“For starters, that his last name was Mosher.”
“And how did she come by that?”
“Pete had a lawyer, believe it or not.”
“Young Glynis?”
“Why, yes.”
Rut sipped his stout, nodding to himself. “Folks here in Dorset take an indecent amount of pleasure in swapping tales about each other. But no genuinely decent person takes pleasure in gossiping about someone who’s suffered through no fault of his own. No sir.” Rut’s phone rang on the end table next to him. He reached over, lifted the receiver an inch and hung it back up again, then gazed down into his glass in silence for a moment. “I can tell you some things that Des ought to know. She’ll be hearing bits and pieces soon enough. May as well get the real story—not some pack of lies the village hens cooked up over at Town and Country beauty salon. But you didn’t hear this from me, and it’s not for spreading around. Strictly to help your lady friend catch a killer. Maybe earn herself a pay bump. Not that she needs one. Already has a rich boyfriend.”
“You don’t know much about the newspaper business, do you, Rut?”
Rut Peck got up out of his chair and fetched them two more glasses of home brew. Then he sat back down, shifting around in his chair. “To begin with, Mosher was the maiden name of Milo Kershaw’s mom, Bessie. Bessie was a Mosher. So was my dear wife, Helen, who was first cousin to her. Used to be Moshers all over Dorset. They’re an old, old family. Swamp Yankees, every last one of them.”
“Are you telling me that Pete was related to Milo’s mother?”
“Mitch, this takes some telling, so drink your stout and let me yammer, okay?” Rut paused to sip his own. “Back in the Roaring Twenties there was a big, puffy-chested fellow name of Mr. John J. Meier. Heir to a huge Pittsburgh steel fortune. John J. was the youngest of three boys. His older brothers took over the family business from the father. And a fine job of it they did. John J. was sent off to Andover and Yale to improve the family’s social standing. A strutting, handsome fellow he was. The ladies went for him in a big way. Well, you put that all together and it spells a career in politics. That was the plan, anyhow. Trouble was, John J. couldn’t sell a pair of mittens to the Eskimos. Became the family playboy instead. Cut himself a wide swath through the young ladies of New York, London, Paris. Eventually, he latched on to beautiful young Katherine Dunlop of the Dorset Dunlops.”
“This would be your aunt?”
Rut nodded. “John J. spent buckets of money refurbishing Four Chimneys. Hired a young local couple, Ed and Bessie Kershaw, to be caretaker and cook. And then he and Aunt Katherine settled in at Four Chimneys to start themselves a family. At least, they tried. She lost the first baby at birth, then miscarried. She wasn’t a strong woman. She finally gave John J. a daughter, Poochie, in ’33. But after that Aunt Katherine couldn’t have any more kids, so Poochie grew up an only child.” Rut paused to collect his thoughts. Mitch could hear the old man’s breath wheeze in and out in the warm, airless silence. “I can still remember John J. tearing around the village in that block-long Duesenberg of his. You never saw so much chrome in your life. Nor a more dashing fellow, with his slicked-back hair and waxed mustache. Bought himself one of those forty-five-foot wood-hulled speedboats they made up at the Dauntless shipyard in Essex. He’d go roaring up and down the river in it. Take his lady friends out on the Sound for a little you-know-what. John J. had his way with any number of other men’s wives. Any gal he felt like.” Rut’s apple-cheeked face tightened. “A fella of that sort, it can really get to bothering him as the years pass.”
“What can, Rut?”
“Me, I’ve got three beautiful daughters and I love them to death and I’ve never, ever cared that not a one of them was a boy. But John J. was the sort who did care. Anyhow, along comes World War Two and John J. gets himself declared 4-F. Bum knee, supposedly. Though it never kept him off of the squash court. The man kept right on living the high life at Four Chimneys while other good men fought and died. His family’s steel mills didn’t make out too badly, either, but don’t get me started on that. Ed Kershaw got sent to the Pacific. Bessie stayed on as maid and cook. She gave birth to Milo just before Ed shipped out in ’42. Me, I was in high school during the wartime years. I can remember Bessie well. She was no raving beauty, but she was a healthy young woman. Her husband was overseas for two years. And she was alone in that big house with John J. whenever Aunt Katherine went into New York to visit friends.” Rut let out a long, regretful sigh. “Mitch, there’s two different versions of how it happened. One’s that he got drunk and forced himself on Bessie. The other’s that the two of them were romantically involved. I’m inclined to believe the latter myself. Anyhow, I don’t have to tell you what happened next, do I?”
“I guess not. You’re telling me that Pete Mosher was the son of John J. Meier and Bessie Kershaw.”
“Their bastard child—to use a not-so-quaint old expression.”
Mitch sat there turning this over. “So that would have made Pete…”
“Poochie’s brother,” Rut said, snuffling through his nose. “Half-brother, to be technical. But if you swivel around and look at it another way, he was also half-brother to Milo. Pete was related to them both. He belonged—or I should say, didn’t belong—to both families. Next you’ll be asking me if Poochie and Milo knew about this.”
“Did they?”
“Of course they did. That’s why Milo nurses such a grudge toward that entire clan. Mind you, he also took an intense personal dislike to Poochie’s husband, Coleman Vickers, who wasn’t even on the scene yet. But the roots of Milo’s animosity go back to John J. and what he did to Bessie. Give Milo half a chance and he’ll still curse that man up, down and sideways.”
“What happened once Bessie got pregnant?”
“When she got big enough to show, Bessie went away for several weeks to tend to a sick aunt up in Glastonbury. That was the cover story, anyhow. She did have an aunt up there. A Mosher who was a retired nurse. Bessie stayed with her until little Pete was born. Milo, who was still a toddler himself, went along with her. After she gave birth, Bessie came right back to work at Four Chimneys. The aunt agreed to raise the baby for her. John J. made sure Pete’s financial needs were seen to. And nobody was any the wiser. By nobody I’m referring to Bessie’s husband, Ed, when he came back from the war a year later.”
“What about your Aunt Katherine, Rut? Did she know?”
“In those days, women like Aunt Katherine didn’t ask any questions they didn’t want to know the answers to.”
“Meaning she looked the other way?”
“Meaning there was an unspoken understanding that men like John J. kept a private life. And what was private stayed private. He’d wanted a son. Aunt Katherine couldn’t give him one. Knowing her like I did, she more than likely took it as a failing on her own part that John J. bedded Bessie. Katherine was always inclined to doubt herself.” The old postmaster drank the last of his stout, crossing his chubby ankles on the footstool before him. “Ed Kershaw put away his uniform and came back to work at Four Chimneys. Bessie’s aunt raised the baby. And everything was fine. Until, that is, Bessie’s aunt upped and died a few years later. Little Pete turned up here in town with the Millers. They took in a lot of charity cases. They also happened to live right across the street from Bessie and Ed. Hell, Pete and Milo even became playmates. But then Milo started hearing all of the whispers. Little kids repeat what they hear their parents saying, and they were saying that Bessie had had another man’s son during the war. Apparently, somebody saw her up in Glastonbury while she was showing. Wasn’t too hard to figure out who this other man was either—Pete was the spitting image of John J. Same blue eyes. Same long, bony nose. Poor Pete heard the whispers, too. He knew that his own mother was living right there across the street from him and wouldn’t so much as acknowledge him.”
“Ed must have heard the whispers, too, right?”
“You bet. He wouldn’t believe them at first,
not until some friend or another set him straight.”
“And what did he do?”
“First, he took it out on Bessie,” Rut recalled sadly. “Beat that woman until she was black and blue. Then he went looking for John J. with a shotgun. Our local lawman headed him off and locked him up until he’d cooled off. Ed had no choice but to cool off. John J. was a rich, powerful man. Ed was the hired help. So he swallowed his pride and kept on working for him and kept on beating Bessie senseless. Never, ever forgave her. When little Milo tried to stop him, Ed beat him, too. Which should tell you something about why Milo turned out the way he did. Mitch, I’ve always felt a special kind of sorry for that woman. Not once was she allowed to show Pete a mother’s love. You can’t tell me that didn’t have something to do with Pete’s troubles later on. It certainly destroyed her. All she was left with was her shame and the beatings that Ed gave her. Poor woman took her own life in, let’s see, I think it was ’52. Drank a whole bottle of insect poison. Milo found her on the kitchen floor one day when he came home from school.” Rut shook his head disgustedly. “Awful business. After that, Ed had to raise Milo on his own. And live with his own shame.”
“What happened to Pete?”
“John. I shipped him off to an English boarding school. That’s where Pete did his growing up.”
“Where did he spend his adult life?”
“Haven’t a clue, Mitch. I never heard another peep about him.”
“Did he and Poochie have any kind of a relationship?”
“None, as far as I know. Poochie was a good ten years older than Pete, don’t forget. She was already away at Smith by the time he came to live with the Millers. But she was aware of the gossip from the get go, if that’s what you’re wondering. Not that the two of us have ever discussed Pete. My mom’s the one who told me this.”
“Did she say how Poochie handled the news?”
“Poochie never felt quite the same way toward her father after that. Steered plenty clear of him once she was old enough to. Settled in New York, not Dorset. When she married the Ambassador they lived in Washington, Paris, London—again, never Dorset. Not until John J. and Katherine had retired to Hobe Sound full-time. Only then did Poochie and Coleman move into Four Chimneys. Claudia was a teenager by then. Prettiest thing you ever saw. Quite the little flirt, too, though you’d never know it now. Eric, he was a scrawny little bookworm.”
“Did the two of them know Pete’s real identity?”
“Don’t believe so. I’m good friends with Eric and he’s never seemed the slightest bit curious about Pete. And I’ve never raised the subject. Don’t believe a man has any business telling a son about the sins of his father. Besides, this whole thing between John J. and Bessie happened over sixty years ago. It’s ancient history.”
“Maybe not so ancient, Rut,” Mitch said quietly.
Rut shot a glance at him but left it alone. Just sat there, clutching his empty beer glass.
“Did Milo ever come to feel any kinship toward Pete?”
“None,” Rut answered. “And it bugged the living hell out of him when Pete showed up here again a few years back. Every time Milo saw him peddling that bicycle of his down the street he’d see their mother lying dead on the kitchen floor. Milo told me so himself.”
“I understand that Pete left quite a bit of money behind.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. John J. probably laid a trust fund on him.”
“Would Milo know about that? I’m asking because as Pete’s half-brother he’d be in a position to inherit. Or at least think he was entitled to.”
“You can bet he’d think that,” Rut said. “If Milo knows, he’s never said so to me. But I can guarantee you it would drive him nuts if Pete had himself a bag full of John J.’s money. Milo still feels that family owes him something after the set-to he had with Coleman Vickers. Only, there’s one thing I’d like to say on Milo’s behalf—the man’s nine-tenths talk. He was a loud-mouthed little yipper growing up, and he’s never changed. Sure, he’s made his mistakes. But he’s not nearly as bad as people think. Neither are Stevie and Donnie. Okay, they’re not the sharpest knives in the drawer. But cold-blooded and rotten to the core? I don’t think so.”
The low March sun passed behind the trees, darkening the parlor significantly. Rut reached over and flicked on the lamp next to him.
“You don’t think the brothers are behind Pete’s death, is that it? What do you think happened to Pete?”
“I think this’ll turn out to be what this kind of business is usually about.”
Mitch found himself leaning forward in his chair. “Which is?…”
“Somebody wanting something more than they ought to. Get you another glass of stout, Mitch?”
“I’m good, thanks. But there is one other thing I need to ask you about. And you have to promise me it won’t get back to Des.”
The old man’s face broke into a grin. “You want my niece’s phone number after all. Sure you do. All it takes is that first whiff of spring to make a man—”
“Rut, I’d never do that to Des. Not my style. Which is not to say I have a style, but that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. Was there a time a while back, maybe seven or eight years ago, when there were whispers about a certain girl in town?”
“What sort of a girl, son?”
“A girl who used to party with groups of men out on their boats.”
Rut grew a bit more guarded. “Well, sir, there used to be a bar up on the Post Road called the High Life that always had a couple—two, three—of them kind hanging around. Yankee Doodle Motor Court was right next door. Mighty handy arrangement. But the High Life shut down a good fifteen years ago.”
“Rut, I’m not talking about a pro. At least, not in the usual sense. This was a girl whose own family was making money off of her. She was very young. Too young. And drugs were involved. It’s not a nice story.”
The old postmaster shifted in his chair now, eyeing Mitch with intense suspicion. “Where’s it coming from?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Can you tell me what kind of men were having their way with her?”
“The very best kind, Rut.”
“I believe I’m reading you now,” Rut said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “You’re asking me if there was a teenaged girl here a few years back who was so messed up on drugs that she’d take on anyone, no questions asked.”
“Was there, Rut?”
“I do remember hearing a little something about this,” he conceded, a look of profound sorrow creasing his face. “But you’d better have that glass of stout, Mitch, because you’re absolutely right about one thing. It’s not a nice story.”
CHAPTER 16
“GIRL, ARE YOU SAYING you believe Milo Kershaw just stumbled on those cans and bottles?” Yolie asked as they strode toward Eric and Danielle’s weathered red barn. The Kershaw brothers’ van was parked there next to Danielle’s Subaru. “What did you do, see into the man’s soul or something?”
“Or something,” Des said. Although it turned out that she hadn’t broken Milo completely after all. Not according to what Mitch had just reported to her over the phone about Milo and Pete having shared the same mother, Bessie Mosher. Milo had denied any knowledge of the name Mosher.
A wire enclosure adjoined the barn where twenty or so sheep were munching on hay from a trough. Dozens more dozed away on the ground inside the barn itself, which was stacked with bales of hay. A half-dozen new mothers were inside the birthing stalls, their lambs huddled around them for warmth and nourishment. Some of the floppy-eared little lambs had nestled together the same way Des’s stray kittens did, using each other as pillows. Danielle was on her knees in there milking a newborn with a bottle. A pair of middle-school girls were gently bottle-feeding two other lambs, their cheeks flushed with pride.
“Some of them don’t take to their mother right away,” Danielle explained when she spotted Des and Yolie standing there.
“Ar
en’t they just the sweetest things?” one of the girls cooed, stroking the cuddly little lamb.
“They sure are,” Des said softly, thinking there was absolutely no way she could ever send these adorable lambs off to be slaughtered. She could never farm. “Danielle, Sergeant Snipes and I were looking for Stevie and Donnie.”
“They’re turning over the soil in the east meadow,” Danielle said, kneeling there in her baggy overalls. “Mostly, they just complain a lot. I’ve never seen such a pair of big babies in my life.”
Des thanked her and she and Yolie headed back outside past the chicken house in the direction of the greenhouses. The chickens were roaming around in the yard outside their house of sun-bleached boards and shingles. Within the ramshackle greenhouses, seeds were germinating in seed trays by the hundreds.
“So who do you think left Pete’s haul at the foot of Milo’s driveway?” Yolie asked as they walked, her braids glistening in the slanting sunlight. “His boys?”
“That makes the most sense. Then again, if they were behind all of this you’d think they’d be halfway to Mexico by now, wouldn’t you?”
“Could be they’re more calculating than you give them credit for.”
“Check them out for yourself. Maybe you’ll spot some hidden talent that I haven’t.”
The Kershaw brothers were out in the fieldstone-walled meadow slowly forking heaps of composted chicken manure into the raw, ready planting beds. The air was fragrant with the smell of the manure, the meadow underfoot moist and spongy. Stevie and Donnie were showing the effects of their night of drinking and carrying on. Both were slumped over their forks as they toiled away, their faces ashen, limbs heavy.
“How’s it going, guys?” Des called to them.
“We’re pushing chicken shit is how it’s going,” Stevie responded wearily.
“You’d think a dude with Eric’s money would have one of those earth movers or something,” Donnie grumbled, panting for breath.
The Sweet Golden Parachute Page 18