The sweet golden parachute bam-5

by David Handler

  Claudia looked at him and Yolie rather doubtfully. “How can you be making ‘good, steady progress’ when you’re all standing around here?”

  “Claude, dear?…” Poochie had a pained smile on her face. “Don’t you have someone’s interior to make over?”

  Claudia flared instantly. “You don’t want me here, is that it?”

  “I’ll keep you posted, dear,” Poochie assured her.

  Claudia stormed off, her black pumps clacking sharply on the quarry tile.

  “Please pardon my daughter, officers. The poor thing got brains and looks but no heart whatsoever.” Poochie retrieved her sunnies and gardening gloves from the coffee table. She’d already recovered her composure, it seemed. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “Actually, we were wondering if we could have a word in private with Mr. Tolliver,” Soave said.

  “Why, of course,” she said. “I want to finish my cassoulet, anyway. You’ll stay for lunch?”

  “I don’t believe so, ma’am,” Soave said. “But thanks.”

  “Very well. I shall be in the kitchen if you need me. Come along, young sir!” she roared, smacking her ancient dog on the rump.

  Bailey stirred, yawning, and padded slowly along behind her.

  “Do join me, please,” Tolly said, smiling at them graciously.

  The three of them sat-Des beside Tolly on the sofa, Soave and Yolie in facing armchairs.

  “Mr. Tolliver, exactly how do you support yourself?” Yolie asked him.

  His smile slipped a bit, though he quickly recovered. “No small talk with you new generation types, is there? You just go right ahead and stick the knife in.”

  Yolie didn’t respond. Just gazed at him steadily. With her big shoulders and battle-scarred street face, she could be very intimidating when she chose to be.

  Tolly swiped at some invisible lint on his moleskin slacks. “Obviously, you’ve checked to see if I’ve ever run afoul of the law. Obviously, the answer is yes. You’ve asked me how I support myself. The short answer is that I don’t. I have a checking account in a New York bank with a small cash balance. No income. No investment portfolio. No retirement plan. I’ve been a gypsy my entire adult life. Mostly, my friends are kind enough to take me in.”

  “Are you sure they’re not the ones being taken in?”

  “I’m not following you, young lady,” he responded politely.

  “Is that right? Because trouble sure has an amazing knack for following you around, sir.” Yolie glanced down at the computer printout that Des had passed her. “In ’94 you were charged with passing forged checks belonging to your hostess, a Mimi Over-meyer of Old Westbury, Long Island. The charges were later dropped by Mrs. Overmeyer, but similar charges were leveled the following year in Aspen, Colorado. This time your hostess was a member of the Ford family. In ’96 some valuable jewelry disappeared from your hostess’s horse farm in Jackson, Wyoming. A Degas disappeared six months later in Palm Beach. This list just goes on and on, Mr. Tolliver-a Cartier watch in Maui, a Tiffany diamond bracelet in Montecito. In Beverly Hills we’ve got credit card fraud-”

  “Eva loaned me that card,” Tolly objected, after having suffered the rest in composed silence. “Besides, what you’ve failed to mention is that not once have I been convicted of any crime.”

  “True that,” Yolie conceded. “But the sheet doesn’t lie. Wherever you’ve stayed some wealthy lady has wound up paying for it. You’re quite the smooth operator, aren’t you?”

  “You make me sound like a gentleman thief out of an old Hollywood movie.”

  Des was thinking the same thing herself. Didn’t know which movie, but she had a pretty fair idea who would.

  “I didn’t say anything about you being a gentleman,” Yolie pointed out, raising her chin at him.

  “Young lady, that was not a nice thing to say.”

  “We’re just trying to be thorough,” Soave interjected soothingly. “Mrs. Vickers has lost herself a pretty valuable car, and a man is dead.”

  “I’m neither a murderer nor a car thief,” Tolly said. “I had nothing to do with any of this.”

  “Why did you leave the keys to the Gullwing in the ignition?” asked Yolie.

  “Poochie told me to.”

  “Sure it wasn’t your idea?”

  “Positive.”

  “We can subpoena this house’s phone records. Find out who you’ve been in contact with.”

  “Go right ahead. You won’t get anywhere. Not regarding me you won’t.”

  Soave peered at him. “You have some idea who is behind this?”

  “I have my ideas,” Tolly acknowledged. “None I care to share with you.”

  Yolie kept right on coming. “I understand Mrs. Vickers has her some mighty tasty artwork around here.”

  “Sergeant, this is not you being thorough, merely insulting,” Tolly said to her calmly. “But you’re wasting your breath. I am impervious to insults. You see, I’ve been a queer my whole life.”

  “Have you got a man in your life right now?” she inquired.

  “I haven’t, no,” he replied wistfully. “In recent years, it’s been my pleasure to befriend a handful of great, kind ladies. Lonely ladies who make me a part of the family. Mind you, other family members tend to have it in for me-witness Claudia.”

  “What about her?”

  “She despises me, simply put. I’m a rival for her mother’s affections. I’ve encountered this before. If something goes amiss, I’m the fellow they try to pin it on, and you people are only too happy to see it their way. I’m just the sort who you classify as ‘the likely suspect.’ I’m a lone wolf, and I’ve never owned things. As if things legitimize you. The most disreputable people I’ve ever known owned things-multinational corporations, banking empires. Trust me, they’re the criminals in this world. But the law always picks on me. You people are so compliant in that regard. Besides which,” he added pointedly, “Poochie knows all about what’s on that sheet of yours. I’ve told her. And she trusts me completely. She also needs me. Not just because I’m her friend, but because I pull my weight around here. I help out in the yard, shop for her, wash dishes. She has no maid, you know.”

  “Claudia told me you’re putting together a book of your photos,” Des said.

  Tolly brightened considerably. “My photos are my legacy. Before I go, I want to show your generation what real style was about. What they were about. I was Babe Paley’s favorite, you know. She’d let no other photographer near her. I shot all of the great ones-Jackie Kennedy, C.Z. Guest, Slim Keith. They had such elegance, such breeding.”

  “You were a fashion photographer?” asked Yolie.

  “I never shot fashion,” he replied crisply. “Although that’s a common misconception, Sergeant, so don’t get too down on yourself for making it. I shot fabulous ladies going about their daily lives. I shot them lunching with friends. I shot them riding horses, throwing charity galas. I was their chronicler, and now that I’m closing in on eighty I want to publish my chronicle. Those ladies are a part of our heritage. They speak to a wonderful bygone era when sophistication and grace ruled our society. Who are our standard bearers now? Paris Hilton? Britney Spears? The Olsen twins?” Tolly let out a discreet snort of disgust. “They’re all gone now, except for Poochie. She’s a national treasure, really. And she’s grown even more beautiful as she’s gotten older. Because of her spirit. She savors every single day of her life.”

  “Do you still take pictures, Mr. Tolliver?” Yolie asked.

  “Haven’t touched a camera in years. These days, I’m nothing more than a remarkably well-preserved relic.”

  “Which brings us back to the subject of how you support yourself.”

  “I haven’t a cent, Sergeant, as I’ve already told you. Could I use one of those sweet golden parachutes that the corporate titans are awarded for running their companies into the ground? Absolutely. Instead, I’m relying on Poochie for the roof over my head, for my pocket money, for
my everything. I adore that woman. She’s good to me, and I’m good to her. We laugh an awful lot. We’re happy together. I have peace here. I have security. And I didn’t steal her Gullwing. Not worth it to me at this point in my life. Which is not to admit that it ever was. May I be excused now?”

  “You can stay right here if you want,” Soave told him. “We’re leaving.”

  As soon as they were outside Soave undid his flowered necktie and ripped it from around his throat. “I knew this thing made me look light in the loafers,” he fumed. “I should never have listened to Tawny.”

  “You don’t look gay, Rico,” Des assured him.

  “You trying to tell me that old guy wasn’t hitting on me?”

  “He was simply paying you a compliment. That wasn’t gay code.”

  “That there is one sly old boots,” Yolie mused aloud as they crossed the gravel courtyard toward their rides. “Did you believe anything he said?”

  “Not a single word,” Soave replied, scowling.

  “Dig, how do we know he doesn’t have a young stud on the side?” she suggested. “A partner who does the heavy lifting while he’s being all lovey-dovey.”

  “We should definitely check his phone records,” Soave said. “Also his bank account. His and everyone else’s. Maybe we’ll turn up a funky deposit or withdrawal. And, Des, you ought to nose around at your quaint local inns. See if any unattached male guests came and went recently.”

  “I’ll get right on it, Rico.”

  “So who are you liking for this, the Kershaw brothers?”

  “My mind’s still open. But my gut hunch is Pete’s killer wasn’t some out-of-town leather boy who’s hooked up with Guy Tolliver. We’re looking for people who Pete knew. People who were afraid he might blab their identity to someone.”

  “Girl, you told us the man barely spoke,” Yolie pointed out.

  “I know I did. Just walking it around. Sorry if I’m muddying the water.”

  “That’s okay, don’t ever hold back. I had a wise lieutenant once who taught me that.” Soave flashed a grin at Des as they arrived at their cars. “Let’s cowboy up, ladies. Yolie, grab some uniforms and recanvass the neighbors and school bus drivers. Find out if anyone saw Pete on his rounds this morning. And we need to go after the Gullwing hard. If we find the car we find our killers. They had to unload it somewhere. And we’re not talking some chop shop in Bridgeport. We’re talking high-end operator, which rhymes with m-o-b.”

  “I know a task force Fed in New Haven I can reach out to,” Yolie said.

  “You also might want to contact the supervisor of the guard detail up at Enfield,” Des suggested. “The Kershaws are strictly small time, but they may have hooked up while they were there. Maybe one of the guards saw them hanging with a guy who has a background in car theft.”

  “That’s good, Des,” Soave said. “I’ll get right on that. Could you-?”

  “You want me to notify Pete’s next of kin, am I right?”

  “Any idea who that might be?”

  “Rico, I don’t have a clue. But I do know where to start.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “Would you tell Bement for me?”

  Mitch could not believe what he’d just gotten himself into. As he steered his high-riding Studey pickup toward Great White Whale Antiques up in Millington, he asked himself exactly how he’d let Justine Kershaw rope him into being the go-between with her boyfriend. In his own defense, Mitch could think of several reasons. Her book was remarkable. He wanted to see it published. And he had to find out how much of it was based in reality. All good, sound reasons for taking on such a sensitive mission. And all bull. There was only one reason Mitch was running this fool’s errand and he knew it-because Justine Kershaw was a wily, adorable little manipulator who’d maneuvered him into it.

  As he rolled his way through the bare, muddy late winter countryside, Mitch found himself wondering who else she’d been moving around lately, and what sort of things she was capable of making them do.

  Millington was a tiny rural hamlet in the rolling farm country about ten miles inland from Dorset. Great White Whale Antiques was housed in an old barn across the road from a family-owned garden center. One lone car with Massachusetts plates was parked out front of the shop. It was still pretty early in the year for tourists and antique hounds to be out browsing. Evan Peck, the shop’s owner, shut it down completely in January and February. Evan was one of Mitch’s neighbors out on Big Sister. He was still wintering at the family compound down in Hobe Sound. His cousin, Becca, was running things with Bement until he returned.

  The shop was cluttered, its merchandise eclectic. There were colonial armoires and bedsteads alongside weathered Victorian garden ornaments. An art deco living room set was displayed right next to a slender Danish-style one. There was sterling silver and crystal, quilts, paintings. Some of the pieces were very high end. Others were borderline garage sale material, although absolutely none of it was cheap.

  Becca was behind one of the glass cases showing flatware to a pair of elderly ladies. Mitch waved to her and mouthed Bement’s name. She motioned to a door marked PRIVATE. He went through it into a workshop that smelled strongly of turpentine and linseed oil. Here, he found dressers without drawers, chairs without seats, tabletops, table legs. A carpenter’s bench was laden with saws and drills and a dozen different kinds of clamps.

  Bement Widdifield was taking a roaring handheld power sander to a gently aged white kitchen table, exposing an old coat of blue paint underneath, as well as some bare pine. A can of paint stripper and a scraper were at his elbow. Bement wore a protective dust mask over his mouth and nose. It was chilly there in the workshop, but he was stripped down to a frayed red pocket T-shirt and cargo pants. A fine white powder clung to his bare arms, which bulged with muscle.

  When he spotted Mitch standing there he immediately turned off the noise, yanked off the mask and started toward him with a welcoming smile on his face. “You must be Mitch. Teeny called me on her break. Told me you might stop by.”

  “Glad to meet you,” Mitch said, gripping Bement’s dry, strong hand.

  Bement had the sort of easy physical confidence that Mitch had always admired in other men. He did not look like any effete rich kid. The day-old beard and purplish mouse under his eye gave him a rugged, scrappy air. He was not particularly tall, but he had the lean, coiled athleticism of a guy who would excel at any sport he tried. Standing there with him, Mitch felt like a different species of animal-a plodder who’d been bred for towing heavy wagons through mud.

  “So this is your office?” he asked him, glancing around.

  “Evan’s a much better wheeler-dealer than I am,” Bement acknowledged. “He also knows where to find stuff, so he goes on most of the buying trips. Unless he can’t get away, in which case I’ll go. But I’m much happier when I’m working with my hands. It’s good, honest work. I’m not trying to fool anyone.”

  Mitch studied the farmhouse table with intense interest. He’d furnished his own cottage mostly with castoffs, and was still learning the refinishing ropes. “Will you strip this down to bare wood?”

  “No, I’ll leave a lot of this paint on. People are into the ‘distressed’ look right now. Lends the piece a patina of age. A decorator like my mom will pay top dollar for a table like this, even though it’s a factory-made piece from the 1930s-not really an antique at all.”

  Mitch nodded his head in agreement, even as it occurred to him that Bement was trying to fool someone. He’d just admitted so.

  “Actually, I’m still pretty new to furniture. I know boats way better. Did donkey work down at the boatyard every summer when I was a kid.”

  “Justine told me you two would like to buy a boat and sail away together.”

  “All we have to do is win the lottery.”

  “Actually, it may not have to come to that. Can we sit somewhere and talk?”

  A hooded gray sweatshirt was draped over the back of a chair. Bement flung it on
over his head and started toward the back door, pausing at a work sink to wash the white sanding powder from his hands. Next to the sink sat a table with an electric coffeemaker on it. He poured some coffee into a Styrofoam cup and dumped sugar and creamer in it. Mitch did the same. Then they went out the door to a weedy, muddy area behind the barn that served as a boneyard for rusted-out patio furniture and garden gates. Becca’s Honda Civic was parked back there next to a pickup that Mitch assumed was Bement’s.

  A wooden picnic table sat invitingly in the winter sunshine. They flopped down there, the rays feeling nice and warm on Mitch’s shoulders. The land out behind the barn fell off sharply into a deep, tree-shaded gorge. The stream down there was still frozen. Bement pulled a pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes from his sweatshirt pocket and lit one, eyeing Mitch guardedly. The more Mitch studied him, the more aware he became of the intensity that lurked beneath Bement’s apparent physical ease.

  “You hear about our latest local crime news?” he asked Mitch, dragging on his cigarette.

  Mitch nodded. Des had called to tell him. She always called him when something broke. He liked it that she did. “I tried to talk to Pete just yesterday at the Soup Kitchen. The guy ran from me in sheer terror.”

  “When I was in high school he used to sit out on the town green every afternoon,” Bement recalled. “The Kershaw brothers would throw rocks at him on their way home from school. I had to tell them to cut it out.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been messing with those two for years.”

  “To know them is to mess with them.”

  “I guess the poor guy was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure, man.”

  “What do you mean by that, Bement?”

  “I mean he wasn’t necessarily killed because of what he saw.”

  “Well, why else would he?…”

  “I can’t say anything more because I’m not supposed to know.” Bement gulped his coffee, staring across the table at him. “Did you ever hide behind the sofa when you were a little kid? Overhear what the grown-ups were saying to each other when they thought you’d gone to bed?”