The sweet golden parachute bam-5 Page 6

  “I can’t help that-my clunker’s in Doug’s shop. What did you wish to see me about, Des? I hope it’s not more to do with last night.”

  “I’m here to see Mrs. Widdifield, actually.”

  “By all means.” Poochie climbed into the passenger seat and patted her lap. Bailey obediently climbed into it. Then she lowered her door shut and hollered, “Floor it, Tolly!”

  As they sped off with a roar, Des could hear the old girl cry, “Wheeeeee!”

  “They’re just like a pair of naughty children,” Claudia said, starting across the courtyard toward the main house.

  “What’s his story?”

  “Who, Tolly? He’s what’s known as a permanent houseguest. Older gay men like Tolly often attach themselves to wealthy widows. He keeps Mother company. Escorts her to social functions. Makes no demands upon her. No physical ones, I should say.”

  “Sounds like you don’t exactly approve.”

  “I don’t care for the way she’s always buying him expensive gifts. That’s how he operates. He’s been sponging off of wealthy hostesses for years. Plus one hears stories. It’s a sad thing, really, because he was once a top photographer for Harper’s Bazaar, Town amp;Country, all the best. He claims to be gathering up his old photos for a book.”

  They strode up the steps now to the massive front doors and went inside. Des was instantly awed as she stood there in the vast, marblefloored entrance hall, gazing first at the grand winding staircase, then up at the inlaid paneled ceiling forty feet overhead. Before her, beyond double doors of hardwood and glass, was the glassdomed conservatory, its interior bathed in the noon sunlight.

  “My greatgrandfather built Four Chimneys for his bride as a wedding present,” Claudia informed her proudly. “It’s a McKim, Mead and White home. In fact, Four Chimneys was the last project Charles McKim designed before he died in 1909. My greatgrandmother loved orchids, which explains the conservatory, and she loved parties. The north wing exists entirely for the purpose of entertaining on a grand scale. There’s a ballroom and formal dining room, rooms for billiards and cards, a restaurantsized kitchen. When father was still active in diplomatic circles, he and mother threw huge functions. But mother shut down the north wing years ago. Prefers the south wing, which is much homier. And the conservatory, of course. Would you care to?…”

  “I’d love to.”

  They passed through the conservatory doors and into an extraordinary world. Not only was the conservatory’s fourstoryhigh domed ceiling made of glass but so was its entire back wall, which overlooked the Connecticut River. The dome was supported by a network of huge cast iron girders and trusses. Brightly colored tropical birds were flying around up there, squawking.

  “You may recognize some of the structural definition from old photographs,” Claudia said, following Des’s gaze. “It’s strikingly similar to McKim, Mead and White’s long lost Grand Concourse of the old Penn Station in New York City. Architecture students from Yale make a pilgrimage here almost every semester to study it.”

  It was so warm and steamy in there that Des’s glasses fogged up. It was also wonderfully fragrant. Poochie Vickers had a forest of edible trees growing everywhere in massive pots. There were lemon trees, orange trees, fig trees. Huge clumps of lavender, sage, rosemary and other aromatic herbs grew in planter boxes. In the midst of this indoor forest was a seating area of wellworn wicker sofas and chairs grouped around a coffee table heaped with books, magazines and game boards. There was also a badminton court and portable basketball hoop. A sturdy, chubby 1950s-era Lionel electric train chugged its way around the conservatory on a raised track.

  “This was where we lived when we were kids,” Claudia recalled fondly, showing Des a glimpse of unbridled warmth. “It was one big jungle playhouse. It’s still Mother’s favorite room.”

  Claudia led Des back out into the entry hall now and into the mansion’s south wing, where the corridor walls were crowded with photos of Poochie from her glory days. So many days, so many Poochies. There was Poochie the society debutante, her blond hair swept back, face bright and animated. Poochie the Olympic swimmer, her face resolute and strong. Poochie the bride, posed on the church steps beside Coleman Vickers, a tall aristocrat with a high forehead and cleft chin. Poochie the diplomat’s wife, photographed with two, three, four different U.S. presidents, with Queen Elizabeth, with Charles De Gaulle. Poochie the celebrity chef, in the kitchen with James Beard and Julia Child.

  Perhaps the most striking picture of Poochie was one in which she was all by herself astride a tricycle with her long legs out in the air, her tongue stuck out and her eyes crossed.

  “Tolly took that one, actually,” Claudia informed her quietly. “It was on the cover of Harper’s Bazaar in November of 1964. And that’s my tricycle.”

  The parlor was a grandsized room in a grandsized house-although quite thoroughly lived in. Shabby even. The Turkestan rugs were threadbare. The chintzcovered sofas and chairs marked with more than a few dog pee stains. The odor was unmistakable. The parlor was also quite informal, thanks to Poochie’s collection of gaudy, brightly colored sunglasses. She owned hundreds. Also hundreds of children’s plastic water pistols. Her thoroughly kitschy collections were so prominently displayed that it took Des a moment to notice what was hanging there on the walls.

  Once she did, she couldn’t stop looking.

  Poochie Vickers liked to collect informal little drawings that had been hastily sketched on things like cocktail napkins and tablecloths. Many of them looked like doodles. It’s just that they’d been doodled, and signed, by the likes of Picasso, Man Ray and Miro. The more formal pieces that lined her parlor walls were amazingly eclectic. Seemingly, the lady simply displayed whatever, whomever she liked. There was a Ruscha word painting from the early ’60s next to a Pollock drip painting from the late ’40s. An immense Warhol flower painting hung beside a Hopper seascape. Paintings by Magritte, Mondrian and Leger were grouped with original drawings by Edward Gorey and Charles Addams.

  “Mother has always befriended artists,” Claudia said. “She adores them, and they adore her. I think I understand why-because she’s an original, just like these works are.”

  Des stood there transfixed by a truly striking Alberto Giacometti selfportrait. The master sculptor had drawn it when he was a mere teenager. His face was a boy’s face, hair a wild mop of curls. Yet his gaze was the piercing one of a mature artist, his command over his pen confident and bold. Des had seen this drawing before in books and admired it greatly-and now she was standing in a house in Dorset, Connecticut, staring right at the original. As an artist, she was awestruck.

  As Dorset’s resident trooper, she was amazed that the Kershaw brothers had walked off with silver candlesticks and left this astonishing art collection behind. Then again, Stevie and Donnie were minor league crooks. It would take someone of sophistication to know what these pieces were worth. And how to dispose of them.

  “What sort of a security system does she have here?” Des asked, glancing around at the tall windows.

  “You’re talking to her, Trooper. Mother never so much as locks her doors.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “I wish I were. I keep begging her to install a system. She won’t. She doesn’t think of her art as valuable. Just thinks of it all as ‘stuff She has ‘stuff in the attic that she’s never bothered to uncrate. Never even had catalogued. Individual paintings could go missing for weeks and we’d never know. I tried to install a system on my own, but she ordered the workmen to leave. Terribly frustrating, but it’s her house. All I can do is make sure someone is around to keep an eye on it. Frankly, part of me is grateful that Bement is back home again.”

  “Do you have livein help?”

  “Mother doesn’t believe in it. Not since the unfortunate incident with Milo Kershaw.”

  “Who cleans for her?”

  “She does,” Claudia replied. “I do. We all do.”

  “But this place is huge. The bathroo
ms alone. Why, there must be-”

  “Twelve, Trooper. Four Chimneys has twelve bathrooms. But the north wing is shut down, as I mentioned. And we only use a handful of the rooms in this wing. So we manage to stay one step ahead of the cobwebs and dust. Mind you, the whole place could use a good scrubbing by a professional cleaning crew. But Mother won’t go for that either. Too expensive. Mother is… she has her quirks.”

  “Actually, her quirks are the purpose of my visit,” Des said. “There’s no tactful way to put this: Your mother has become a chronic shoplifter, Mrs. Widdifield. And I’m not sure she even comprehends how she ended up in that pond last night. I’m becoming concerned about her safety and the safety of anyone who might get in her path. I don’t wish to intrude on your family privacy, but what’s going on with her?”

  Claudia sighed, her proud shoulders slumping. “The short answer is, I don’t know. But I’d like to show you something up in the attic.”

  They took the marble staircase up to the second floor, where Des caught a glimpse of a wide, welllit hallway. More paintings and drawings lining the walls. Doors leading to at least eight bedrooms. A narrower wooden staircase went up to the attic, which was as huge as a warehouse and smelled strongly of mouse droppings and mothballs.

  Claudia flicked on the overhead lights to reveal garment bags, garment bags and more garment bags. “Mother has every article of clothing she’s ever owned.”

  There were oldfashioned hatboxes from elegant Paris shops, huge old leather steamer trunks plastered with stickers from bygone cruise lines. Everywhere, there were crates marked Fragile. Also dozens of stuffed and mounted animal heads. Lions and tigers and bears, things with antlers, tusks.

  “My grandfather, John J., liked to display his hunting trophies in the library. Mother found them barbaric. After he passed away, she had them taken down. But she’s saved them out of respect.”

  “For your grandfather?”

  “For the animals.” Claudia lifted some heavy mover’s blankets from atop a steamer trunk and flung it open, her lip curling with distaste. “Have a look.”

  Inside, Des found hundreds of packages of candy bars. Claudia unlatched another trunk. More candy bars were hidden in there, as were bags and bags of chocolate chip cookies. The cookies had been in there a good long while. The Use by date stamped on the bags had expired two years ago.

  “I stumbled upon all of this by accident last fall,” Claudia revealed in a low, quavering voice.

  Des said nothing. She’d encountered this once before on the job. It was not a pleasant memory.

  “Truly, I don’t understand why Mother is doing this. She never eats a sweet that she hasn’t baked herself. Everyone knows that. And yet, she hides these thing away up here like aa thief.”

  “You’re sure it’s she who’s been doing it?”

  “Who else could it be? Tolly’s only been around for a few months. This has been going on for years.” Claudia stood there wringing her hands, distraught. “Sometimes, she can’t remember where she’s just been or what she’s been doing. She’ll even drift away in the middle of a sentence. I’ve been doing a bit of reading on the subject. Medical encyclopedias and so forth. Apparently, hoarding things away like this is considered to be a sign of… paranoia. There are a number of possible explanations. The onset of Alzheimer’s disease is the most obvious. Or a brain tumor. Or it may have to do with her drinking.”

  “How much does your mother drink?”

  “A lot. She always has. Wine with lunch. Cocktails before dinner, more wine, then brandy. It’s possible the longterm effects have caught up with her.”

  “Does she act as if she thinks someone is trying to do her bodily harm? Does she seem frightened?”

  “I don’t believe so, no.”

  “Has she experienced temporary numbness to a hand or one side of her face?”

  Claudia raised her chin at her. “You’re wondering if she’s getting TIAs.”

  Des nodded. “Transient Ischemic Attacks are quite common among older people.” TIAs were caused by tiny clots or plaque particles breaking away from the wall of an artery. Blood flow to the brain was temporarily impeded. “But surely her physician must have an opinion, no?”

  “Now you’ve put your finger squarely on my dilemma,” Claudia replied. “The awful truth is that Mother hasn’t been examined by a doctor for more than twenty years. Calls them ‘pillpushing quacks.’ I keep begging her to get a checkup. This is a woman who’s in her seventies, for God’s sake. But she won’t do it. And you can’t make Mother do anything. Physically, she seems perfectly healthy. I can’t remember the last time she caught so much as a cold. But we have no way of verifying even what her blood pressure is.”

  “I’m sorry to hear this, Mrs. Widdifield.”

  “I’m sorry to be saying it. Candidly, I’m concerned about my family’s financial affairs.” Claudia moved away from the candy bars and cookies now, arms folded tightly in front of her chest. “I’m considering certain legal steps that will enable my brother and me to take control of them from her.”

  “This is a mighty big step.”

  “I realize that. And you may as well know that Eric-when I can pin him down-thinks I’m overreacting. It’s his view that Mother has always been batty. That nothing has changed. The same goes for our family lawyer, who believes mother remains perfectly capable of making sound financial decisions. I do not. I believe her behavior in regards to money has become downright frightening. She’s blown thousands of dollars on Tolly-cash withdrawals, expensive gifts, monstrous credit card bills. That is not my mother. I’m concerned that Tolly is preying upon her. I wish the others understood this, but they simply don’t. You understand, don’t you? You were there last evening. You interrogated her.”

  “I questioned her. My job was strictly to make sure everyone was safe.” Des had to be very careful here. She did not want to get roped into a family dispute over money. “Have you confronted her with your concerns?”

  “She won’t discuss it. Just calls me vile things-power hungry, joyless, ffrigid. We’ve always had our difficulties. Eric, she adores. Me, I’ve never been able to please her. That’s something I’ve had to live with my whole life.”

  Des nodded, thinking that this particular vanilla ice princess was turning into the Morton Salt girl-when it rained, it poured.

  Claudia glanced at her uncertainly, as if realizing she’d been more forthcoming than she wanted. “Have you any experience with the legal aspects of such competency proceedings?”

  “A little. When a motion is filed by a family member, the state’s Social Services system gets involved, specifically Services for the Elderly. An investigator interviews family members and friends. Your mother’s physical and mental condition would be evaluated by independent physicians. Eventually, a hearing before a judge would take place. Witnesses will be called. So if, as you say, other family members are not on board, then that’ll present a problem. Does your husband, Mark, share your concerns?”

  “My husband is much too busy flushing his life down the toilet right now to be of any…” Claudia broke off, her chest rising and falling. “May we go back downstairs? I find this attic overwhelmingly depressing.” They retraced their steps across the cluttered attic and started back down. “My situation with Mark is very upsetting,” she confessed. “I get so damned tired of being the mommy. I want a man. What I’ve got is a big baby. Mark simply won’t face up to anything hard or painful. Eric is the same way. All men are. They expect us to do the emotional dirty work while they hide under our aprons, sucking their thumbs.”

  “I hear you,” agreed Des, who was thinking she did know one man who wasn’t like that. Not a bit.

  “I suspect you’ve gotten a bit more than you bargained for today. Mind you, I’ve spoken with you in the strictest…”

  “No need to even go there. What we just talked about stays with me.”

  “I appreciate that, Trooper. And I’m sorry if I seem a bit emotional in regard
s to Mother. I’ve never dealt with anything quite like this before.”

  “I have.”

  “How did everything turn out?” Claudia asked, glancing at her curiously.

  “There were some problems.”

  Des left it at that. She didn’t share any more details about Ellen Pitcher, a fiftysixyearold housewife up in Glastonbury. Plastic clothes hangers had been Ellen’s thing. Hundreds and hundreds of plastic clothes hangers. Ellen’s hoarding had been accompanied by rampant paranoia. She became convinced that her husband, her son and her pregnant daughter were conspiring to destroy her. When they tried to take her to see a doctor, Ellen panicked and took her own life with a. 38.

  Before she did so, she took all of theirs, too.

  CHAPTER 5

  Mitch had zero problem figuring out which cashier was Justine.

  Rut Peck was right-Justine Kershaw was a radiantly beautiful porcelain figurine of a young woman, no more than five feet tall and exquisitely fineboned, with huge brown eyes and smooth, shiny jet black hair that came all the way down to her waist. She couldn’t have weighed much more than ninety pounds, yet she didn’t seem the least bit delicate there in her green smock as she scanned and bagged the heavy gallon jugs of antifreeze for the guy in line ahead of Mitch.

  In fact, Justine was so sparkly and alive that by contrast the cashiers working there alongside her at the big box discount store seemed downright lobotomized. They stared straight ahead as they rang up their customers’ purchases, jaws slack, eyes glazed. Not one of them smiled. Not that there was much to smile about. Their work environment was a cheerless, windowless cementfloored warehouse. The lighting was dim, the air heavy with the unappetizing scents wafting from the snack bar, chiefly greasy popcorn and the porky gray wieners that were sweating away on the rotating electric grill. Everywhere Mitch looked he saw surveillance cameras. And signs informing him that he was under surveillance. This place, he decided, was hell.