Old Secrets Never Die

by Lois Blackburn

  “I’m Trooper Jankowski, Ma’am. I just checked out the Goodell home,” he said when she opened the door. “You called 9-1-1?”

  She nodded, “Yes, I’m Sally Wickard,” she said as she ushered him into her living room. He followed her, removing his hat.

  Her knitting lay on the sofa, with yellow, red and orange bobbins dangling from the sweater she was making. Her cat playfully batted a tan ball of yarn on the floor. Sally waved the cat aside, scooped up her knitting and motioned Trooper Jankowski to sit on the sofa.

  “Shoo, Calico,” she said, “We have business here.” She fluffed a pillow in the grandmother’s rocking chair, smiled nervously and sat down.

  “Thank you for calling us about your neighbor.” He laid his hat on the sofa and studied the woman. She was short, probably in her early seventies, with a pleasant face and quiet manner. She wore a long, billowing, black skirt, made of some rough woolen material. Long muddy-brown hair was anchored to her stooped shoulders by a paisley shawl.

  Trooper Jankowski had found the name of a Hartford attorney on one of Miss Goodell’s letters, but he wanted more background information before he spoke to him, or had to drive the fifty miles to the state capital. He hoped Sally Wickard could help him.

  “I’m sorry to tell you, but apparently Miss Goodell died in her sleep,” Jankowski began.

  Sally gasped and raised her arms to her chest. Jankowski looked about, giving the shocked woman a chance to regain her composure. It was a warm, inviting room; its large braided rug partially covered the polished floorboards. The matching mahogany brown camelback sofa and wing chair sat at right angles to each other. The late afternoon sun cast shadows over a desk near the window. The smell of strong coffee reminded him that he had skipped lunch. He wished she would offer him a cup.

  “We know she lived alone and we’ll notify her next of kin. But what can you tell me about her, Mrs. Wickard? You were her neighbor. Did anyone visit lately?”

  “Oh, my, how did she die?” She looked at him quizzically, then without waiting for an answer, continued, “Gladys–she never married, you know–she lived all alone in that big house since her older sister died last year. It’s a shame she refused any help. But please call me Sally,” she said, rocking slightly in her chair. She shuddered and pulled her shawl closer to her neck in spite of the warmth in the room.

  Jankowski crossed his legs and unbuttoned his jacket, revealing a snug shirt and navy tie. He felt awkward but decided to let her express herself in her own way. In New Haven he dealt with people who were usually middle class, like himself, or worse off.

  This woman, apparently leading a lonely life, still carried a certain assuredness of her place in society. Even the homes here were different. Old homes passed down through the generations gave stability to the area. On his drives through Woodstock, he always marveled at the size of the houses, spacious lawns, sleek cars. He wondered how one or two people could live in a house with so many rooms, so many doors, so many windows. Did they ever see each other? Or was it a method of avoiding each other?

  He thought of his own life, growing up on the top floor of a three-story tenement, five rooms for the six of them, no grassy lawns, no swimming pool, no garage or greenhouse. And yet, his family had been content.

  Sally’s voice pulled him back to her comfortable living room. “She seldom had company. They were quite reserved, I couldn’t befriend them. We said ‘Hello’ and that was all. It seems as if the world just passed them by. Their dress was old-fashioned and they drove their father’s ancient Buick. They relied on each other and didn’t associate with many people that I know of.

  “Reverend Mann, from the Congregational Church, would visit about once a month, but I think he was the only person to do so. In fact, he stopped by there today when I happened to look across at the house. It reminded me that I hadn’t seen Gladys for a few days. That’s part of the reason I called the police. I saw he didn’t get an answer.”

  She paused as Calico jumped in her lap and she stroked its hair before continuing, “Excuse me for rambling, but it is a shock to know that she’s gone. I know she’s old and everything, but it still is shocking.”

  “Yes, it is. But it seems she died peacefully. Please go on, Mrs. Wickard, I mean Sally,” he said as he took a small pad and pen from his jacket, his eyes on her all the while.

  She sighed and nodded. “A few years ago Gwendolyn broke her leg–that’s the older sister–and they had Meals On Wheels delivered, but after six months or so, they were able to get out and about, so that stopped. Since then, they spent most of their time at home, I think. The IGA delivered groceries once a week and Gladys would come outside to pick up the morning paper.

  That’s another reason I called. There were several days newspapers lying there in the melting snow on the walk and I was thinking I could use the grocery coupons, if she wasn’t.”

  “Did you do that often? I mean use her grocery coupons?” He looked up from his note-taking.

  “Well, no. Gladys usually did pick up her paper. I don’t know if she used them.” She paused, staring ahead as if looking into the past.

  “Go on,” encouraged the trooper. He was getting restless, but thought Sally probably had more information about the family than anyone else.

  “After her sister died I tried to be friendly, went over a few times to see if there was anything I could do for her, but Gladys was curt and cold.”

  “Did you know them very long?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s strange; I grew up right here, across the street from them. I remember when I was a child, I thought they were the most beautiful family when they all piled into their car and went for a ride. I was an only child, you see. But they were older than me and we didn’t associate much. Our parents were friendly, though.

  “Gwendolyn was eighty when she died, and I think Gladys is–was–seventy-nine this year. Actually, there was a younger sister but I’ve got cobwebs in my mind right now and I can’t think of her name. I don’t know what happened to her.” She frowned.

  Jankowski nodded. He knew people talked more freely if he just let them ramble without even an “uh huh” from him.

  “Seems there was something strange about her, but Mother never would discuss it. Wait. I can probably tell you her name.” Calico scurried out of the room as Sally rose and went to a small desk where she rummaged in the bottom drawer. Pulling out a yellowed notebook, she sat down next to him.

  “Mother kept a Christmas card book, but it was more like a history of everyone she knew. It included notes on families–names, ages, deaths, as well as addresses. I never knew a lot of those people. They’re all dead now, I guess.”

  Jankowski straightened up, leaned toward Sally, wanting to take the book out of her hands.

  “Look at this, ‘This book belongs to Mattie Sloan’.” She showed him the inside cover. “My mother’s name was Margaret, but everyone called her Mattie. Everyone except my father, that is.” Her eyes misted as she slowly turned the thumb-worn pages, handling them as gingerly as an old family Bible.

  Jankowski squirmed on the sofa, hiding his curiosity and impatience. “I see,” he said.

  “So many names and addresses. People wrote more in those days, you know. Well, let’s see, here they are. ‘Thomas and Madeline Goodell’. Yes. There are three sisters, or there were. ‘Gwendolyn, Gladys and Arlene’.

  “Now I remember! Arlene was the youngest. Huh! Look at this!” She pointed to some notations on the edge of the page. “‘Graduation cards sent to Gwendolyn and Gladys’–Strange, it doesn’t say anything about Arlene.” She laid the book in her lap and looked at Jankowski.

  “I’ve been away for ages, you see. First I went to boarding school as a child, then off to college, married and raised a family. I moved back after my husband divorced me for a younger woman. It was a good excuse to return home. Those were difficult days.” Eyes closed, she slumped back and sighed. “When Mother died, I inherited the house.

  “I’ve trie
d to keep an eye out for Gladys, but it’s been difficult. I would like to have done more, but…”

  Jankowski nodded. “I understand. It was good that you called when you did. You’ve been a big help. Do you know where Arlene is now?”

  “No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, thank you very much.” He rose to leave, pocketed his notebook and picked up his hat. He wondered where he was going to find Arlene. Perhaps the lawyer will know something about her.

  It was late afternoon when Trooper Jankowski returned to his office in the lower level of the two-story tan brick colonial Woodstock Town Hall and he still had several details to accomplish. Gladys Goodell’s death was almost certainly from “old age”, as his parents used to say, so he hadn’t been in a rush to contact headquarters. Now, the standard procedures had to be followed.

  Constable Dupre would bring in the scene log, but Jankowski needed to report the incident to the Eastern District Crime Squad at Norwich in addition to his Commander, Sidney Cuthbert of the Danielson Barracks. He hoped Greg Horton would be assigned the case.

  Most of Jankowski’s contacts with headquarters had been routine, except for the unique mystery last year at the old Stoddard property. Cuthbert had let him work that case with Horton and the crime squad. Meeting Bashia had made it especially interesting.

  Like many police officers, Jankowski disliked paperwork. He came to the department following post-Korean War Army duty as an MP and greatly preferred the personal contact aspects of his job over the record-keeping. Plus, long periods at his desk reminded that he wasn’t as young as he used to be. His leg wound left him with a slight limp that was more noticeable to him than anyone else, especially if he sat immobile for very long.

  He thought he could finish his day with two brief phone calls, then make a quick stop at the grocery store, pick up some frozen dinners and head home. All the morning’s snow had melted so he didn’t anticipate any weather-related problems to interrupt his evening.

  “State Police Major Crime Squad, Detective Horton here.”

  Jankowski recognized the voice. He could picture the forty-year-old’s thin-lipped scowl, receding black hairline and loose-hanging uniform. Horton liked a good cigar and tried to light up in Jankowski’s office when they first met. Once that taboo had been dealt with, they had laughed together at the changing nature of life’s rules. All department vehicles were non-smoking, so Horton’s habit didn’t affect Jankowski when they traveled together.

  “Hey, Greg, it’s Mark Jankowski. I’m just calling to give you guys a heads-up on a death over here. It’s probably natural, the deceased is a female around eighty years old. Do you want it now or should I just send a computer report after the medical examiner checks in?”

  Once Jankowski gave him the basic details, Horton would determine whether he needed to come to Woodstock. Both officers assumed the ME would provide his preliminary finding soon.

  “Say, what gives, old man? You haven’t been in town long enough for so much activity. People will start to wonder about you. They’ll be trying to hurry your retirement along if this keeps up. I don’t think there ever have been two suspicious deaths in that area in such a short time!” Horton laughed loudly. “Just kidding, Mark. I’ll check your report and get back to you.”

  “Good. The woman was taking medications for some chronic conditions. Dr. Rodow will check that out. Be talking to you soon.” One down, one to go and this day will be done.

  He wrote Gladys Goodell down on his to-do list for tomorrow and looked forward to the possibility of working with Horton again. They had teamed up well, with a little help from Bashia. He wondered if she might know the deceased since she had lived in this area for so long. She seemed to know everyone. He’d like to see her, but knew it would not be appropriate to involve her in this case.

  Next he called the attorney, Henry Battles in Hartford. The letter he found at Goodells’ indicated Mr. Battles wanted to review her will with him soon. It was dated months earlier but had still been sitting in its envelope on her table.

  On the third ring, the answering machine kicked in. He was disappointed; he had hoped to get something started quickly toward locating the third Goodell sister and clear the file.

  “Thank you for calling. You have reached Henry Battles’ law office. Leave a message and I’ll call you ASAP–that’s as soon as possible.” A brief laugh followed, then, “After the beep, of course.”

  Voices were hard to relate to age, but Jankowski thought the man sounded close to his own age, maybe even older. That might be good, although the outgoing message seemed a bit flippant for an attorney. He decided not to make any judgments and just hoped Battles had the answers to some of the questions surrounding Gladys Goodell.

  “Mr. Battles, this is State Trooper Mark Jankowski at 860-555-6200 in Woodstock. I need to speak with you ASAP, as you say, about a client of yours, Gladys Goodell. Please call me when you receive this message.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Constable Dupre shrugged out of his jacket, threw it over the back of a kitchen chair and sank into another, his long legs sprawled out before him. “Coffee still hot?” he asked his wife.

  “No, I finished it a long time ago. I’ll make a fresh pot.” Mary Ann knew her husband well. When he asked for coffee at four o’clock in the afternoon, she knew he was keyed up and needed to talk out his day. “What’s happened?”

  “You would never guess. Had a death in Woodstock! A little old lady up and died. Trooper Jankowski showed me the body, just layin’ in bed like she was asleep. He had me wait with him for the ME to get there. Never knew the Goodell family, we were never called there for anything. They don’t think it’s suspicious. And there don’t seem to be no family around. Don’t pay ya to be rich–all them antiques in there didn’t do her no good. She’s alone. Jankowski’s gonna work on finding kin.”

  Mary Ann spun from the counter where she had just opened the coffee canister; her hand holding the measuring spoon froze in midair. “What did you say the name was? Where did she live?”

  “Goodell, Gladys Goodell. On Doctor Pike Road. Ya know that place? That place on top of the hill with that white church and a little triangle of a park. Lots of old families up there.” He twisted his fingers around his short handlebar mustache, then rested his chin in the palm of his hand. “Why?”

  Mary Ann usually paid little attention to his assignments as constable, but this time something nagged at the back of her mind. “Some of my high school friends lived there. Brooklyn didn’t have a high school at that time, remember? So we were sent to Woodstock Academy. The school is as old as Santa Claus but pretty nice. Lots of kids who came from wealthy families didn’t associate with us.

  “But I made friends with some of them and that name rings a bell.” She frowned as she poured water into the coffeemaker, turned on the timer and sat down at the table. They were opposites: he was tall and thin, she was short and, after four children, fat and frumpy.

  High school images flooded her mind. She stared out the window trying to connect a face with the name. Gladys Goodell? What was it about that name? Suddenly she shouted, “Oh, Arlene. Arlene Goodell!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Arlene was one of my best friends in high school. She wasn’t uppity like the others. We only hung out in school ’cause I took the school bus home and I think she walked, or maybe someone picked her up, I don’t remember. She was pretty quiet, like me, so we got along well. She used to tell me about her sisters–her folks were dead and the three of them lived in that old house. They were quite a bit older.” She paused, her mind flooded with long forgotten memories.

  “Then something happened in our last year of school.” She continued, “Arlene told me her sisters wouldn’t let her go to the prom. But she sneaked out that night and went on a date with some guy. What was his name? Oh yeah, Marty. Martin Sidebottom. He turned out to be a wild guy, always in trouble. I think you served a summons on him once.”


  “Yeah, so?”

  “She just up and left school and moved away. Not the family, just her. I was so mad at her. Here I was supposed to be her best friend! Nobody knew where she went, or why and our teachers sure weren’t going to tell us anything.”

  “You never told me that,” Richard said absently, eyeing the sputtering coffee pot. He was tired and cranky and didn’t want to hear about Mary Ann’s school days. He had attended the vocational school in Danielson. It wasn’t a happy time in his life, even though he ended up with a certificate in carpentry. After a few unhappy experiences working for a contractor, he ran for county constable and had held the job for more years than he could remember.

  “It was before I met you,” MaryAnn replied as she poured coffee into two mugs and placed them on the table with the sugar bowl and spoons. “Around the time we got married, I received a letter from Arlene. She said she was working as a secretary in an automobile plant, going to get married and wanted me to know, seeing I was her best friend. But she swore me to secrecy, begged me not to tell anyone she had written, not her family or anyone and I never did.”

  “I don’t suppose you remember where the letter came from?” He drank his coffee in large gulps, renewing his energy. Maybe he could help Jankowski locate the next of kin.

  “I might still have it in my old scrapbook. She was such a good friend, I wanted to keep something of hers.”

  “Well, do you think you could look for it?”

  “Right now? I’ll need to get in the attic and dig out the old boxes and it’s cold up there.”

  “Yeah, I know, but just think, you could be helping solve a mystery.”

  She sighed, took a quick sip of her coffee and rose from the table. “I think I remember where I packed it. Come and help me, if you’re so anxious to see this letter.”