The Sweet Golden Parachute

by David Handler

  Mitch moved in a step closer, towering over him. “Get back in your truck.”

  Something in Mitch’s voice convinced the little man to scurry back to his pickup and jump in, slamming the door behind him. He drove right off, his engine sputtering.

  Justine watched him go. “Do you hate your parents?”

  “Not at all.”

  “God, that must be weird.” She studied Mitch curiously now. “When you tell people about my book, what are you going to say?”

  Mitch considered his next words carefully, because he felt certain that She’ll Do Ya was about to become a major literary sensation. High school girls across America would devour its explosive contents. This lovely, fearless young woman would become their literary idol. Tremendous controversy would surround She’ll Do Ya. Talk radio pundits would condemn it. Religious groups would want it banned from libraries and big box outlets like this very store. “I’d like to show it to a literary agent I know,” he said finally. “If that’s okay with you.”

  Justine stuck her lower lip out, confused. “Are you saying you think somebody might want to publish it?”

  “I’m saying I think it’s sensational.”

  She let out a gasp. “Oh, no, you didn’t!”

  “Oh, yes, I did.” Mitch smiled at her. “You’re a very gifted young writer, and I’m honored to know you.”

  She let out a high-pitched adolescent shriek and jumped right into his lap. “I can’t believe this!” she cried out, hugging him, kissing him. “I must be tripping!”

  “No, no, this is totally real. Only slow down, because we still have to—”

  “You can’t imagine what this means to me!” She was squirming around in his lap like an excited kindergartner. Which Mitch was acutely aware she was not.

  “I think I can. But you still have a lot of questions to answer. So go back to your neutral corner, will you?”

  “Sure, absolutely. Whatever you say.” She climbed out of his lap and sat back down, rubbing her little hands together eagerly. “Fire away.”

  “For starters, what do you hope to gain from this book?”

  Justine frowned at him. “I’m not sure what that means.”

  “Do you want justice?”

  “There’s no such thing, cupcake. That’s a twentieth-century term.”

  “Okay, then I’ll put it to you this way: What’s your dream?”

  “I don’t really have dreams. What’s the point, you know? Be-ment wants to buy a boat and sail around the world for the rest of his life.”

  “Would you go with him?”

  “In a heartbeat. All we have is each other. Both of our families suck beyond belief. His happens to be rich, but he won’t be until they all kick off, which won’t be for years. It wouldn’t have to be a huge boat. He thinks a thirty-six-footer would do. He’s crewed to Bermuda and stuff. I know jack about sailing, but I can learn if… Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “His grandmother’s Gullwing was stolen this morning. You could swap that for a pretty nice boat, I’d imagine.”

  “Probably so,” she acknowledged. “But we didn’t steal it. That would be unbelievably stupid.”

  “Justine, did these things really happen to you or not?”

  She rolled her gleaming dark eyes at him. “Why do you keep obsessing on that? Why does it even matter?”

  “Because if this is a true story then things could get really messy around here. For that matter, even if it isn’t a true story things could get messy—because people are going to think it’s true. And a lot of them won’t want you to publish it.”

  “Screw them.”

  “Your character thinks that her life might be in danger. Is your life in danger? Are you afraid?”

  “Of what, dying? Why should I be? Take a look at my world.” She gestured out at the parking lot full of avid shoppers who were rushing headlong into the joyless discount emporium. “Check out all of these people who are so desperate to max out their credit cards on meaningless crap. Say hello to total despair at bargain prices. Being dead can’t be any worse than this, can it?”

  Mitch had no response. Absolutely could not fathom this talented young woman. Justine possessed so much sensitivity, heart and passion. Yet she could also seem as dead inside as her burnt-out heroine. Was this her life story or wasn’t it? Was she someone who’d been plundered by half the men in town or wasn’t she?

  Would the real Justine Kershaw please stand up?

  She was gazing at him. “You really think somebody will publish it?”

  “I really do, Justine.”

  “Then you could do me one more huge favor, if you don’t mind.” Justine lowered her eyes and swallowed. “Would you tell Bement for me?”

  CHAPTER 10

  HER FIRST THOUGHT was hit and run.

  Old Pete was always pedaling his funked-up contraption right along the edge of the road in the predawn darkness. It was entirely possible that some half-awake commuter had accidentally clipped him and sent him flying into the ditch. Wouldn’t be out of the question for the driver to keep right on going, afraid to phone it in, afraid of trouble, afraid.

  Except that Des could find no skid marks of any kind. Nor any fresh dings in the bike or carts.

  And then there were all of those shoeprints in the muddy forest floor. Enough shoe prints for two people. Also a deep toe gouge in the moist earth, as if someone had tripped and fallen. A number of the bare branches in the deep thicket had gotten trampled and broken. Whoever accidentally hit Pete may have dragged him deeper into the woods—out of sight, out of mind. Or, a struggle of some kind may have taken place here.

  He was lying face down. Smelled strongly of liquor. What she could see of his face was weathered and grimy. There were no obvious wounds to his body. Not that there necessarily would be if he’d been struck by a car. His innards could be completely crushed and it wouldn’t be apparent until he was laid out on an autopsy table. As she looked at him lying there on the cold ground, discarded and dead, Des realized that Pete bore an uncanny resemblance to roadkill.

  She didn’t even know what his last name was.

  He wore an old pea coat, stained wool trousers, cracked and oily work boots. The toes of his boots were not caked with mud. A knit stocking cap lay on the ground next to him. Des crouched down for a closer look at the back of his head and, just like that, her hit and run scenario flew right out the window. The man had suffered multiple skull fractures from a linear object of some kind, such as a baseball bat. His hands were crusted with dried blood. There appeared to be numerous broken bones in both of them. No doubt he’d been trying to shield his head from the blows—at least some of which he’d suffered right here. His scalp wounds had bled down into the moist ground beneath him. He was ice cold. Rigor had begun.

  Des glanced around her for a possible weapon. Nothing was immediately apparent to her, and she was not about to search any further. She did go through his pockets. Found a broken half-pint of Captain Morgan in his coat, which explained the smell. Found no wallet. No identification of any kind. All Pete had on him were two rumpled dollar bills, a handful of change and a pen knife.

  The uniformed troopers from Troop F barracks got there first and began rerouting traffic north and south of the crime scene onto alternate roads. Then the forensic nurse from the medical examiner’s office arrived. Des took her to the body. Soon, the white-and-blue cube vans had shown up and the crime scene technicians in their blue windbreakers were unloading their gear.

  Lastly, a pair of slicktops pulled up onto the shoulder of the road, one behind the other, and out popped Soave and Yolie, who were two people Des knew very well. Back when she’d been a lieutenant on Major Crimes, Lt. Rico “Soave” Tedone had been her stumpy young bodybuilder of a sergeant. Smart enough, but seriously lacking in the maturity department. Also major insecure, due to his short stature and overbearing, higher-ranking big brother. Thanks to family juice, Soave was now a lieutenant. And somewhat more mature—although
still a work in progress. He’d revamped his look since the last time Des saw him. He was experimenting with that goatee and shaved head thing. Plus the wardrobe was new. For as long as she’d known him, Soave had always dressed like a pallbearer for hire. Today he had on a very nice gray pinstripe with a powder blue shirt and a bold pink and yellow patterned tie.

  “Let me guess, Rico,” she said after they’d done the hello thing. “Has Tawny started dressing you?” Tawny was the high school sweetheart he’d finally married after the longest courtship in recorded history.

  “She took me shopping for my birthday,” he answered defensively. “Why, no good?”

  “It’s all good, Rico. Especially the tie. Did Tawny talk you into that clean head, too?”

  “This was all my own idea.” He ran a hand over his smooth, shiny dome. “How does it look?”

  “Seriously pigment challenged.”

  “I hear that,” agreed Yolie Snipes. “You need to get you a tube of bronzer, Rico. Right now, your head glows in the dark like one of those plug-in night lights.” Yolie flashed Des a huge smile. “Miss Thing, it is so good to see you again.” Yolanda Snipes, Soave’s brash young half-black, half-Cuban sergeant, had grown up in a hurry in Hartford’s Frog Hollow section, and owned a knife scar on her cheek to prove it. Yolie had a Latina’s gleaming, liquid brown eyes. Her lips, nose and braids said sister all the way, as did her hour (and a half) glass figure. The guys in Meriden called her Boom Boom because of what she had going on up inside of her sweater. She wore slacks with it, and a pair of boots with chunky heels that had her towering over Soave. “And how’s that cute teddy bear of yours?” she asked Des warmly.

  “Mitch is fine. We’re fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “You two set a date yet?”

  “Feel free to move on to the next question any time.”

  “Suits me,” said Soave, who couldn’t fathom Des and Mitch at all. “So what’s going on here this morning in your nice, quiet country hamlet?”

  “We’ve got ourselves two noteworthy events, Rico. Possibly related. Happily, that’s your job to decide, not me.”

  “Big thanks for the procedural pointer.”

  “One is the theft of a slammin’ ’56 Mercedes Gullwing from the house right up that driveway over there—estimated Kelley Blue Book value north of three hundred thou. Belongs to Poochie Vickers, who is our most notable of notables. A true grande dame. Not to mention a television celebrity and best-selling author.”

  “No need to tell me that,” Yolie said. “I’ve got all of her cookbooks.”

  “The lady is highly beloved and way trusting. She left the garage unlocked and the keys in the ignition. They just drove it away. I say they because it was most likely a two-man job, given how far we are from town. Our other event is the murder in these woods of Dorset’s resident recycling bin scavenger, old Pete. Ready to have a look?”

  “Tell us about him,” Soave said as they followed her into the brush toward Pete’s bicycle.

  “Pete was an odd soul. Spoke to no one. Avoided people like poison. But he was harmless enough, and folks looked out for him.” Des recalled that First Selectman Paffin had urged her to keep an eye on Pete when she first came on the job. “Today is recycling day in this neighborhood. Chances are, he was making his rounds at about the same time the Gullwing was taken.”

  “Sounds like he witnessed it and they shut him down,” Yolie put in.

  “Sounds like,” Soave said. “You agree, Des?”

  Des came to a stop before Pete’s ditched bike and grocery carts. “I’m on board, except that you’ll notice his cans and bottles are gone. If this was just about silencing him then why did they make off with his haul?”

  “Maybe somebody else came along later and took them.” Soave, tugged at his goatee with his thumb and forefinger. “Maybe they didn’t see his body in there.”

  “There appears to have been a struggle over here. Note the deep toe mark in the mud.”

  A techie was snapping pictures. The death investigator was crouched over Pete’s body, dictating her notes into a tape recorder.

  “He received several blows to the back of his head,” Des said. “The weapon was some sort of club or crowbar. There are defensive wounds to the hands. Also, he bled-out here.”

  “What do you think in terms of time?” Soave asked the death investigator.

  She flicked off her recorder and stood up. “He hasn’t been here all night, if that’s what you’re wondering. Three or four hours is more like it.”

  “Which fits with our time frame,” Des said, glancing at her watch.

  “Yolie, have these woods searched but good. I want that weapon.” Soave started back through the brush toward the road.

  “Totally whack idea,” Yolie offered as they followed him. “Any way these two crimes are completely unrelated? Like, could this one just be a straight robbery gone bad?”

  “I don’t buy it,” Soave replied. “Too coincidental. It’s not like this is a high crime area. It’s a no crime area. Am I right, Des?”

  “This is Dorset,” Des agreed. “Not many people around here are so desperate for pocket cash that they’d beat a scavenger to death for his empties.” As they made it back to the road, she noticed that the troopers had waved in several television news vans from the local Connecticut stations. “The Vickers family is looking to low profile this if at all possible, Rico.”

  “No problem. We can put a cruiser at the foot of the drive. Keep talking, Des. Give us the big picture here.”

  “Big picture? You’ve walked into an old-school family feud.” Des filled them in on how the Kershaw brothers had just been released from Enfield for stealing from the Vickers. On how their father, Milo, had gone to jail for torching the Vickers’s barn. On Justine Kershaw, who was dating Poochie’s grandson, Be-ment Widdifield, the very person who’d called the law on her brothers. On his mother, Claudia, who was estranged from her cash-strapped architect husband, Mark. And how Claudia was also at odds with her brother, Eric, not only for hiring the Kershaw brothers but for failing to help her take control of the family purse strings. Des told them all about Poochie’s worrisome behavior of late—fishing her out of Duck River Pond, that hoard of candy bars in the attic, Claudia’s assertion that the congenitally frugal Poochie had started showering expensive gifts and sums of cash on Guy Tolliver, her companion.

  Which was when Soave stopped her. “Time out, he’s her what?”

  “Her companion, Rico.”

  “I grew up in Waterbury, remember? I don’t know from ‘companion.’”

  “The man lives with her but he’s gay,” Des explained patiently. “Get it now?”

  “Yes,” he replied firmly. “But no.”

  “Neighborhood canvass has turned up squat so far on the stolen car. But before this got bounced to you, Detective Olman did learn that an unmarked tractor-trailer was idling in the commuter parking lot early this morning. He also dug up a sheet on one of our principals that you’ll want to run with. I have the printout in my ride. And he’s available if you need backup.”

  “Why would I need backup?” demanded Soave, bristling. He did not play well with others. Felt threatened. “You saying I can’t handle this on my own?”

  “Not at all, Rico.”

  “Sure sounded like it.”

  “You know, I really don’t think it did.”

  “Freudian therapy, little man,” Yolie chided him.

  “What about it?”

  “You really need you some.”

  He shot Yolie a withering look. “See what I have to deal with, Des? Nothing but lip, day in and day… what are you smiling at?”

  “Not a thing, Rico. I just miss the two of you, God help me.”

  “I want you with us up at the house. Can you stick around?”

  “Be happy to. Just prepare yourselves. You’re about to get all tangled up in weird.”

  ***

  “Damn, girl!” Yolie cried out as she stood there ins
ide the fragrant warmth of the conservatory, gazing up, up at its four-story dome. “Somebody lives here?”

  “Wait until you see what she’s got hanging on her parlor walls.”

  Soave was speechless as he took in the highlights—the brightly colored tropical birds perched up there among the cast iron trusses, the vintage Lionel train that was chuff-chuff-chuffing its way around on its raised track.

  Decked out in a pair of outlandish hot pink shades and a straw hat big enough to bathe in, the mistress of Four Chimneys was vigorously trimming back one of her Meyer lemon trees. “Why, it’s an entire contingent, Tolly!” Poochie exclaimed merrily at the sight of them.

  Guy Tolliver was seated on the wicker sofa reading a copy of Vanity Fair and looking considerably more together than he had earlier that morning. His silver hair was neatly brushed, his loose-jowled face clean shaven. He wore a soft yellow flannel shirt with a gold silk ascot and a pair of green moleskin slacks. Beside him on the sofa, Bailey lay asleep. Tolly stood to greet them, a hopeful smile on his face. “You’ve found the Gullwing, have you?”

  “I knew you would!” Poochie came charging toward them, yanking off her garden gloves. “Where was it, Des, at the beach?”

  “Poochie, there’s been a new development since the last time we spoke. I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Rico Tedone and Sergeant Yolanda Snipes. They’re with the Major Crime Squad.”

  “Surely a joyride doesn’t constitute a major crime in this state.”

  “This isn’t about that, Mrs. Vickers,” Soave said.

  “Please call me Poochie. And that good-looking home wrecker is Tolly.”

  “Absolutely love your tie, lieutenant,” Tolly said pleasantly.

  “Thanks,” Soave grunted, reddening.

  Poochie removed her pink shades, the better to examine Yolie. “My, my, you’re a strongly built young lady. Do you lift weights?”

  “Three times a week, ma’am.”

  “I like the prideful way you hold yourself. Too many full-bosomed young women develop slumpy shoulders. Are you drinking plenty of milk?”