Old Secrets Never Die

by Lois Blackburn

  Mrs. Moore, he added, made extremely venomous comments about her sisters’ treatment of her. Taking off to Michigan had provided her with a whole new life and she had no intention to revisit the Woodstock memories or mementos of her old life.

  “She said you could torch the place, for all she cares. And that was her kindest remark about it,” Battles said.

  “Well, we’re certainly not going to do that. I’ll have to talk to her and see if there might be other family someplace, cousins or something who might be in line to inherit,” said Jankowski.

  “I wasn’t finished, young man. I did explore that with her. She said her son would be the only relative and she’ll send him to handle it. If he wants the house or anything in it, he can have it. But she is not going back there ever again. She won’t budge on that. My ears are still burning from that volatile conversation.”

  Arlene Moore told the attorney her only son, Donald, didn’t know anything about her family in Connecticut although he had asked about Goodells when his eighth grade class was assigned to create a family tree. She had told him all her family was gone before he was born.

  Now 43, Donald managed the Okemos Meijer’s Thrifty Acres store, one of the busiest in the huge multipurpose retail grocery chain founded in central Michigan years before Wal-Mart began its spread across the country from Arkansas.

  Donald had started as a bag boy there in his teens and worked his way up. He was buying a home near the store, about ten miles north of Holt. Arlene described her son as an ambitious young man who liked what he did and was successful at managing personnel.

  “She adamantly refuses to go to Connecticut, so I have overnighted Power of Attorney forms for her to sign, relinquishing her claim and giving Donald Moore full authority to act in her behalf,” Battles added.

  “I told her you would be in touch with her or her son. She said I should tell you not to bother her, you’d be wasting your time and I believe her. She said she’ll fill Donald in and, I quote her, ‘This will be his inheritance and he has to go get it’.”

  Jankowski felt a little guilty about his attempts to rush Battles’ report along. Obviously, the man and Julie Johns had done good work in his behalf. And he was happy to avoid people like Arlene Moore whenever he could. They could be almost as difficult as real criminals he had dealt with.

  “Mr. Battles, that is excellent. Please fax me a report of your and Miss Johns’ work. You’ll be handling the legal matters for him, I presume? Would you like to arrange for Donald Moore to fly into Hartford so you’ll be able to meet him and put a face on your new client?”

  “Sounds good to me. I’ll set it up.”

  “I have a line on a reputable antiques dealer if he wants the house appraised and I’ll help him in any other way I can. I’d like to get him here soon so I can close the case file. Thanks much for your quick, efficient handling so far. If you come to the area, please call me—I’ll buy lunch. And the next time I need good help in Hartford, I’ll know who to call.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Donald Moore was glad the state trooper’s car wasn’t here yet; he would have a chance to look around. He felt like a kid lost in the wrong neighborhood. These homes must all be a hundred years old. You’d think by this time the town would have its own police force.

  He leaned on the hood of his rented Toyota Camry, pulled out a cigarette and glanced around the square. The homes reminded him of some he’d first seen on Capitol Avenue way back when his Holt Junior High seventh grade class had visited the State Capitol in Lansing. The teacher had mentioned that these large homes once belonged to early state officials.

  His recollection surprised him; he hadn’t thought about junior high school in years and most field trips weren’t very memorable. It probably came to mind because years later, when he took management and business courses at Lansing Community College downtown, some of those impressive white-pillared colonials and red brick homes had new aluminum or clean brick fronts after their conversion to insurance or law offices. A few had become rooming houses for students, but he didn’t remember that any looked as good as some of these on the green in tiny Woodstock, Connecticut.

  Now, he hoped he could meet this cop, go through the house with him and the antiques dealer, contact a realtor to put the old lady’s place up for sale, and get the heck out of here. Trooper Jankowski had told him he thought some furniture might be worth more than a yard sale would bring. I don’t need anybody’s old, used furniture, but the more cash the merrier, Donald thought, smiling.

  He paced up and down, impatient for the trooper to arrive although he didn’t expect to be impressed with the house tour. The grounds were neglected, with too many overgrown fir trees. The building looked taller than two stories. Once-white frames on its windows were gray and peeling. This place sure wasn’t the nicest within sight, but it was easily twice the size of the home he had grown up in.

  His mother had shocked him when she asked him to fly to Connecticut–on her nickel. He’d never even heard of an Aunt Gladys Goodell but vaguely remembered that his mother’s name had been Goodell. During his flight to Hartford, Donald realized how little he knew about his parents’ families.

  Both had worked on the line at the Oldsmobile assembly plant west of Lansing before they retired. They lived in Holt, a half-hour drive southeast of the capital, a town where they could keep his dad’s rusty old pickup in the side yard without having neighbors complain that it was an eyesore.

  He thought his mother didn’t have any living relatives. The family sometimes visited his dad’s cousins up near Mount Pleasant when Donald was young but, after his grandparents died, trips to that small farm stopped.

  During most of his life, Dwight and Arlene Moore just worked their factory shift, overtime when they could get it and came home to collapse into their matching rocker-recliners in front of the television.

  That was okay with Donald. He and his two best friends, Kevin and Brian, felt they outgrew their parents by the time they were in high school. When they turned sixteen and could get driver’s licenses and work permits, they went up to Meijer’s in Okemos for their first jobs. One of them could almost always get a car; a few times Donald had to hitch a ride or ask his father to drive him.

  The Muskegon-based chain had even paid for his classes at Lansing Community College, when “MBWA” was popular. “Management By Walking Around” was fun for him–it had helped him develop a salesman’s personality.

  Tall and wiry as a youth, he was beginning to put on weight in places. He had grown a mustache to look older but it didn’t work, it seemed to make his face appear pudgy. Although his job required meandering around the store, it also exposed him to temptations in the produce aisles that he found impossible to resist.

  Donald looked at his watch for the third time as he mashed his cigarette butt beneath his black boot. He was glad the lawyer had met his plane at Bradley International Airport in Hartford. It was good to connect a face with the voice. Henry Battles told him he would just have time for a fast-food lunch if he wanted to make his two o’clock appointment with the state trooper. The car rental company provided a good map to Doctor Pike Road and he arrived with ten minutes to spare.

  His mother’s words repeated in his head, “This will be your inheritance, your nest egg. If you want it, go get it.” Nest egg, my foot, he thought. He was earning and spending his own inheritance. He had never relied on handouts from his parents.

  The ups and downs of the national economy had continually threatened his parents’ factory jobs. They were always pinching pennies and Donald had learned that lesson well. His job was slump-proof, he thought. One of Meijer’s marketing principles was that people always would need food, toilet paper and clothing at the right price.

  He paced back and forth on the sidewalk to stay warm. An overnight dusting of snow had melted away but the temperature still hovered near the freezing mark. He could visualize the realtor’s ad: “Large lot, sidewalks and streetlights.” He didn’t k
now anything about property values in Woodstock, but he thought houses here might be higher than in Okemos, Michigan. Well, I’ll know soon enough, I guess. I’ll take a quick walk-through, say what is expected of me, sign the papers to sell the place and get back home.

  A State Patrol car had just stopped at the curb behind him. The man he thought must be Mark Jankowski unfolded himself out of the driver’s seat, pulled on his hat and strode forward, limping slightly. He was older than most state cops Donald had met before, but had a friendly look on his face.

  Donald flicked his hand across his slightly receding hairline, put on his practiced store manager’s smile and reached out to shake hands with the officer. “Hello, I’m Donald Moore from Michigan. I got here a few minutes early,” he said.

  “Trooper Mark Jankowski. Any trouble finding the place? You told me on the telephone that you’re six-foot-three with light brown hair, a mustache and wear dark-rimmed glasses. So you fit the description, but I guess I should ask to see some I.D. before letting you into this home.

  “Did you bring your mother’s Power of Attorney with you?” he asked, noticing Donald’s firm handshake.

  “Of course, it’s in my briefcase in the car,” replied Donald. He wondered if the cop was suspicious for some reason. Maybe I should have worn a suit, he thought. Nah, he’s just following procedure.

  “Thank you. If you’ll get it, we can go on in. Mr. Lazarus said he might be a few minutes late but we won’t wait out here in the cold.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Donald scrunched his nose at the musty smell that greeted them as Trooper Jankowski opened the door. His eyes were still adjusting to the darkness when Jankowski found the light switch in the foyer.

  “Here,” Jankowski called as he flipped on another light. “Let’s go this way,” he said, leading into the living room.

  Donald followed, dumbstruck. He felt he had stepped into another era, making the phrase “older than dirt” a reality. The room was cluttered with dark, overstuffed chairs and several small tables stacked high with newspapers. Tattered scatter rugs couldn’t mask the worn, dull wooden floor. The walls were dark; floor-length maroon drapes made the room seem ominous.

  It felt even colder when he checked out a tall fireplace, black mouth agape. What kind of people were these relatives of mine? He shuddered, zipped his down jacket closed and carefully sidestepped around the dust-covered furniture.

  Trooper Jankowski had disappeared into the kitchen when a quiet, deep voice called from the front door, “Should I knock or just barge right in?”

  Donald turned to see a man’s partially bald head, large nose and dark complexion peeking through the half-open door. “I’m Hiram Lazarus, looking for Trooper Jankowski and a Mr. Moore.”

  “Join us. We just walked in ourselves,” said Jankowski, as he returned to the living room. “I’ve heard a lot about you from my friend, Bashia Gordon. She says you’re far and away the most qualified antiques expert around.”

  Hiram smiled as he handed the trooper his business card. “I am flattered. Bashia was one of the first people I met when I moved here and we’ve done a lot of work together,” said Hiram. “She’s a real professional, a fine decorator, besides being such a nice person. In both our businesses, we rely totally on referrals of our quality work. I hope I can be of service here.”

  “Thanks for coming. I’m Mark Jankowski and this is Donald Moore, the new owner of the house and nephew of the late Gladys Goodell. I thought it would be helpful for Donald to learn if the furnishings were of antique quality or not.”

  Donald couldn’t keep his eyes off Hiram Lazarus. The man looked to be in his mid-fifties. His fringe of graying hair would have made him look older, except it was almost collar-length, a trait Donald associated with Vietnam-era veterans who came into his store.

  Tanned, maybe Mideastern olive skin color, a few wrinkles framed Hiram’s round face. Bright, dark eyes quickly surveyed the surroundings. At first glance Hiram appeared stocky, but as he moved on into the room, Donald could see that the three of them were all around the same height–six-feet or more.

  Hiram slid his well-worn brown leather briefcase onto a sofa and removed a legal size, yellow-dog pad on a clipboard with a pen attached. He reached into his shirt pocket awkwardly with his left hand to retrieve a pair of rimless, wire-stemmed glasses.

  “Ready when you are, gentlemen,” Hiram laughed as he put his glasses on. “These are my appraiser’s specs–I only need them to see with. Pad, pen and brain are all at your disposal.” His attempt at humor fell flat.

  “Donald, do you want a grand tour first, or should we let Hiram do his thing and follow him?” asked Jankowski.

  “I don’t need a tour. I can see the place as we go along. How do you go about this, Hiram?” Donald said. He didn’t need to see the house more than once. He already knew he wasn’t interested in any of this old woman’s stuff. He’d just learned that she even existed.

  He had grudgingly agreed to make the trip, wondering why his mother ignored family all his life? Why wouldn’t she come back to at least see the place? She had dismissed all his questions before he left, just repeated that she would never go back there again. Donald had thought he might be facing a nasty scene, but it wasn’t half bad so far.

  High ceilings had been in style when this home was built and the Goodells had topped theirs with twelve-inch crown molding throughout. From where he stood, Donald noticed that the dining room furniture seemed impressive.

  “Years of practice give me the habit of approaching an old place with this much character from downstairs to upstairs,” Hiram said. “My appraisal form lists sets first–like the living room set–and then occasional pieces. So I’ll start right here. I’ll note the things of some antique interest, such as that elegant dining room suite.

  “When I’ve seen the entire house, I’ll calculate it and make an offer for the lot. It will not be itemized. It’s your decision whether to accept my offer or seek another dealer.

  “Please understand, I won’t buy everything in the house. I don’t deal in knick-knacks, even Baccarat crystal, Lalique or Steuben, nor silver, silver plate, kitchen items, linens, clothing or jewelry. There are plenty of dealers who specialize in those things, however, and you might want to bring one in if there is much of it.

  “Unless you tell me today that you want to keep specific pieces, my offer will be based on the list I create. Once you accept my offer, I can remove the furniture within a few days and I’ll arrange for someone to clear out the entire house if you wish, or you can call in a charity to take it. Is that agreeable, Donald?”

  When Donald just nodded, Hiram asked, “Are there some pieces you want to exclude from sale? Oh, that’s right, you’ve never been here before. Well, as we go through each room, if you’re interested in something, tell me and I’ll put a ‘Hold’ tag on it.”

  Donald looked about, slowly observing the amount of furniture filling the living room. When he agreed to come handle the matter, he told his mother he certainly didn’t expect the trip to change his economic status. Maybe that had been a hasty judgment.

  He might be earning more if he’d gone for a job in state government, but he liked retail and he was doing pretty well. A few years ago, he had bought a nice three-bedroom colonial duplex just off County Line Road, within walking distance of Meijer’s, and rent from the tenant on the other side paid his mortgage. So all of his income was his to use as he wished and he was building net worth gradually.

  He wasn’t rich, but he didn’t have any family to support. He could go to the car races when he wanted, drink with his buddies any old time, or whatever. If anyone asked him, he probably would say he was comfortable. That’s what he was, although he didn’t feel quite as comfortable as usual right this minute.

  “I’m not an antiques aficionado–isn’t that what you call it? And my parents’ house is already so full they don’t care to have anything,” Donald said. “You just go ahead and do your thing. If I see a
nything I really like, I’ll holler.”

  “Okay, if that is agreed, we can proceed,” said Jankowski. He switched on all the table lamps in the living room and the dining room crystal-drop chandelier, so it wasn’t so dreary. He thought that Donald already looked uneasy, perhaps thinking about the fact that his aunt’s body was found here so recently.

  With a hint of a smile, Hiram quickly made notes about various pieces as the three men moved from one room to the other. He occasionally muttered something only he could hear. Once or twice he set his clipboard down to tip a small table or chair to one side, peering beneath glasses that had slid down to the end of his nose.

  Donald and Jankowski followed quietly, observing the professional at work. He declined their offers to help, although he worked essentially one-handed.

  Donald watched Hiram closely as he rested the clipboard on his bent, rigid right arm. He wrote the upside-down way many left-handers did, with his arm stretched across the page, its wrist twisted awkwardly down.

  He wondered what had happened to the right arm, perhaps a war wound. Hiram’s writing position prevented Donald from reading anything on the form, even though he stood very close. Hiram seemed to be making checks in boxes and only brief notations on the page.

  Jankowski watched Donald studying Hiram’s note-taking technique. The trooper had immediately noticed that Hiram’s right arm didn’t function fully when Hiram didn’t shake hands upon his arrival. Hiram held his right arm close to his body, similar to former U.S. Senator Bob Dole, who usually gripped a pen in that hand and reached forward with his left to shake hands.