The Sweet Golden Parachute

by David Handler

  “You’ve got your eye on her, is that it?”

  “She’s a lawyer, Rico, and therefore has to be considered not above reproach.”

  “Me, I keep chewing on the Gullwing. So what if it was stolen to provide cover for the murder? It’s still the key. If we find our thieves, we find our killers.”

  “Could be that somebody local hired a pair of outsiders to jack it while they killed Pete themselves,” Yolie pointed out. “Even so, I’m with you. We nail our jackers they’ll give us the killers.”

  “Your money’s on Claudia, am I right?” Soave asked Des. “You think Claudia’s got a full-blown case of the grabbies.”

  “It sure does play,” Yolie agreed. “Only, who’s in on it with her?”

  “She and Eric don’t get along,” Des said. “She doesn’t get along with her husband, Mark, either.”

  “What about Guy Tolliver?” Soave asked.

  “Him she can’t stand.”

  “No, I mean, is there any chance he’s behind it?”

  “Rico, I honestly don’t see why he’d bother.”

  “What if the old lady asked him to?”

  Des studied him intently. “Are you just spitballing or what?”

  “Or what. We know that Poochie took her recyclables down to the road right around the time of Pete’s death. Where was Tolliver?”

  “Asleep in bed. Or so he claims.”

  “What if he wasn’t? What if they killed Pete? Christ, you want to talk motive? She inherits eighteen mil. How do we know that batty old lady didn’t hire somebody—say, the Kershaw brothers—to steal her very own car? How do we know she hasn’t engineered this whole thing herself? How do we know she isn’t crazy like a fox?”

  “We don’t, Rico,” Des answered, shivering. The sun had fallen behind the bluffs over Essex, and she suddenly felt cold without her jacket. She popped her trunk and grabbed it and put it on, burying her hands deep in her pockets. “We don’t know anything.”

  “Seems to me,” Yolie said slowly, “Milo Kershaw’s hatred for this family runs way deep. Could be he feels entitled to get in on some of their riches. Are you with?”

  “With,” Des said, nodding. “We can’t ignore that all of this went down as soon as Stevie and Donnie got home from Enfield. We also can’t overlook that Pete’s haul somehow turned up at the foot of their drive. What we don’t know is what it means. Were those two bad boys waiting behind bars all of this time for another go at the Vickers? Or was someone else just waiting for them to get out so they could pin it on them? Also, let’s not forget that their sister, Justine, is seriously involved with Poochie’s grandson, Bement.”

  Soave considered that for a moment. “You have any idea how they—?”

  “Rico, please don’t ask me how their romance factors into this. Because I really, really don’t know.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “Are you okay, Des?”

  “No, I’m not okay. I’m pissed as hell. This is my place, Rico. I don’t like it that somebody has been moving me around like a fool. I don’t like it at all. Whoever the hell they are, they are going down. Because nobody punks me in my own home, understand? Nobody.”

  CHAPTER 17

  DURING BOATING SEASON, boisterous young sun-kissed singles crammed their way into the Mucky Duck’s narrow barroom to drink up and hook up. There were forty-five different kinds of beer, at least a dozen on draft. There were dartboards. The sound system blared good time rock ’n’ roll.

  On a chilly weeknight in March, the dockside pub was still home to a singles crowd, but nobody rocked and absolutely nothing rolled. These regulars were older and gloomier, not to mention exclusively male. By unwritten accord, this was Dorset’s designated haven for divorced men. It was their place. Night after night, they parked their tartan-slacked selves at the bar and drank their martinis and watched the business news wrap-up on CNBC, eyes hollow, shoulders slumped. Most were professional men between forty-five and sixty. Most knew each other. But they didn’t converse. And they didn’t go home. Those belonged to their ex-wives now. So they came here and they sat at the bar and they drank, night after night.

  There was a name in Dorset for these men. They were called Mucky Duckers.

  Mitch had to pass through the bar to reach the dining room. During the summer, this could be something of a battle. Tonight, hardly anyone blocked his path. Just one rather pouchy man in an Izod shirt and rumpled khakis who was paying his tab at the cash register. It was Mark Widdifield. Mitch only knew him from around town to smile and say hello to.

  In response, Mark instantly turned bright red and fled for the door. The man just took off. It wasn’t quite so extreme a rejection as the one that Mitch had received from the late Pete Mosher. But it wasn’t exactly a warm fuzzy either.

  The Mucky Duck’s dining room served burgers, fish and chips, a pretty decent clam chowder. It was a small room, no more than twenty tables. Only two couples were eating in there. Seated at a table in the corner, over a nearly empty glass of red wine, was Danielle Vickers. She’d called his house ten minutes ago and asked him if he could meet her there. She’d sounded quite frantic.

  As Mitch sat down across from her, he sensed that something serious was up. Danielle looked rattled. Not to mention tousled. Her hair and clothing seemed unusually disheveled. And she smelled sweaty. Behind those smudged, unflattering wire-framed glasses, her eyes seemed puffy. To Mitch, she came off like a guilt-wracked married woman who’d just had a furtive tumble upstairs on the office sofa with her lover. This would certainly explain the way Mark had bolted out of there.

  “Are you okay, Danielle?”

  “W-Why, yes,” she stammered, tongue flicking at her lips nervously. “I just… needed to talk. Hope I didn’t drag you away from Des.”

  “No, she needed to spend some alone time in her studio. This case is getting to her. What about Eric?”

  “Tonight’s his night to watch pro hockey on TV with Rut,” replied Danielle, glancing up anxiously as the waitress approached.

  Mitch had already hoovered up two immense bowls of his world famous American chop suey, so he settled for a Double Diamond on draft. Danielle asked for another red wine. When the waitress left he said, “Danielle, I just bumped into Mark in the bar. He was not happy to see me.”

  She lowered her eyes, swallowing uncomfortably. “You have some ideas about us, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t, but Eric does. He asked me if you were mixed up with someone. I got the feeling he actually thought it might be me.”

  “Is that so hard to imagine?” Danielle squinted across the table at him, her gaze slightly unfocused. She was quite tipsy, he now realized. “Do you find me that unattractive?”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that. I just meant that you and I know we’re not involved.”

  “We know that, but Eric doesn’t,” she said, gripping the wine glass in her work-roughened hands. “And it so happens he’s insanely jealous. He’s so upbeat and positive. Hates negativity of any kind. And yet he’s prone to unfounded jealousy. He was a tongue-tied nerd when we met at Bates. He’d never even kissed a girl before. He’s still deeply insecure when it comes to women. And he feels threatened by Mark, who he thinks is very dashing.”

  The waitress returned with their drinks. Danielle reached for her wine and tossed back half of it right away. Mitch sipped his beer, watching her carefully.

  “We did have a drink together just now,” she admitted. “An innocent drink. Mark wouldn’t let me leave this afternoon unless I promised to come back for one. Then I told him I needed to speak to you and he’d have to go. That’s why he took off in such a huff when he saw you. Mark has…” Danielle let out a jagged sigh. “Mark has problems. I’m beginning to think there’s no such thing as a man who doesn’t.”

  “Well, we are people, after all.”

  Her eyes met and held his. “I’ve given Eric no reason to be jealous, Mitch. You do believe me, don’t you?”

  “Sure, I do,” he said,
because she needed to hear the words.

  “This afternoon, I found Mark sitting up there in his office weeping uncontrollably. I’m holding out a lifeline to him. If I don’t, I’m afraid he’ll crawl into a deep black hole and Claudia will never get him back.”

  “Does she want him back?”

  “In her heart, I believe she does. She’s just so intolerant of weakness. She probably thinks I’m meddling. Maybe I am. But I can’t stand to see Mark lose hold of himself this way. He’s acting so crazy. Today he…” She leaned across the table toward Mitch, lowering her voice. “He withdrew the last five-thousand dollars he had left in his account. He wants to run away with me to St. Kitt’s. He has a friend with a house where we could stay.”

  “Danielle, you just told me you two weren’t involved.”

  “We’re not. Nothing has happened between us, Mitch. And nothing ever will, as far as I’m concerned. But Mark is so starved for affection that I’m afraid he’s taken my feelings for him the wrong way. It’s insane, I know. He’s married to a glamorous, accomplished beauty. I’m a Sheetrocker’s daughter who smells of the barnyard. Why on earth would he want me?”

  “Strange things happen,” Mitch said, reflecting on the unlikely-hood of himself and Des. Himself and Maisie. Himself and, well, anyone.

  “He thinks I’ll make him happy. That’s what he keeps saying.” Danielle tapped her wine glass distractedly with a chipped fingernail. “Maybe it’s my fault. When he kissed me goodbye yesterday, I-I let it go a bit farther than I should have. But I was caught by surprise, and flattered. Maybe I gave him the idea that we… that something is going on between us. I’m concerned that Des and her people may think so, too. They’ll get around to examining the banking records of everyone in the family, won’t they?”

  “Most likely.”

  “By withdrawing his money like that, Mark has invited speculation that he used it to pay someone off. They might even think he’s behind the whole thing. I’m so afraid they’ll jump to that conclusion. Mark is deathly concerned about it.”

  “Why doesn’t he just put the money back in the bank?”

  “He’s being juvenile, that’s why. He thinks that by casting deep, dark suspicion upon himself this way he’s proving how much he loves me.” She drank down what was left of her wine. “Like I said, he has problems.”

  “What do you want me to do, Danielle?”

  “Tell Des. Tell her quietly, so there won’t be any fallout. This mustn’t get back to Eric or Claudia. It would be needlessly hurtful.” Her eyes searched his face imploringly. “Can you do that?”

  “I can try. Only, are you sure Mark isn’t involved in Pete’s death?”

  “Mitch, this is a man so paralyzed by depression that he can barely dress himself, let alone arrange a car theft and a killing.” Danielle snuffled, her eyes filling with tears. “He wants to run away to an enchanted isle with me. How screwed up is that?”

  “Stop running yourself down, will you? I’ll talk to Des. I’m sure she can keep it confidential. God knows Eric and Claudia already have enough on their plates.” He reached for his beer mug and took a sip. “Pete’s identity must have come as quite a surprise to them.”

  “Oh, it absolutely did,” Danielle acknowledged. “I was just putting supper on the table when Poochie called and told Eric to meet her at Claudia’s right away. And as soon as we sat down Poochie dropped this bomb on them about old Pete.” A slight smile lifted Danielle’s downcast face. “I don’t know which upset Claudia more—finding out she had a homeless man for an uncle or that she shares a blood link with the Kershaws.”

  “How did Eric take it?”

  “Eric never lets on if something has gotten to him. He just sticks out his chin and says, fine, okay.”

  “Is there any chance that he’s known the truth about Pete all along?”

  “I doubt it, Mitch. Eric’s notoriously bad at keeping secrets. One sip of wine and he just blurts them out. I’m almost certain he didn’t know. Besides, this situation doesn’t affect us one bit. Pete’s fortune goes to Poochie, and she’s already rich, and we’re already not.” Danielle let out a brittle laugh. “The more things change, the more they don’t.”

  Mitch studied her. Despite all she’d gotten off her chest, Danielle was still giving off an edgy, animal vibe. Something was roiling her. Talking wasn’t helping. The wine wasn’t helping. “Can I give you a ride home?”

  “I’m going to sit here a while longer.” She signaled the waitress for another glass of wine. “And put away your money. I’m treating.”

  “Thanks. Will you be okay to drive?”

  “Not to worry. I’ll have a coffee before I leave, okay?”

  “Sure, okay.” Mitch saw no point in pressing the issue. Danielle wasn’t driving anywhere. Not for a while anyway. As soon as he walked out that door she’d be heading right back upstairs to Mark’s office for another sweaty round of inside-the-family boinkage. He was positive. “Take care of yourself, Danielle.”

  “Mitch, am I a huge disappointment to you?” she asked suddenly.

  “Who am I to judge you?”

  “I don’t know,” she confessed, her lower lip quivering. “I just wondered.”

  “We all do the best we can, Danielle. Sometimes we do better than others. But I’d never sit in judgment of you. You’ll get only friendship from me. And a ride home if you need one. Call if you do, okay?”

  She reached for Mitch’s hand and pulled it to her weathered cheek. “Okay, Mitch,” she said softly, grazing his knuckles with her lips before she let go.

  Then the waitress brought Danielle her wine and she took a sip and gazed off into space, somewhere else. Mitch left her there that way as he trudged his way past the legion of the lost and lonely at the bar and back out into the cold March night.

  McGee’s was shutting down for the night. The diner’s illuminated sign was off, most of the inside lights out. Two cars were left in the parking lot. Mitch idled there in his pickup and waited.

  She came scuffing out of the kitchen door at a few minutes past ten, a denim jacket thrown over her waitress uniform. He pulled up next to her, rolling down his window.

  Allison peered at him with a hopeful smile on her round, freckly face. “Hey there, Mr. Movie Guy,” she exclaimed, resting her forearms on his door. “Didn’t expect to see you back here tonight.”

  “You did say you wanted to have a drink some time, didn’t you?”

  Allison weighed this, her lower lip stuck out. “I dunno, it looked to me like you and the trooper lady were getting along pretty good this afternoon.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “You want to get into some trouble, don’t you?” Allison shook her head of short, streaky hair at him. “Try another waitress. Try another diner.”

  “This is the only diner in Dorset.”

  “Then try screwing yourself,” she snapped, starting away from his truck.

  “Wait a minute, will you? Can I please get a do-over?”

  She didn’t say yes or no. Just stood there in the empty parking lot with a distrustful expression on her face.

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind tonight, and I didn’t feel like being alone. Sometimes, it helps to talk things out. I was driving by and I thought of you, okay?”

  “Mitch, I appreciate the offer or whatever this is, but I’ve been on my feet for like twelve straight hours. All I want to do is go home and soak them.”

  “I have a perfectly good bathtub at my place. Also a fresh box of Epsom salts.”

  “What kind of a guy keeps Epsom salts around?” she said in disbelief.

  “You don’t have much experience with Jewish men, do you? Believe me, once you’ve gone Semite you’ll never go back.”

  “So, what, you’re inviting me over?” she asked him shyly.

  “I’ll make a fire. We’ll have a glass of wine. I’m harmless.”

  “No way you’re harmless. But sure, why not?”

  He waited for her to star
t up her Volkswagen Jetta before he pulled out of the lot and headed down Old Shore, Allison following a cautious distance behind him. When he pulled into the Peck’s Point Nature Preserve he flicked on his brights, startling three deer right there before him. They pranced off into the darkness and disappeared. At the end of the dirt road Mitch used his access card for the security gate. It lifted up and he went thumping and bumping slowly across the narrow quarter-mile-long wooden causeway out to the island, Allison tailing him as the gate lowered after her.

  It was a good ten degrees colder out here than on shore. The light of the rising three-quarter moon shimmered on the calm waters of the Sound.

  He opened the front door and flicked on a light. Allison followed him inside, looking very wide-eyed and uncertain. Clem-mie moseyed over to check her out. Decided she didn’t like the smell of her and darted upstairs to the sleeping loft. Mitch took off his jacket and started building a fire in the fireplace.

  Allison stood there in her waitress uniform gazing around at the exposed chestnut beams, the pieces of found furniture, stacks of books, papers, DVDs. “This is not what I was expecting at all,” she told him, her voice hushed.

  “You were expecting a mansion?”

  “God, no, it’s just… it’s like a fantasy, you know?”

  “I absolutely do.” Mitch lit a match to the crumpled newspaper under his kindling and took a bellows to it. Right away, the wood began to crackle. “Sometimes I look out the window and I can’t believe I’m living here.”

  Her gaze fell on his Stratocaster. “Can you play me something?”

  “I’m not that kind of guitar player.”

  “What kind?”

  “The kind who can play you something.” But he did pop Neil Young’s After the Gold Rush into his CD player and crank it up. “Have a seat in front of the fire, Allison. Wait, what am I saying? I really do have Epsom salts if you—.”

  “Naw, I’m good right here.” She flopped her plump self down on his love seat, yanked off her sneakers and ankle socks and put her feet up on his coffee table, which he’d made himself by bolting a discarded storm window onto an old rowboat. Her bare legs seemed kind of stubby. Compared to Des, all women’s legs seemed stubby.