The Sweet Golden Parachute Page 7

  “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 regards 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.

  And yet Justine Kershaw was smiling.

  “Welcome to the evil empire, sir,” she chattered at him gaily when he reached her with his box of Tic Tacs. Her voice was surprisingly husky. “Did you find everything you were looking for?”

  “Actually, I came to see you. Rut Peck thought we should talk. I tried to phone you here but—”

  “This is the gulag, cupcake. We’re not allowed to take calls unless it’s a family emergency. And this is about?…”

  “Your novel. I’d like to read it.”

  She glanced up at him sharply. Her large, lustrous eyes were positively piercing. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “As a favor to Rut.” He paid her for the TicTacs. “I’m a critic.”

  “Okay, there’s some big whoop of a critic who lives out on Big Sister.”

  “You’re looking at him—in living black and white. I’m Mitch Berger.”

  “Sure, Rutty’s mentioned you. You used to go with the resident trooper.”

  “Still do.”

  “Hey, whatever. Only, you’ll have to buy something else if you want to keep talking to me. If I don’t move you through fast enough they’ll stick me in back with the warehouse apes.” Justine nodded to the rack next to her register. “How about the new Britney CD? Or perhaps Jessica Simpson’s more your style.”

  “No, and hell no.” Mitch reached for a Milky Way bar.

  “Well, you have some musical taste,” she allowed, ringing it up. “But that still doesn’t qualify you to read my novel. I’ll need to hear a lot more from you.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Mitch, thinking that Rut hadn’t exaggerated about her mouth either. Justine Kershaw came equipped with loads of attitude.

  “Tell you what, I have a break coming up in thirteen minutes. Not that I’m counting. I can meet you out front on the bench.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll browse until then.”

  “Knock yourself out. Only, wait…” She shoved his receipts into his hand. “Hold onto these for dear life or the security guards will nail you. They’re on monthly quotas. They don’t bust enough people, they don’t get promoted.”

  The snack bar fumes continued to follow him until he got all the way to the shoe department, where they were finally overwhelmed by the smell of synthetic leather. Next to the shoe department there were television sets. Beyond those jewelry, bedding, brassieres. You could find pretty much anything at the big box store, Mitch realized as he munched his Milky Way. You could even buy a Mossberg 500 Pump Action shotgun while you were getting a prescription filled at the adjacent pharmacy.

  As a rule, he preferred to give his business to individual local merchants. In fact, a lot of people had objected bitterly when the chain store empire had announced its intention to build an outlet in Dorset. A vigorous opposition drive had been mounted. It failed, although opponents did convince the corporate planners to build the proposed outlet on a vacant tract of land behind the A&P, where it could not actually be seen by passersby on the street. Only a discreet, unlit sign marked its presence.

  One lap around this grim discount netherworld was plenty for Mitch. He couldn’t get back out to the parking lot fast enough. Blinking in the bright sunlight, he located the bench over next to the garden center, which was enclosed behind a neighborly twelvefoot fence topped with razor wire.

  Justine was seated there in a scuffed leather jacket, smoking a cigarette and fending off the advances of a young security guard, who was hovering about her looking exceedingly puffed up.

  “This is Trevor,” she said, smiling hugely as Mitch approached. “Trevor’s making sure I don’t steal this bench. And now he’s saying goodbye. Say byebye, Trevor.”

  Trevor eyed Mitch up and down before he started back toward the front doors, strutting just a bit in case Justine was watching him.

  She wasn’t. Her brown eyes were on Mitch as he sat next to her on the curved metal bench. Justine was not a calm person. She bristled with fidgety intensity as she studied him. “Buy something?” she asked mockingly.

  “I didn’t, no,” he said, shifting around on the bench, which managed to be both ugly and uncomfortable.

  “It’s fairly hilarious how all of you rich people look down your noses at this place but can’t stay away.”

  “I’m not rich.”

  “Whatever,” she said, as he continued to shift around. “Not real accommodating, is it?”

  “It’s not. And I have ample padding.”

  “That’s intentional. They don’t want us lingering out here, plotting to overthrow the empire.”

  Trevor had not gone back inside. He was parked outside of the front doors, scrutinizing people as they left the store.

  “Do you have big shoplifting problems here?” Mitch asked, watching him.

  “Yeah, although half is actually employee pilfering. Which is, like, totally understandable. We all hate the place. Check this out—we get bonus points if we turn each other in. You amass enough points, you get a whole fiftycent raise.” Justine took a final drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out. “You know how they’re always telling us we won the Cold War? Look around you, cupcake. We didn’t beat them. We are them.”

  “If you feel this way why don’t you do something better with yourself?”

  “There is nothing better.” Justine shook another cigarette from her pack and lit it. “Besides, I’m in the belly of the beast here. The dehumanization, the grinding, hopeless despair—that just makes me stronger. It’s kind of an alternative sensibility. You probably can’t understand it.”

  “You’re right, I can’t. With me, grinding despair is not an emp
owerment thing. It’s more of a misery thing.”

  “My girls need me here, okay?” she explained, dragging on her cigarette. “Twothirds of our employees are women—but only onethird of us are in management. And men are paid more to do the same exact job we do. That is, like, so not even fair. I’m organizing our cashiers, okay? And I’m in touch with women at a whole bunch of our other New England stores. If we don’t get equal pay, we’re hiring a lawyer and suing their asses.”

  “You’re a regular Norma Rae, aren’t you?”

  “Who the hell’s she?”

  “That’s okay. Don’t mind me.”

  “They treat us like criminals. If you treat people like criminals, they act like criminals. Believe me, I know. I have one for a father and two—count ’em two—for brothers.”

  “Are you happy to have them home again?”

  “I’m not happy about anything that has to do with those dickheads,” Justine answered bitterly. “Or with that mean old man. You know what he thinks I should be doing? Devoting my life to cooking and cleaning for him. I told him, ‘I’m not your maid, you squirrely old bastard.’ And I got a place up by the lake with Allison Mapes. We’ve been best buds for, like, ever.”

  “Is that the Allison who waits tables at McGee’s? Sure, I know her.” Mitch was partial to the fried oysters and spiral fries at McGee’s Diner. And Allison, a scrappy fireplug of a blonde, took exceptionally good care of him. “She’s my favorite waitress.”

  “Hey, I’ll be sure to tell her you said so. It’ll make her year.”

  A middleaged woman pulled up now in a Ford Explorer and dropped off a pair of sullen young women. They waved lazily to Justine as they scuffed inside.

  Justine waved back, then turned to Mitch and said, “I haven’t let anyone read my novel. Why should I let you?”

  “Somebody has to—if you want it to get published.”

  “Who says I want that?”

  Seated here with this feisty, inyourface young firecracker Mitch found himself feeling remarkably middleaged and stuffy. Which he was not used to. Generally, he was younger and measurably weirder than most of the people he came into contact with. “We all want an audience. Otherwise, we’re just muttering to ourselves.”

  “I could care less what other people think. Besides, I doubt it’s commercial or anything. It’s way disturbing. Older people won’t even believe it. Because it’s not about their world—it’s about mine.” Justine stuck out her soft pink lower lip, studying him critically. “How can I be sure you know what you’re talking about?”

  “Why would you assume I don’t?”

  “Well, for starters, very few people do. Especially guys.”

  “Have a lot of experience, do you?”

  “With guys who are stupid? Duh, yeah.”

  “I can only give you my own opinion. Feel free to ignore it.”

  “So, what, you’d be doing this as a favor to Rut?”

  “And because it’s the best part of my job. Reviewing the latest Rob Schneider movie, that’s work. Lending a hand to new talent, that’s fun. But, listen, if you’re afraid of the rejection…”

  She let out a yelp of outrage. “Oh, no, you didn’t!”

  “Oh, yes, I did.”

  “I’m not afraid of rejection!”

  Mitch smiled inwardly, pleased he’d pushed the right button.

  “If I let you read it,” she said, shaking a tiny finger at him, “can I trust you to keep your mouth shut? Because I don’t want people knowing what’s in it. It’s my own private thing. And certain people might take it the wrong way.”

  “Certain people like Bement Vickers?”

  “He’s led a very sheltered life.”

  “What kind have you led?”

  “You’d be shocked.”

  “I doubt it. I don’t shock easily. And the answer is yes, you can trust me.”

  “Why should I believe that?”

  Mitch sighed with exasperation. Justine Kershaw definitely required some effort. “Why shouldn’t you?”

  She cocked her head at him, considering this. “Well, I do trust Rut. And, who knows, it might be interesting to see how a guy like you reacts to it.”

  “ ‘A guy like me?’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Uhoh, I’m out of here,” Justine said suddenly, glancing at her watch. “I have to be back on the killing floor in, like, ninety seconds. Not that I’m counting. Just so you know, cupcake, there’s nothing in this world that I’m afraid of. Not one single thing.” She hopped nimbly to her feet and flashed him a dazzling smile. “Tell you what, I’ll think it over. Cool?”

  Mitch smiled back at her, liking her. “Cool.”

  CHAPTER 6

  DES MADE SURE CLIFF cut the loin pork chops mondothick for her, the way Mitch liked them. The butcher was happy to oblige. He had wonderful meat. Actually, everything at Dorset’s gourmet food hall, The Works, was wonderful. She gathered up fresh, beautiful mustard greens, pounds of sweet Vidalia onions. A bottle of champagne that the wine shopkeeper recommended. A chocolate cheesecake that was pure sin.

  Armed with these provisions, she steered her cruiser up toward her cottage high over Uncas Lake. She needed a few more ingredients to make the meal perfect. One was the little yellow knit dress that clung to her every curve for dear life. Whenever Mitch set eyes on her in that dress he made her feel like she was the most delicious creature on the planet.

  Not that she was ever able to keep the dress on for very long.

  Bella was home. Des parked in front of the garage beside her roommate’s Jeep Wrangler. There was no room in the garage for their rides since it served as their designated home for wayward kitties. Presently, they had seventeen residents of all ages, colors and religious denominations—strays that she and Bella had rescued. Some were feral, others simply abandoned. All were healthy and neutered. She and Bella had seen to that, with a kind assist from Andre the mobile vet.

  Des paused on her way inside to fuss over Mos Def, their newest, baddest arrival. He immediately went into a low crouch inside his cage and hissed at her, still not happy about being warm, safe and well fed. Most were that way at first. Mos would come around. The ones who had were given free run of the garage, where they were munching or hanging together in open crates lined with hunks of carpet. Des petted them one by one. That little smudgenosed gray guy, Carmelo, licked her nose and purred and purred. A real thief of hearts, little ’Melo was. She’d end up inviting him upstairs if she wasn’t careful.

  When she’d renovated the cottage, Des had opened it up so that the dining room and kitchen were all one big room. The living room, which had floor to ceiling windows overlooking the lake, served as her studio. Here, Des slashed away with a graphite stick at her fearsome portraits of the crime victims she came across on the job. It was how she survived the horror.

  Right now she had an entirely different sort of portrait in progress on her easel—her own. Unfinished. Stubbornly so. Des had never tried a selfportrait before. And now she was genuinely sorry she had. Because she hated the face that was gazing back at her. Des saw selfdoubt in that face. She saw the face of a woman who had no idea what she was doing with her life. As she stepped back from the easel, studying the drawing with unflinching honesty, she could not help comparing it to that Giacometti selfportrait in Poochie’s parlor. His pen strokes were alive. Her own were so halting and timid it was as if she’d been nicking away at her own flesh with a razor blade.

  Her stomach churning, Des ripped the selfportrait from her drawing pad and buried it deep under a stack of old drawings. Out of sight. Not out of mind.

  “I didn’t hear you come in, tall person!” exclaimed Bella Tillis as she barged in dressed in her ancient black ERAYES sweatshirt and fuzzy red sweatpants. Bella was fivefeetone, totally round and truly the hardestcharging seventysevenyearold widow Des had ever met. “I was just on my way to my yoga class at the senior center—oyyoy, it starts in less than an hour.” Hurriedly, Bella started for the
kitchen.

  To many of Dorset’s oldschoolers, it seemed a bit odd that the resident trooper had a Jewish grandmother from Brooklyn for a roommate. Back when Des and her husband Brandon had lived in Woodbridge, a leafy suburb of New Haven, Bella was her nextdoor neighbor. Bella had rescued her when Brandon dumped Des for another woman. And, eventually, became her best friend. When Des moved here, Bella sold her own place and joined her.

  “Bella, it’s a fiveminute drive to the center,” Des pointed out, following her into the kitchen.

  “I like to get there early.”

  “And do what, cruise for booty?”

  “Oh, please,” Bella scoffed, filling her water bottle from a jug in the refrigerator. “Trust me, Desiree, you do not want to hear an old man attempt the downwardfacing dog. They moan. They groan. Teddy Cavendish, you’d think some tsotske was sucking on his pizzle.”

  “Girl, do you kiss your grandchildren with that mouth?”

  “Oh, please.” Now Bella fetched her yoga mat from the coat closet by the front door. “If I don’t get to class an hour early I don’t get a good spot. Your elderly people are pathologically early.”

  “Okay if I steal a container of your chicken stock? I’m doing dinner for Mitch at his place.”

  “Of course. I put away gallons for Passover. What are you making him?”

  “Um, smothered pork chops. That a problem?”

  “It is not. Better you should violate my dietary laws than use something out of a can. Besides, we both know the way to Mr. Berger’s heart takes a permanent detour through his tummy. Nu, what’s the occasion?”

  “No occasion, okay?” Des growled, fetching a container of homemade stock from the freezer. Also the bag of stoneground grits her mom had sent her from a small mill in Georgia—not far from where she’d moved after she left the Deacon. Then Des went into her room for that yellow dress. When she returned to the kitchen Bella was standing right where she’d left her, a scowl on her bunched fist of a face.

  “Let’s have it. What’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing’s bothering me, Bella. I’m totally cool.”