“Apparently Beck thought he could lie over the phone, but eyeball-to-eyeball with a police officer, he decided it wasn’t worth going to jail for.”
“Ah–well–ah.” Tom paused, then continued, “Well, to tell the truth, I was out with a gal my Mother thinks is a slut. So I didn’t want to say I spent most of the night with her. She knows I go to the bar a lot, so I thought that would work. You know how it is.”
“Yeah,” said Horton, moving his chair closer to Tom’s. “But we are talking serious business here, not a night with a hot chick! Will she be your alibi?”
“Mmm, I don’t know–maybe.” Sweat began to trickle down from Tom’s hairline and the short ends began to curl.
“And when did you say was the last time you saw Hiram?” Jankowski asked, changing the subject.
“Uh, I told you, a couple weeks ago. I don’t remember the exact day.”
“Well, my friend, we have evidence that it wasn’t two weeks ago. You were at the house on Sunday!” Horton yelled, leaning close to Tom.
The CSU fingerprint analysis had been completed. Horton and Jankowski had just finished reviewing them before Tom arrived. They initially had decided to reinterview him because of Bashia Gordon’s suspicions, and now Tom’s fingerprints on the plans for Hiram Lazarus’ shop renovations put the frosting on the cake.
“He didn’t have those blueprints when you argued with him two weeks ago. We’ve talked with the architect and he just delivered them to Hiram three days ago. The only time you could have seen those plans was Sunday! And in spite of carefully wiping your prints off the gun, you forgot that you handled the blueprints,” Horton announced smugly.
“So let’s start over, Tom. Why did you drive to Woodstock Sunday night when you knew your mother was coming to see you? asked Horton.
Tom looked silently from one to the other. He tried to get up, but Horton held him down, one hand firmly on each shoulder. Their stern expressions reminded him of Hiram and other authority figures he’d been intimidated by his whole life. He couldn’t think of a good reason, except the truth.
“That was exactly why. Knowing that she wouldn’t be there, I figured I could convince him that I deserved one more chance to prove myself. I’m sure the new-and antiques furniture idea would go over big in Putney,” he boasted.
“If my mother was there, she’d jump in to defend me and Hiram would get his hackles up. I decided I could convince him, drive back before morning and she’d be unhappy about dinner, but I’d bring such good news, she would forgive me.
“It just didn’t work out the way I planned,” Tom shrugged his shoulders and hung his head.
“Where did the gun come from, Tom?” Jankowski joined in, pressuring Tom.
Tom shrunk low in his chair, covered his head with both arms and tightly closed his eyes, like a small child who thinks he disappears if he can’t see.
Finally he shouted, “It was on the desk. Hiram said he used it to shoot rabbits out of his side yard! I picked it up and asked if he thought rifles, revolvers and other firearms would be a good idea to include in my store. I didn’t know it was loaded. He’s so full of baloney.”
“Tell us what happened, Tom?” Jankowski asked, leaning closer. “Were you tired of him always criticizing you, never meeting his expectations? Was he making you feel like dirt? You couldn’t wait to get some of his money, right?”
“No, no, it wasn’t like that. I wanted him–I wanted to start this business so much! He could have helped me instead of blowing his money on a building. But that was all he was interested in. The blueprints fascinated him. He kept studying them while I was practically begging him.
“Then he showed them to me–I blew up when I spotted the cost of the project–a lot more than what I was asking for! I swiped the blueprints and other papers off the desk. That surprised him! He pushed his chair away from the desk and fell back, banging his head on the edge of the credenza. I guess he was stunned, ’cause he fell to the floor!”
“What happened next, Tom? Did you help him up?” Horton growled at him, inches from his face.
“No, I–I just took the gun, looked him in the eye–and shot the bastard! I couldn’t stop myself.” Tom angrily spit out his words.
“Don’t you understand? He had it all. He didn’t care about me, or Chad or Mom for that matter. He was just so wrapped up in his business. He couldn’t see that anyone one else could run a furniture business, too. He had to have it all.”
Tom stopped, exhausted and buried his face in his hands.
Horton pulled out his handcuffs. “Thomas Litchman, you are under arrest for the murder of Hiram Lazarus. You have the right to remain silent…”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Hi, Mark, what a neat place you have here! You would never know there’s a cottage tucked away on this estate,” Bashia said, as Mark ushered them into his home and gave her a quick hug.
“I just picked Jake up from his community service at the hospital, and thought I’d take a chance of you being home to show you our pictures. You two have never met, have you? Jake, meet Trooper Mark Jankowski.”
Jake extended his hand after wiping it on his jeans. “Hi, Trooper. I hope you have the killer behind bars. Gram has been telling me all about her involvement.”
Mark lifted one eyebrow and shot a glance at Bashia. “Pleased to meet you. Her involvement, huh? She’s quite the woman! But tell me, how’s the community service going?”
“Yeah. Well, sometimes I’m in the reception area, straightening out the magazines, picking up stuff people have left behind or wheeling them out. Boring sometimes, but at other times it gets very interesting. Some weird stuff comes through that door. And then sometimes the Facility Director calls me to help him with the blinds, since I helped Gram install a lot of them,” Jake answered.
“Wow, I’m impressed. Perhaps you’ll be taking over your grandmother’s business one of these days,” Mark replied, looking from Bashia to Jake. He could see the resemblance, the same inquisitive eyes, the same auburn hair except Jake’s was a lighter shade.
“Oh, yeah. Lots of times I helped Gram with deliveries. And when she had that big order at the hospital, me, my dad, Gram and Grandpa installed them. It took us three days!”
“Then it was a good choice, the hospital? I’m sure you’re learning a lot about people when they don’t feel well.” Mark took their coats.
Jake nodded and looked about the room. Two framed photographs of a young family stood on a table next to the TV remote and newspaper.
A bookshelf along one wall was crammed with magazines and three small colorful ceramic birds stood on the top shelf. Jake wondered what a macho guy like Trooper Jankowski was doing with these delicate things. They seemed out of place. Turning to Jankowski, he said, “Cool place.”
“Yes, I was lucky to get it. Mrs. Cromwell advertised it at the barracks, would you believe? She told me it was a guesthouse when her children were in boarding school and were constantly bringing their friends home.
“Now she thought having a police car parked here would be good for her–she lives alone, but a housekeeper comes in every day. My car is parked near the barn, so far from the street; I don’t think anyone can see it. But we get along fine–I seldom see her, or anyone else, for that matter.”
Bashia, too, glanced about the large room, filled with what she presumed were cast-offs from the main house. The low ceilings, worn comfortable furniture and maple paneling provided a warm, inviting feeling. She sunk into a large sofa with down cushions, and felt perfectly at home. “I thought you would like to see our pictures of Jamaica. Want to see what you look like?” she asked.
Jake wasn’t interested, he had seen the photos earlier. He wandered to the picture window and was surprised to see a large oval swimming pool. Not many people had swimming pools in the area; the season was too short to justify the cost. Beyond the pool the ground sloped down to a large open field where short dried corn stalks stood on long rows. He started to ask about it
, when Mark spoke up.
“Hmm, I don’t know if I want to see what I looked like. Besides, I was just going to make my favorite dish, Fettuccine Alfredo. Will you two stay and have supper with me? Or do you call the evening meal dinner?”
“No, it’s supper. Seems to be a New England thing, I guess. That’s what we call it, ‘supper’. Of course when we go out to eat in the evening, it’s ‘dinner’. Go figure!” Bashia chuckled.
“Want to stay, Jake? We can call your Mom and tell her we’ll be late.” Jake turned from the window and nodded his approval.
“Here, I thought you would be cooking up a great Polish dish! Can I help?” Bashia asked Mark.
“No, Ma’am. My treat. I’ll put the water on for the pasta and make the sauce a little later–sauce out of a package, how can I go wrong?” he called from the kitchen over the rattle of water splashing into a pan. “Okay, now let’s see the pictures!”
She spread them out on the coffee table as Mark pulled up a footstool. They laughed and reminisced over their holiday, totally absorbed in one another, until the buzzer went off. Bashia followed Mark into the kitchen as he put pasta in the boiling water and pulled out a pan for the Alfredo sauce mix.
Jake leaned against the doorway, watching the two of them, wondering if they were in love. He thought about the time he fell in love with a German exchange student who spent the school year with them.
“You sure I can’t do anything?” Bashia asked.
“What do you want to drink? I have beer, wine and water. I have some Pepsi, Jake,” Mark called to him.
“Do you have coffee? If not, water will be fine. Pepsi okay for you, Jake?”
Jake took the cold wet can. He would rather have had Coke, but didn’t think Gram would appreciate him saying that.
“Of course, I have coffee. I’ll make a pot in a minute. But I guess we need something else with this, how about a salad? I don’t usually bother with anything else, but I bet you’d like a salad,” Mark asked.
“Yes, I would, and yes, I can do that, if you show me what you have.”
He rummaged in the refrigerator and came out with a head of lettuce. “Oh, oh, this is all I have. No cukes, no tomatoes,” he apologized.
“Don’t worry, if you have catsup and mayonnaise, I can make a Russian dressing to pour over wedges of lettuce. Of course, if you happen to have black olives and relish, it would add a nice touch.”
“I do have black olives! I buy them to put on the cheezies I make.”
“What’s that?” Jake asked.
“Oh, I call them cheezies, for lack of a better name. I just sprinkle shredded cheese, black olives and some chopped chilies on the tortillas and broil them in the oven until the cheese melts and the tortillas get crispy. Sweet and simple, that’s the extent of my cooking!” He laughed.
“Gram, that sounds like the nachos you make,” Jake said as he wandered back into the living room, found a pile of magazines and flipped through them.
“Yes, a little more complicated, but another quickie. I do love Mexican food, but I’m not sure how authentic our ‘Mexican’ foods are.”
“Jake, can you set these dishes on the table, please? The silverware is in this drawer,” Mark said, trying to draw him into the activity.
It wasn’t long before they were sitting at the small round table, enjoying their simple meal. “I need to learn how to make fettuccine like that,” Jake said, licking the last of the sauce off his fork. “That was great. I usually make mac’n cheese–out of a package, but I’ll try this next time Mom is away,”
Mark grinned, “Well, thanks. If I knew you were coming, I would have had something more on hand.” He began clearing the table, then carried out two cups of hot coffee.
“Now, will you tell me what’s going on with Tom Litchman and Skip what’s-his-name?” Bashia asked as they returned to the sofa and she began gathering up the photographs.
“And what about that mummified baby, whose baby was it? If you noticed, I’ve been very patient. What happened to Tom? And what’s the story with that strange man? Did you ever find him? Tell me everything.”
Mark tossed a pillow at her, with a hearty laugh. “I’ve been wondering how long you were going to wait. Is she always like that, Jake, impatient?”
“Yeah, and me, too. Gram says I’m like her ’cause I was born in the same month as her–April. Say, that’s coming up soon.” Jake laughed when he saw his grandmother’s grimace.
“Oh, so it runs in the family, huh?” said Mark.
“I guess,” Jake replied.
Bashia stared from one to the other, frowning. “Well, what’s wrong with wanting to get things done and not have to think about it all day? Why procrastinate? Now, will you two stop and tell me about the case. If you remember, I helped you out.”
“Okay, I’ll get serious.” Mark said in his policeman’s tone of voice. “Back to the beginning. Gladys died of old age, which brought Arlene Moore and her son, Donald, into the picture. The mummified baby was stillborn to Arlene when she was a teenager. She disappeared right after that and no one knew what had happened to her. Fortunately, she wrote a letter to Constable Dupre’s wife and the attorney was able to locate her.
“Arlene refused to come settle the estate, sent Donald instead. Donald never knew of any relatives here in Woodstock and he was with Hiram and me at the Goodell home when we discovered the infant! Arlene carried that secret with her for over fifty years! Seems like old secrets never die.”
Mark paused before continuing, “Bashia, you never saw Skip. You learned about him from others. We learned that he and Hiram were into drugs during and after Vietnam. When Skip was incarcerated for armed robbery of a drug store, he thought Hiram turned him in.”
Jake listened intently. A student had OD’d on drugs last year, it was supposedly hush-hush, but the kids knew all about it, except where the tainted drugs came from.
“We were able to track him through fingerprints from the store–his prints were in the AFIS files,” Mark continued. “We got his picture and learned he was recently paroled. He blamed Hiram for getting him hooked on drugs and for ratting on him on the robbery. That’s why he came looking for Hiram.
“Caroline Mathis felt he threatened Hiram–that was enough to make him a suspect. But he had left the area soon after his visit to Hiram’s store. And then the Pennsylvania police verified his alibi for Sunday night! Fortunately, your grandmother’s keen curiosity and intuition put us on another track.”
Jake pulled his chair closer to Bashia and gave her a nudge and a crooked grin. “Oh, Gram, you know how to keep busy, don’t you?”
Mark laughed and continued, “Tom Litchman never did grow up and take responsibility for his actions. He always blamed others. As a matter of fact, Tom and Skip were alike in that respect.
“Tom wanted to step into Hiram’s shoes. He never considered the many years and discipline it took Hiram to turn away from drugs, make a new life and build a respectable business. Maybe he never knew Hiram’s secret. All he saw was Hiram’s supposed wealth and esteemed position in the antiques world.
“I don’t think Tom came to Woodstock intending to kill Hiram, but he couldn’t stand having his dream denied one more time. One stupid mistake and his life is ruined.”
Jake was staring at the floor, deep in thought, realizing how close he had come to messing up his own life.
“It’s the people left behind that are hurting as well,” Bashia broke the silence. “Poor Lucinda. First her husband is killed, then Hiram and, on top of it all, losing her son. I know she will blame herself, thinking she failed in some way. At least she has Chad and her friend, Dottie, to lean on. I think they are good for each other–her and Dottie.
“We all need friends to help us through the blind spots, to see there are good people in the world.” Bashia smiled at Mark, telegraphing her gratitude for his helping chase away her duppies.
“I’m glad we can close the books on those mysteries. Now, we need to get going
, Jake. It’s getting late and your Mom will be wondering if we got kidnapped or something,” Bashia said as she slipped into her coat and gathered the pictures.
“It’s been great having you both here. Keep up the good work, Jake; I enjoyed finally meeting you. Hopefully, we’ll be able to do this more often.” He looked at Bashia longingly. “I hope this is the last of the dead bodies around here. I would love to be able to spend the next few months in relative quiet.
“All the notes, reports and chasing around on these cases make me weary and my game leg has been bothering me much more. Maybe, your impatience is rubbing off on me, Bashia, because I’ve been thinking I might have enough reserves to retire early–maybe even this fall.”
“Early retirement might suit you well,” said Bashia. “Well, I’m thinking of checking Florida out in the fall. Want to investigate with me?”
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