Hiram’s arm seemed to have a little more flexibility than Dole’s, Jankowski thought, but he definitely didn’t have much use of it. A long sleeved shirt prevented Jankowski from seeing Hiram’s immobile arm. The lack of motion didn’t slow him down much, as he sped through his lists, checking a box here and another there before flipping each page.
Jankowski was impressed how quickly the process went–like one smooth, efficient movement into, around and out of each room. Hiram didn’t miss a thing, nor waste any time. The process didn’t lend itself to small talk. Jankowski thought he might ask Bashia more about Hiram later. He seemed like a good guy to have a beer with sometime.
“That’s a late 18th Century wooden clock by Eli Terry of Waterbury on the mantel, Mr. Moore. He held the first patent for a clock mechanism. Your mother might have fond memories of that from her days as a child,” Hiram said. “And this Chippendale love seat is probably 1770 vintage, a little older than those two Queen Anne wing chairs…”
“Please call me Donald and I’ll call you Hiram,” Donald interrupted, “and as I said, we’re not into or interested in any of this stuff regardless of its age, thank you. I guess it’s very interesting to you, but not to me.”
Jankowski wondered if he should step in as mediator, but decided to let Hiram handle it. Bashia had told him that Lazarus was highly qualified and easy to work with.
“Your choice, Donald. It’s my field, of course, so I have lots of enthusiasm for it. I didn’t intend any offense,” said Hiram.
He knew he could easily sell, at a good profit, the beautiful love seat, or the mahogany Chippendale bachelors’ chest with three bottom drawers and a pull-out top drawer that created a desk. Also a pair of fruitwood corner cabinets. And the dining room set with four matching Queen Anne chairs, their backs contoured and hand-carved scrolls on the legs, was a genuine prize.
“What did these people do, do you know, Trooper Jankowski?” asked Hiram.
“Well, Hiram, the neighbor told me Mr. Goodell, who would have been Donald’s grandfather, was an attorney,” Jankowski answered. “Why do you ask?”
“That would make sense,” Hiram said. “An attorney would have made good money, but during the Depression, the professionals frequently gained their wealth taking other people’s belongings in trade for services.
“There is a lot of good furniture here, but quite a mixture in the side pieces–like that Covington oval drum side table in dark walnut with cherry and burled veneer, plus the foldout cocktail table with its elegant inlaid top. And then that beautiful pair of monumental blue and white Chinese porcelain lamps. The mixture is frequently an indication that the owner didn’t have a taste for the styles, but came by it accidentally.”
Jankowski mentioned that his mother always said she would love to have a dining set like this one, but they couldn’t afford it. He didn’t know a lot about antiques, he added, but appreciated that they were valuable. Hiram smiled a look of understanding.
Donald Moore just looked on, occasionally running a finger across a tabletop, leaving a worm-like trail in the dusty surface.
“There are some impressive cut-glass Fostoria pieces, Depression era glassware and carnival glass in that china cabinet,” Hiram said as the trio left the dining room and he turned a new page on his clipboard.
Donald shrugged.
Jankowski bit his lip but remained silent as he led the way up the stairs. He thought the heir could show a little enthusiasm for the family’s belongings.
The massive oak banister, dark from years of much polishing, had become dull and sticky from neglect and dust. The trooper felt at ease, knowing that this time he would just find all the woman’s earthly possessions and perhaps get an idea of what they were worth.
He hadn’t looked closely at the furniture during his initial investigation, but now he could relax and enjoy whatever he could learn from Hiram’s assessment.
Maybe when this job was done, he would ask Hiram to appraise his wife’s porcelain bird figurine collection. He knew he wouldn’t part with it, in fact he had only unpacked a few since moving to Woodstock.
Dee had inherited most of them from her mother and an aunt. He knew they were valuable, almost all were Boehm birds. Maybe he would show them to Bashia sometime. That would give him a reason to invite her to his house for the first time. She probably would enjoy the artistry.
So these are my relatives and ancestors, not a very friendly-looking bunch, Donald thought, shaking his head in disbelief at the portraits of old, somber individuals lining the stairway wall. He didn’t examine them closely enough to decide whether they looked like his mother, or even himself. How did I ever get talked into coming here?
“Nice frames on some of these,” Hiram mumbled, barely pausing. “I’ll catch them on the way down on my ‘Miscellaneous’ sheet.”
Upstairs, Hiram’s dark eyes darted from one piece to the next. In each room, he saw nothing but beauty, although most of it would appear quite plain to the untrained eye. He was in his element–brass bedsteads, marble-topped washstands. In the bathroom, an old-fashioned water closet with a pull-chain hung above the commode. Cracked linoleum on the floor and loose plaster on the walls silently told the tale of opulence long past.
The first two bedrooms were nearly empty, their pine floorboards covered with dust. Ceilings were lower and the windows smaller. A three-quarter bed topped with an old quilt was centered on the east wall in the third bedroom. Two ornately carved bureaus, a small writing desk and curved spindle-back chair filled the room to capacity. Almost all of the furniture was black, testimony to years of coal heat dust in the air.
“The family lived here for many years, I’m told,” Jankowski addressed Donald. “The lady across the street who alerted us said it was the childhood home of Gladys and Gwendolyn and your mother. Did Mr. Battles tell you he worked with your grandfather when he, Henry Battles, first got out of law school?”
“Oh, yeah? That’s interesting,” Donald said. The reluctant heir had begun to warm a little to the occasion–in his friendly store manager’s mode. Merchandise buying was a part of his job description and this house tour was activating the cash register inside his head.
There used to be an antiques store in a huge, old barn near the Okemos Meijer’s store. He and his friends sometimes walked around inside during their lunch hour, laughing at the old stuff sold there on consignment. They would bounce on the couches in spite of the “do not sit” placards everywhere and hustle to another section if they spied a salesperson approaching. The price tags hadn’t been of much interest to him at the time, but some of it had sunk in.
Gladys Goodell certainly had a lot of old relics in her house, he realized. He hadn’t thought it would amount to much, but maybe it would be a pretty good deal for him, after all.
Well, he’s finally showing some interest, thought Jankowski. Most people would have a lot of questions about their family history, under the circumstances. It had been getting a little too quiet in here with Hiram doing his work and Donald so aloof. Yes, aloof is a good word for him.
“There’s a lot of nice pieces here, although it hasn’t had much tender, loving care recently,” Hiram commented. “Don’t you think your mother might have an interest in some of it?”
“None whatsoever,” Donald blurted back. “I’d never even heard of Woodstock, Connecticut. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know and it doesn’t much matter. My mother flatly refuses to come here. As I said, neither of us is big on this kind of décor, so we’ll just cash it in and be done with it.”
Jankowski stepped back, surprised at Donald’s unexpected outburst.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I was just making conversation,” said Hiram.
“Don’t worry about it. How many more bedrooms are there, Mark?” Donald asked. He looked at his watch as if he had another appointment elsewhere.
In the third bedroom Donald had opened a few dresser drawers and armoire doors, glanced inside briefly then slammed the
m shut again as if he thought moths might attack if he looked too closely. Then he had sat on the bed, bounced on the thin mattress and lifted the homemade crazy patchwork quilt to look underneath. It reminded him of a similar spread on one of his Grandma Moore’s beds in Michigan.
Maybe he’s never seen a bed where the squeaky bedsprings are visible, Jankowski thought.
“Just one more, Donald, the largest of the four and the one where I found Gladys Goodell,” the trooper answered.
Donald paused slightly before stepping into the last bedroom. He unzipped and removed his winter jacket, tucking it under his arm. It was beginning to feel stuffy in the old house.
“After you, Hiram,” Donald finally said.
Donald didn’t sit down in the large bedroom. First, he leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed on his chest and stared at the four-poster bed, neatly covered with a threadbare handmade quilt.
Then an ornately carved chest in front of the window caught his eye. He casually walked to it and raised the lid gingerly, a handkerchief covering his fingers. “This is kind of interesting,” he said.
“That’s what they called a hope chest, the most famous manufactured by Lane,” Hiram said. “Girls were usually given one as a teenager to fill with linens and other household items. The inside was lined with cedar to protect its contents for the day when the daughters of the house were married. Mothers would embroider dish towels, pillowcases and other linens for their daughters.
“They sometimes kept valuable family keepsakes or pictures in them, also. You might want to check out what the Goodells kept in there.”
Donald hesitated for a moment and raised the lid until it leaned against the wall. He bent inside to pick up a neatly folded, satin-edged, red wool blanket. He dropped it quickly as tiny remnants of mothballs fell to the floor. “Woo, that’s a surprise,” he said, embarrassed at his reaction.
Hiram laughed, picked up the blanket and placed it on the foot of the bed so they could examine the contents of the chest. A large piece of brittle, barely blue tissue paper split at his touch, revealing a yellowed wedding gown. “So much for the old wives’ tale that wrapping fine linens, satin and other precious textiles in tissue paper would prevent discoloration or climate stains,” he said.
“I thought someone told me this old lady never married,” Donald said.
“She didn’t, and neither did her sister who died around a year ago,” explained Jankowski, glad that Sally Wickard had told him a little of the family history.
“Judging by the beadwork and style of that dress, maybe that was their mother’s wedding gown. That’s more like something from the 1920s, not the Forties. Let’s see what else is in here as long as we’re digging,” said Hiram, who always enjoyed exploring people’s old treasures. He pushed aside a few loose black and white photographs, revealing a small bundle wrapped in several layers of newspapers.
“The date on this paper is March something of either 1951 or 1952! I could barely read way back then!” Hiram lifted the bundle gingerly, knelt down to set it on the floor and carefully peeled back several layers of paper, exposing a tiny mummified body, no larger than a baby doll.
Donald gagged, raised his handkerchief to his mouth and backed out of the room. “What the hell is going on here?”
Hiram stood, turned to Jankowski and said, “Now what?”
“This is not part of your inheritance, Donald,” Jankowski answered, shifting quickly into his police officer persona. He held his arms wide to herd Hiram and Donald out of the bedroom and downstairs. “You’ll have to move outside, gentlemen, while I call my people. This is now officially a crime scene.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Bashia nervously clutched her armrest as the plane flew over the island on its approach to Montego Bay. Flying to Jamaica wasn’t her idea of a vacation. It brought back haunting memories of her Peace Corps assignment, her roach-infested apartment, and the disastrous incident that continued to give her nightmares–her duppies.
She was in a cold sweat, with butterflies in her stomach. Damp ringlets of auburn hair plastered her neck and her light blue blouse clung to her body.
She hadn’t told anyone, except Mark, about the rape which continued to torment her. When she left the Peace Corps and returned home to her part-time interior decorating business, she had thought she could get her life under control by her own will, but it wasn’t working. She was reluctant to trust anyone, especially men. When she met Mark, she felt she might be able to share her fears with someone–him.
Mark had been very persuasive in convincing her to return to Jamaica. And now, he gently placed his large hand over hers. “It’ll be okay, believe me. We’ll get rid of your nightmares once and for all. Then you can relax and show me around the island.”
Mark knew that victims fared best if they revisited the area or faced their attacker. It had taken some cajoling on his part, but he felt if he could just walk Bashia through this, there was a chance their friendship would develop into a closer relationship.
A chemistry had blossomed when they first met in Woodstock last year. On their occasional dates, Mark thought she was interested in him. But more than once, when they were enjoying time together–when he least expected it–she would pull away physically and emotionally. At least now he understood her reluctance.
Mark leaned his head toward Bashia. “By the way, I presume you haven’t had time to read the paper this morning. There was a small blurb about Donald Moore flying in from Michigan yesterday to settle the Goodell estate. The article didn’t say, but Donald Moore never knew he had relatives here.”
“Who is Donald related to?”
“He’s Gladys Goodell’s nephew–his mother, Arlene, wouldn’t come here, so he came in her place. I arranged for him and your friend Hiram Lazarus to inspect the house and I think they’ve made a deal. I’m glad you alerted me to him. He certainly knows his antiques.
“I can’t make up my mind about Donald, though. He was so noncommittal and controlled, but when we found the infant, he…”
“What?” Bashia burst out. “What infant?” For a second, she forgot about her own problems.
“We found a mummified baby in a hope chest in one of the bedrooms, wrapped in newspapers. We sent it to forensics. Detective Greg Horton is taking care of the matter,” he whispered, patting Bashia’s arm, urging her to quiet down.
“It’s a wonder you were able to get away. Whose baby is it, anyway?” She was shocked at the news. The Goodells were looking stranger and stranger.
“We don’t know yet, and I won’t learn any more until I talk with Greg. I just thought you’d be interested to know that bit of local news. But, let’s put that on the back burner for now and focus on why we’re here.
“You said you made reservations at that place where you and your Peace Corps friends spent Thanksgiving, right?” he asked, trying to distract her. “We’ll drive there, get settled and check out Ocho Rios. Then tomorrow we’ll head for Christiana.” He blinked when flashes of sunlight fell over his face as the plane dipped and dropped toward the airport.
The descent of the plane made Bashia’s apprehension return. Initially, Bashia had balked at flying to Jamaica but, since he was the only person she had shared her secret with, she finally agreed to the trip.
Usually an impulsive, outgoing person, Bashia hated being wishy-washy. She was having second thoughts. Should she have revealed her awful secret to Mark? Did he even have the slightest inkling of what it felt like to have your body violated? It was as if her privacy had been torn apart and exposed to the world, leaving her disgraced, dirty and devastated.
“Yes, we’ve got a unit at Sunflower Villa,” Bashia muttered through clenched teeth, her body stiff and strained. “It’s not like the inclusive resorts advertised in our papers. It’s a resort used by the Jamaicans–all we could afford as Peace Corps Volunteers.”
Mental images of the row of quaint villas, Jamaican food and the Thanksgiving weekend with her friend
s flooded her mind and she forced herself to exhale, her lungs deflating like a limp balloon.
Still, she wasn’t sure if she could gather the courage to show Mark the sickening scene where she was attacked. She shivered, but didn’t release her death grip on the armrest as the plane hit the tarmac.
Once out of customs and the Sangster airport, Bashia felt invigorated. She took a deep breath of the salty hot air. “It’s so beautiful here. Look at that turquoise water!” Now she was relaxed and free, a far cry from her near panic on the airplane.
Mark had exchanged some money for Jamaican dollars and obtained a rental car without any problems. He concentrated on driving and watching for signs to reach the two-lane north coastal road before he answered. “It is nice, but hot. How did you ever get used to the heat?”
“You learn to look for any shade–even the shadow of a telephone pole! But after a while you get used to it.”
As they left the crowded Montego Bay area, “Mo’bay” to Jamaicans, the roadway followed the shoreline, the calm ocean on their left and dozens of small shops and homes clustered together on their right. In the background, the hills rose gradually to the mountainous interior of the island.
“What’s going on there? What’s he chopping,” Mark asked as they passed a man standing under a large umbrella amid a pile of yellowed shreds. He wore a tattered straw hat, loose brown shirt and ragged black pants that ended well above his bare feet. He beckoned to them, calling,“Cum bu’ me coco drink!”
Bashia laughed, remembering the familiar sight. “Oh, he’s chopping off the outer shell of the coconuts with his machete to make them lighter to carry. Then he will cut off the top, throw in a couple of straws and voilá–a most delicious coconut drink! But you have to be careful, people who aren’t used to coconut milk may develop diarrhea.”
“Oh, great, I’ll be careful of that!”
The pale blue sky seemed bleached by the brilliant sun. Roadside signs advertised two hidden treasures of Jamaica–Rose Hall and Greenwoods Great House, famous resorts and historical plantations.
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