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  He cleared his throat, his eyes avoiding hers.

  “Doug, I’m not trying to get in your face here, but I’m sensing you’re not telling me everything you know.”

  He kicked at the moldy rug with his heavy work boot. “I just don’t want to stir up a hornet’s nest, that’s all.”

  “There’s absolutely no need to worry. I’ll be the one doing the stirring.”

  “Well, okay,” he said reluctantly. “Awhile back I was given instructions about what to do in case Pete’s condition ever took a serious turn for the worse.”

  “By whom?”

  “By Bob Paffin.”

  “Is that right? Now why did the first selectman take such an interest in our village scavenger?”

  “Des, I don’t know. I only know that he told me who to contact under extreme medical circumstances.”

  “The man is dead, Doug. This qualifies as an extreme medical circumstance. Now just exactly who in the hell did Bob tell you to contact?”

  Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux worked out of a stone cottage on Turkey Neck Road that had originally served as the town icehouse. It was built right into the granite ledge next to her riverfront center-chimney home, which had been a tavern back in the 1700s when Turkey Neck was a commercial district serving the ferry passengers who were crossing over to Old Saybrook. Des knew all of this because Glynis had represented her at the closing when she’d bought her house. Hers was the oldest and bluest of Dorset’s blue blood legal practices. Glynis had taken it over from her late father, Chase Fairchild, who’d taken it over from his father before him.

  Glynis had three kids, two dogs and a veterinarian husband, Andre Forniaux, who she’d met while she was on a college ski trip to the French Alps. Dr. Andre was out in the driveway loading veterinary supplies into the drawers of his specially outfitted pickup when Des pulled in alongside of Glynis’s Dodge minivan. Dorset’s mobile vet was a tall, slender Frenchman in his early forties, with thinning sandy hair, a narrow face and a long nose with rather pinched nostrils. He cared for hundreds of Dorset’s dogs and cats by driving from house to house just like an old-time general practitioner. Dr. Andre was totally on board with the feral stray rescue program Des and Bella had undertaken. He inoculated and neutered the healthy cats at no cost, and humanely put down those too sick to be saved. He was a good vet who cared about animals. He was not so in sync with their owners, some of whom called him Andre the Drip due to his dismissive bedside manner.

  “How goes it, Andre?” Des called to him as she started inside.

  He puffed out his cheeks—the classic Gallic shrug for which there is no American equivalency. “It goes, Des. Round and round it goes, eh?” Andre had studied veterinary medicine at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, so in addition to his French accent he had a slight drawl. “And how are your wards?”

  “Doug Garvey may adopt one. If you hear of anyone else who’s interested, please let me know, okay? We’ve got to move some of those kids out.”

  Aside from the elderly secretary who she’d inherited along with the practice, Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux worked on her own. Her office was very old-timey. There was a huge oak rolltop desk. Legal books in glass-doored walnut bookcases. Clubby leather armchairs. A potbellied stove. There was also action. The phone in the outer office rang constantly from the moment Des walked in.

  Glynis was a snub-nosed, fluffy blonde in her late thirties, with a trim figure and a lilting voice that could fool people into thinking she was a dippy airhead. She was not, and had the framed diplomas from Smith College and Harvard Law School to prove it. Glynis was also a highly dedicated runner who was training for next month’s Boston Marathon, which would be her seventh. She was dressed casually in a turtleneck and jeans. As she showed Des into her office, she appeared to be limping.

  “Girl, what did you do to yourself?” Des asked, noticing the Ace bandage wrapped around her right ankle.

  “Absolutely nothing serious. I just slipped on some ice this morning while I was running on Route 156.”

  “What time was this?” Des asked, settling herself into a leather chair.

  “Early. I usually get my road work in by dawn.”

  “You weren’t up near Four Chimneys, were you?”

  “No, I wasn’t.” Glynis hobbled over to her desk and sat in her tall-backed chair, wincing.

  “You are really hurting, Glynis. Have you seen a doctor?”

  “I see one every morning across the breakfast table.”

  “Andre’s a vet,” Des pointed out.

  “And an ankle’s an ankle. I slapped some ice on it and I wrapped it. It’ll be fine. And there is absolutely no way I’m not running tomorrow.”

  “Spoken like a true fanatic,” said Des, who had a jumble of feelings about Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux, attorney at law. Glynis was gen-next—a modern, open-minded career woman who Des could vibe with better than most. But she was still a purebred member of Dorset’s inner circle and a careful keeper of confidences. Also very shrewd politically. Des had heard that Glynis might challenge Bob Paffin next election.

  “Doug Garvey just alerted me that you’d be coming by,” she said in her fluty little voice. “This is an official visit regarding the death of old Pete, correct?”

  “Correct.” Des pulled out her notepad and pen. Whenever the phone stopped ringing, it got real quiet there in Glynis’s icehouse office. She could hear the ticking of the wall clock, the firewood sizzling in the stove. “Did you know him well?”

  Glynis did not choose to answer her. Just leaned back in her chair, bandaged ankle propped up on the desk, and said, “His full legal name was Peter Ashton Mosher. “Date of birth—March thirtieth, 1943.”

  “Place of birth?”

  “Dorset, Connecticut.”

  “Can you provide me with a next of kin?”

  “By contacting me you’ve fulfilled your legal obligation under the laws of the state of Connecticut.”

  Des looked at her in surprise. “You represented Pete?”

  “I had that privilege,” Glynis confirmed. “And I wish I could tell you more, but I’d be violating my responsibility to my client.”

  “Even though he’s dead?”

  “Especially because he’s dead. According to the terms of his will, I’m also executor of his estate.”

  “There’s an estate?”

  “A considerable one.”

  “Glynis, are you telling me that our Can Man was an eccentric millionaire?”

  “I didn’t say he was a millionaire. I said there is a considerable estate.”

  “May I ask how you represented him?”

  “By managing his portfolio.” Glynis gestured at a fat file on her desk. “His financial statements came here to the firm. I kept track of his income and reinvested it for him as I saw fit. Also dealt with the IRS on his behalf.”

  “How often were you in contact with him?”

  “I was never in contact with him. I never even met Pete. We were retained by a third party.”

  “Whose identity is?…”

  “Confidential, Des.”

  “You said ‘we’ were retained.”

  “My father was the attorney of record before me. This arrangement goes back quite some time.”

  “So you basically inherited Pete as a client?”

  “I did.”

  “And would this third party you spoke of also be a client?”

  Glynis smiled at her faintly. “Again…”

  “Confidential, right.” Des took this to mean yes. “Who do I contact regarding the disposition of Pete’s body?”

  “I’ll arrange for his burial. His plot at Duck River Cemetery was purchased some time ago.”

  Des sat there soaking this in. “Glynis, is this all just a bit not normal?”

  The blonde attorney relaxed her guard somewhat. Des doubted she ever completely lowered it. “From my end it’s not so unusual. I perform precisely this kind of service for a number of wealthy widows in town. Their lat
e husbands have seen to it. It’s strictly Pete’s lifestyle that makes it seem odd.”

  “You mentioned you’re his executor.”

  “Correct.”

  “Doug Garvey has been watching out for him for several years. Does he have an expectation of some money coming his way?”

  “You’d have to ask Doug what his expectations are. I wouldn’t know.”

  “How about First Selectman Paffin?”

  “Bob merely served as an intermediary. There’s nothing more to that.”

  “Well, who does get Pete’s money?”

  “Des, you know perfectly well I can’t disclose the contents of my client’s will. The names of his beneficiaries are strictly confidential. You’ll have to convince a judge that this information is vital to your investigation. I’m sorry to make you jump through hoops, but those hoops are there for a purpose.”

  “Okay, let me put it to you this way,” Des persisted. “Who else besides you was aware that Pete had money?”

  “You’re merely asking me the same question with different words,” Glynis replied patiently. “We can’t have this conversation. Not until you come back with a signed warrant.”

  Des thanked Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux and headed out the door, her head spinning. Because they might be looking at a whole new scenario now. Because that morning’s events may have had squat to do with Poochie’s Gullwing and everything to do with the Can Man. Because if Pete Mosher did have a considerable fortune then it was entirely possible that someone had murdered him for it—and stolen Poochie’s Gullwing to throw them off.

  Because it was entirely possible that they had this whole damned thing backwards.

  CHAPTER 13

  DES WAS FROWNING AT him as she came through the door of McGee’s Diner in her uniform and Smokey hat. “You okay?” she asked, sliding her slender frame into the booth. “You have a funny look on your face.”

  “It’s nothing serious,” Mitch assured her. “My heart just skips a beat every time you walk into a room.”

  She drew her breath in, her pale green eyes growing soft. “Mitch, you can’t say such things to me when I’m on duty. My toes get all wiggly and I’m no good to anyone.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he said, squeezing her knee underneath the table.

  “Sir, that there’s a class-two IPG.” When Des was in uniform she had ironclad rules regarding Inappropriate Public Groping.

  “How about we skip lunch and head straight for my palatial island getaway? You can show me your tattoo. I can show you my feather.”

  “Baby, I would love nothing better. But I’m up to my eyeballs in a murder.”

  In fact, she’d told him she could only give him a few minutes when he’d phoned her to meet him at his favorite greasy spoon. McGee’s was known throughout New England for its fried oysters and its view of Long Island Sound. During the summer, the place was packed with beachgoers. This time of year, it was downright sleepy. A couple of local carpenters were chowing down on cheeseburgers at the counter. Four old geezers were hanging in a booth, nursing cups of coffee and listening to Perry Como on Dick McGee’s cutting edge jukebox.

  One of those geezers kept sneaking glances their way. Mitch was used to being stared at whenever he and Des showed up in public together. But this wasn’t the usual look. This was more along the lines of intense nosiness. After all, the critic and the resident trooper had split up—everyone in Dorset knew that. Or thought they did.

  Allison Mapes scuffed her way over to their booth with his order, her waitress uniform stretched a bit tight across her generous hips. Justine’s streaky-haired roommate looked a bit on the trashed side today. There were dark circles under her eyes. But she still managed a big smile as she approached. “Here we be, Mr. Movie Guy,” she declared, setting his fried oyster hero down before him. “I slipped a few extra spiral fries on your plate when Dick wasn’t looking.”

  Des ordered coffee. Allison nodded curtly, filled her cup, then moseyed off toward the kitchen. Des watched her go, a rather stony expression on her face.

  “You’re not eating?” Mitch asked, diving headfirst into his lunch.

  “I had a huge breakfast. Besides, you’re already eating for two.”

  “Go easy on me, thinnie. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  “So you said on the phone. What is up?”

  “You first. How’s the case going?”

  She told him what she’d learned. That the Can Man had actually been a wealthy eccentric named Peter Mosher. That he, not the Gullwing, may have been the intended target all along.

  “So the car theft was like a staged misdirect?”

  Des nodded. “To provide cover for the real crime. It’s a theory, anyway.”

  “And it jibes with something Bement Widdifield just told me—that Pete wasn’t necessarily killed because of what he saw. It seems that Bement overheard something when he was a little kid. He wouldn’t tell me what.”

  “Lot of that going around today. Glynis wouldn’t tell me how much money Pete had or who he left it to. Not until a judge signs off on a warrant.”

  “Is that going to happen?” Mitch asked, munching on his sandwich.

  “Soave’s on it as we speak. I just hate the waiting, is all.”

  “So go at it another way. Reach out to someone who isn’t constrained by official procedure.”

  “Such as who?”

  “Such as your sweet baboo,” he replied, grinning at her.

  “I knew this was where your twisted mind was going. Mitch, you can’t go messing in a murder investigation. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Des, you have to admit that I’ve been of immense help to you in the recent past.”

  “What I have to admit is that you’ve almost gotten yourself killed in the recent past. Not to mention me fired off of the job. We are not going to do this again. You are not going to do this. Talk to me about Guy Tolliver. Was he the real deal?”

  Mitch popped a fry in his mouth and said, “Sure, Guy Tolliver was a major name back in the Fifties and Sixties. His specialty was slick magazine spreads full of rich, goyish people hanging out at home looking rich and goyish. Actually, he’s kind of retro-chic these days. The style mavens at my paper are ga-ga for him. Why are you asking?”

  She told him how Tolly had been relying on the kindness of rich widows like Poochie Vickers for years. And how jewelry and other valuables seemed to disappear whenever he moved on.

  “No way!” Mitch erupted excitedly. “This is straight out of EW. Hornung’s The Amateur Cracksman—better known to film-goers as Raffles. Very cool stuff. The 1930 version with Ronald Colman is the best, although the 1940 David Niven isn’t bad. I’ll have to put that on our to-watch list.”

  “Mitch, I have to admit something—my own first thought was that Tolly seemed straight out of an old movie. That never used to happen before I met you. I was strictly a reality-based individual. God, how ill is that?”

  “I don’t think it’s the least bit ill,” he replied, cramming the last of his sandwich into his mouth. “It’s romantic. Tell me, has Tolly ever been involved in anything violent?”

  “No, that part doesn’t sound like him. Mind you, he may keep a partner on the side—someone who plays rougher than he does. I just checked around at our local inns for any stray male guests. No likely candidates in the past few days, which doesn’t necessarily mean—” Her pager started beeping at her. She glanced down at it. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

  “I’ll be here,” he promised, smiling contentedly as he watched her stride out the door.

  Allison came over to clear his plate and fill his coffee cup. “Kind of surprised to see you and her together again.”

  “Don’t believe what you hear. We’re doing fine.”

  “Justine told me she thinks you’re cute. Know what I told her? Hands off, I saw you first.”

  “If you don’t watch out I’m going to take you seriously one of these days.”

  “Ho
w about today?” Allison’s eyes gleamed at him invitingly.

  Mitch poured cream into his coffee, no longer sure whether she was kidding around or not.

  She lingered, a hand on her hip. “Are you just going to leave me hanging? You’re supposed to say, ‘Awesome, Allison, want to get together for a drink?’ ”

  “I just told you—I’m still with Des.”

  She shrugged her soft shoulders. “Some things I believe. Others I don’t.”

  The door opened and Des strode back inside, her Vulcan Death Stare trained directly on them. Allison immediately headed back toward the counter.

  Des folded herself back into the booth. “That was Yolie. Crime scene techies found the murder weapon in the woods a hundred feet from Pete’s body.”

  “What was it?”

  “A two-foot length of one-inch black iron pipe. Pig iron, they call it. Nothing special about it, aside from the fact that it has blood, scalp tissue and hair on it—which will, presumably, turn out to be Pete’s. No fingerprints on it. None they could find on preliminary examination, anyway.”

  “The killers wiped it clean?”

  “Wore gloves, more likely. We have some partial shoe prints in the mud. No slam dunks, but they’re making impressions. Might prove helpful.”

  “Des, when you found Pete’s body did you notice any blood or tissue under his fingernails?”

  She smiled at him. “Now I’m rubbing off on you—this I am digging. He sustained wounds to his hands. To me, they looked like defensive wounds. But he may have struggled with his assailants. We can determine whether any of the blood belongs to someone else. The state has Stevie and Donnie’s DNA on file. If it’s one of them, we’ll know right away.”

  “Did Yolie have anything else?”

  “Recanvass turned up nothing,” she replied, glancing down at her notepad. “But a Fed who she knows schooled her about Poochie’s ride. There’s only a select handful of Mercedes Gull-wings on the U.S. market at any one time. The experts know each car’s pedigree. You can’t just unload one somewhere. No reputable dealer would touch it.”