The Sweet Golden Parachute Read online

  Near the cabin there was a leanto where many cords of firewood were stored. The rest of the clearing resembled the salvage yard out behind a secondhand building supply center. There were piles of old windows and doors, kitchen cabinets, shutters, chimney tiles. Milo Kershaw was Dorset’s most noted pack rat, famous for dragging things home from residential demolition jobs and reselling them. On occasion, some of these items didn’t exactly belong to him. A few weeks back, Des had had to smooth over a dispute over some mahogany pocket doors he’d liberated from a house he was renovating. Milo insisted the owner had told him to go ahead and take them. The owner vehemently denied this. Grudgingly, Milo had coughed them up. No charges were filed.

  But it was not the first time Des had dealt with Milo. Over Christmas, he’d gotten into a drunken brawl with a man half his age at the Rustic Inn, Dorset’s popular inspot for the inbred. Milo was getting the better of him, too. Again, no charges were filed, but Milo Kershaw was definitely one of those men who Des had to keep her eye on. He was sneaky, not to mention highly antagonistic.

  His sons Stevie and Donnie, aged twentysix and twentyfour, were obviously no bargains either. They’d started out with the usual playground bully stuff like vandalism, criminal mischief and unlawful possession of alcohol by a minor. Then they started boosting items from parked cars. Then they started boosting the cars. Along the way there was a string of drug possession collars. They’d been given chance after chance—counseling, community service, probation without incarceration. Until, that is, they got caught shoplifting a brand new chainsaw. For that they were deemed incorrigible and sent to the Long Lane Boys’ Facility. With their most recent offense—attempted distribution of stolen property—they’d graduated to a felony and been sentenced to two years, discounted to eighteen months for good behavior, at Enfield Correctional, a mediumsecurity institution.

  Still, when it came to the Kershaw brothers the criminal record didn’t tell the whole story. These boys were local legends. When they’d boosted a parked car from the lot at White Sand Beach one summer evening, for example, they’d been unaware that a couple was getting busy in the backseat at the time. And that one half of the couple was Dorset’s second selectman, who was making love to someone else’s… husband. Or take that chainsaw. They’d stolen it from Lakeside Hardware the morning after a significant snowstorm. On foot. All the resident trooper had to do was follow their footsteps home, where he found Stevie and Donnie using the stolen chainsaw on a dead, frozen deer. As for their most recent offense, some valuable items of silver were stolen from Poochie Vickers’s place, Four Chimneys. Two days after the theft was discovered, Stevie and Donnie strolled right into Great White Whale Antiques and tried to sell Bement Vickers his own grandmother’s silver candlesticks. Bement had politely excused himself and called the resident trooper.

  Des parked next to the yellow van and got out, big Smokey hat square on her head, her boots squishing in the mud. The country air here smelled of wood smoke and of a septic tank that badly needed pumping.

  Milo came out onto the porch at once and hollered at the Doberman to shut up. Milo was a feisty little whippet in his early sixties. He stood fivefeetfive tops and she doubted he weighed more than onehundredforty pounds, most of it gristle. He wore a heavy wool sweater, jeans, work boots and a tattered orange goose down vest that was patched with silver duct tape. Milo was one of those weathered, hardscrabble workmen who seemed to be deeply tanned even in the winter. He had a suspicious, sidelong way of squinting out at the world. Just his way of letting people know that he was a force to be reckoned with.

  “Morning, Mr. Kershaw,” she called to him pleasantly, tipping her hat. “Thought I’d pay your boys a little courtesy call.”

  “Oh, is that what you call it?” he demanded, restraining the snarling Doberman by its choke collar. “I call it harassment. They ain’t even been home an hour and already you’re looking to put ’em back in.”

  “Mr. Kershaw, I’m strictly the welcome wagon. We’ll have ourselves a getacquainted chat and I’ll be on my way, okay?”

  Milo did not go in much for adornment. There were no pictures on the cabin’s walls, no curtains on its windows. There was a woodburning stove in the living room. A bigscreen television, an old sofa with a blanket thrown over it. A spiral staircase led up to the bedrooms. The only other room downstairs was the kitchen, which smelled of cigarette smoke, cooked bacon and unwashed Kershaws. The unwashed Kershaws, Stevie and Donnie, were seated at the kitchen table knocking back cans of Budweiser and savoring their freedom. They’d just put away some bacon and eggs, apparently. There was a greasy cast iron skillet on the stove, egg shells and an empty bacon wrapper on the counter. The sink was heaped with dirty dishes.

  “Resident trooper’s come to bust your balls,” Milo informed them sourly. “That tall one’s Stevie. The short, ugly one’s Donnie.”

  Stevie’s eyes widened instantly at the sight of someone in uniform.

  “Whoa, talk about a buzz kill,” groaned Donnie, whose own eyes were hidden behind a pair of reflecting shades.

  “I just came by to introduce myself,” Des assured them, sticking out her hand. “I’m Des Mitry. Glad to know you both.”

  The Kershaw brothers got slowly to their feet and shook hands with her. Both wore flannel shirts and jeans. Beyond that, they looked almost nothing alike.

  Stevie, who towered over his younger brother, was skinny, darkhaired and, seemingly, determined to prove to the world that the mullet haircut wasn’t dead. Stevie had strikingly delicate features. His pink rosebud of a mouth was almost girlish. Perhaps to compensate for it, he’d grown a soul patch beneath his lower lip. He had a cocky smirk on his face as he eyed Des up and down. Somehow, Stevie Kershaw had gotten the idea that he was a babe magnet.

  Donnie was built low to the ground like his dad, though he was a lot stockier and a whole lot hairier. He had reddish brown hair that flopped down over his eyebrows and a scraggly beard that grew right on down his neck into his shirt. Donnie Kershaw looked more like a wet cocker spaniel than any man Des had ever met.

  “Would you remove your shades, please? I like to look at a man when I’m talking to him.”

  Reluctantly, Donnie complied, jiggling them in his hand. He had nervous, clueless eyes.

  Actually, her initial impression was that neither of them reeked of being ten different kinds of nasty. Which wasn’t to say they were harmless bunnies, either. Both of them projected an unsettling air of menace that she couldn’t quite identify yet. And that troubled her. Des liked to be able to place people.

  “So you’re the new sheriff in town?” Stevie was still smirking.

  “Something like that.”

  “Lady, how tall are you?” asked Donnie, gaping at her.

  “Sixfootone.” With her boots on she was close to sixfour.

  “I think you must be the tallest female I ever met,” Donnie marveled.

  “What about Ray Ryan’s sister, Lizzie?” Stevie said to him. “Played center on the girls basketball team my senior year, remember? Wasn’t she over six foot?”

  “Nah, she was like fiveeleven. Plus, she was a major porker. This one’s shaweet. Wouldn’t mind seeing it out of uniform.”

  “Not one little bit,” agreed Stevie, bumping knucks with him.

  “Okay, I’m standing right here, guys,” Des pointed out sharply.

  Which seemed to startle both of them.

  “You, like, want to sit down?” Stevie asked her, turning vaguely polite.

  She sat, still puzzled by them. They didn’t strike her as that hardened or tough. Just seemed like a couple of hapless small town skeegie boys. And yet they made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Why? “I understand you boys paint houses. If I hear of anybody who’s looking for someone, I can let you know.”

  “It’s still a little early in the year,” Stevie said. “You need your nighttime lows up over freezing. It’ll be another month before we can get going.”

  “We’v
e got work though,” said Donnie, scratching at his unkempt muzzle. “We start at Four Chimneys Farm first thing in the morning.”

  “A little hard work never hurt nobody.” Milo leaned against the sink with his arms crossed, eyeing her coldly. “Not that these two have broken a sweat in their lives. Laziest goodfornothings I ever met. Not to mention the dumbest. But if Eric’s willing to give ’em a chance, I say what the hell. He’s a Vickers, but he tries to do decent by people. Not like his sister. And for sure not the old lady.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that you have a plan. And I want you to know you have a clean slate with me. You’ve served your time, and now we’re moving on.”

  “True or false, lady,” Milo said accusingly. “If anything goes wrong in Dorset, you’ll be all over them for it.”

  “They’re convicted felons now. That’s something they’ll have to live with.”

  “But everybody’s always blamed stuff on us,” complained Donnie, his voice taking on a whiny, adolescent edge.

  “All because we don’t get along with the Vickers.” Stevie shook a Marlboro from his pack and lit it.

  “And now you show up here to do their bidding,” Milo grumbled at her.

  “You’ve got that wrong, Mr. Kershaw.”

  “Like hell. They tell Bob Paffin what to do, and he tells you. You call this fair? Hell, if one of us did what that drunken old bitch done to Duck River Pond last night you’d have thrown our ass in jail. Her, you just sent home. It ain’t right, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You especially.”

  Des narrowed her gaze at him. “And you’re going where with this?…”

  “Don’t play cute. You know where.”

  “Maybe I do know what you mean, Mr. Kershaw. A lot of people in Dorset want your boys to fail. Same as they want me to fail.” She turned back to Stevie and Donnie and said, “Let’s prove them wrong, okay?”

  The brothers looked down at their hands. They were plenty interested in seeing her naked, but not so crazy about being put in the same boat with her.

  “Ma’am, we’re not looking to go back in,” Stevie vowed. “All we want to do is get our act together. Right, Donnie?”

  Donnie nodded his head. “Get our van running.”

  “She runs, dummy,” Milo said gruffly. “Just needs a new muffler.”

  “So why didn’t you put one in?” Stevie asked him.

  “Why the hell should I?”

  “As a welcome home present.”

  “I came and got your sorry asses, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you cheap old buzzard,” Donnie groused.

  “Hey, nipplehead, if you’re living under my roof you’ll show me some respect,” warned Milo, clenching a fist at him.

  Des found herself thinking that these two ought to find a place of their own, like their sister Justine had. Because their biggest problem in life, she felt quite certain, was their human hemorrhoid of a father. “I hope you guys don’t bear a grudge. Justine is dating Bement Vickers these days. And he does happen to be the person who turned you in to the law.”

  “See?” snorted Milo. “Doing their bidding again.”

  “You’ve pretty much made that point, Mr. Kershaw. Want to move off of it?”

  “I’ll say what I want to say,” he shot back stubbornly.

  “You guys forced Bement into a situation where he had zero leeway. If he hadn’t contacted the state police, he could have gone to jail for receiving stolen property.”

  “He didn’t have to go narc on us,” Stevie said. “Could have just said no.”

  “Not their way,” Milo put in. “They want to keep us down.”

  “Mr. Kershaw, I’m urging all three of you to deal with Justine’s relationship in a civil fashion. Are we clear on that?”

  “Here’s what I’m clear on, lady,” Milo responded. “Every time I think about that rich bastard pawing my little girl I just about blow a gasket. And I don’t appreciate you telling me how I’m supposed to feel about my own flesh and—”

  “Were plenty clear, ma’am.” Stevie raised his voice over his father’s. “Who Teeny hangs with is her business. Right, Donnie?”

  “Totally,” Donnie affirmed, nodding his spaniel head. “You won’t have any trouble from us, ma’am. Honest. We’re just happy to be home.”

  “Are we through now?” Milo demanded angrily.

  What Des really wanted to do was take aim at this snarly little man’s family jewels and drop kick him right through the wall. Instead, she flashed him her sweetest smile. “I hope we are, Mr. Kershaw. I really do.”

  ***

  In keeping with Dorset’s unofficial motto—Above all, invisibility—the private drive that led to Four Chimneys was not marked as such. There was simply a turnin on Route 156 with three mailboxes and a small handlettered sign that read: ORGANIC FARM THIS WAY.

  As Des eased her cruiser slowly up the long drive, she couldn’t help notice how lush and fertile this land was compared to the stony hill country where the Kershaws lived. There were stands of towering oaks and hickories, rolling meadows that tumbled gently all the way down to the Connecticut River, which sparkled in the late morning sunlight. As she took a narrow stone bridge over a halffrozen stream, she glimpsed loamy planting fields and pastures enclosed by old fieldstone walls. She caught sight of a big, weathered red barn off to her left, along with a complex of greenhouses, and the small tenant farmer’s house where Eric and Danielle lived. Another handlettered sign pointed to the farm’s entrance on her left. There was no indication of what lay ahead on her right. Des continued on that way, came around a big treelined bend and found herself before a massive wrought iron gate, which was open.

  She passed on through into a courtyard. And now she was face to face with Four Chimneys. It was the grandest manor house she’d ever seen, three stories of ivycovered red brick with a slate mansard roof, two massive central chimneys and another chimney at each end. It did not look like someone’s private home to her. More like a boarding school or research institute. Some of this had to do with its hugeness. But mostly it was the rotunda that the mansion was built around—a spectacular fourstory glass dome framed in greenishtinged copper.

  An archway led around to a fourcar garage and brickwalled service courtyard. She parked there behind Claudia’s Lexus SUV, which was stashed in the garage next to her mother’s gleaming silver Mercedes Gullwing.

  The sun felt good on her face when Des got out. There was a garden gate in the courtyard wall. She went through it and down a brick path that passed through a formal rose garden before she arrived at Claudia and Mark’s cottage, which was so tiny and exquisite that it looked as if it were never meant to be left out in the elements. It was painted a creamy white, its shutters and window boxes bright blue. Oldfashioned tavern lanterns flanked its double Dutch front doors, which were painted that same bright blue. Snowdrops and snow crocuses were coming up in the little cottage’s ornamental herb garden, which was neatly edged with manicured boxwoods.

  Des used the brass knocker, feeling size huge as she loomed there in the doorway.

  Claudia Widdifield swung the top door open and gazed out at her coolly. “I see you’ve made it, Trooper. Apparently you’re serious about this matter.”

  Claudia did not invite her in, and Des was not about to barge in. Claudia did not inspire easy familiarity. She was more the type who made Des feel as if she had something smelly stuck to her shoe. Des did get a look at the beautifully appointed living room behind her. The grandfather clock and antique writing table. The basket full of peeling birch logs that sat beside the fireplace. Dried lavender was arranged in a battered milk pitcher on the coffee table, where a selection of art books was stacked just so. It was obvious that an interior designer lived here. Either that or the ghost of Laura Ashley.

  “Perhaps we should go to the big house,” Claudia said. “There’s something you may wish to see.”

  She joined Des outside, pulling the blue door shut behind her. Claudi
a’s shiny blond hair was held in place by a hair band today. And she was going with a lot of vanilla blingbling. Not only pearl earrings but a pearl choker and bracelet as well. She wore a pair of aupecolored slacks and a sweater set of white cashmere that was the sort of thing Des admired greatly but would never dare wear. Ten minutes after she put it on she’d spill something on it.

  “Your house is charming,” she observed as they started down the brick path. Charming was a word Des had never used before she moved to Dorset. Here, it popped out a lot.

  “Why, thank you,” Claudia said, thawing perhaps two degrees. “Mark served as project architect. I did the interior. It was actually mother’s kennel in a previous life. She used to raise her golden retrievers out here. Bailey is the last of a proud line, old thing. It has only the one bedroom, so Bement is bunking in the big house with mother. It’s where he grew up. Our move out to the cottage is very recent. Mind you, I’m…” Claudia trailed off into silence. Briefly, Des thought she might get into where Mark was presently bunking. “I’m exceedingly happy that Bement is back with us. But I’d hoped he would graduate from Stanford and pursue something worthwhile. Instead, he’s refinishing furniture. That’s something a man putters at in his workshop, don’t you think?”

  “I think we should all do what makes us happy.”

  “That’s a very hedonistic approach to life,” Claudia said disapprovingly. “I wouldn’t expect to hear that from someone in uniform.”

  “We sworn personnel are a diverse bunch.”

  “I’d forgotten that you’re an artist. Mother raves about your work.”

  Claudia chose a different path from the one Des had taken. This one led past a tennis court and Olympicsized swimming pool. The pool had been covered for the winter. Claudia strode like a power walker, her head high, fists pumping. Des, even with her long stride, had to walk briskly to keep up with her.