“Well, Hiram keeps a full, detailed inventory of the entire house in the large, right hand desk drawer in there. The guns probably include serial numbers, what he paid for them, and when and where he bought them. He also keeps a daybook on his desk so anyone he’s seen recently would be listed. He is very methodical in his business–and everything else in his life, not like me,” Lucinda answered.
She took a deep breath, suddenly realizing she would have to take charge of the business and numerous matters she’d never dealt with before. Lucinda closed her eyes and put her head back against the sofa.
Jankowski wondered if she were about to faint.
“That’s very helpful, Lucinda,” Horton broke the silence and she responded, lifting her head.
“I have one friend who lives alone in a big house with two cats. I’ll call Dottie,” she said.
Jankowski recognized the name and suggested she have her friend pick her up as soon as possible.
“You wouldn’t mind if the crime squad went over your car, would you?” Horton asked, hoping she would agree and a warrant wouldn’t be required.
Lucinda answered with a blank look moments before she answered, “Surely, you don’t think I had anything to do with this? Oh, my. Of course, you can vacuum the road dirt out of it all day long. Hiram was my love since Vietnam took my husband from me. Hiram supported me and let me do whatever I wanted. Why would I jeopardize that?”
Horton thought Lucinda’s red hair glowed more fiery. Her face nearly matched her wispy curls.
“Thank you, Ma’am,” he said. “You can leave any time after you give Trooper Jankowski that list for fingerprint exclusion. Don’t leave town, please. We’ll need to talk to you again. Oh, and give Trooper Jankowski your friend’s and your sons’ phone numbers. The log officer will let us know when Dottie arrives and we’ll bring her to you. Please remain here until then. Try to relax.”
Jankowski took the seat Horton vacated, so he could accurately capture Lucinda’s list. He’d stay with her until Dottie arrived, then catch up with Horton to review what they knew and didn’t know so far about this puzzling homicide.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Greg Horton shuddered and stomped his feet as he opened the door to the State Police office in the lower level of Woodstock Town Hall. It was just before eight but Trooper Mark Jankowski already had a small tape recorder set up on his desk and was rearranging furniture to accommodate a court reporter’s transcription machine.
“Brrr, I sure wish this winter would decide to go away soon,” Greg said, as he set a coffee tray with two wrapped donuts on Mark’s desk. “Take your pick–compliments of the continental breakfast at my motel. It was windy and starting to snow last night when I finished talking to Roscoe so I decided to stay overnight at that Knight’s Inn on Route 12.”
“Great, I’m supposed to be on a diet to make this uniform fit better, but I can handle one,” answered Mark. “You should have called me. I’ve got an extra bedroom at my place if you need a bunk any time. Glad for the company.”
He picked up a donut, shook off the excess powered sugar and took a bite. “Mmm, I hope that’s cream filling, not custard. My mother used to make custard every week–we got eggs free at my Uncle Ed’s farm–and I haven’t liked it since I left home. We’ve got a few minutes to eat before things get hopping. The reporter, as well as the two Woodstock constables, are due by eight-thirty. We’ll use the snack room down the hall as a holding room.”
“That should work fine. I told one of the fingerprint specialists to be here by ten. We can do the interviews first, then have the tech get their prints. They’ll all need to stick around anyway since they’ll probably be riding together,” said Greg as he stirred his coffee.
“Except for Bashia,” Mark said quickly, then smiled and reddened. He brushed his hand down his tie, hoping he hadn’t dropped any powdered sugar or crumbs. “She doesn’t live very close to Dottie and Tom probably stayed there with his mother after he got here. They left a message on my machine that he arrived late last night. Dottie Weeks probably will be driving since we kept Lucinda’s car at the house.”
The men busied themselves, setting a chair in the corner behind Mark’s large desk for the court reporter. Greg arranged his chair across the desk from Mark’s and placed the “witness” chair at the end of the desk, between them.
“We’ll have them hang their coats on the coat rack when they come in. Besides the radio at this end, I try to keep the counter clear in case visitors bring documents with them–I try not to get anyone’s stuff mixed in with my haphazard filing system. Of course, we’ll have them come in one at a time.
“Oh, Greg, thanks again for covering for me last weekend when I went to Jamaica. We had that trip planned before any of these bodies started showing up and it was important enough that I didn’t want to cancel.”
“You don’t have to be embarrassed, Mark. I don’t judge my friends’ personal lives–you’re single, aren’t you? I’m sure your Bashia is a lovely person–and if you spent a weekend in Jamaica with her, she’s got to be adventurous and bright and lots of other great things.
“More power to you. I’m glad to get to meet her. But I’ll be watching to be sure you’re being objective in questioning this fantastic lady,” Greg laughed and playfully punched Mark in the arm.
“Well, I can’t tell you any more about that trip,” Mark answered. “I probably shouldn’t even have mentioned her name when you and I talked on the phone. It wasn’t strictly a social adventure. She and Dottie, by the way, served in the Peace Corps in Jamaica–that’s their connection to each other.
“Bashia and I have a growing friendship and I have high hopes. We share strict upbringing in Polish homes, but mostly I love her active curiosity and enthusiasm about everything. We recently went on a date, her choice was dinner at Foxwoods. It was unique.”
“Trip to Jamaica…Foxwoods for dinner, sounds promising,” Greg said. “Oh, I think I heard a car door slam. Now we have to stop talking about her.” Soon a round, smiling face peered through the small window in the door.
Mark had staggered the interviews, first Bashia, then Lucinda, finally Tom. Bashia was always punctual, usually early, one of many things he liked about her. His wife, whom he loved dearly, had been a last-minute person. She didn’t want to be ready to go out before he was, in case he was called away and their plans were abandoned. That happened frequently in New Haven, a much busier post.
Mark stood and reached across the desk to shake hands with Bashia. If he’d been alone, he might have hugged her or kissed her cheek.
“Bashia Gordon, meet Detective Greg Horton, the lead investigator on the case. Greg, this is my friend who considers herself an amateur sleuth. I don’t think you met the last time we worked together and you just missed her at the Lazarus house yesterday,” he said.
Horton smiled and reached for Bashia’s long, tan cashmere coat after she set a thin file folder on the edge of the desk. She pulled her plaid wool scarf through the sleeve of her coat. Smooth, Horton thought.
“I’ve been working,” she smiled, when she noticed Mark look at the folder. “You said you would need a written, signed statement from me and I didn’t sleep very well last night so I got up early and wrote one on my computer. I tried to remember every detail. And I brought two copies so we could go over it together. You men can each have one since I already know what it says.”
Horton raised his eyebrows in surprise at the effort.
“Excellent. Have a seat. I hope you got some rest,” Jankowski smiled, thinking she appeared unusually calm. “We might still have some questions to ask you, which the reporter will take down to add to this.”
A short, thin young woman in a navy pinstriped pantsuit had entered the office just after Bashia, almost without being noticed. She hung her belted London Fog all-weather coat on the rack and began uncovering her steno machine behind Jankowski’s desk.
Court reporters are a breed apart, Jankowski thought.
They seemed to glide about, fitting themselves and their equipment into any nook available, setting up without fanfare and ready at the first spoken word.
“Hello, I’m Kim Barnes,” she said in a quiet voice as she handed Jankowski a business card. She looked barely beyond her teens, her light brown hair pulled into a neat bun. Once she had threaded and straightened her transcription paper into its basket, she sat erect in the seat, hands poised on the long black keys.
Jankowski knew she didn’t expect to be introduced. “Let’s get started. Our first interviewee, Bashia Gordon, brought a written statement that we’ll attach to your record for her signature,” he told Kim. He spelled the name for her. “Will you be able to give us overnight service on these transcripts?”
Kim Barnes nodded. “Of course.”
Bashia handed each man two sheets of paper, typed double-spaced and paper-clipped together. Her name, address, phone number and yesterday’s date topped the first page. They glanced solemnly at each other and began reading.
“But while driving here, I thought of one other thing,” Bashia said. “I was in that room once before and there used to be about a twelve-foot square large red, yellow, brown and black Oriental rug in the middle of the room. I was thinking about the way it looked yesterday–the outer edges of the hardwood floor are darker than where the rug was.
“Maybe Hiram sold it. But you know there have been some robberies in that area, don’t you? Was anything else in the house missing? I guess you’ll have to ask Lucinda about the rug. She would know if he sold it, don’t you think?” Kim rapidly typed away.
“We’ll ask Lucinda, Bashia. Thank you for being so thorough with your notes,” said Jankowski. “I believe you told me that you set up this appointment with Hiram a few days before by telephone, right? That is the only omission I see in your narrative that Horton might want to know.”
Bashia felt a blush rising in her cheeks. “Sorry about that. Yes, I called him last Thursday to confirm the date and time. He had purchased the fabric and I was coming to measure, cut and pin a cover for that worn chair on the sun porch. I think he planned to put it in his store in Essex. You know he was planning a big expansion down there, right?”
“You mention that in your notes here,” said Horton. “You’ve been very thorough, Bashia. The only question I have is how often were you at Hiram’s home? I guess everyone uses people’s back or side doors; they’re rarely locked in the quiet corner of Connecticut, eh?”
“Right, I never went in the front door. I don’t think many people do,” she answered, innocently. “I guess I’ve been there three or four times. We met first at my house when I was having a garage sale. He arrived early and I started to object until I learned he was an antiques dealer about to relocate to the area. People with upscale taste in furniture frequently use decorators like me, so he seemed like a good person to welcome.
“He asked me to make some drapes for his home before he moved in. Through the years, we became very good friends. This was the second time he had some furniture at the house that he wanted me to recover. I think that makes four times, ’cause I measure and cut the first time, then deliver and set up or install the next time…
“Oh, you didn’t think…” Bashia looked at Mark, feeling warmth creep into her face. “Detective Horton, maybe you didn’t notice but I’m quite a bit older than Hiram. I guess I should thank you for the compliment, but we have—had–a strictly professional relationship.
“I occasionally ran into him in town and if we made a referral, we would give each other a heads-up on the telephone. He sent me more referrals than I gave him, probably, but if someone asked me about furniture, I always recommended him. He really knew his business.”
“No offense, Bashia, but I had to ask.” Greg glanced at Mark, who had a scowl on his face but realized it was a possibility that couldn’t be ignored.
“It’s okay, Bashia,” Mark said, easing her discomfort.
He could see the two constables, Richard Dupre and Benny Lupe, standing in the hallway just outside the door.
Jankowski rose, leaned back in a stretch and signaled to Bashia that they were finished questioning her. He walked with her to the door and introduced her to Benny. “You already know Constable Dupre,” he said. He nodded to both men.
“Lupe, why don’t you hang around the outside door until the rest arrive, then bring them to my office. It’ll be one or two women and one younger man, plus we’re expecting a fingerprint technician later.
“Dupre, I’ll walk you and Bashia down the hall to the break room. There’s some snacks and beverage machines but I don’t recommend the coffee or tea,” said Jankowski.
“Want anything, Greg, or do you want to walk along? I need to stretch my legs a little.” His limp was barely noticeable to others but the muscles in his left leg would tighten up whenever he was in the same position for extended periods.
“Well, I just have one more thing to say to Bashia–don’t leave town without asking us,” said Horton, flashing a smile at her.
Horton said he would stay in the office. He wanted to call forensics to learn when their initial reports would be available.
Roscoe told him they should be ready in a couple of hours. A small group had returned to Lazarus’ home this morning, going through the basement, but their first assessment was that nothing was missing from the house. The victim had been fingerprinted but the full analysis would not be completed until they contacted the entire exclusionary group that Lucinda Litchman provided. The list wasn’t very long, Roscoe said, and one of his team would keep at it until they found everyone.
Roscoe told Horton he thought they should bring the widow to the house to see if she noticed anything missing. He could meet them there with his reports. Time of death would not be certain until an autopsy, later today or tomorrow, he added.
When Jankowski walked back to his office, Constable Lupe was holding the outer door open to admit a sloppy-looking man in his thirties. A few steps behind, he could see Dottie Weeks and Lucinda Litchman. Well, so much for “ladies first” or respecting your elders.
“Hello, you must be Thomas Litchman, or do you prefer Tom? I’m Trooper Mark Jankowski and right inside my office is Detective Greg Horton.” Tom nodded and said he’d rather hear the nickname. He extended his hand to Horton. The women followed.
“I’m going to have the constable take two of you down to the break room for now. Bashia Gordon is already down there. Lucinda, we’ll talk to you first. Tom, would you take your mother’s coat?” asked Jankowski. He admonished Dottie and Tom not to discuss the case among themselves.
Tom Litchman stared down at his dirty brown loafers. Jankowski thought Tom looked older than his age because he slouched and a small bald spot shined through the crown of his thinning carrot-red hair. A gray, hooded sweatshirt jacket hung open, barely covering a beer-belly bulge beneath his unpressed brown plaid sport shirt. Long, faded blue jeans completed his sloppy attire.
Jankowski closed the door, thinking how difficult it sometimes was to get past first impressions of people. He considered himself a good judge of character.
“I’m sorry we have to do this again, Lucinda, but we need a formal statement for the record,” Horton said, as she settled into the chair at the end of Mark’s desk.
“Oh, I know you’re just doing your job. We need to know who did this awful thing. I am certain Hiram didn’t kill himself,” she gripped a tissue in one hand. The other hand, also in a tight fist, lay on her lap.
“I’m sure you’re glad to have Tom here now. Will Chad be coming down from Boston soon?” asked Horton. He hoped talking about her sons first might relax her.
“Well, Tom has a mind of his own on what his role is. I gave him directions to Dottie’s home and first he couldn’t find it, then said he couldn’t stay there because he hates cats and, of course, her two beautiful Siamese greeted him at the door. They own the place as much as Dottie.” Lucinda smiled briefly.
“Sometimes Tom thi
nks he is the center of everyone’s universe. Dottie even offered the sofa bed in her ceramics workshop–she’s got a half-bath with a stall shower, refrigerator and Pullman kitchen; more than he would need. The cats aren’t allowed in that building. No, he had to go get a motel room. She sent him over to the Knight’s Inn and we picked him up this morning to be sure he’d get here on time. He’s a night owl.”
Horton asked Lucinda to repeat what she told them yesterday about her whereabouts from the time she left home Sunday; her trip to Vermont, visit with Tom, drive back and anything else she thought was important for them to know.
“Oh, you asked about Chad. I’m afraid it’ll be the weekend before he gets here. He won an expenses-paid trip to some important national CPA conference–in Maui, Hawaii. He flew out Friday but, thankfully, I was able to reach him at his hotel last night. He feels bad but it would cost an arm and a leg to change his flight. I told him we’ll have a memorial service after he gets back.”
Lucinda fluffed her loose curls and seemed to relax a little in the chair. “Okay, you just want me to go back over what I told you yesterday?”
Horton nodded, glancing at Jankowski, who was ready to review his notes while she spoke.
Lucinda related a brief version of her travels, then paused, staring at the desk. The transcriber paused as well and flexed her fingers.
“If only I’d just stayed home and talked to Hiram more about his argument with Thomas, maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe he would have showed me his plans for the Essex store and I really would have believed what Dottie said–that he wasn’t having an affair with somebody. Maybe I would have got past my idea about everything going downhill at once. Maybe I wouldn’t be a widow …again. Or maybe I’d be dead, too. Maybe that would be better…” She had started speaking in a barely audible voice, but it rose until she was almost shouting before she trailed off in despair. Her face was nearly as red as her hair.
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