The Sweet Golden Parachute Page 20

  “Absolutely, ma’am,” Soave assured Poochie. “It’s your legal right.”

  “Will Mr. Tolliver be joining us?” Des asked.

  “No, Tolly’s cutting back my rosebushes,” Poochie replied with a wave of her hand. “Got his gloves and pruners and off he went. He’s been upset ever since you three spoke to him this morning.”

  “We have to look at everyone,” Yolie said. “It was nothing personal.”

  “I don’t wish to be rudely contradictory, Sergeant, but it was very personal. Also hurtful. You’ve completely failed to grasp our situation. Tolly would never, ever steal from me.” Poochie gazed out the window at her view of the river. Her face had a fond, faraway look on it. “Funny, him wanting to garden all of a sudden. When we were first married, he wouldn’t go near it. Ladies’ work, he called it.”

  Soave looked at Des, puzzled. Des kept her own expression neutral, though she could feel her stomach muscles flutter.

  Glynis smiled gently at her client. “Poochie, it’s Tolly who we were discussing.”

  “And your point is?…”

  “You just said that when you two were first married he disliked gardening.”

  “No, dear, you’re mistaken. Tolly and I have never been married. But I do wish he’d sit in on this conversation. He ought to be here.”

  “Would you like us to go get him?” Des offered.

  “No, leave him be. He needs to work out his creative tensions.” Poochie reached for the brandy decanter and poured more of it into her snifter.

  “Poochie, we’ve been told that Peter Mosher was the offspring of your father, John J. Meier, and the family maid, Bessie Mosher,” Des began. Soave wanted her to get it rolling. “Can you confirm this?”

  “I can,” Poochie said forthrightly.

  “We’ve requested access to Mr. Mosher’s will so that we might learn who he’d named as his beneficiaries.”

  “I have his most recent financial statements as well.” Glynis opened one of the files in her lap, scanning it. “The income from Mr. Mosher’s trust fund was more than adequate for him to live on comfortably. In point of fact, we hadn’t even touched his interest income for more than twenty years. Consequently, his assets have…” Glynis, cleared her throat. “At the time of his death, Peter Mosher was worth somewhere in the vicinity of eighteen million dollars.”

  “Shut up!” Yolie immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. “So sorry. Didn’t mean for that to… are you sure about this?”

  “Quite sure, Sergeant,” Glynis replied tartly.

  “But why does a man worth that kind of green live like he was living?”

  Glynis looked to Poochie for an answer.

  Poochie was staring down at Bailey in her lap, stroking the old golden retriever with so much focused intent that she seemed not be listening. “I wish I could give you a decent answer, Sergeant,” she replied softly. “But Peter and I hardly knew each other. That was father’s wish. For mother’s sake, he didn’t want the two of us to form an attachment.”

  Soave’s cell phone rang. He answered it and listened a moment before he glanced up at Poochie and said, “Doug Garvey’s here.”

  “Send him through.”

  “He can pass,” Soave said into the phone, flicking it off. “Go ahead, Des.”

  “Poochie, did your mother ever speak to you about Peter?”

  “Absolutely never,” Poochie replied. “Mother wasn’t one to share her secrets. Mind you, she knew the truth about him. How could she not? There were so many whispers around town. I was only a girl, yet I can still remember them. I can remember the shame as well. And father did feel shame, so young Peter had to go and young Peter did go—off to boarding school.” Poochie sipped her brandy, swirling it around in the snifter. “He wrote father regularly from England. Father kept a post office box for that sole purpose. He would read each letter carefully, then burn it. He burned all of Peter’s letters. He confided this to me over martinis one evening when I was home from Smith. Father told me things he could never tell Mother.” Poochie’s face had a faraway look on it again, though this one was not especially fond. “I was his confidante, his pet, his plucky little pard.”

  Des heard the flatulent rumble of a vehicle arriving out front, a car door slamming, heavy footsteps on the gravel. Then the front door opened and a husky male voice called out, “You around, Pooch?!”

  “In here, Dougie!”

  Doug Garvey lumbered into the parlor jangling a set of keys. “Brought you that Jeep of mine to get around in.”

  “Bless you, dear. Need a lift back to the station?”

  “Not necessary,” Doug said, his eyes flicking around at everyone curiously. “I’m meeting one of my boys down at the foot of the drive in a minute. I’ll leave these keys by the front door.”

  “Don’t people ring doorbells in this town?” Soave wondered as Doug tromped back outside.

  “Doug is a friend. Why would he do that?” Poochie hesitated now, frowning. “Sorry, where was?…”

  “Peter was away at boarding school,” Glynis reminded her.

  “And giving every appearance of being a bright, outgoing young man,” she continued, nodding her head. “He played soccer and rugby, was a fine horseman. An excellent shot, too, all of which made father exceedingly proud. But Peter didn’t much care for university life. He left Cambridge during his second year and settled in London, where he fell in with a rather wild crowd. That ‘mod’ scene was all the rage, and Peter embraced it fully—no cares, no worries, nothing but one big party. Father did keep him comfortably provided for, after all. Winters, he’d ski in Gstaad. Summers, he’d head for St. Tropez. He took lots of girlfriends. Dropped them when he felt like it. Was seldom sober. Eventually, when Coleman was posted to Paris, I had him to the residence for lunch.” Poochie paused, her face darkening. “It was not easy for either of us. I was a good little diplomat’s wife. Peter was a full-time hedonist. Exceedingly hostile to me. High on pot, I might add. He offered to smoke some with me. He’d recently been up to the Montreux Jazz Festival, where he’d seen a group that he wanted to manage. Champion somebody and…” She shook her head. “I can’t remember their name. It came to nothing. None of Peter’s plans ever amounted to anything. They were drug-induced fantasies. He went on who knows how many LSD trips. I can’t say for certain whether it was the drugs that triggered the… change in him. I only know that Peter became uncontrollable, given to fits of wild, schizophrenic rage. In 1971, he attacked a policeman and had to be put in restraints in a London hospital. A friend of his wrote Father, who saw to it that Peter was transferred to a highly regarded psychiatric institute in Lausanne, Switzerland. Not that they actually helped him. Mostly, they just kept him sedated. If they didn’t he’d try to escape.”

  “Did your father think about hospitalizing him closer to home?” Soave wondered.

  “Switzerland was Peter’s home,” Poochie answered in a strained voice. “I heard very little about him after that. Coleman and I were posted back to Washington. And then, of course, Father passed away.”

  “After John J.’s death in ’74 our firm took over guardianship of Peter’s financial affairs,” Glynis stated. “We paid for his long-term care by drawing on the income from his trust fund. In 1983 Peter was transferred to another institute, in Livorno, Italy. Their experimental treatments were showing promising results. Their security, however, left a great deal to be desired. Peter was able to discharge himself two months after he arrived, at which point he slipped under the radar. Wandered God only knows where for years. Had no known means of support. Apparently, he was able to get a passport, because he did make his way back to America eventually.”

  “Back to Dorset,” Poochie said. “He just showed up here one day, filthy and homeless. Doug phoned me after he’d found him. I drove straight down to the filling station, hugged him and said, ‘Welcome home, Brother.’ He just looked away and said two words to me: ‘Sneaky Pete.’ Those were the only two words he ever spoke. I bro
ught him back here, set him up in a room, ordered him some clothes from the men’s shop. But he ran away that very night. Turned up back at Doug’s like a stray animal. Doug brought him back here but the same thing happened again. Finally, Doug was kind enough to put him up. But it was all so incredibly heartbreaking. I couldn’t help thinking Peter wanted his family’s love. He could have gone anywhere in the world and he chose to come here. And yet he wouldn’t speak to me or let me…” Poochie’s eyes filled with tears. They spilled down her cheeks. She swiped at them with her hand. “I’m sorry to be so emotional. But this is very hard for me.”

  “I was rebuffed as well,” Glynis put in. “He wouldn’t touch a penny of his money.”

  “Poochie, what did you tell Eric and Claudia when you brought Peter home?” Des asked.

  “That he was an old childhood chum fallen on hard times. Eric was fine with that, chiefly because he smelled a cheap, useful field worker. Claudia told me I’d lost my mind. I’ve never fit her idea of a suitable mother, I’m afraid. I didn’t tell them who Peter was. But I intend to this very evening. They deserve to know, and I believe I’m free to speak the truth now. Is that all right, Glynis?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, it’s fine.”

  “Father didn’t want them to know. He made it very clear to me on his deathbed. Mother was in failing health herself. She died less than three months after father.”

  “How was Peter provided for in his will?” Des asked Glynis.

  Glynis scanned John J. Meier’s file folder before she said, “He’d already seen to Peter’s needs when he set up the trust fund. Initially, it consisted of shares in the Meier Steel Corporation equal to but not exceeding the sum of five million dollars—which over the past thirty-some years has grown into the eighteen-million-dollar figure we discussed. The vast majority of John J.’s holdings, including Four Chimneys, he left to Poochie.”

  “Was anyone else provided for?”

  “Bessie Mosher was long dead, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “By her own hand, I’m told.”

  “Yes,” Poochie said. “Father felt no financial obligation toward Ed or Bessie’s other son, Milo. He provided only for Peter.”

  “With certain safeguards,” Glynis pointed out. “Peter had been institutionalized by this time, after all. Legal guardianship was granted to my father, who subsequently signed it over to me when he retired from the firm.”

  “Did Peter ever marry?” Des asked.

  “There was a brief misadventure with a German fashion model back in, oh, ’66,” Poochie recalled. “Apparently, they ran off and got hitched in Marbella, both of them high as kites. A week later it turned out she was still legally married to another man, so her marriage to Peter was annulled or voided or whatever it is they do. She didn’t get a penny off of him.”

  “How about children—did he ever have any?”

  Poochie gazed at Des blankly. “Why, no.”

  “None that we are presently aware of,” Glynis hedged, going legalese. “To the best of our knowledge, Peter died without issue.”

  “But you’re not sure?”

  “As sure as we can be. No one has come forward to make any such claim.”

  “Say someone does. What happens then?”

  Glynis studied the Can Man’s last will and testament, her lips pursed primly. “No provision was made for heirs. And with good reason, I might add. Peter’s doctors kept him in a drugged state. There was genuine concern that an unscrupulous nurse might try to get herself pregnant by him, produce an heir and make a claim to his fortune. Such things have been known to happen. John J. made sure that it could not by spelling out unequivocally that upon Peter’s death the entirety of his trust fund passes to Poochie and no one else. You’re correct to suggest that an unknown heir could come forward and try to contest it, thereby throwing the ball into a judge’s court, but John J.’s wishes were quite clear. Absolutely no one else is provided for.”

  No one like, say, Pete’s half-brother Milo. Or his old friend Doug Garvey. Neither man had a financial upside in seeing Pete dead. At least none that was apparent to Des. “Forgive me if this sounds morbid, but who would his trust fund have passed to if Poochie had predeceased him?”

  “It would have gone to her heirs, Eric and Claudia,” Glynis replied.

  “Poochie, may we talk about your own estate for a moment?”

  Poochie didn’t respond. Didn’t even seem to be listening to Des. She was too busy gazing at Yolie. “You have such a sad aura, sergeant,” she observed. “A healthy girl like you ought to have a man in her life.”

  Yolie swallowed uncomfortably. “What makes you think I don’t?”

  “Because I know you’re lonely. You’ve never been so lonely.”

  “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” responded Yolie, seriously weirded out.

  “Poochie, we seem to be straying a bit,” Glynis put in tactfully. “Des wants to know who stands to inherit from you. You’re under no legal obligation to respond, The judge’s warrant applies to the contents of Peter’s will, not your own.”

  “I don’t have anything to hide, do I?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then tell Des what she wants to know.”

  “As you wish,” Glynis said deferentially. “In fact, there is one slightly unusual wrinkle. John J. was very particular about this house and land, all two hundred and seven acres of it. As his sole male issue Peter stood to inherit Four Chimneys upon Poochie’s death—not Claudia and Eric.”

  “Did that include the house’s contents?” Des asked.

  The attorney shot a quick glance at Poochie before she said, “The contents of the house are considered separate. As are Poochie’s own financial assets, which are hers to distribute as she sees fit. But as to Four Chimneys itself, John J.’s wishes were quite specific.”

  “So, in a sense, Poochie and Peter have owned Four Chimneys together all of these years, am I right?”

  “You are,” Glynis replied. “But now that Peter has predeceased her, it will pass to Claudia and Eric—and from them on to Be-ment. Should Eric and Danielle have a child, then he or she would share title with Bement until one of—”

  “Stop this horrid nonsense!” Poochie erupted suddenly. “I cannot abide it!”

  “We’re trying to help, Mrs. Vickers,” Soave said. “Sorry if this is upsetting to you.”

  “It’s very upsetting!” Poochie had grown highly agitated. “I feel as if my cold dead flesh were being picked apart by turkey vultures. I hate talking about money. I won’t! Glynis, you’re on your own. I’m starting dinner.” She scrambled out from underneath Bailey and charged off toward the kitchen.

  The snoozing dog remained where he was. In terms of alertness, Bailey was only slightly keener than a napa cabbage.

  Soave watched Poochie go, tugging at his goatee thoughtfully. “How big an estate are we talking about?”

  “I’m not going to talk specifics,” Glynis answered, hands folded neatly in her lap. “I will say that Poochie was born into great wealth, married great wealth and has amassed a considerable amount through her own hard work.” She glanced at her wrist-watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to return to soccer mom mode. Number two daughter needs picking up.”

  “Glynis, there’s something else that’s staring us right in the face,” Des said.

  Glynis returned the files to her briefcase and snapped it shut. “Which is?…”

  “Poochie herself. She’s been acting a little strange lately.”

  “I heard that,” Yolie agreed. “What was that about my aura?”

  “That was just Poochie being Poochie, Sergeant. She’s apt to say the oddest things.” Glynis hobbled her way across the parlor toward the front hall, the three of them joining her. “When I was fourteen she pulled me aside and told me to focus my intellectual energy on science. Geology, specifically. Why? Because I was obviously destined to become the first woman in history to reach the p
lanet Mars.”

  They headed out into the front courtyard. Doug’s Jeep was parked there alongside their Crown Vics and Glynis’s mini-van.

  “Poochie is also very upset about Peter,” Glynis added. “Perfectly understandable under the circumstances.”

  “Perfectly,” Des allowed. “Except I’ve been getting her out of a lot of jams lately. And Claudia wants power of attorney over the family’s financial affairs. She’s told me so. Given that we’ve been talking about estates worth millions of dollars, it’s hard not to wonder if it all connects up.”

  Glynis opened the door to her minivan and set her briefcase inside. “I regret that Claudia spoke to you about this matter. I’ve tried to discourage her from pursuing it. As far I’m concerned, Poochie remains perfectly capable.”

  “Glynis, there are a whole lot of candy bars squirreled away in that attic.”

  “What of it?” Glynis said mildly. “When I cleaned out my father’s attic I discovered that he’d stolen ashtrays from seemingly every saloon, nightclub and restaurant he’d been to since his undergraduate days at Harvard. There were thousands of them. This was a man who didn’t smoke. And he was practicing good, solid law right up until the day he died.”

  “Claudia wants Poochie to see a doctor.”

  “As do I. Poochie hasn’t had a checkup in years. But do you nuke the entire family in order to force her hand? You do not, as I’ve told Claudia again and again.” Glynis climbed in and started the engine, rolling down her window. “I’ve also told her that if she chooses to pursue this she’ll have to retain another attorney. Poochie is my client.”

  Glynis put the minivan in gear and took off down the drive. The three of them stood there in the courtyard watching her go, the setting sun casting a golden reflection off of her back window.

  “We should be bearing in mind that Pete was ten years younger than Poochie,” Des said quietly.

  Soave furrowed his brow at her. “Meaning what?”

  “That our Can Man stood a better than decent chance of coming into this whole place. Or I should say his trust fund did—with Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux running the show.”