Old Secrets Never Die

by Lois Blackburn

  She knocked again and peered through the glass partition, then opened it slightly and called, “Hiram, it’s Bashia, ready to tackle that chair for you!” It seemed odd to her that Hiram left the door unlocked with a houseful of valuable antiques.

  No answer, she stepped in and closed the door behind her. On her previous visits, the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee had greeted her. Now the house was silent and cold. She looked about, then walked down the hall, past the kitchen to the enclosed porch, flooded with sunstreams. A wing chair stood in the middle of the room, a tall roll of fabric leaned against it.

  It was the faded, worn chair they had previously discussed, but where was he? She called again, “Hiram, I’m here!” It wasn’t like him to forget their appointment; they had just spoken a few days ago.

  Most of her steady clients would tell her if they weren’t going to be there when she arrived. “Just go in and start your work, I’ll be back soon,” they would say. But it would be for a short time, perhaps to deliver a child to school. Bashia wasn’t overly concerned, but she was annoyed with Hiram for not contacting her. Did he get an unexpected call from a client and have to leave?

  Sighing, she removed her coat and pulled her tools out of her bag–a notebook, twelve-inch long scissors, a box of pins and a tape measure–expecting to see Hiram come down the hall. She knew Lucinda was away, he had said she would be visiting her son.

  Did he forget I was coming? Is he asleep? Where is he? She hated to waste time–she wanted to cut the slipcover and get home and check her own narcissuses.

  Bashia carefully moved a small wicker table and floor lamp aside and flipped the fabric to unroll a length on the floor, then stopped. She didn’t dare begin cutting without a final discussion with Hiram.

  The fabric was too expensive for any error, but she could do a few things. She measured the pattern repeat, the skirt length and the boxing width of the cushion, making detailed notes in her book. The large repeat pattern was beautiful and she hoped Hiram had allowed for extra yardage. The floral design would look impressive on the tall wingback. He had good taste, she had to admit, as she studied the furniture in the room.

  She thought she recognized a few of the pieces from the Essex shop. The room oozed casual comfort with several pieces of wicker furniture. Large floppy pillows were scattered on the sisal rug, magazines lay on a low table and a lightweight knit shawl draped across the back of a sofa.

  Impatient now, she retraced her steps and called again as she headed for the kitchen. A round oak table stood in the center, surrounded by six black Hitchcock chairs. There was no sign of breakfast, no dishes in the sink. The coffee pot was cold. Hmm, I don’t know if Hiram eats breakfast. With Lucinda gone, would he go out to eat? Did he forget to turn up the thermostat? She shivered.

  On past occasions when they worked together, she never had to wait for him, he was always on time. She always felt comfortable with Hiram as a person, trusted him as a businessman and couldn’t imagine him as a philanderer, especially after her conversation with Caroline Mathis at his store.

  Now she was getting an edgy feeling being in his home with him not there to greet her, especially with Lucinda gone. She looked out the window at the path and her station wagon in front of the two-car garage. The garage door was closed; she couldn’t tell if his car was there. The gravel drive glistened in the sun, ghostly white.

  Turning from the window, she wandered to the living room, which ran across the entire front of the house. It would have been the room where bedraggled travelers once had their supper before a roaring fireplace and commented on the poor road conditions or Indian encounters.

  Now antiques filled the room, but it was dim. The filtered sunlight that slid past tree limbs and through six-over-six windows did nothing to cheer the room. Cold, she shivered again, turned back and walked past the office-library.

  Something made her stop in her tracks. She held her breath and froze. In the corner of her eye she could see a tan deck shoe on the floor, sticking out past the desk. And a bare ankle in it. In an awkward position.

  “Hiram?” she called, this time softly. She didn’t know why she whispered. Surely he isn’t asleep on the floor! Cautiously she entered the room, her eyes focused on the shoe the entire time. When she reached the desk she could see an overturned office chair and Hiram lying behind it.

  “Hiram, what happened? Can I do anything?” She rushed toward him but stopped short when she saw the blood. It pooled on the hardwood floor and surrounded his head. She thought she remembered seeing an Oriental rug in this room when she was here previously. He lay on his side, one arm flung above his head, the other close to his body.

  Gingerly she reached out to touch him, then drew her hand back. “My God, I think he’s dead,” she said to herself. “What happened? Who would do this? Why?” Turning pale, she shuddered, ran to the kitchen and, with shaky hands, dialed 9-1-1.

  It was déjá vu for her, as her mind flashed back to her own husband’s death. On that early morning she was awakened by fierce coughing and found Norman’s lifeless body sprawled on the dining room floor. He had suffered his first, and fatal, heart attack.

  Now every nerve in her body tingled. She needed to pee, she wanted to scream, she wanted to run away. Instead, she took deep breaths and forced herself to return to the library. Curiosity overcame her fear. Her Red Cross CPR training and the three C’s entered her mind, but she couldn’t get past the first C–Check. Is there anyone else in the house? Am I in danger?

  A fleeting thought ran through her mind–there had been a rash of daytime burglaries in this remote area lately, in homes that were known to contain valuables. Had Hiram caught a thief in the house and been shot? What happened here? Did he catch someone trying to rob him?

  She grasped the door frame to steady herself and studied the room. Floor to ceiling bookcases filled one wall. She faced a bay window, its seat cushion on the floor. “I remember making that cover!” she said and took a small step into the room.

  That was when she noticed a pistol on the floor, a short distance from Hiram’s right hand. It was partially hidden by papers, apparently part of a collection that had scattered from the desk. Hiram wore a plaid flannel shirt and sweat pants, unlike his usual dressier apparel. She quickly looked away from him and stared at an open gun cabinet on the opposite wall.

  Is a gun missing? Did he shoot himself? Nah, he couldn’t have. He wouldn’t do that! He sounded so positive when we last talked. As her eyes returned to Hiram and the puddle of blood, she felt sick and ran to the bathroom where she fell a heap.

  Even the noise at the door didn’t rouse her from her stunned state. Strong arms forced her to stand and guided her to the sun porch where she was laid on the sofa and wrapped in the shawl. It was only when she heard Mark’s voice calling her name that her eyes focused on the blue uniform.

  Half rising, she threw back her head and wailed, “He’s dead. Hiram’s dead!”

  Mark pulled her to a sitting position and took both her hands in his, forcing her to focus on him. “Bashia, listen to me! What are you doing here? Did you see anyone when you came in?”

  Instead of calming down, Bashia began to cry and shake. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t. I just talked to him a couple days ago. I was supposed to cut that cover.” She glanced at the chair and fabric on the floor. “I need to pick that up.” She attempted to stand.

  “No, that’s okay, we will do it. When did you get here?”

  “Ahh, we had an appointment today–for nine this morning. Now I’m going to be late with everything. I don’t need another trauma in my life–seeing him dead on the floor, with blood around…” she paused, looking up at Mark as he reached out to her.

  “It couldn’t be suicide–Hiram wouldn’t want me to find him like that. He knew I was coming. Who would kill him?”

  “Is he married? Is she here?”

  Dazed, Bashia stared at Mark before answering, “Lucinda. Oh, my God, poor Lucinda!”

 
“Do you know where she is?”

  “She’s in Vermont visiting her son. Poor Lucinda!”

  “Do you know exactly where she is or when she’s coming back? We need to reach her.”

  “She’s supposed to come home today and I don’t know where in Vermont, to her son’s, I think Hiram said. But it’s not Hiram’s son—it’s a long story, they’ve been together many years, just never married.”

  The EMTs and several other police had arrived; the house was getting crowded and noisy. Bashia couldn’t comprehend what was happening. Mark tried to keep her focused on his questions, but she kept insisting Hiram wouldn’t kill himself. He had been in a good mood when she talked to him last to set up this appointment to cut the slipcover. He had told her of his plan to expand the Essex shop and would need her to do some work there.

  “All right, Bashia, let’s start from the beginning,” Mark declared, speaking slowly, authoritatively. “When you got here was the door locked? Did you see anything unusual? Did you touch anything in the library? Think, Bashia, think! It’s important.”

  She slowly shook her head from side to side, “No, no, nothing. No one was here, not Hiram or anyone else. I waited, then started walking through the house. That’s when I found him. First I just looked and ran to the phone when I saw the blood. When I went back, I didn’t go in–just leaned on the door jamb, that’s all.” She buried her head in her hands and cried.

  Mark laid her back down, covered her with the shawl and turned to Constable Dupre who had just walked in the door. “Stay with her, I’ll be right back.” Grudgingly, Dupre did as he was told. He wanted to be part of the action, to follow Mark and the EMTs, but knew better than to protest. He pulled a wicker chair close to the sofa and sat down.

  “He’s been shot in the head, that’s apparent. And dead quite a while,” Chuck Collier, the emergency technician said. “Do you want me to call Dr. Rodow? There’s nothing for us to do right now. This is a case for the Major Crime Squad.” He began packing his equipment. His partner backed out of the room with an oxygen tank, allowing the trooper to study Hiram once again.

  “I’ll contact Detective Greg Horton. I’d appreciate it if you contact the ME for me, I’d like to check outside,” said Jankowski as he taped off the room.

  Collier caught up with Jankowski as he carefully searched the perimeter of the house for any evidence. The windows were secure, in fact Jankowski wondered if they had ever been opened. None of the doors were damaged. There didn’t appear to be a forced entry anywhere. The grounds were covered with decayed leaves, mushy from the winter weather, but no footprints were visible.

  “The ME will be here shortly,” said Collier. “I told him what’s going on, he’s bringing an intern with him.”

  “Oh?” Jankowski asked, thinking it was unusual. But he dismissed the matter as he headed for the garage. The doors were locked, but he could see an old van, which he recognized as the one Hiram drove when they first met at the Goodell house with Donald Moore. Bashia’s wagon was parked in front of the garage, along with his patrol car and Dupre’s vehicle stood in the street.

  Any tire tracks had already been obliterated, but it would have been near impossible to pick up decent prints from the gravel drive.

  He stood in the driveway thinking, What has happened here? Bashia arrives at nine, Hiram is dead, his wife is away. Who killed him and why? And Bashia, how does she fit into the picture? He would have time to think about it while he waited for Dr. Rodow and Detective Horton.

  Returning to the house, he entered the library and started a mental to-do list: the gun cabinet would need fingerprinting, the gun sent to forensics. Forensics will be dusting all over the place. What were those papers scattered on the floor and desk? Was there an argument over them? Why was the cushion on the floor? Was there a fight? What did the intruder take, what did he leave behind?

  As soon as Dr. Rodow examined the body, he would get to work. That is, unless Greg Horton arrived before he could begin.

  He turned back into the hall, to the sun porch and Bashia. Hopefully, this time he would be able to get more information from her. She usually had a strong temperament with an upbeat personality. Even when they went to Jamaica, she was fearful, but level-headed about the trip.

  “How is she doing?” Jankowski quietly asked Dupre, seeing Bashia asleep.

  “Why don’t you ask me?” Bashia said, sitting up. “Mr. Dupre hasn’t moved out of his chair and I think he’s getting antsy. I’ve been resting and now you don’t have to worry about me getting hysterical. What have you been doing?”

  Hell, why did I think I needed to worry about her? He smiled as he sat down next to Bashia, put his arm across her shoulders and said, “I’m glad you’re feeling better. I guess it was quite a scare for you. So now can you tell me what happened?”

  Bashia smirked at him without comment.

  “Now Bashia, let’s start from the beginning. You said you had an appointment to cut that slipcover?”

  The three of them looked at the wing chair as if it had secrets to tell.

  “Yes, Hiram called a week or so ago and asked me to cut it. Dottie told me Lucinda has been worried sick that he had a lady friend somewhere. But it wasn’t anything like that; he was spending more time in Essex to meet with a contractor about expanding his store there.

  “But, you know, something else is going on down there–a stranger had been hanging around, waiting to see Hiram and Caroline said when the two of them finally met, threatening words were exchanged.”

  “Wait a minute. Not so fast. Who is Caroline and what were you doing in Hiram’s shop?”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? Dottie and I decided to investigate why Hiram was going to Essex so much.”

  “You went to investigate? You are something else!” Mark shook his head. “Again, who is Caroline?”

  “Caroline Mathis, she runs Hiram’s shop for him when he’s not there. She told us about a guy who came looking for Hiram. Wouldn’t give his name or anything and looked kind of seedy. When Hiram and this stranger finally did meet, Caroline heard the tail end of an argument the two were having. The guy stormed out of the store saying, ‘We’ll see about that’. She’s been uneasy since then. And then they had a break-in!”

  “When did you last hear from Hiram?”

  “I spoke to him Thursday, we set a date for today. He said Lucinda would be away, but he would be home. When I got here, the door was unlocked, so I thought he might have run to town for something, like some of my clients sometimes do, but he hadn’t said anything about that, so I didn’t know what to do. I went looking for him and found him in the library, that’s when I panicked, I guess.”

  “Well, you did the right thing, calling 9-1-1. Did you see anyone outside when you got here? This is a pretty remote area.”

  “No, no one. In fact, I got queasy ’cause the house was so quiet, and cold. Did anyone check the thermostat? It’s too low, if you ask me.”

  Dupre rose from his chair and headed out the door, then turned, “Do you know where the thermostat is?” he asked Bashia.

  “No, sorry. But if you find it, could you turn it up?”

  Mark broke in, “No, Richard, don’t touch it. The ME will want to know what temperature it was set at to determine the time of death and maybe get some prints.” Dupre nodded and went to search for the thermostat.

  “Okay, you called 9-1-1 when you realized Hiram was dead. Then what?”

  “Nothing. I went back to the library and just looked about the room. I guess my mind went blank. The next thing I knew you were talking to me.”

  “All right. Now I want you to go home and rest. You may feel fine, but you’ve had a shock. Is there someone you can call to stay with you for a while? And I want Constable Dupre to take you home.”

  “I don’t need anyone to take me home! I can drive.”

  Mark shrugged his shoulders, “If you insist, but I’ll have Dupre follow you, to make sure you get there. Now, is there someone you can c
all?”

  “I suppose I could call my sister, Emily. We don’t see each other very much, she’s wrapped up in the Woman’s Club, or the hospital auxiliary, planning parties and conferences. But I think she’ll be home today,” Bashia said.

  Mark reached for a phone on a small table nearby, handed it to Bashia and said, “Call her.” Just them, he noticed Greg Horton’s unmarked car pull into the driveway.

  Grasping the steering wheel tightly, Bashia drove carefully, knowing Dupre was behind her. She mulled over the strange events of the past week. Hiram is dead, shot to death. Lucinda is in Vermont, or is she? Could she be so upset thinking Hiram has a lady friend that she would kill him?

  Didn’t he say anything to her about his plans for the shop expansion? And what about that business in Essex? Who was that man threatening Hiram? What did he want? Now, with Hiram gone, we’ll never know. Oh, Hiram, I’m going to miss you!

  “We will find out who did this to you, that’s for sure!” She shouted, banging her fist on the steering wheel.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Lucinda’s Chrysler LeBaron convertible barely fit on the driveway space left open by the various vehicles scattered about the property. What’s going on? Surely Hiram didn’t advertise a sale without telling me. What are these cars doing here? State Police cars? What the…?

  Despite rising panic in her heart, Lucinda grabbed her small suitcase from the back seat and dragged it toward the house. Two tall officers headed her way, walking past a van labeled “Major Crime Squad Unit” with the state seal. She stopped as they approached her.

  “Ma’am, I’m Trooper Mark Jankowski and this is Detective Greg Horton,” said the older, heavier man, who limped slightly. “Let me help you with that bag, those wheels won’t work in this gravel. We need you to come in the back door and talk to us on the sun porch.”

  “What’s going on? Have we been robbed or something? Isn’t Hiram here to talk to you?” Lucinda looked about, perplexed. “Hiram had a decorator coming by this morning. Is she here? Her name is Bashia Gordon. What’s going on? Is everything okay?”