The sweet golden parachute bam-5

by David Handler

  “If I told you Pete’s last name was Mosher what would you say?”

  The brothers exchanged a guarded look before Donnie said, “There’s tons of Moshers around here.”

  Des said, “Your dad claims he found some black trash bags full of returnables at the foot of your drive when he left for work this morning. You told me you were home by then from your night out with Allison, right?”

  “Uh, okay…” Donnie said uncertainly.

  “You do remember we talked this morning, don’t you?”

  “So what?” Stevie demanded.

  “So did you guys notice those trash bags there at the foot of your drive when you made it home?”

  “I don’t remember seeing ’em,” said Stevie.

  “Me neither,” said Donnie.

  “Maybe you boys left them there yourselves after you killed Pete,” Yolie suggested.

  “It wasn’t us, lady,” Stevie said. “We weren’t even there. And if you ask me, somebody’s goofing on you. This is all some kind of a frame, this stuff going down as soon as we get out. Don’t you think it’s even a little weird?”

  “Not really,” Yolie replied. “Not if you did it.”

  “But we didn’t,” Donnie protested.

  Quite possibly someone had fitted the Kershaw brothers for a frame, Des reflected. Using their release from prison as a convenient cover for a crime that they’d been planning for a good long while. Then again, quite possibly Stevie and Donnie were the culprits. Sometimes, the most obvious explanation was obvious for a reason.

  “Oh, no-o-o…” Donnie groaned, his bloodshot eyes focusing across the meadow. “Please tell me I’m not seeing what I’m seeing.”

  A battered Ford F-150 pickup loaded down with more manure was bumping its way toward them. Eric was behind the wheel, waving to them excitedly.

  “Big brother, I will pass out in my own vomit if I have to fork one more load.”

  “That man is beyond crazy,” Stevie concurred glumly. “He should be kept away from other people.”

  Eric cozied the truck up close to the bed the brothers were working and hopped out, a lanky, hyperkinetic bundle of geeki-ness in his shapeless sweater and too-short jeans, a he-guy Leatherman multipurpose knife sheathed to his belt. “Afternoon, Des!” he called to her. “Isn’t this a great afternoon?”

  “It’s a fine one,” Des said, thinking he needed to take sheep shears to all of that hair growing out of his ears. “Eric, I’d like you to meet Sgt. Yolie Snipes.”

  “Re-eally pleased to meet you.” Eric dropped the tailgate of the truck, jumped in back and began shoveling the manure out onto the ground. The man was positively raring with bright-eyed vigor. “Sergeant, you are one lucky lady.”

  Yolie stared up at him with her mouth open. “Is that right?”

  “Oh, absolutely. This is the most exciting day of the year to visit Four Chimneys Farm, right, boys?”

  “Don’t ask us, man,” grumbled Stevie. “We’re just spreading manure.”

  “It’s not manure, it’s gold!” exulted Eric. “By spreading it you are helping to create life. Honestly, if you can’t get excited about this, what can you get excited about?”

  “A hot bath,” Donnie answered promptly. “A cold beer. A nice, soft place to lie down.”

  “You guys had it too soft up at Enfield,” Eric scoffed, scooping the chicken manure out of his truck with manic energy. “Just sat around all day doing nothing. Not here. Here, we are taking on The Man.”

  “We’re doing what?” asked Donnie, puzzled.

  “Big corporations control the agribusiness now. It’s all multinational this, genetically engineered that. Here we grow things the way nature intended them to be grown. No artificial anything. We’re fighting the system here. This is right up your alley, don’t you get it? You have a problem with authority and so do I.”

  “Man, are you like a farmer or some kind of cult leader?” Ste-vie wondered, shaking his mullet head at him wearily.

  Des heard a car door slam. Danielle’s Subaru was pulled up at the meadow gate and she was trudging her way toward them with a Thermos and two big plastic tumblers.

  “I made some cold lemonade,” she called out. “Thought you might be thirsty.”

  “Wow, thank you, ma’am,” Stevie said gratefully.

  “Real nice of you, ma’am,” echoed Donnie.

  Danielle filled the tumblers for them. The brothers gulped down their lemonade so fast that some of it streamed down their chins.

  Danielle poured them more before she glanced somewhat meekly up at Eric in the truck. “I’m heading out for a few minutes, okay?” she said, twirling one of her pigtails around her fingers.

  “Where are you off to?” A slight edge had crept into Eric’s voice.

  “I made a big pot of stew. I thought Mark might eat some.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he said disapprovingly.

  “Eric, if I don’t take him food he doesn’t eat.”

  “I said it was okay, didn’t I? I just don’t like him taking advantage of you.”

  “He’s not.”

  “Fine, he’s not,” Eric snapped, effectively closing down the conversation.

  “Big thanks for the lemonade, ma’am,” said Stevie.

  “You’re quite welcome. I’ll make some more for you tomorrow.”

  “We’ll be here.”

  “Unless we’re in jail,” said Donnie, glancing at Des and Yolie.

  Eric watched Danielle scurry back across the meadow, a concerned look on his face. Then he shook himself and said, “How about you guys start working that other bed over there? If you get moving, we can still mix this in before dark.”

  The brothers glanced unhappily at the broad swath of raw, untilled soil that awaited them fifty yards away.

  “You’re the boss,” Stevie said defeatedly.

  They slunk off, trailing their forks along behind them on the ground.

  “Des, I still can’t get over what happened this morning,” Eric confessed, hopping down out of the truck. “That’s my land down where Pete was found. It’s upsetting, knowing that a murder was committed there. I feel responsible.”

  “You’re not responsible for what somebody did to Pete.”

  “I know that, but it’s going to take me a while to process this. Maybe I should plant some new trees down there.”

  “That’ll have to wait,” Yolie said. “It’s still an active crime scene.”

  “When you’re done with your investigation, I meant.” Eric glanced over at the Kershaw brothers, who’d begun poking at the new planting bed with a tremendous lack of enthusiasm. “I just need to do something.”

  “Can you tell us anything about Pete?” Des asked him.

  “Not a whole lot,” he replied, blinking at her rapidly. “I did get the impression that there was something special about him. The old-timers at the soup kitchen would whisper to each other when he came in. Almost with a kind of awe. I asked Doug once whether Pete was a Vietnam War hero…” Eric left off, his eyes on a vehicle tearing its way up the gravel drive. It was Claudia’s black Lexus SUV, and it was slowing up now, stopping.

  “And what did Doug say?”

  “He said no,” Eric replied distractedly, his buoyant spirit deflating as Claudia got out of her Lexus and marched her way across the meadow toward them, her clenched fists pumping furiously.

  “This don’t look jolly,” Yolie observed.

  “When it comes to my sister there is no such thing.”

  In fact, Claudia looked exceedingly hostile. “Officers, how can you allow those criminals to work here!” she demanded, her eyes icy blue slits.

  “The matter doesn’t fall under our jurisdiction, Mrs. Widdi-field,” Des said as the Kershaw brothers stood there over in the planting bed missing nothing. “Stevie and Donnie were invited here.”

  “By m-me,” Eric stammered, his eyes fastened on the soil at Claudia’s feet. “I have to start field planting soon. I need the help. What’s the big
deal?”

  “What’s the big deal?” Claudia’s voice dripped with scorn. “Eric, do I have to remind you what’s happened here today?”

  “You don’t,” he mumbled, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “And you don’t need to talk to me that way either. I happen to be a full-fledged adult.”

  “Then why can’t you act like one?”

  “Why can’t you let other p-people alone?” he sputtered angrily. “Those guys aren’t hurting anybody. They’re just slinging manure. If you want to pitch in, grab yourself a fork. Otherwise, go home.”

  Claudia stood her ground. “I am home.”

  “This is my farm, not yours. So just back off!”

  “Eric…”

  “And let people live their own lives, will you? Maybe then you’ll actually have one of your own. And Danielle won’t have Mark crying on her shoulder about what a cold-hearted bitch you are!”

  Claudia drew her breath in, stung. “My marriage is my business.”

  “Oh, I see.” Eric nodded his head up and down convulsively, blinking, blinking. “And my business is your business, too.”

  “It is when it threatens everyone else’s health and safety.”

  “Get your own house in order, Claude. Stop trying to control mine. And mom’s. And everybody else’s.” Now Eric flung himself into his truck, started it up and went roaring bumpety-bump-bump back across the meadow.

  Claudia was left standing there, speechless, her face etched with strain. She was a deeply frightened woman, Des observed. And yet she hadn’t been able to share her fears with Eric. Couldn’t, wouldn’t admit them to him. And so they butted heads. Again, to her surprise, Des felt sorry for this vanilla ice princess.

  Another car door slammed shut. Soave had nosed his slicktop up behind Claudia’s Lexus. He started toward them, his weight-lifter’s chest puffed out, shaved head shining in the sunlight. Claudia immediately charged her way across the meadow toward him. Soave froze in his tracks, eyes widening as she got closer.

  Yolie let out a sigh. “Maybe I’d better get his back for him.”

  “And maybe I’d better get yours,” Des said, tagging along with her.

  The Kershaw brothers just kept right on turning over their planting bed, taking in every bit of this.

  “Lieutenant, these are convicted felons.” Claudia was chest to chest with Soave. “How can they be permitted to be here?”

  “We have no proof that they were involved, Mrs. Widdifeld,” he said soothingly. “We’re still collecting evidence. These things take time.”

  “I don’t mean to be difficult, Lieutenant, but I don’t have time. I have a mother who is not in complete control of her faculties. I have a brother who is a dangerously naive fool. I need results.”

  “And you’ll get them, ma’am. Just give us a chance to do our job, okay?”

  “Now you’re trying to pacify me,” Claudia sniffed. “Let me give you a word of advice-don’t.” She marched back to her Lexus now and got in, slamming the door behind her.

  Soave exhaled with relief as she headed up the drive toward Four Chimneys. “Next time I see that coming I’m staying in the car with my doors locked.”

  “How’d you make out with that judge in New London?” Yolie asked him.

  “Got it,” he exclaimed, yanking the folded warrant from his breast pocket. “Des, why don’t you roll on back to that lawyer’s office with this. Yolie and me will have ourselves a talk with Mrs. Vickers about her long-lost brother, Pete.”

  “Sounds good, Rico,” Des said, reaching for the warrant.

  He snatched it back from her; his goateed chin stuck out belligerently. “How come it feels like me and her are just along for the ride? You’ve generated every single productive lead so far.”

  Des sighed inwardly. Rico could do this-get all competitive and turfy. It was his insecurity showing. “Not even close, wow man. You’ve pretty much nailed down what happened to the Gullwing, haven’t you?”

  “Which would do us some good if we actually had the Gull-wing. Guess what? We don’t.”

  “Rico, I’m not trying to bogart your investigation. All I’m doing is taking direction from you.”

  “So kindly stuff your male ego crap, little man,” Yolie agreed.

  Soave shot a scowl at her before he turned back to Des. “How did you come by all of this family history, anyhow?”

  “Got it off of the local gossip mill.”

  “By way of who, Berger? Because this has his jumbo-sized shadow looming all over it.”

  “My man does not loom.”

  “What is he, your unofficial deputy now?”

  “Rico, I’ve got no agenda here. If we close this out, you’re the one who gets the props, not me. It’s your investigation. If you want me off of it, just say so and I’m gone.”

  “God, I hate it when you act all accommodating and reasonable. Bugs the hell out of me.”

  “Do you want me in or don’t you?”

  “In,” he barked. “Go talk to that lawyer lady about Pete Mosher’s will.”

  “Fine.” She pocketed the warrant, Yolie standing there grinning at her.

  “You want to know something?” Soave fumed. “My life was way simpler before there were so damned many women in it.”

  “Maybe so, Rico. But you dressed like a chump.”

  “Plus you never, ever got any touch,” Yolie added.

  “Are you ladies quite through?” he demanded, glowering at them. “Des, reach out to us soon as you have something.”

  Des was about to say she’d do just that when things suddenly got a lot simpler. A Dodge minivan was bouncing its way up the gravel drive toward Four Chimneys. And behind the wheel was Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux, attorney at law.

  “In answer to what will doubtless be your first question, I’m present for this interview in my capacity as Mrs. Vickers’s attorney,” Glynis announced once she’d examined the judge’s warrant carefully. She limped on her bandaged ankle over to a chintz armchair and sat, a batch of thick files in her lap. Glynis had traded in her jeans for gray flannel slacks. Her fluffy blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her manner was brisk and confident. “As previously requested, I come bearing the last will and testament of Peter Ashton Mosher. I also have a copy of John J. Meier’s will, which was filed in Probate Court in New London some thirty years ago and is therefore a matter of public record.”

  They’d gathered in the parlor, with its faded, pee-stained furniture, its priceless art and Poochie’s bizarre collections of sunglasses and water pistols. A couple of lamps were on, since dusk was fast approaching. Poochie sat in an armchair with Bailey asleep in her lap. She had poured herself a generous jolt of brandy from the decanter on the side table and was sipping from it. Soave and Yolie faced them on the sofa.

  Des had started out there, but found it so hard to keep her eyes off of Giacometti’s self-portrait that she’d moved over to a chair. “When you and I spoke earlier,” she said to Glynis, “you didn’t tell me you were Poochie’s attorney.”

  “I’m under no obligation to divulge the identity of a client. You’d been tasked with notifying Peter Mosher’s next of kin of his death. I told you that by speaking to me you’d dispatched your official responsibility. And you had.”

  “We can talk like regular people, can’t we, dear?” Poochie chided Glynis, glancing down into her brandy snifter. The great lady wore her sadness like a mask. Her lively, lovely face was expressionless. “Des, I am Pete’s next of kin and Glynis is my lawyer. We Smithies stick together, after all. Besides, her father was our family attorney, as was his father. We place great stock in continuity.” Poochie sipped her brandy, stroking Bailey absently. “I told her that you’d requested another interview, and she’d insisted upon being here-assuming that’s all right with you.”

  “Absolutely, ma’am,” Soave assured Poochie. “It’s your legal right.”

  “Will Mr. Tolliver be joining us?” Des asked.

  “No, Tolly’s cutti
ng back my rosebushes,” Poochie replied with a wave of her hand. “Got his gloves and pruners and off he went. He’s been upset ever since you three spoke to him this morning.”

  “We have to look at everyone,” Yolie said. “It was nothing personal.”

  “I don’t wish to be rudely contradictory, Sergeant, but it was very personal. Also hurtful. You’ve completely failed to grasp our situation. Tolly would never, ever steal from me.” Poochie gazed out the window at her view of the river. Her face had a fond, faraway look on it. “Funny, him wanting to garden all of a sudden. When we were first married, he wouldn’t go near it. Ladies’ work, he called it.”

  Soave looked at Des, puzzled. Des kept her own expression neutral, though she could feel her stomach muscles flutter.

  Glynis smiled gently at her client. “Poochie, it’s Tolly who we were discussing.”

  “And your point is?…”

  “You just said that when you two were first married he disliked gardening.”

  “No, dear, you’re mistaken. Tolly and I have never been married. But I do wish he’d sit in on this conversation. He ought to be here.”

  “Would you like us to go get him?” Des offered.

  “No, leave him be. He needs to work out his creative tensions.” Poochie reached for the brandy decanter and poured more of it into her snifter.

  “Poochie, we’ve been told that Peter Mosher was the offspring of your father, John J. Meier, and the family maid, Bessie Mosher,” Des began. Soave wanted her to get it rolling. “Can you confirm this?”

  “I can,” Poochie said forthrightly.

  “We’ve requested access to Mr. Mosher’s will so that we might learn who he’d named as his beneficiaries.”

  “I have his most recent financial statements as well.” Glynis opened one of the files in her lap, scanning it. “The income from Mr. Mosher’s trust fund was more than adequate for him to live on comfortably. In point of fact, we hadn’t even touched his interest income for more than twenty years. Consequently, his assets have…” Glynis, cleared her throat. “At the time of his death, Peter Mosher was worth somewhere in the vicinity of eighteen million dollars.”

  “Shut up!” Yolie immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. “So sorry. Didn’t mean for that to… are you sure about this?”