Excerpt
State Trooper Mark Jankowski knocked on the door of the Goodell residence at 676 Doctor Pike Road. The mid-morning sun was turning last night’s snow into slush and he impatiently stomped his feet on the steps.
Was this a crank call, a nosy neighbor or a genuine problem? he wondered, responding to a neighbor’s 9-1-1 call. Tugging at his slate-blue uniform jacket, taut over his pudgy waist and equipment belt, he pulled himself up to his full six-foot height. Although his wide-brimmed hat shaded his steel-blue eyes, he squinted at the sunshine reflecting off the stained-glass door windows. Anybody home? {…}
The wind had picked up, calling his attention to the letters flapping in a weather-beaten brown straw basket tacked to the wall {…} Taking the mail, he stepped back for a better look at the two-story, gray clapboard house.
Dead branches from the ancient, leafless maple trees swayed in the wind, scratching against the walls. A tall fir tree stood near the entrance, its heavy branches weighed down while the tips turned upward like dainty fingers reaching out to God. Jankowski noted other colonial homes surrounding the green appeared to be in much better condition.
“Mrs. Goodell, Mrs. Goodell,” he called, looking about. He tried the front door; it was locked. There wasn’t a person in sight, but traces of footprints in the melting snow indicated someone else had been to the door earlier. He placed his size eleven boot next to them--his were a lot larger.
“Hmm, doesn’t seem like anyone’s around.” He wondered if Mrs. Goodell had gone away and hadn’t bothered to tell the nosy neighbors. He followed the path to the back of the house, pushing past the wet overgrown shrubbery that blocked the way. The branches showered his shoulders with water. “Damn!” he said.
At the rear of the house he entered an empty screened porch. He stomped his snowy boots to rid them of the wet slush, shrugged the water off his shoulders and knocked on the door. No answer.
He sighed and pounded on the door, “Anyone home? Mrs. Goodell!” The only sound came from bluejays chattering in the fir trees.
He rattled the loose handle and the door opened. His hand automatically reached for his gun as he cautiously entered a narrow hallway. The walls and wainscoting were dark and dingy with age.
With each step, he called, breaking the eerie silence. A dark brown, shapeless cloth jacket hung on a wall peg, a purple umbrella on another.
The kitchen was cold, no warmer than outdoors. A coffee cup and saucer sat on the wooden counter next to a half-opened loaf of bread. He felt the bread--it was hard. The large old-fashioned porcelain sink was chipped in places; the drainboard held a lone carving knife. He examined it carefully without touching it, but saw nothing unusual. A small Hotpoint refrigerator gave off a low hum, as if chanting a mantra for the dead.
He began a room-by-room sweep of the house. The adjoining room appeared to be a sitting room. Dropping the mail on a table, he called out a “Hello” once more. Closed drapes at the windows made the room so dark he had to use his flashlight to find a light switch and continue his search.
He stepped around footstools and short, small tables stacked with old newspapers. A writing desk held piles of unopened mail. Two upholstered chairs, worn and dark with age, had small, yellowed pieces of lace pinned to their backs. A worn green sweater lay over one of the arms.
A large brick fireplace dominated one wall, its yawning mouth empty. The mantel held three small vases. He wrinkled his nose and made a face at the age-old musty smell.
In the foyer, he passed the stairs and entered a dining room on the opposite side of the house. He studied the dust-covered Queen Anne dining table, six chairs, a low-hanging chandelier and a glass-front china cabinet. “Just what Ma always wanted,” he muttered, recalling how much his mother had admired the hand-carved scrolled style. {…}
Some old stuff here. He wondered if it was valuable, maybe antiques. He’d check with Bashia, she would probably know.
Wide oak stairs dominated the central hallway area. A somber collection of family ancestors in large ornate frames on the wall stared back at him as he climbed the stairs.
On the second floor, three bedrooms contained plain furniture. He snapped on lights and scanned the rooms. All were dark, drapes or shades covered the windows. Homemade quilts topped wrought iron beds.
Decoration apparently wasn’t considered important here, where guests ordinarily weren’t apt to visit. In a utilitarian bathroom at the head of the stairs he glimpsed a claw-foot tub, freestanding sink and toilet. A few thin pale yellow towels hung on a rack. His voice echoed, as he continued to call, now in a lower tone as if unwilling to break the silence of the house.
In the fourth bedroom Trooper Jankowski was surprised to see a figure in the bed. As much as he had dealt with death in his career, he still squirmed every time he came across a body. Usually they were violent, ugly deaths. But here lay a tiny, emaciated woman perfectly serene in her high four-poster bed. He felt for a pulse in her pale, white neck, then quickly made a sign of the cross on his chest.
Well, I’ll be! Dead for a couple of days, he thought. The caller was right to be worried.
Half-open drapes allowed a streak of light to fall across the bed, forming a jagged cross. The sunlight drew his attention to a uniquely carved blanket chest. It was covered with a white dresser scarf embroidered in tiny purple flowers and a single photograph, a casual snapshot of two women in their early forties.
The room had a stifling odor and he stepped back into the hall before pulling out his cell phone and calling headquarters.
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