“O.K., let’s get this show on the road, rather, this meal on the table,” shouted Alice Forster as she maneuvered her large bulk around the kitchen. Gold-rimmed glasses slid down to the end of her nose and her red face flushed from the heat. She and Dottie had donned aprons and cooked a three-course meal after chasing Bashia and Mrs. Stearns out of the room.
“Our guests shouldn’t be working,” Dottie told Mrs. Stearns. “I’m so glad to have you here! And Bashia has so done so much for me, it’s time for her to enjoy!”
“Please call me Zibbs,” she said. “All my friends do, and I consider you my friends.”
Bashia escorted Zibbs through the house, the ceramics studio–as Dottie now called it–and the lounge. They admired the changes that had been made and Zibbs was delighted with the care Dottie had taken in the renovations. “This looks as if we have stepped back into the 19th Century,” she exclaimed. “The Cape is such an old style of architecture, it really belongs in New England. I love the wrought-iron thumb latches on the doors and especially the lovely fireplaces. There are very few granite hearths of this size left! They are the focal point of any room.”
Alice called from the kitchen, “Ready for eats? Here we come.” She carried a platter containing a glistening brown prime rib roast the size of a Duraflame log, while Dottie followed with a tray of vegetable dishes and mashed potatoes. The table had been set with Dottie’s best china on place mats Bashia had sewn from scrap drapery fabric. A pair of silver candlesticks stood in the center with a matching vase containing flowers Zibbs had brought.
“Sit, sit,” Alice urged her companions. “Food’s best when it’s hot and fresh–never as good when it gets cold!” Alice was one to be obeyed. Her security guard work was part of her psyche.
Bashia could understand why she was so good at the job–her solid figure, although only five feet five inches tall, would be a formidable force to contend with. Dressed in a uniform, a holster and gun would fit comfortably around her ample midsection. Did she carry pepper spray and a nightstick, too? Bashia wondered.
When Dottie and Alice first met at the prison they had quickly become friends because there were so few women working there. For all her gruffness and belligerent attitude Alice displayed on her job, she was a pussycat herself, as gentle as a lamb with Dottie’s two Siamese cats. She had agreed to care for the cats while Dottie was moving, and was willing to deliver them on demand. Timing of a week-long security retraining conference in New Hampshire worked out perfectly for the women to get together.
“This is like a Thanksgiving dinner, just a little premature,” Bashia declared, as they sat down to the table. “We all have something to be thankful for, don’t we. And look at all this food. Alice, do you cook a lot, or did Dottie cajole you into it?”
“Well, sometimes I cook special dishes for the other guards. There’s a small kitchen in the prison and I take in things to reheat. The men love my lasagna! They kidded me that they are going to starve with me being gone for two weeks.” She scoffed at the thought.
“It looks like you thought you had a crew of men to feed today! Look at it all, and it all looks so good,” Zibbs said, admiring the table.
Alice stood to carve the rib roast, after Dottie begged off the task and poured the wine instead. And as they dined, Bashia thought of the adventures of the past two months–Dottie moving to her new home, finding a skeleton, meeting Mark, Zibbs and Alice, and helping to solve a mystery. She took a scoop of creamy white mashed potatoes as they were passed around.
Bashia had urged Dottie to invite Danielle’s sister to dinner and they were delighted when she accepted. Now Zibbs seemed quite relaxed as she buttered a portion of her roll, a different person than when they first visited her.
Later, Dottie placed her silverware across her empty plate and announced, “I’m stuffed! This reminds me of the feast we had in Jamaica on Thanksgiving. Remember, Bashia?”
“Do I! I almost broke my back with that one. But we had fun, didn’t we?” She turned to the others and explained. “That last Thanksgiving in Jamaica several of our friends had rented a cottage in Discovery Bay. Sunflower Villa was a resort the locals used, and wasn’t as expensive as the all-inclusive resorts advertised in the states. We planned to have a Thanksgiving dinner over the weekend. Jamaicans don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, but Vicky managed to find a turkey somewhere in Montego Bay. Everyone was assigned to bring something. Dottie came to Christiana the night before with her breads and butter and I packed a pie shell, pie pan and the pumpkin filling I had mixed earlier. Charlie and Don were bringing cranberry sauce and whatever else they could find. We asked Albert, our taxi driver friend, to take us to Discovery Bay, but he was unwilling. The trip involved going over narrow, mountainous, gravel roads and dropping down 6000 feet to Brown’s Town and Discovery Bay. It would have been an all day-trip for him, and we couldn’t afford to pay him for his services. Instead, he drove us to Spaldings to catch a bus to Brown’s Town, where we would then transfer to the Discovery Bay bus.
“There’s always a crowd of people wanting to get on any bus, and mind you, these busses are just large, dilapidated vans designed to carry fifteen people. But, of course, in Jamaica, they will pack in twenty-five or more. In fact, the bus driver won’t start unless it’s overloaded. Says he can’t make any money otherwise. I got used to cramming into a space a foot wide!” Bashia chuckled at the image of it in her head.
“At any rate, when we were pushing and shoving to get on the second bus, I slipped and fell flat on my back and my pie filling container went flying. Some of it spilled on the ground, but I picked up the container and put it back in my ‘scandal bag’, all wet and slippery. When we first moved to our assignments we were told the clear plastic bags acquired their name because everyone could see what their neighbor had in the bag and was able to gossip about it.
“Ten minutes down the road, the bus driver began hollering, ‘Wha dat smell?’ My pumpkin pie filling was beginning to smell in the stifling, crowded bus. He wanted to throw us off the bus, but we refused to budge. An hour later we arrived at the resort, rather, a half-mile from its door, hot and tired. Luckily Vicky was there to meet us and helped carry our things and the sticky, slippery scandal bag.
“Our cottage was a lovely A-frame–three bedrooms, kitchen and living area. The men took the loft bedroom. I was sore and stiff from my fall and spent most of the weekend lying flat on the beach. The next day, Vicky had put the turkey in the oven at 300 degrees, but when we returned a couple hours later, we found the turkey baked through and through with a thick, brown, hard crust. The oven temperature was off by one hundred and fifty degrees! In spite of everything, we managed to have a decent meal. We were grateful for the R&R and we went home happy, sunburned and tired. It was another two weeks before my back felt comfortable again–two weeks of ice-cube packs after work hours.”
“Oh, what experiences you two have had! And to think I led such a sheltered life. Private school and marriage–all just memories now. I am grateful to finally put the mystery of Danielle to rest, clear my mind of it and make new friends,” Zibbs said as she placed her napkin on the table.
“As soon as the police authorities indicate Danielle’s skeleton is no longer needed as evidence, I plan to arrange for cremation and a memorial service in Nashua, so Danielle’s friends can say their farewells. Then I’ll hire a plane and scatter the ashes over Madison Square Garden in February during the Westminster Kennel Club Show. I think Danielle would be pleased.” Zibbs gave a tiny smile.
A look of amusement lit up the other women’s faces, but Bashia declared it was a fitting end to a life devoted to raising dogs.
Dottie nodded in agreement as she looked abound the table. She was pleased to have the skeleton in her septic tank properly taken care of and out of her life. She thought about her new friends, her precious cats, and the ceramics studio ready and waiting for operation. She had a lot to be thankful for.
Alice began serving pieces of her thick, rich homemade cherry cheesecake, while the others groaned and applauded. “Well, memories don’t fade away if friends get together now and then like we are, to swap stories. You Peace Corps veterans sure do have some great memories. And, Zibbs, I’m sure you do too, from days long past. My school stories sure wouldn’t match yours, by any stretch of imagination. I never went to, or even saw, a private school. Good old Trenton High is my alma mater. My best schooling was working with the inmates, and I thank God I’m not on the other side of the bars.”
“Speaking of bars, what’s the story on Chuck Thompson?” Dottie asked Bashia. With forks poised in midair, they all looked at Bashia.
“I thought you’d never ask. It’s been killing me to keep quiet, but you won’t believe this!” She took a deep breath and looked at each one before she began, trying to sound mysterious.
“When Dottie and I found the diary, we called Mark and he came racing over. He really didn’t get what I was talking about, until he saw Terry’s diary. As much as he tried to conceal his astonishment, we could see he was surprised and delighted with our find. When he flipped through the diary, he could hardly contain himself. He sounded like Dottie–every so often letting out an ‘Ohmigod!’ He assured us this information would crack the case.”
Dottie laughed, remembering her favorite expression.
“Mark said once he and Detective Horton confronted Thompson, it didn’t take much questioning to get him to confess. He felt Danielle had become increasingly disenchanted with him. When she phoned and threatened to fire him over his errors in the dog show application, he realized everything was about to blow up in his face. He would lose control of the trust fund, be cut out of the will, and perhaps his and Harold Reagan’s shenanigans would be discovered.”
Alice’s puzzled look caused Bashia to stop and describe the people who surrounded Danielle just before her death. Then she continued.
“Thompson admitted going to his kennel for the belladonna he often used in minute doses to enhance the activity of his dogs. The next day he convinced Terry to enter the house with him and, during the conversation with Danielle, tricked Terry into giving her the poisonous mixture. It is a quick-acting poison that was deadly in the large amounts he gave her, and, in a short time, she was dead.”
Bashia paused to look at her spellbound audience for their reaction. The cherry cheesecake lay untouched on their plates. She leaned forward, fork in hand, and continued, “Thompson said he sent Terry to town before she had time to think of what had happened. He managed to lug Danielle’s body outdoors, wired a cement block to her leg, uncovered the septic tank and pushed her in. He remembered to carefully replace the grass over the tank cover and rake up the flattened grass. Then Thompson said he decided to pack some of Danielle’s jewelry and clothing, and drove her van to his kennels where he got rid of her things in a spot where he usually buried dogs. He knew Reagan was flying to the Bahamas within a couple of days, so he took the Dodge to Reagan’s house and asked him to drive it to the airport and leave it there for Danielle.”
“Oh, that is so horrible!” exclaimed Zibbs.
“That’s not all,” Bashia said. “The next day Thompson returned to the house and intimidated Terry into memorizing what they would tell anyone who asked about Danielle. Then they continued to act as if Danielle was just away on one of her trips, while Thompson milked the trust nearly dry.
“When the skeleton was found, Thompson panicked and felt he had to get rid of Terry, fearing that she might eventually tell someone what really happened or blackmail him for her continued silence. Then, when she called about more money, he decided he had to act quickly.”
“And so Thompson killed Terry, an innocent participant in Danielle’s death?” Alice asked.
“Such a waste! Three, four lives destroyed, and for what?” Sighed Zibbs.
“Yes, he confessed to both murders, that he murdered both women just to save his own skin,” said Bashia. “Said he now wants to get all the deception behind him; he feels he is an old man and can hope for clemency. He is awaiting trial right now. Mark says it will be hard to nail him for Danielle’s death, but certainly not for Terry’s. The Massachusetts CPAC was able to match his thumbprint to the one found on Terry’s neck!”
“I sure don’t feel sorry for men like that,” Alice said. “They plead for leniency and tie up the justice system for years. I get so disgusted with that–spending state money keeping these guys alive. It goes on all the time.”
“They pulled in Harold Reagan, too, Bashia added. “He has some charges against him, I don’t know exactly what–an accomplice or something. He’s out on bond and can’t leave the country, but at the very least he’ll probably be disbarred.”
“So the mysterious Mr. Ransom Pierce may have sounded fierce, but he wasn’t involved at all?” asked Zibbs.
“Actually everything moved along so quickly and Thompson confessed so readily, the police hadn’t even found him,” Bashia said. “When Mark contacted the American Kennel Club, he learned that Pierce had several complaints registered about his behavior with other exhibitors in addition to Danielle. He had been disqualified from competition and officially stripped of AKC membership right around the time she disappeared. People in the western New York club were he lived back then said he had closed his kennel, sold all but one or two of his dogs and disappeared himself several years ago.”
“Isn’t that amazing?” commented Dottie. “Another missing persons case for Mark and you to work on!”
Bashia dismissed the comment with a wave of her hand. “Oh, yes, Mark and Detective Horton received commendations for their work, and Mark was happy to have that citation in his file, even though he’s anxious to retire.”
“Now the two of you can get serious!” Dottie quickly added, nudging her.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Bashia said, blushing. “It will be nice to have a date once in a while, and I do have a date with him just before he leaves for Maine. We’ve decided to go the Plainfield Racetrack on Saturday. What goes around comes around–we start and end with dogs!”
* * *
The afternoon crowd was noisy and excited. One of the top-rated greyhounds was on the track and heavily favored to win. Long lines had formed at the betting window. Mark looked about as they finished their lunch at one of the small tables close to the track wall.
“Seems like there’s a lot of people anxious to get rid of their money! I can’t believe this! How in the world do you read this racing sheet?” He studied the booklet they had been given.
“I’ve been here a couple times since the track opened but never had much luck. But it’s an entertaining afternoon, if you don’t spend all your money. You really have to know the dogs, their lineage and their owners. I either watch someone who seems to know what they’re doing, or pick a name I like on the betting sheet. After all, a two dollar bet won’t break you, and it’s fun seeing who wins. Are you ready to make a bet?”
“Hell, why not! Who are we betting on?” Mark said, as they headed for the ticket window. “I think I’ll take this long shot. It gives him a twenty-to-one chance, but think of the winnings if he does come in!”
“Oh, Mark, you’re funny!” Bashia said, as she slipped her arm under his and gave him a hug. A shiver of anticipation ran through her.
“Daj me buzia!” he said. He bent his head close to hers, his heart beating so fast he could feel it in his chest.
His Polish slang was terrible, but Bashia understood him. “Mark, everybody is looking, I can’t kiss you here!”
“Why not?” But she refused to answer.
For the rest of the afternoon they people-watched and made losing bets while they continued to enjoy each other’s company more and more.
“I’ll miss you when I’m in Maine next week,” he said. “When can we get together again?”
“I’ll be spending time with my daughters here on Thanksgiving, too. They complain I don’t see them enough. I tell them they should be happy I’m not interfering with their lives every second. I have my own life and, in a way, I think they’re pleased.”
“You didn’t answer me; when can we get together again?”
“Well, you still work; I’m flexible, so it’s up to you. I really am glad I met you, Mark, and I’d like to think we will get together.”
“Let’s get out of here,” he stood suddenly and took her arm. “I’ve had enough of throwing money to the dogs!”
In the car, he pulled her to him and kissed her hard and long. “We’re all alone here, no one around,” he said, releasing her and laughing. The heat in his body intensified as he put his arms around her again. “Bashia, we make such a good team, we could set up an investigative agency when I retire. Well, maybe that’s something we can think about later. But right now, I think about you all the time. I want to be with you. I want you.”
Bashia pushed him away but only a little, her own pulse beating rapidly. Perhaps, she thought with a lump in her throat, she could rid herself of her Jamaican machete man memories at last and be ready to face Mark with a clear conscience. She felt like a schoolgirl, making out in a car. His kisses swept through her like fire, awakening new sensations. “I think about you, too, Mark. Let’s talk about us when you get back!”
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