the following week. Sandy won Best of Breed and Terry continued to work with him for the Oyster Bay Show, which we did get qualified for. When Danielle still wasn’t back two months later, I took Terry and showed the dog myself.”

  “Go on.” This was new information to Jankowski and he leaned toward the desk as he listened and watched Thompson’s facial expression.

  Thompson explained that, with Danielle absent for such a long time, it became increasingly difficult to care for all her dogs and his own large kennel as well. He felt Terry was not qualified to manage Millhaven on her own and after her unimpressive handling of Danielle’s dogs in two consecutive shows, he became too frustrated to continue. He started transferring some of the dogs to his kennel and eventually began to sell those he couldn’t handle.

  In two or three years Danielle’s kennels were empty and he told Terry to move out, but promised to help her financially until she could get a job and get on her feet. After she left, he began to worry about the house being vacant in that isolated area and put it on the market. Then this year, at a greatly reduced rate, he finally found a buyer.

  “Where is your friend, Harold Reagan?”

  “He’s in the Bahamas now. We got together to close on the recent sale of the house and then he flew back to the Bahamas.”

  “Who’s managing the trust?” asked Jankowski.

  “There’s nothing left to manage.”

  “Oh?” Jankowski tried to mask his surprise. “The both of you may be subpoenaed to Probate Court by Judge Alison Weidenfield. She is hearing a request from Danielle’s sister, Mrs. Elizabeth Stearns, to have Danielle declared dead and the estate probated. Of course, if the skeleton that’s been found should happen to be Miss Stoddard, that will be a moot question. So, don’t you decide to go the Bahamas–got it? What’s Reagan’s address?”

  Thompson fumbled in his address card file for the information, visibly upset at the prospect of further investigations. “I think he said he was planning an extended vacation there. Here’s his address.”

  “Is there anything you care to add to your statement?” Jankowski asked, his finger on the tape recorder’s red stop button.

  Thompson’s tanned face had turned pasty. “Nothing,” he said as he rose from his chair.

  “Then I’ll be leaving. We may need to get in touch with you later. Thanks for your cooperation,” Jankowski said as he picked up his tape recorder and left the small office.

  Well, it looks like I’ll be taking a trip, he thought as he drove out of Lincoln. Bahamas, here I come! Feeling satisfied with his interview with Thompson, he reached for his cell phone and punched in a code that allowed him to access messages from his office phone. Hearing none, he dialed Bashia’s number.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Two weeks later Bashia had finished the dining room drapes and delivered them to Dottie. She held the ladder steady and watched Bashia stand on the top rung to install a traverse rod over the last dining room window. Shifting the cordless drill in her hands, Bashia firmly secured the brackets to the woodwork before slipping the rod in place, giving it a resounding tap.

  “O.K. Let’s check this out,” she said, stepping down from the ladder to pull the center carrier back and forth to check the cord lengths. Satisfied, she drew the center carrier back, climbed the ladder again, and reached down to take the drape from Dottie. Quickly she slipped the drapery hooks into the rod carriers, and let the drape drop to the floor. She repeated the process on the other side of the window and, once again, tested the traverse rod to make sure it opened and closed the draperies smoothly.

  “There now, we’re almost done with the dining room,” Bashia said, as she put her drill in the toolbox. “You certainly picked the right fabric for this room. Good choice! This Jacobean print, with its reds–pardon me, the designers call it ‘brick’. It brings out the brick of the fireplace and makes the whole room seem so warm and inviting. The one-and-a-half fullness makes the drapes look luxurious. You could have gotten by with one width of drapery fabric, but the extra fullness is much better.” She ran her hand down the rich fabric folds. “What do you think?”

  “It’s wonderful! Thanks to you, I picked the Jacobean. The room needs those strong colors and, with the blues and greens in it, I can cover the dining chairs in any of those colors. I think I’ll use that complementary stripe–it will look smashing, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, it will. Fortunately, fabric designers often coordinate prints with solid colors, so it makes us look like we really know what we’re doing. I’ll show you how to cover the chair seats. It isn’t very hard; just unscrew the wooden seat, cut out a piece of fabric four inches larger than the seat, turn it over–make sure the padding is even–and tack it down. Just make sure you get the stripe going in the same direction on all of the chairs,” she chuckled.

  “Oh, sure, just like that! It may be easy for you, but not for me. I’d be all thumbs.”

  Bashia laughed. What was second nature to her was completely foreign to most people. “Well, I’m finished with this room, you can do the rest. Lucky for you, your dining set is just the right size for the room and it works nicely. I’ve already cut the swags for the living room and will work on them this week. You’re coming along nicely with your place here; you won’t have anything to do if you don’t watch out!” She folded the ladder and carried it to the door. “Have you located a supplier for your ceramics?”

  “No, I just haven’t had the time. I’ve been trying to do some yard work–did you notice when you drove up? Come on, let’s take a break and I’ll show you what I’ve done.”

  “Yeah, I noticed the lilac bushes have been cut back. That will make them produce more flowers next spring, and it gives you more light with the windows exposed. I thought you were going to see about getting someone–maybe Johnny next door–to do some work?”

  Dottie poured iced tea into tall glasses and put a sprig of mint in each. She offered the glass to Bashia, grinning, “Look, mint from the side garden. It smells so minty, not like from the store. Now I know what mint looks like, aren’t you proud of me? I’m afraid this will be the last of it, though. Mint dies down in the winter, doesn’t it?”

  Bashia chuckled and said she would make a farmer out of her yet and yes, mint goes dormant in the winter. She commented that Dottie would have blisters and an aching back if she tried to tackle everything herself, but what about Johnny? They decided to walk next door to see if he were at home.

  The neighboring driveway was hardly more than a car’s width and a surprisingly short distance from Dottie’s own drive. It was so narrow, it could easily be missed by a passing car. On one side of the drive the land sloped down to a shallow pond, with fuzzy cattails, cowslips and sedge weeds growing around its edge. A damp, musty smell filled the air. The pond was fed by a narrow brook, its waters smoothly gliding over moss-covered roc
ks. They followed the drive and brook to a clearing and a small log cabin, with a screened porch at one end. There was no sign of life.

  “This place looks like it could have been a hunter’s cabin ages ago. It certainly needs some work and apparently someone is doing something about it. There’s new caulking between some of the logs. There’s a pair of sawhorses, and sawdust on the steps. And see that ax by the woodpile? Apparently he’s chopping wood for his fireplace. Say, maybe he could cut and stack some firewood for you. It wouldn’t be good for this winter, of course, but you could get ready for next year. But I don’t think he is home,” Bashia said as they cautiously walked toward the cabin.

  “Well, I’ve got to admit, it looks like someone’s been doing some work, but otherwise the place doesn’t look lived in. Look at that roofline; it sways more than my back! Do you think he really lives here?” Dottie shuddered, glancing at the tall pine trees encircling the small clearing. “There’s no car here, and no sound. Let’s go back.”

  Instead, Bashia walked forward and continued to look around. “Too bad we don’t have something to write a note with. Mark did say he was usually here only on the weekends. I wonder if there’s a path through the woods to your place. Let’s walk around and see if we can find one.”

  They circled the cabin and came across a trampled opening in the brush. Was it made by a human or an animal? The thick foliage gave no clue.

  “It looks like this could lead to your place. Maybe Johnny has been taking a shortcut and checking you out! I wonder if he lived here when Danielle did and if he ever did any work for her. It seems logical that she would seek out someone to do some of the heavy chores, cut the grass or something. Let’s follow the path.”

  “Nooo, I don’t think I want to. Let’s go back.” Dottie stood still, refusing to follow Bashia. “I’ll write a note later and we can tack it to his door. It scares me to wander around on someone else’s property. What if he turns up and shoots us?”

  “Oh, Dottie, what an imagination you have! I’d really like to meet him, but I don’t think it would be at the end of a gun. We haven’t ever heard anything about him being dangerous, have we? I’m sure Mark would have said something. I’d like to follow this path and see if it does go to your house, but we don’t have the shoes to go tramping through the woods. From the looks of that brook, there might be some wetland around. O.K., you win, let’s go back and write the note.”

  Back at the house, Dottie asked, “By the way, what’s going on with you and Mark and that skeleton mystery?” as she pulled out a pad to write her message.

  “With Mark or with the skeleton?” Bashia teased, finishing her iced tea. “He hasn’t called for a few days and I’m afraid to call him. It’s not that I’m afraid to call; it’s that I don’t know how much I want to get involved with someone. I like my solitude, my independence. Do I really want a man in my life again?”

  “You’re crazy! What do you feel toward Mark? I bet you’re ready for a fling. I think you two could really hit if off, if you’d give it a chance.”

  Bashia was unwilling to explain herself further to Dottie, who knew nothing about the rape. Meeting Mark was the first occasion since her return from Jamaica that generated anything close to romantic stirrings within her. She wasn’t sure she was ready to start anything that would make her nightmares and fears resurface.

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see. Right now I’m sure he’s pretty involved with this case of Danielle Stoddard. The last time–oh, I forgot to tell you–he brought Chinese takeout to my place the other night. Out of the blue. I was really surprised.”

  “There you go! If that doesn’t sound like a man making advances, I don’t know what does. Are you going to reciprocate?”

  “What do you mean, reciprocate?” Bashia asked, blushing slightly.

  “You know what I mean. Why don’t you ask him to a dinner that you have cooked? Or a night out at Foxwood Casino?”

  “Well, I don’t know, maybe I will. We’ll see.” That was all the commitment Dottie could get out of her.

  Bashia was deep in thought as she drove home. She was thinking of all the changes in her life since Norman had died. She knew she wouldn’t be able to take care of the large acreage and aging home for much longer and she was ready for something new. The stint in the Peace Corps had opened up a whole new world for her–now it didn’t seem to matter where she lived, she knew she would be able to survive. She could become friends with all types of people, and sew slipcovers, write or paint anywhere. The annuity plan Norman had set up in the Air Force covered her basic expenses, even though it was tight. Her sewing and published articles gave her “fun money”, as she called it.

  Did she want to start another relationship? Could she push memories of the rape into her past and keep them there? It would be quite a change to have someone new pay attention to her. It gave her a tingling feeling she hadn’t felt in a long time. Would this be a flame that blazed, then flickered out or could it be something lasting? What would her children say?

  Turning into her driveway, she saw the sun setting through gray clouds, a sure sign that winter was on its way. At one time she had loved the winter, the sparkling snow and cold, to ski, or watch the storms form a fairyland of ice crystals on the trees, but now she longed for the warmth and sunshine of a tropical climate, or was it for the warmth and comfort of someone’s arms?

  * * *

  André Lizotte balanced himself on a chair, his bare feet on the second floor porch railing as he watched a uniformed police officer walk up the front steps below. When his bell rang, he lazily rose to answer the door. Officer Jon–whatever his name was, he thought. Right on time, in his brown Connecticut State Police uniform.

  He jabbed his cigarette into an ashtray full of butts, brushed back his blond hair and tucked his T-shirt in his jeans before opening the door. I’ve got nothing to be afraid of, he thought. I’ve done nothing wrong. Is being a homosexual wrong? Not in France and, if I behave myself, not in the United States. He opened the door and invited the officer in. “What can I do for you?” he asked in his best manner.

  “I’m Trooper Mark Jankowski from Woodstock; I’m the one who called yesterday. I’d like to question you about your relations with Danielle Stoddard. We have reopened the case. A skeleton was found on her property last month.”

  André faltered slightly, turning pale. “A skeleton? I didn’t know. At her house? But I thought she was just missing. Is she, I mean, who is this skeleton? Oh, sorry, come on in.”

  The room was sparsely furnished; minimalist, Bashia would call it. Jankowski was surprised to find he had picked up some of Bashia’s decorating language. Plain window shades, brown linoleum floor, bare walls and the smell of stale smoke. But the aged furniture was clean, and the empty coffee table held a high sheen. Through open doors he could see a neat bedroom and a closet-sized bathroom.

  When André invited Jankowski to sit on the sofa, he sank low into the lumpy cushions, and hoped he would be able to get up later. André sat on the edge of a kitchen chair, delicately crossing his legs and flexing his slight, muscular body.

  “Oh, you didn’t know?” Jankowski asked as he pulled out a pad and pen. “Yes, a skeleton was discovered and we’re trying to identify it. You were interviewed years ago when Mrs. Stearns reported Danielle missing, right? I’d like to review that again. I understand you came to America with Danielle in the fall of 1991? Why don’t you tell me how that came about.”

  “There’s nothing to tell except what I said before.”

  Jankowski sat quietly staring at him until André sighed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, well, all right. I was living in Paris when I met Danielle–I called her Dan at her request. She was alone, we struck up a friendship. She told me she would be there for two or three months and I began to show her Paris.”

  “Did you have any idea why she was in Paris or what she was doing there?”

  “No, I took her for what I saw–a financially independent lonely woman, past her prime, w
ho wanted to be shown the City of Light and cared for with a little style. There was no sexual involvement, you understand; I had a strong feeling I should cater to her, pamper her, make her feel good about herself, whatever. She ate it up. Of course, I am an attractive man and I think she relished having someone good looking escort her around. She said she was getting some medical treatments, but I never asked about that.”

  Soon after he met her, Lizotte said, Dan was hiring him to drive her everywhere; they were spending many hours together almost every day, and he was fast becoming her newest friend. “I didn’t ask any questions, but there’s a lot to be said for being a good listener and I soon heard it all.”

  Dan had told him that a year earlier she had boldly decided to do something about her conflicting gender identity. She had gone to Paris to make a connection–a famous cosmetic surgeon and research physician there specialized in a long-term combination of hormone therapy and surgery to assist transsexuals in becoming the person they wished to be. He referred all his patients to a female psychiatrist. Dan hoped the dual approach to changing her life would make her happy. She had contracted for a three-month regimen with the doctors to begin her first physical and mental adjustments toward becoming the person she felt like in her mind–“Dan”.

  When she first introduced herself to André Lizotte, she said her name was Danielle but she intended to legally change it to Dan when she returned home, so that was what he called her. He did as she wished–she was his meal ticket for who knew how long?

  During the following days and weeks, Dan acted as if Lizotte were her father-confessor, he told Jankowski, smiling at his own verbal imagery. He sometimes wondered how she could be telling the psychiatrist any more than she was unloading to him during their long relaxing drives through the French countryside, or leisurely meals in expensive Paris restaurants. She detailed her transformation plan to him, saying that somehow it seemed easier to explain this to a stranger than to people back home. She felt they wouldn’t empathize with her, so she didn’t tell anyone the reason for her Parisian trip. But she said she felt that he would not judge her actions, and he swore he wouldn’t betray her confidence.