The Sweet Golden Parachute Page 2

  Not that he had the power to stop him. The old geezer could play cards.

  Rut returned from the kitchen with two bottles of stout. He set them down on the table, wheezing slightly, and fed his wood stove with more logs. It was a cold, damp March night. Soon it would be St. Patrick’s Day, which was Mitch’s least favorite holiday of the year. Not because he hated parades or corned beef and cabbage, but because of something very personal and sorrowful.

  Mitch poured the creamy stout slowly into his tilted mug and took a sip, savoring its rich, nutty flavor, before he dove for another slice of the pizza he’d picked up at a small family run pizzeria in Niantic. It was not Lombardi’s coalfired pizzeria on Spring Street, but it was very good.

  Rut sat back down and reached for the cards, shuffling them as the logs crackled in the wood stove. “Mitch, I have a small favor to ask of you. And if this isn’t your kind of thing just say so and there’ll be no hard feelings. Do you happen to know Justine Kershaw? She’s Milo’s youngest.”

  “No, we’ve never met.”

  “Well sir, Justine’s life is about to get a whole lot more complicated,” Rut told him, setting the cards aside. “Her big brothers, Stevie and Donnie, are getting out of prison tomorrow. And it sure doesn’t help that the young man who she’s been seeing, Bement Widdifield, is the very fellow who called the law on them.”

  “So I’ve heard. Everyone’s talking about it.” The Kershaw brothers were Dorset’s reigning nasty boys. They’d been behind bars ever since Mitch had moved to Dorset. Something to do with property that they’d stolen from the Vickers family. “Rut, are those two as bad as everyone says?”

  Rut sat back in his chair, considering his answer carefully. “Stevie and Donnie have been boosting booze from people’s houses since they were twelve years old. Fighting. Drug dealing. Getting nice girls high, stealing their parents’ cars—you name it, Stevie and Donnie have done it. I think they’ve pissed off more people in this town than any two boys I’ve ever known. But I should also say that nobody’s ever given them half a chance, what with feeling the way they do about Milo. He’s an ornery little cuss. Has a lot of bluster in him. Plus he’s been at odds with the Vickers family for years, and if you tangle with them there is no way in hell you will ever come out ahead.” Rut paused to sip his stout. “But Milo’s okay in my book. When he’s over here, he’s always rewiring a lamp, fixing a leaky faucet. Never asks for anything in return. Milo’s been a real friend. And a comfort, both of us being widowers and all.”

  “You were going to ask me something about Justine.…”

  “I feel bad for that girl,” Rut confessed. “Let’s face it, Stevie and Donnie will be furious about her being mixed up with Bement. Not just because of what happened but because of who he is.” Bement Widdifield was the great Poochie Vickers’s grandson by way of her daughter, Claudia, and Claudia’s husband, Mark Widdifield. Claudia was Eric’s older sister. “Milo’s mad enough about it to spit. The Vickers are the reason he spent three years in jail himself. Claudia’s none too happy either. She thinks the Kershaws are trash, every last one of them. Not that it’s anyone’s damned business. Bement’s over twentyone. So is Justine. Who she dates is her own affair.” Rut shifted around in his chair, sighing. “Mitch, she’s like a granddaughter to me. Prettiest little thing you ever saw. Has a mouth on her like you wouldn’t believe. Got that from Milo, I guess. I’m real concerned there’ll be a kerfuffle now that the brothers are getting out. Not that I’m asking you to get in the middle. That’s more a job for your exgirlfriend.”

  “She’s not my exgirlfriend, Rut.”

  Rut frowned at him. “Are you sitting here telling me that you and the resident trooper weren’t a hot and heavy item?”

  “I’m telling you she’s still hot and I’m still heavy. We didn’t break up.”

  Rut peered across the table at Mitch doubtfully. “Word is, you popped the question, she turned you down, and you two are history.”

  Mitch didn’t know how this splitsville rumor about Des Mitry and he had gotten started, but it had taken on the weight of absolute truth—no matter what he or his exceedingly bootylicious lady love said to the contrary. “Rut, what are you asking me to get in the middle of?”

  The old postmaster hesitated, thumbing his chin. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea, what with there being so much bad blood.”

  “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? Tell me about the Vickers and the Kershaws. Why is there so much bad blood?”

  “Well, I suppose I’m uniquely qualified to answer that, seeing as how I’m the only soul in town who’s kin to both families. I’m related to the Kershaws through my late wife, Helen. She and Bessie Kershaw, Milo’s mother, were cousins. And I’m first cousin to Poochie on my mother’s side, the Dunlop side. Poochie’s mom, Katherine, and my mom, Eunice, were sisters. Dunlop is an old, old name around these parts. It was Bish Dunlop, my granddad, who built Four Chimneys.”

  Four Chimneys was the colossal brick mansion a couple of miles outside of the village where Poochie resided on two hundred acres of choice riverfront land. Eric’s farm was there, as was Claudia and Mark’s home.

  “Granddad Bish put a big dent in the family fortune building that place,” Rut continued. “The stock market crash took care of the rest. The family was practically bust by the time my mom and Aunt Katherine reached marrying age. Mom was no help. Married herself a science teacher. Aunt Katherine was a different story entirely. Went and married herself John J. Meier of the Pittsburgh steel Meiers. They ensconced themselves like royalty in Four Chimneys and raised Poochie just like a princess. Sent her to the finest schools in the world. She was smart as a whip, beautiful and spirited. Not to mention a worldclass swimmer.”

  “Rut, is it true that she was kicked off the ’56 Olympics team for drinking champagne with a reporter?”

  “It is. And I still say that if a male athlete had kicked up his heels that way no one would have said boo. Poochie’s always been ahead of her time. Never gave a goddamn what other people thought. And yet, when the time came, she married herself that big money stuffedshirt Coleman Vickers. Or the Ambassador, as he preferred to be called,” Rut added dryly. “He did serve as ambassador to France for several years. That’s when Poochie took up her chef thing.”

  Mitch was quite familiar with Poochie Vickers’s chef thing. Everyone was. She’d helped revolutionize American cooking in the 1970s by introducing home cooks to the pleasures of French farmhouse cooking, which emphasized locally grown seasonal ingredients flavored with fresh herbs, not the ones that came dried in a jar. “If they’re dead then they taste dead!” Poochie used to exclaim on The Country Chef, the PBS cooking show that had made her a household name. And a bestselling cookbook author. The woman was so full of daffy charm that she’d made her mentor and good friend, Julia Child, seem almost demure.

  Mitch was also quite familiar with the name Coleman Vickers. A distinguished advisor to three different U.S. presidents, Coleman Vickers had been president of Columbia University when Mitch studied there.

  “A prized horse’s patootie if ever I met one,” Rut sniffed. “The guy’s supposed to be a professional diplomat and he couldn’t buy a quart of milk in this town without putting somebody’s nose out of joint. Always accusing the merchants of overcharging him. Which they’d never do on account of Poochie. That lady is beloved. And Eric is a terrific fellow. So is Bement.”

  Mitch noticed that Rut did not say one word about Claudia.

  “But the Ambassador was real big on leaving people nasty little notes. What the hell kind of a diplomat is that? No wonder this country’s in such a mess. He’s the reason for the bad blood between the Vickers and the Kershaws. Milo and his missus, April, used to do for Poochie and Coleman at Four Chimneys. Milo was caretaker and April kept house, same as Milo’s folks before him. Until the Ambassador asked Milo to do some renovation work on the barn. Assured him he’d pay him extra for it. Or so Milo claims. Milo went ahead and did the w
ork, and then Coleman refused to pay him. Denied saying he ever would. So Milo helped himself to a brand new lawn mower as payment. Coleman called the trooper and charged him with stealing it. In response, Milo burned the Ambassador’s newly renovated barn right down to the ground.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “That’s the way a fellow like Milo settles things,” Rut assured him, nodding his head. “The Ambassador got so apoplectic at the sight of those flames that he had a heart attack and dropped dead on the spot. Never did live to see Milo serve out his sentence. Mitch, this all happened more than ten years ago. But not a day goes by Milo doesn’t curse the Vickers up, down and sideways. And not a day goes by that Claudia doesn’t blame him for her father’s death. So you can imagine how those two feel about Justine and Bement being in love.”

  “I sure can,” said Mitch, his hungry gaze falling on the last slice of pizza.

  “Not that Justine gives a good goddamn what her father thinks,” Rut pointed out. “She and Milo have never gotten along. She doesn’t much care for her brothers, either. Justine goes her own way.”

  “How does Poochie feel about her grandson dating a Kershaw?”

  “She thinks it’s nobody’s business but Bement’s. He’s a bright boy. Still not sure what he wants to do with himself. Dropped out of Stanford one year shy of graduation, which also didn’t sit too well with Claudia. Lately, he’s been refinishing furniture up at Great White Whale Antiques.”

  Mitch knew the place well. One of his neighbors out on Big Sister ran it.

  “I swear Claudia would change her mind if she just got to know Justine,” Rut insisted. “That little girl can light up a whole room. She gives me a poem every year on my birthday. Writes each and every one herself. She’s so gifted with words. Was always a straightA student in high school—unless she got riled or bored. Stopped taking her college classes up at Central Connecticut because she decided her professors were stupid. Told them so right to their faces.”

  “Rut, what’s this favor?”

  Rut Peck reached for the deck of cards again and harrumphed, clearing his throat. “It seems that Justine’s written herself a novel, Mitch. She hasn’t shown it to a soul. Not even Bement. I told her I’d be happy to read it. She told me I’d find it too shocking, whatever that’s supposed to mean. I think she ought to show it to someone. Get some feedback, advice. What good does it do to stick it in a drawer somewhere? Anyhow, I happened to mention that I was acquainted with a real live New York critic who’s also one heck of a nice—”

  “No problem, I’ll be happy to read it.” Mitch was no stranger to encouraging young talent. It was Mitch who’d been the first person on earth to look at Des’s portraits of crime scene victims. Mitch who’d told the wary and vulnerable homicide investigator that she was supremely gifted. “Just tell her to give me a call.”

  “No, Justine won’t do that.”

  “She have something against phones?”

  “No, against asking anyone for help. It’s the Kershaw in her. You’ll have to be the one to reach out. And you’ve got to approach her real careful or she’ll rake you with both claws coming and going.”

  “This keeps sounding better and better, Rut.”

  The old man’s face dropped. “If you’d rather steer clear, I’ll understand.”

  “Did I say that? It’s just going to cost you, that’s all.”

  Rut eyed him shrewdly. “Name your price.”

  “Are you going to eat that last slice of pizza?”

  “You go ahead. You’re still a growing boy.”

  “It’s true, I am,” Mitch acknowledged as he dove in.

  Rut shuffled the cards and dealt them out, murmuring the count under his breath. Mitch picked up his cards and looked at them. Bupkes, yet again.

  “So Des didn’t turn you down, hunh?” Rut sorted through his own hand.

  “She’s simply in the process of thinking it over, which is a very healthy thing.”

  Rut nodded to himself wisely. “Well, I guess I get it now.”

  “You get what?”

  “How the word is she’s dumped you. It gives me no pleasure to say this, Mitch, but when a girl tells you she’s ‘thinking it over’ that means ‘Goodbye, Charlie.’ She’s just letting you down easy is all.”

  “Des is a woman, not a girl,” Mitch pointed out, chomping on his slice. “We’re both mature adults—or at least one of us is. We love each other very much. And she’s going to say yes. I’m not the least bit worried.”

  “Are you sure you asked her right and proper?”

  “Of course I did. Why, what do you mean?”

  “Well, how did you put it to her?”

  “I told her I wanted to get married.”

  “Did you show her the ring?”

  “What ring?”

  “There’s your problem. Go buy her a damned diamond, you cheap bastard.”

  “Rut, that’s totally retrosexual. Des doesn’t care about diamonds.”

  “Baloney. She may carry a loaded weapon, but she’s still a girl. Woman. Whatever. Deep down, they all want to be romanced. Where did this proposal of yours take place, if you don’t mind me asking.”

  “In the hospital.”

  “You proposed to her in the hospital? Why the hell did you do that?”

  “She’d just been shot.”

  Rut let out a short bark of a laugh. “Can’t imagine why the lady said no.”

  “She didn’t say no.”

  “When you propose to a woman, you take her somewhere romantic. Not a place where they have heart monitors and defribillators.”

  Mitch sorted through his cards, mulling this over. Maybe the old guy was on to something. After all, he’d proposed to Maisie on the observation deck of the Empire State Building. And he’d come prepared with a bottle of Yoohoo, two straws and his grandma Thelma’s engagement ring. Maisie was still wearing that ring. He’d buried her with it on her finger. “It’s a complicated situation, Rut,” he said finally.

  “While you’re waiting for it to get uncomplicated, are you planning to take your shopping elsewhere?”

  “If by that you mean sleep around on her, the answer is no.”

  “If you change your mind, my niece, Amy, just split up with her husband. Nice professional girl. A dentist. And lonely as all getout. Not bad looking either. Mind you, she’s not in Des Mitry’s league. But who is?”

  Mitch took a sip of his stout. “Honestly? I can’t think of anyone.”

  CHAPTER 2

  THE OLD TANCOLORED ISUZU TROOPER was sitting out in the middle of Duck River Pond with its high beams on when Des hit the brakes on her cruiser and jumped out. She could make out a driver and one passenger still in the vehicle. They were making no apparent effort to get out, meaning they might not be conscious.

  Or alive.

  A neighbor on McCurdy Road had called 911 at a few minutes past 10 P.M. to report that a car had just crashed through the wooden safety barrier and ended up kersplash in the middle of the pond, which was not quite three feet deep and not quite frozen over. McCurdy was well sanded, but there were still snowbanks along its shoulders. The afternoon sun had melted those some. Possibly, the driver had hit a patch of black ice coming around the bend.

  Leaving her own high beams on, Des rolled up her wool uniform trousers, flicked on her flashlight and plunged right in, black laceup boots and all. It had been a hard winter on boots. This would make the fourth pair she’d ruined. As she waded her way out toward the Isuzu, the icy cold water lapped up over her knees, soaking her pants, too.

  The Isuzu’s tailpipe was submerged. Its engine had stalled out. The water was up just above the bottom of the doors, but Des was able to muscle the driver’s side door open, the better to be bowled over by the strong odor of liquor inside. Somehow, the electrical system was still operational—and the interior lights came on to reveal Poochie Vickers, Dorset’s reigning whitehaired aristocrat, seated there calmly behind the wheel, gazing straight ahead
as if she were waiting for a traffic light to change. Her companion, an exceedingly gay old blade by the name of Guy Tolliver, was doing the very same thing. Both had their seat belts on. Neither seemed the slightest bit aware that they were sitting out in the middle of Duck River Pond.

  An aging, whitemuzzled golden retriever woofed at Des in greeting from behind the back seat, its tail thumping.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Vickers?” Des called out, her teeth starting to chatter.

  “Hullo, Des!” Poochie exclaimed cheerily. “How’s the drawing coming?”

  “Just fine, ma’am. Are… you… okay?”

  “Of course, I am. Why wouldn’t I be? Shush, Bailey,” she commanded the old dog, who obeyed immediately.

  Slowly, Guy Tolliver was becoming aware of the several inches of water sloshing around at their feet. “Poochie, we appear to be somewhat wet.”

  Clearly, they’d been drinking. But Des was aware that more could be going on here. They could have suffered head injuries, or be in shock. Plus Poochie was over seventy. When a driver her age has a onecar mishap, a stroke can’t be ruled out. Des shined her light into the old woman’s eyes. They were bright blue and plenty responsive. “Do you know where you are?”

  “Of course I do. I’m on my way home from the club. Tolly and I were playing bridge. What is it you want, dear?”

  “How much have you had to drink?”

  “Not nearly enough,” Poochie answered airily.

  The other emergency response vehicles began pulling up now, red lights flashing. Dorset’s volunteer ambulance van, which was staffed by Marge and Mary Jewett, two nononsense sisters in their fifties. The big red fire truck, which was manned by four sturdy young volunteer firefighters in big yellow hats, yellow coats and black rubber hip waders.

  “What have we got, Des?” Marge called to her as she and Mary waded out with their emergency kits, their own trousers rolled up.

  “Probable DWI. Sure smells like one. They’re responding to questions and way cheerful—just somewhat disoriented.”