The Sweet Golden Parachute Page 10

  By comparison, Guy Tolliver looked positively comatose slumped there at the table in his maroon silk bathrobe and striped pajamas. Tolly was unshaven and uncombed. His color was not good, not unless gray was considered good.

  “How do you take your eggs, dear?” Poochie slapped a pat of butter into the third pan to melt. Here she differed from Des’s mom, who always cooked her eggs in bacon fat.

  “I’m a little tight for time, Poochie.”

  “Nonsense. They’re fresh from Eric’s chicken house. Danielle just brought them over, dear thing. She’s so sweet.”

  “I don’t trust her,” Tolly muttered, sipping his coffee shakily. “Sure, she’s got that earthy, sheep manure between the toes thing going on, but the woman is too good to be true.”

  Poochie lifted the cooked bacon from its pan and laid it on a paper towel. “Des, I don’t mean to throw my weight around but you will eat. Now sit!”

  Des sat. Clearly, Poochie wouldn’t cooperate with her otherwise. Besides, Poochie Vickers did happen to be a great American chef.

  “My Smith classmate, Maddie Barnes, sends me one of these every month from her farm in Putney, Vermont.” Poochie whacked a brisketsized slab of bacon down on the massive butcher block next to the stove and handcut four more slices. “It’s honestly smoked from her very own hogs. Best I’ve ever had. Now how would you like your eggs, Des?”

  “Sunnyside up. Two, please.”

  Poochie cracked a pair of eggs into the hot pan and started the strips of bacon she’d just sliced. Then she spooned some of the crisp hash browns onto a plate along with the bacon that had been draining. By then, Des’s eggs were done. She slid them onto the plate and put it in front of her. “Dig in, dear.”

  Not surprisingly, everything tasted amazing. “You run a pretty fair diner here, Poochie.”

  “God, I’d love nothing better,” she laughed, delighted by the compliment. “We could call it Pooch’s. Have tons of marvelously ghastly dog art everywhere. Claudia could wait tables. Wouldn’t you like that, Claude?”

  “Mummy, please,” protested Claudia, who stood before the window with her arms crossed.

  “You’re not eating, Mrs. Widdifield?” Des asked.

  “Claude never eats my cooking,” Poochie said as she turned the sizzling bacon. “Afraid I’ll poison her. I have four bestselling cookbooks to my name. Why, they’ve even called me a doyenne. And, trust me, not just anyone can be a doyenne. You have to be very knowledgeable and very old.”

  “I’m watching my cholesterol,” Claudia explained tightly.

  “You keep on watching it, dear. Believe me, no man is.”

  Tolly let out a hoot at this.

  “Trooper Mitry is very busy,” Claudia said between gritted teeth. “She is trying to get your Gullwing back.”

  Poochie waved her off. “Not to worry, it’ll be returned by nightfall. This community is filled with good, honest people.”

  “You should really think about upping your security around here, Poochie.”

  “Nonsense. I won’t live in a highsecurity prison. And I assure you that my Gullwing will be returned. There’s really no need for you to get involved. Not that I’m not glad to see you on this fine morning.”

  “Were you awake when it happened?”

  “I was,” Poochie acknowledged. “I’m up doing my calisthenics at fivethirty every morning. And Bailey needs his morning constitutional, or he’ll turn into an arthritic lump.”

  “Were you up, too, Mr. Tolliver?”

  “God, no. I haven’t been up that early since I was a Marine in Korea.”

  “Golly, I bet you looked cute in your uniform,” Poochie teased him.

  “As butch as all getout.”

  “Today’s recycling day,” Poochie said. “Bailey and I marched our cans and bottles for old Pete down to the road in my Radio Flyer. Claude’s as well, since she doesn’t like to go out in public that early. Afraid someone will see her in her curlers.”

  “Mummy, I haven’t worn curlers since the seventies.”

  Tolly brightened considerably. “Gawd, did she have big hair?”

  “She looked just like Ivana Trump,” Poochie said giddily. “I have photos.”

  “About the cans and bottles?…”

  “Claude leaves hers in my wagon,” Poochie went on. “I’ve had that red wagon since she and Eric were babies, you know. I keep it garaged and oiled and it’s still very serviceable. Bailey and I returned it to the garage by sixthirty. I noticed the time when I came in here to put the coffee on.”

  “And the Gullwing was still in there?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  Des got up and put her empty plate by the sink. “Did you see anyone on Route 156 when you were down there?”

  “Not a soul. It was still quite dark. I needed my flashlight. I fed Bailey and planned my dinner menu while I drank my coffee, same as I do every morning. And that’s when I heard my car start. There’s no mistaking the roar of its engine. I went and looked outside and there it was, speeding down my driveway.”

  “Could you see who was behind the wheel?”

  Poochie shook her head. “Some local youth, I’m willing to wager.”

  “Did you hear anyone coming up the drive prior to that? An engine idling, footsteps, anything like that?”

  “I’m afraid not, Des.”

  “How about Bailey—did he bark or growl or anything?”

  “Young sir’s been deaf as a post for the past two years,” Poochie said sadly. She got down on all fours and crawled her way over to him. “And who is this handsome young man?” she cooed, bumping the old dog’s head with hers. He opened an eye and snuffled at her, his tail thumping gamely. “Des, the boy who took it will return it. I’m quite certain.”

  “Nobody is going to return it, Mummy,” Claudia said heatedly. “It’s gone.”

  “Not possible.” Poochie knelt there on the floor petting the dog. “That car was a present from Daddy. It’s mine. Everyone in Dorset knows that. Why would someone take it?”

  “It’s worth a fortune, that’s why,” Des explained.

  “Any idea how much?” Tolly tried to sound casual about it. Almost succeeded, too.

  “Not offhand, no.”

  “Daddy will be so upset if no one returns it,” Poochie said fretfully. “And, believe me, you do not want to make that man mad because he will…” She broke off, an alarmed expression on her strong, lovely face. “Heavens, did I just say Daddy will be upset?”

  “You did, Mummy,” Claudia said, not unkindly.

  Poochie got up and returned to the stove, where she cracked two eggs for herself. “I meant to say would.”

  “Of course you did, old girl,” Tolly assured her.

  Des turned to Claudia, who was staring right back at her, eyes narrowed. “Did you hear anything?”

  “Not a thing. I must have been in the shower.”

  “And how about Mr. Widdifield?”

  Claudia bit down on her lower lip, reddening. “Must we involve Mark?”

  “Absolutely. When a theft of this magnitude occurs we need to ascertain the whereabouts and backgrounds of everyone who routinely has access.”

  In response to which Tolly released an audible sigh.

  “Was Mr. Widdifield here when it happened?”

  Claudia lowered her gaze to the floor. “He’s spending his nights at the office. It’s at the marina, upstairs from the Mucky Duck.”

  “I didn’t see Bement’s truck outside. Has he already left for the day?”

  “Bement didn’t come home last night. He hardly ever sleeps in his own bed anymore.”

  “And why should he?” Poochie demanded, sitting down with her breakfast. “He’s young and gorgeous and he can have his pick of any girl in town.”

  “Not just the girls,” said Tolly, winking at her.

  “I think the trooper has heard just about enough of this,” Claudia blustered.

  “Don’t yell at Tolly, Claude.”

 
“That wasn’t yelling, Mummy,” Claudia shot back, her voice getting shrill. “But if you want to hear me yell, just keep on needling me. You’ll hear such yelling you’ll wish you never got me started.”

  Des heard footsteps outside on the gravel and Danielle came shlumping in the kitchen door from the courtyard in denim overalls and green rubber mud boots, her hair in pigtails. She was toting a baguette fresh out of the oven, still crackling and fragrant. “Morning everyone,” she murmured.

  “Your timing is impeccable, dear. Bless you!” Poochie promptly tore a hunk from the warm loaf and used it to mop up the egg yolk on her plate. “Such a wonderful crust,” she exclaimed, smacking her lips with pleasure. “But you must stop spoiling me this way, Danielle. This is me not being serious.”

  “I’m just sorry it wasn’t out of the oven sooner—our lambs needed me.” Danielle studied Des’s face with concern. “Is everything okay?”

  “No, everything is not okay.” Claudia was staring daggers at her frumpy, dentally challenged sisterinlaw, clearly resenting the way her mother doted on her. “Someone has stolen the Mercedes.”

  “Not your car, Poochie!” Danielle gasped.

  “They’ll return it,” Poochie assured her. “By God, Danielle, you’re a miracle worker. And I don’t just mean this bread. Every time I look at Eric I thank my lucky stars he met you. That boy used to be afraid of his own shadow. He stammered, had asthma. Girls hated him. He’s come such a long way, my dear.”

  “I’ve done very little, Poochie,” Danielle demurred, blushing furiously. “Do we know when the car was taken?”

  “Shortly before seven this morning,” Des said to her. “Did you happen to see or hear anything?”

  Danielle pondered this carefully. “I’m afraid not. We were bottlefeeding our lambs in the barn.”

  “Have the Kershaw brothers shown up for work yet?”

  Danielle shook her head. “No sign of them, and they were supposed to be here a halfhour ago. Why do you ask, Des?”

  “Pretty damned obvious, isn’t it?” Claudia interjected. “What amazes me is that those two thieves were invited here.”

  Danielle shrank away from Claudia, cowed by her harsh rebuke.

  “Stay for coffee, dear,” Poochie said, ignoring Claudia completely.

  “No, I must get back,” Danielle said uncomfortably. “So much to do.”

  “One cup.” Tolly pushed out a chair for her obligingly. “Stay and sit.”

  Des heard someone pull into the courtyard, gravel crunching under tires.

  “Here’s Bement,” Claudia said, peering out the window.

  Des thanked Poochie for breakfast and started out the kitchen door.

  Claudia stayed with her, stride for stride. “Now do you see what I’m up against? Half the time she thinks my grandfather is still alive. You heard her.”

  “I also heard her correct herself.”

  “Hey, what’s up?” Bement asked as he climbed out of his Ford pickup, looking rumpled and battered. His eye was swollen nearly shut, with a purplish shiner under it.

  “What happened to you?” cried Claudia, reaching for his face.

  Bement recoiled from her. “Nothing. Stop fussing over me, will you?”

  “I’m your mother,” she reminded him, deeply stung. “I’ll never stop fussing over you.”

  To her own great surprise, Des was starting to feel sorry for Claudia Widdifield. Because absolutely nobody seemed to want her love. That sort of thing could turn a woman into a nagging, desperate loon. Des knew something about this. Brandon had turned her into one. “Your grandmother’s Gullwing has been stolen,” she informed Bement.

  “Get out! Any idea who?…”

  “I’ve just started to collect information,” Des replied, although she did know this much: Four Chimneys was several miles from town. And the private drive down to Route 156 added at least another halfmile. No one would have walked that distance in the dark. Whoever had taken the Gullwing must have been dropped off here—which made it a twoman job.

  “Collect all you want, Trooper,” Claudia sniffed. “We all know the Kershaw brothers did it.”

  “Might be payback,” acknowledged Bement. He lit a Lucky and leaned against his truck, smoking it. “I did chump Donnie last night at Justine’s.”

  “Exactly what did happen?” Claudia demanded.

  “I punched him in the nose,” Bement told her, fingering his tender eye. “He hit me back. Des didn’t charge us or anything.”

  “You knew?” she said to Des accusingly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It’s not my business to do that, Mrs. Widdifield.”

  Claudia heaved her chest, one foot taptaptapping on the gravel. “Bement, I really wish you’d stop seeing that girl.”

  “Justine, Mom,” he said testily. “Her name is Justine.”

  “No good will come from you mixing with her crowd.”

  “Is that right? Tell me, what’s so damned special about my crowd? Are you and Dad all happy together in my crowd? Have you two got life all figured out? No, hunh? So let me live my own damned life, will you?”

  Claudia’s lower lip quivered, but she didn’t cry. Wouldn’t cry. Instead, she stormed off toward her cottage, slamming the garden gate shut behind her.

  Bement cursed under his breath. “Sorry, she just gets to me sometimes.”

  “Not a problem. I come from a family, too.”

  “This is why my dad left. Because she just won’t leave you the hell alone.” He flicked his cigarette butt off into the damp gravel, watching it smolder and sizzle. “They’ll trash Nana’s car, if I know them.”

  “It’s worth way more if it’s in one piece.”

  “Do you honestly think they’re smart enough to know that?”

  “You stayed over with Justine last night?”

  “Yeah. We stayed in, watched some old Eddie Murphy movie on TV.”

  “Were you awake when Stevie and Donnie brought Allison home?”

  “She didn’t stagger in until this morning.”

  “She partied all night with them?”

  “I guess. We didn’t talk. She just went straight to her room and crashed.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Right around six o’clock. I could hear their van idling outside.”

  The kitchen door opened and closed and Danielle came tromping across the gravel toward them in her rubber boots. “Morning, Bement,” she said, smiling at him faintly.

  “Hey, Danno. Listen, Des, I have to hit the shower and get to work.” He headed inside, his stride lithe and athletic.

  “I should be off, too.” Danielle made no move to leave. “My chores await me.”

  “So do you bring Poochie eggs every morning?” asked Des, anxious to keep her talking. The woman had something for her, she sensed.

  “And bread when I have time to bake. She seems to appreciate it.” Danielle hesitated, clearing her throat. “Des, Mark Widdifield is in a very dark place right now. He’s lost the clients he had and isn’t trying to find new ones. He doesn’t even seem interested. The man’s in terrible pain. So frightened. He needs Claudia’s support, but she only sees his failure.”

  Des nodded her head, patiently waiting Danielle out.

  “H-He said something to me yesterday,” she continued haltingly. “He’d been drinking. And sobbing his heart out about how Claudia doesn’t care about people, only things. I don’t know if he really meant this or not.…”

  “Exactly what did Mark say to you, Danielle?”

  “He said he’d do just about anything to make Claudia understand how desperate he is.”

  Stevie and Donnie’s van was parked outside of Milo’s log cabin in the woods when Des got there. Honestly, it wouldn’t have shocked her to find Poochie’s Gullwing parked there, too. But she didn’t. There was no sign of Milo’s pickup. Nor, happily, his Doberman. Wood smoke rose from the stovepipe in the cabin’s roof. And she could hear the deep, steady thathump… thathump of heavy meta
l music coming from inside. Otherwise, it was quiet. An unsettling kind of quiet. As she stood there looking at the cabin, Des shuddered involuntarily.

  She laid a hand against the van’s front grill. A bit warm, but not a lot warm. The van hadn’t been driven in the past couple of hours. She peeked through the driver’s window and saw fast food wrappers, rumpled drop cloths. Nothing more.

  She started toward the cabin. It was nearly ninethirty now. On her way over here she’d checked all of Dorset’s beach and state forest parking lots for the Gullwing. No sign of it, but they’d have been fools if they didn’t look. There was always a chance Poochie was right—that some kids really had taken it for a joyride and then ditched it. On this point she and Luke Olman, the investigating detective from Troop F barracks, had been in total agreement. It was Luke’s case now. She was assisting with the interviews while he canvassed the neighbors and school bus drivers, and logged some computer time back at the barracks.

  She knocked. No one answered. The door was unlocked. She called out “Hello?…” Heard no response. Only the music, which was “Whole Lotta Love,” a Led Zeppelin paleometal favorite. She went inside.

  They were passed out in the living room—Stevie sprawled out on the sofa with his mouth open, Donnie face down on the floor beside the coffee table. Donnie’s legs twitched busily in his sleep.

  Des thought she detected a whiff of marijuana smoke in the air, but she didn’t see any joints lying around. Besides, the house smelled so foul it was hard to be sure. The kitchen sink was heaped full of dirty dishes and several inches of dark, oily water. There were more dirty dishes on the table, greasy pans on the stove. Something was moving around in one of the pans. It was a mouse, she realized.

  The stereo was over next to the big screen TV. She flicked off the music, knelt next to Donnie and rapped him sharply on the side of the head with her knuckles. “Knockknock!” she shouted into his ear. “Anybody home?”

  Little Donnie rolled over onto his back, groaning, his eyes bloodshot, his nose looking fat and tender from his bout with ement. He smelled strongly of alcohol and sweat. “Wha’ the? Breath wasn’t real fresh either.