“Don’t you have a jacket?” she asked as she slid in the car. “It’s going to be cold tonight.” Then she could have bit her tongue, that was something your mother would say, not a date!
“I’m one step ahead of you,” and he pointed to his windbreaker in the back seat. “You look like you’re ready for winter, and I must say, you look great.”
“Thanks. I always like to get into the winter clothes early in the season, but by December, I’m tired of wearing them. I think I’ll retire to Florida or someplace warm!”
“That would be nice, but I tell you, I sure didn’t enjoy the weather in the Bahamas. It was so humid!”
“I’ve always wanted to go to the Bahamas, but since being in the Peace Corps, Jamaica and the Caribbean don’t interest me.” Bashia watched as he carefully maneuvered onto the highway and hoped he wouldn’t ask for further explanation just now. “You’re lucky you didn’t get caught in a hurricane. September and October are the worst months for hurricanes, you know. You’ll have to tell me about your trip.”
“Actually, I didn’t know that. Maybe that’s why I felt so bad–stuffy or something.”
“Yep, when I visit my son in Florida I feel like that for a couple of days, and then it disappears. But tell me about Freeport and what you’ve been doing with yourself since you returned. Is there anything new about Terry Vaselekos?” She turned sideways in the seat to look at him.
“Well, Freeport was fine. I didn’t stay there long, or do the tourist things, but I did walk to the marketplace. They’ve got so many stalls full of all kinds of goods, it’s amazing. I guess the island economy thrives on that. The heat was something else, but there is a nice laid-back feeling, no one in a hurry. Except at the casinos.
“Last week Detective Horton and I went to the probate hearing in Hartford. Mrs. Stearns was absolutely devastated when she learned Thompson did have the right to sell the property, and that there was no money left in the trust. A million dollars gone!” He pounded his hand on the steering wheel.
“Of course, Judge Weidenfield didn’t have to declare Danielle Stoddard legally dead since she had received the information that the skeleton had been identified as Danielle’s–Mrs. Stearns’s DNA matched the skeletal DNA–so that part was eliminated. At the first probate hearing, the judge had requested records of Danielle’s charitable remainder unitrust and now she gave a copy to Mrs. Stearns. Horton received a copy, too. She is really upset and I think she’s going to file a civil suit. She claimed the trust was squandered by illegal expenditures. She was so angry I thought she was going to have a stroke right then and there!”
Bashia thought back to her earlier visit with Mrs. Stearns; this sounded like a different person. She hadn’t seemed to be a person who would sue someone, but if she could prove the money was squandered, and she thought some of that money was due her, she might have a case. How does one get a million dollars back? Bashia wondered if anyone had encouraged her.
“It seems Chuck Thompson and Harold Reagan were playing a nice little game with Danielle’s money even before she disappeared. It’s no wonder Reagan didn’t want to divulge any information about the trust when I interviewed him in Freeport. Thompson took it upon himself to take care of Danielle, and he took care of himself, too. He picked up the mail, took care of the property, registered the dogs for shows and, with his special power of attorney, paid all her bills and gave Terry her salary. He was giving himself and Reagan a salary, too, which was legal, but greatly padded. That probably would be the only grounds Mrs. Stearns would have in a lawsuit.
“After Danielle disappeared, the expenses skyrocketed to far more than the eight percent a year that was stipulated in the original trust. There’s something like a couple thousand remaining in the account! I don’t think Mrs. Stearns will get anywhere if she does sue Thompson. I don’t think he’s got any money, at least not a million dollars. He didn’t give me the impression he was sitting on a bundle of money!
“As if that wasn’t bad enough, Judge Weidenfield read Danielle’s will. It was really strange. She had requested her ashes be scattered over Madison Square Garden–during the Westminster Dog Show! She provided for payment of Terry Vaselekos’s vet school tuition or, if she had already graduated, a scholarship in Danielle’s name for a future student at Tufts University Veterinarian College in North Grafton, Vermont. She gave her Woodstock property to Thompson and the remainder of her trust was to go to several animal charities and to a dog museum in St. Louis. Of course, now there’s nothing left to give to anyone!”
“Wow!” Bashia frowned and shook her head. “How did Thompson and Reagan manage to spend a million dollars? That’s a stupid question–what I mean is how did they get away with it?”
“Don’t forget, we don’t really know what the money was used for. That’s what we’ve still got to find out. And then, this death of Terry. CPAC has no clue why she was killed or by whom. Homicide Detective Brad Higbee is in charge in Massachusetts and as sharp as a tack. I was impressed by his manner and liked him a lot. We got along great. Before I met with him, he thought it was a random homicide. Now he’s changed his mind.”
As he exited off I-395 and turned onto Route 16 for the restaurant, he said, “Douglas State Forest is right up this road, another four miles or so.”
“Oh, can we stop there? Let’s go there now, before it gets dark. Can we?” Bashia again turned to Mark, charged with curiosity. “I’d really like to see the place. What is the murder scene like? I’ve never been to the state forest; the schools take the kids there once in a while, but I never knew there was anything there.”
“There isn’t, just acres of undeveloped land. I have a hunch the state couldn’t give it away if they tried. It’s a wild place, huge boulders, deep ravines, heavily wooded. But we can take a look if you want.”
He passed the Hawaiian restaurant and continued on the narrow winding road for several miles until they saw the Douglas State Forest entrance sign. He carefully maneuvered his car into the small parking area, a few yards off the main road.
“The jogger found Terry down this trail. Come, I’ll show you.” As they walked together down the path, twigs and leaves crackled under their feet. When they came to a small clearing of a picnic area Mark pointed to the gully where Terry’s body was found. “This is the place, in that ditch. Look all around you, what do you see?”
“Trees, boulders, fallen leaves, the trail–it’s gloomy and shadowy here. A ditch, trash on the ground. What am I supposed to see?”
“For as remote as this place is, it’s still used by quite a few people. The jogger who found her and probably others use it regularly. By the papers and trash on the ground, some teenagers as well as grownups come here, too. So it’s not as desolate as it seems. If anyone saw a car drive in here, they wouldn’t think anything of it.”
A soundless, damp and quivering wind enveloped Bashia and she shivered, thinking of her traumatic Jamaican attack. Mark put an arm around her to comfort her. She had to control herself to keep from withdrawing from this first touch of intimacy, but it felt good.
“Someone purposely drove up here to kill her, they had it planned and knew about this place. The thing that’s got me is what was Terry thinking when they drove up here. He–or she–must have told her something to come here in the first place. She put up a fight in the end, but by that time it was too late. There wasn’t anyone around to help her.”
Bashia sat down on a boulder, drew her coat tightly around her and watched the leaves swirling in the wind. It was getting dark and she shuddered at the thought of a murderer loose on the trail. She whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”
At the restaurant their mood lifted when they walked into the sculptured garden entranceway, lit by ground landscape lights. Tiny gold lights twinkled in the trees. The bushes were shaped into short pyramids, with ferns dispersed among them. Inside they were greeted by a Filipino maitre d’ and their attention was drawn to the Hawaiian décor. Grass skirts, leis and hand-cr
afted drums hung on the teak walls. Artificial palm trees and ferns surrounded a sunken pond in the center of the dining area. A smattering of bright shiny coins littered the floor of a shallow pond–a reminder of recent visitors who thought a coin in the fountain ensured good luck. Bashia was tempted to pitch a dime or quarter in herself. Maybe she would on the way out, if she felt she still wanted good luck in this new relationship. Mark had mentioned that Terry Vaselekos told her co-worker she was coming here for dinner the night she was killed. Bashia wondered if one of those coins belonged to Terry. She shuddered and walked quickly as the maitre d’ led them to a booth.
When they were comfortably seated, they resolved not to talk about death and skeletons. Instead they caught up on each other’s lives. Bashia said she had completed her sewing orders and now had some free time. She wanted to take some classes in watercolor and thought about visiting her children, but a hurricane was threatening at her son’s in Florida, and the monsoon season was in full swing in her daughter’s area of Arizona. In the back of her mind was the frightening and puzzling discovery at her friend Dottie’s home.
As they sipped their mai-tais from coconut shells, she thought how comfortable she felt with this new man in her life. Often impatient when listening to people’s long-winded stories, she found herself genuinely interested in what Mark had to say about his life and hobbies. When she asked him about his family, he sheepishly admitted he had finally, after two years, called his son in Brunswick, Maine and was invited up there for the Thanksgiving holiday.
He had brought along his collection of woodworking tools when he moved to North Woodstock, he told her, and liked to make small things. He used to make games and puzzles for his children as a release from his police work, doodled with cartoons and one year made picture frames as his wife’s Christmas present. He hadn’t worked at anything since moving; there just wasn’t enough room in his apartment to set up a workspace. When he mentioned picture frames, Bashia interrupted him.
“Geekers, you make frames? Oh, you’re a man after my own heart. I need frames for my watercolors! Do you know how expensive it is to get a painting framed? We’ll have to get together on that! I have plenty of room in the barn. Oops, excuse me for interrupting, please go on.”
Mark thought of his dull life now and what he really would like to do. Besides woodworking he liked to fish, he said, in the Kennebec River in Maine, but he hadn’t been there in a while. His family used to spend time there in the summer, after the May no-see-ums were gone. It was impossible to fish while trying to ward off the invisible bugs. He still owned a cottage on Pleasant Pond, where winter started the day after summer ended, but he hadn’t been there since his wife died. Did Bashia ever fish? Perhaps the two of them could go there someday. He had been rattling on for some time and was amazed at how easy she was to talk to; he was saying things he had never told anyone else. And now, the way she looked at him and smiled, her green eyes twinkling, made him feel as if he needed to dunk his head in a bucket of cold water to cool off.
They fell silent when the waiter arrived with their meal of a shrimp platter for two, laulau wrapped in ti leaves and a carafe of wine. The wine unshackled their inhibitions and they spent the rest of the evening flirting with each other. Neither one had played the game for ages.
Bashia thought she might–someplace, sometime–be able to tell him of her repulsive Jamaican experience; as a police officer he probably had heard worse and might understand better than most people her lingering inability to lead a normal life. She hoped when she did tell him it wouldn’t ruin their relationship, which she was beginning to relish.
Just as they were finishing their sumptuous meal, Mark suddenly remembered the gift he had bought for Bashia. He fumbled in his jacket pocket trying to retrieve the package without drawing attention to his movement. Awkwardly he presented it to her, mumbling, “Here’s a little something I picked up in Freeport. I hope you like it.”
Bashia blushed, for once at a loss for words. Nervously unwrapping the package, she said, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know I didn’t, but I wanted to get you something.” He watched anxiously for her reaction.
“Oh, silver earrings!” she exclaimed, as she lifted one out of the box. “They’re beautiful! Thank you, it was so nice of you to think of me.” She removed her own earring and quickly slipped the silver tear on. “What do you think? How does it look?”
“On you, it looks great,” he answered. “I’m glad you like them.” To himself he thought, you always look great to me. Flustered and unsure of what to do next, he called the waiter and asked for the bill. As they left their table Bashia secretly dropped a coin in the fountain.
* * *
Mark turned off the motor as he and Bashia got out of the car in her driveway. She pulled her coat closely around her, shutting out the late cold night air. Her breath turned to steam as she paused to look up at the sky.
“The best thing about living on top of a hill are nights like this–see?” She swung her arms out in a wide arc and twirled around. “Look at all those stars! It’s awesome. I feel closer to God here than in a church. The sky is like a midnight-blue cup turned upside down.” With her face turned up to the heavens, she continued, “It’s like we’re inside this cup. See? The rim is the horizon and in the cup are millions of stars to light up the sky.” Her cheeks had turned red from the cold as she stared, transfixed.
“Look, there’s the Milky Way and there’s the Big Dipper. Do you see the Big Dipper? Ever since I was a child I remember walking home at night, cutting across the field from my grandmother’s house to ours and having the Big Dipper lead the way.” They stood for a few minutes, craning their heads upward, holding hands to keep from swaying, while they stared at the immense blue-black sky above them.
“Ah, yes,” Mark stared at her as he rubbed his aching neck and marveled at the many interests of this fascinating woman.
“I could see the Dipper turn throughout the year and I would dream it was emptying out all the stars it held. I’ve been told it’s part of the Great Bear constellation, but I could never figure that part out. Did you know the stars in the Big Dipper point to the North Star? It always amazes me that it’s not as bright as other stars. And there’s the Little Dipper.” She stopped, her lips dry from the cold and nonstop talking.
He put an arm around her shoulder and drew her close, feeling the cold and the conversation invited him to be closer to her as his eyes followed her skyward-pointing finger. He found that particular contact extremely exciting; his body was tingling. “I guess I never paid much attention to the stars, but they do put on a great show from here, don’t they?” He pulled her to him and kissed her.
She put her hands on his chest and pushed him away. “Stop! Wait!” she gasped, as she caught her breath. “It’s just that you caught me breathless, literally. Now that I can breathe, where were we?” She put her arms around his neck, pulled him close to her and returned the kiss, arousing long-suppressed feelings. She felt seduced as his lips melted into hers.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“It’s time to celebrate! We should have a party–the decorating is done, my cats are here, and you, my friend, have done an admirable job in guiding me. I love my new home.” Dottie lovingly emptied some cat food into a dish and put it in the microwave.
“I knew you’d like it; it’s so ‘you’. And your style fits nicely with this old house.” Bashia grinned at her friend as she took the dish out of the microwave and called Misha. “So Alice drove up this weekend with your cats? You must feel complete now, that your ‘family’ is here.”
“Oh, I missed them so. It’s so good to have them with me again. It didn’t take them long to explore the place and make themselves at home. When I got ready for bed, those two followed me around, rubbing up against my legs or jumping up on the bed. Sarafina nuzzles her nose against my neck and purrs–her whole body vibrates with satisfaction until she falls asleep. Misha, on the other hand, walks all ov
er the bed until she finds a spot to push against my legs and hunker down for the night! I don’t dare move, I don’t want to disturb them.”
“How can you sleep like that? I move all over my king-size bed. I guess they wouldn’t stay with me very long,” Bashia declared.
“I wanted you to meet Alice, but she was on her way to Lebanon, New Hampshire for a conference and didn’t have any time to spare. She promised to spend a few days with me next week when she comes back. Then we’ll get together,” Dottie said.
She had bought new carpeting, pictures, and some odds and ends to complement the furnishings that she had shipped from New Jersey. Books about cats, a cat calendar, cross-stitch pictures and wall hangings filled the living room. Her own creations of cat ceramics stood on her bookcase, along with pictures of her two adult children. Draperies or swags covered the windows and braided throw rugs gave the room a comfortable, settled look.
They lounged before a small fire in the kitchen fireplace, eating Danish and coffee, cozy while a cold wind howled around the house. Misha jumped up on Bashia’s lap. “This is so nice and comfy! I’m glad everything worked out for you. Are you happy now?”
“It’s just great, not too fussy. I don’t want to spend all my time dusting things. I hate dusting! I only do it when I can write my name in it. I like things plain and simple. What do they call it these days–‘minimal’? That must have been the way colonial people lived, don’t you think? They didn’t have time or money for doodads, whatever they had was functional. Well, that’s me, I want everything functional. But there’s still one more project.”
Bones in the Backyard Page 18