The Sweet Golden Parachute Page 3

  “Welcome to Dorset,” Mary grunted. “We’ll check ’em out just to play it safe. Then they’re all yours.”

  Des collected Poochie’s leather shoulder bag from the back seat. It had pitched over when the Isuzu hit the pond, dumping its contents—a dozen or so tenpacks of Baby Ruth bars—all over the seat.

  “Getting ready for Halloween a little early, Mrs. Vickers?” she asked as Marge checked the old woman’s blood pressure.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Poochie replied, glancing back at the candy bars. “Those aren’t mine.”

  “This isn’t your purse?”

  “No, it is. But those candies aren’t. Never touch the things.”

  Des stuffed them into her shoulder bag anyway, wondering how the old lady had come by them. An unpleasant pattern was emerging. Just a few days earlier, Poochie Vickers had strolled right out of Gene’s liquor store with a gallon of vodka that she hadn’t paid for. Gene’s parttime clerk had stopped her in the parking lot and held her until Des got there. By then Gene had returned from the bank and smoothed the whole thing over, assuring Des that Poochie had simply forgotten to have the clerk put the vodka on her tab. After Poochie had departed, Gene confided to Des that Dorset’s first lady frequently walked out the door without paying for things.

  Shoving her heavy hornrimmed glasses back up her nose, Des started for dry land with the shoulder bag. One of the firemen waded out and carried Bailey to safety. Des had him put the old dog in the back seat of her cruiser. Then she phoned Poochie’s daughter, Claudia, thinking she ought to put the woman on her speed dial. “It’s Resident Trooper Mitry, Mrs. Widdifield,” she said, stamping her wet, frozen feet. “She’s driven into Duck River Pond.”

  “Is she hurt?” Claudia’s voice was filled with dread.

  “Not visibly, no. The Jewett sisters are looking her over, but she and Mr. Tolliver both appear to be fine.”

  “Thank you for informing me, Trooper,” Claudia said coolly. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  The firefighters gently lifted Poochie Vickers and Guy Tolliver from the Isuzu and started across the pond with them toward the ambulance. By then Doug Garvey from the Sunoco station had pulled up next to Des in his big tow truck.

  Doug was a large, fleshy man in his early sixties. “Thank God she was driving her Isuzu tonight,” he said to Des as he climbed out, hitching up his pants.

  “I hear you,” she agreed. In warmer weather, Poochie Vickers drove around town in a kickass silver 1956 Mercedes Gullwing that she’d owned since it was new. The antique car was worth more than Des’s house—which was saying something considering what they got for a starter cottage in Dorset.

  Following closely behind Doug in his townissued Ford Taurus was Bob Paffin, Dorset’s snowy haired noodge of a first selectman, who monitored local emergency calls day and night. At the merest mention of Poochie Vickers’s name, Bob came running. “Des, I don’t suppose you have any wiggle room on this, do you?” he asked, his eyes taking in the shattered wooden safety barrier.

  Des took off her big Smokey hat and ran a hand over her short, nubby hair. “I smelled alcohol, Bob, so she has to pass a Breathalyzer. That’s a state law.” Des brushed past him and popped her trunk. Yanked off her sopping wet boots and socks. Rubbed her frozen size twelve and a half AA feet dry with paper towels. Put on her spare socks and boots, then unrolled her soaked pant legs and grabbed her Breathalyzer.

  The Jewett sisters had finished checking over Poochie and Tolly in the back of the ambulance.

  “Their vital signs are normal,” Marge told her. “No bumps that we can see. We’d like to run them both to the hospital for a doctor to look at, but Poochie won’t hear of it. Or a blood sample.”

  “Okay if I question them further?”

  “Yeah, sure. They seem fine.” Mary furrowed her brow at Des. “But how are you, honey? Believe me, I know what it’s like to break up with a man in this town.”

  Des puffed out her cheeks, exasperated. “Mitch and I haven’t broken up, Mary.”

  “That’s not what we’re hearing.”

  “We heard you proposed to the Berger man,” Marge chimed in. “And he said no and now you two are kaput.”

  “That is so not what happened.”

  “So you’re not putting in for a transfer?” Marge asked.

  “Putting in for a what? I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Mary. “We both think you should stay. We’ve grown rather fond of you, you know.”

  “Back at you,” growled Des, who absolutely despised the way her private life had turned into everyone else’s business.

  Poochie and Tolly were huddled together in the back of the ambulance, giggling like a pair of giddy little kids. Poochie Vickers had to be the most thoroughly unflappable person Des had ever come across. She was a tall, slim woman of seventythree who’d been a champion swimmer back in her Smith College days. Still looked as if she’d dive right into Long Island Sound and swim across to Orient Point if you dared her to. Poochie wore no makeup or lipstick. Her shock of white hair looked as if she combed it with her fingers. She had on a scuffed up barn coat, a turtleneck sweater, rumpled painter’s paints and Jack Purcell tennis sneakers that were so old one of her big toes was sticking out. Yet despite her dresseddown sloppiness, the lady was elegantly, effortlessly beautiful. She had good high cheekbones, a long, straight nose, strong chin and an air of indomitable good cheer.

  Guy Tolliver, who had to be pushing eighty, was lanky and lanternjawed and plenty elegant himself, although his immense ears and loose, sagging jowls did give him a more than passing resemblance to a bloodhound. Tolly’s glossy silver hair was perfectly coiffed, his fingernails manicured and glossed. He wore a beautiful shearling coat over a shawlcollared burgundy cardigan, gray tweed slacks and black kid leather ankle boots.

  Des crouched there in the ambulance with them and did the smile thing. “How are you folks feeling?”

  “Honestly, I don’t understand the fuss, Des,” Poochie answered. “This road has always been poorly marked. I simply took the wrong fork.”

  “Could have happened to anyone,” Tolly concurred, nodding.

  “There is no fork. Just a curve, which you failed to negotiate.”

  “Now, Des, there’s no need to get all quibbly.”

  “Mrs. Vickers…”

  “Please call me Poochie, dear.”

  “The Jewett sisters say you’re refusing to go to the hospital.”

  “That’s correct. Don’t believe in them. Hospitals are where people go to die. Des, what have you done with my dear young sir?”

  “Bailey’s in my ride, safe and sound. Are you formally refusing to give a blood sample?”

  “I most certainly am. I am not some laboratory specimen.”

  “In that case, I have to ask you to submit to a Breathalyzer exam. You’ve been drinking and driving. I have to determine whether or not you’re over the legal limit.”

  “Why, that’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. May I refuse?”

  “You may, but it means you’ll automatically lose your license to drive for three months. That’s mandatory in this state.”

  “So be it then,” Poochie said with an easy shrug.

  “That’s showing ’em, girl,” exclaimed Tolly, patting her on the knee. “Hell, I can drive you anywhere you want. I think my license is still valid. Des, is a Bahamian license valid in Connecticut?”

  “I’ve phoned Claudia,” Des said, getting up out of her crouch. “She’ll be here shortly to take you home.”

  “Fabulous,” Poochie responded gleefully. “A good, strong dose of Miss Stick Up Her Butt is just what I need right now. Seriously, Tolly, do you think she’s ever experienced an orgasm?”

  “I can’t imagine our Mark has the the stamina,” he replied with catty relish.

  “Our Mark is out of the picture,” she confided, raising an eyebrow at him.

  His eyes widened in surprise. “Since when?
”

  “Since this morning.”

  “Where has he gone? Who with? Dish, you bad thing.”

  Des left them to their gossip only to find Bob Paffin hovering right there outside the ambulance.

  “Must you pull her license?” he pressed when she’d filled him in.

  “Bob, the nineoneone call was logged, our emergency crews mobilized. I couldn’t cut her any slack even if I wanted to—which I don’t. She shouldn’t have been behind that wheel.”

  “Sure, sure. Understood.” Bob pushed it no further, but he wasn’t done getting right up in her business. “Des, I think we ought to talk about your plans for tomorrow. It’s an awfully big day.”

  “Is this the Kershaw brothers we’re talking about?”

  “Folks are mighty uneasy about Stevie and Donnie coming home. I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “You’re right, you don’t,” said Des, who knew all about Stevie and Donnie Kershaw. They were Dorset’s answer to Frank and Jesse James—if the James brothers had been lowlife swamp Yankee cheeseheads. Which wasn’t to minimize them. The Kershaw brothers were thieving louts, and their release after a twoyear stint in prison was sending genuine ripples of fear through Dorset. Everyone was wondering whether the current resident trooper could handle them. This would be a big test for Des. Not that she wasn’t accustomed to being tested. Or watched. She was a single young woman of color. She was sixfeetone, broadshouldered, highrumped and cut with muscle. In a closeknit, uniformly white New England village with a winter population of seven thousand, she did not exactly blend. “There’s no need to worry about this, Bob,” she assured him. “I’m on it.”

  “I don’t doubt that for one second,” the first selectman said encouragingly. He was not patronizing her. No, he was not. “But I’ve been hearing from a lot of people.”

  “Tell them to chill. This isn’t the Kershaws’ town—it’s mine.”

  Claudia Widdifield pulled up now in her black Lexus SUV and got out, looking chilly and imposing. Des excused herself and strode over to her, instantly intimidated. In Dorset, it wasn’t raggies like the Kershaws who daunted her. It was vanilla ice princesses like Claudia—the poised, privileged blondes who had never wanted for anything in their entire lives. Des was not at ease around such ohsosuperior women. Mostly, she resented the hell out of them.

  “Is mother okay?” Claudia demanded, her manner decidedly takecharge.

  “She seems fine, although she won’t let the Jewett sisters take her to the hospital.”

  “Of course not. That’s the sort of thing sensible people do. Not mother. Never mother.”

  Claudia was in her late forties. Like her famous mother, she was tall, slim and strongjawed. Unlike her mother, Claudia was very carefully put together. Her earrings were lustrous pearls. Her makeup and lipstick were fresh. The length of yarn that held her blond hair in place was color coordinated with her red quilted Burberry jacket. By profession, she was an interior decorator. One of the top decorators in New England, in fact. Claudia’s specialty was English country casual. Absolutely nothing about the lady herself was casual. She was so tightly wrapped that she bristled.

  Then again, Des did just hear that Claudia’s architect husband, Mark, had left her that morning. So she supposed the woman could be forgiven if she seemed less than jolly.

  Bailey had started barking at the sound of her voice. Des let him out of the back of the cruiser and Claudia marched the aging dog toward her Lexus.

  “I’m pulling your mother’s license,” Des said, following her. “Which, quite honestly, might not be the worst thing in the world. How would you describe her overall health these days?”

  “My mother has the constitution of an ox.” Claudia eyed her probingly. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because we need to have a talk,” Des replied, clearing her throat. “Our little phone calls are getting to be a habit.” Des showed Claudia the stash of candy bars in Poochie’s handbag. “Your mother claims she has no idea where these came from.”

  “Trooper, I appreciate your concern but this is a family matter,” Claudia said stiffly, closing Bailey inside the back of her SUV.

  “Mrs. Widdifield, look around you. Look at all these folks who’ve been called out of their homes on a cold night. This is not a family matter.”

  The Jewett sisters were helping Poochie and Tolly out of the back of the ambulance now.

  Poochie immediately caught sight of First Selectman Paffin standing there. “Hullo, Bob!” she roared cheerily. “Millie kick you out of the house again?”

  “Heard you were having some problems, old girl.”

  “Nonsense. Just missed that damned fork in the road.”

  “Awfully icy out, too,” Bob Paffin added sympathetically.

  Poochie gazed around at the emergency personnel who were gathered there, hands stuffed in the pockets of their coats. “By God, the lot of you look as if you’re ready for a parade.”

  They laughed politely. All except for Doug Garvey, who was out in the middle of the icy pond hooking up his winch chain to the Isuzu’s rear axle.

  “Come along, Mummy,” Claudia said, mustering a tight smile. “I’ll take you home.”

  “Now don’t be cross with me, Claude,” Poochie chided her. “You seem cross.”

  “I’m concerned. You’re lucky you didn’t drown.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic, Claude. It doesn’t suit you.” Poochie paused to offer Des a firm handshake. “Thank you for your help, dear.”

  “What I’m here for, Poochie.”

  Dorset’s first lady let out a huge laugh. “We both know that isn’t true.” Then she strode regally toward her daughter’s ride, Tolly trailing along behind her.

  Claudia started after them, then abruptly stopped and returned to Des, car keys jangling in her clenched hand. “Mother will be visiting an old friend up at Essex Meadows in the morning.” Essex Meadows was a highend assisted living facility. “She likes to stay for lunch because they often serve fish sticks, which she insists are very hard to find these days. She particularly likes their tartar sauce for reasons that, well, God only knows. I’ll be at my cottage across the courtyard from Four Chimneys. We can talk then.”

  “That’ll be fine. Thank you, Mrs. Widdifield.”

  Claudia shook her head. “A thankyou is not appropriate, Trooper. Trust me when I tell you this: You are about to be very, very sorry.”

  CHAPTER 3

  THEY WERE RUNNING THROUGH central park together. He was flying a kite. She was holding a great big lollipop. Her long, blond hair was flowing. It was a bright, beautiful summer day. It had never been so beautiful.…

  A Maisie dream. Mitch was having one of his Maisie dreams. Often, there were montage sequences:

  Now it was raining and they were hugging under an awning on lower Fifth Avenue. Then it was sunny and they were strolling through the West Village carrying shopping bags from stores he’d never heard of. Now they were eating ice cream cones in Washington Square. Now Maisie was feeding hers to a puppy.…

  This montage is way sappy, Mitch couldn’t help observing. Which was something he did. He reviewed his own dreams in his own head as he was dreaming them.

  Now they were in their big brass bed together. Maisie was over him, her beautiful hair gently grazing his bare chest.

  “You won’t ever leave me, will you, Bear?”

  “How could you ever think that?”

  “I can feel you slipping away, that’s how.” She kissed his eyes, his cheeks, his chin. “You won’t, will you, Bear?”

  “Maisie, I’ll never leave you. I’ll never go.”

  “Yes, you will,” she insisted.

  Which was not at all in character for Maisie. She was never the jealous type, Mitch noted as he lay there, savoring the taste of her, the smell of her. Although she did seem a lot smaller than he remembered. Hardly weighed a thing. And her nose was cold and wet. And she was:

  Purring. Maisie was definitely purring.

&nbs
p; And with a startled yelp Mitch awoke to discover his outdoor hunter, Quirt, standing on his chest in the halflight of dawn, licking his face.

  “Hey… buddy,” Mitch gasped, his chest heaving as if he’d just run two miles with a fortypound pack on his back.

  He had a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth, and he was drenched in sweat. None of which was the fault of Quirt. Or of his docile stayathome muffin, Clemmie, who lay curled at his feet, fast asleep. No, this was one of those awful panic attacks like he’d suffered in the weeks after his beloved Maisie died. Always, they came in the night as dreams. He and Maisie would be happy. Then she’d start begging him not to leave her. And then he’d wake up with his heart galloping, convinced he was having a heart attack. His doctor had explained to him that what he was experiencing was anxiety. That the metallic taste was adrenaline. And that it would pass—which it had. Mitch hadn’t had a Maisie dream since he’d come to Dorset and met Des.

  So why had he had one now?

  It was a few minutes past six, according to the alarm clock next to the bed in his sleeping loft. Snow was falling on the skylight above his bed. Shuddering, he got up and waddled down the steep, narrow stairs, Quirt dashing nimbly along ahead of him.

  Mitch’s place was a twohundredyearold exposed chestnut postandbeam carriage house that once belonged to one of the grander homes out on Big Sister Island. The downstairs was basically one big room where Mitch lived and worked and made beautiful notquite music on his sky blue Fender Stratocaster. He had a big bay window that looked out over Long Island Sound in three different directions. He had a kitchen and bath. He had his sleeping loft. He needed nothing more.

  He cranked up the heat and let Quirt out. The snowfall was very light. Some of it was coating the windshield of his truck but it was not sticking to the ground. According to the thermometer outside of his bay window, it was thirtyfour degrees. It was supposed to warm all the way into the upper forties by the afternoon. Mitch had become something of a weather nerd since he’d bought his little house on Big Sister. What the weather was doing really mattered out here. Plus, he was hopelessly addicted to the Weather Channel and the daring exploits of ace storm tracker, Jim Cantore.