The sweet golden parachute

CHAPTER 12

Poochie’s muck-splattered Isuzu Trooper was up on the lifter in one of the service bays, where a mechanic was working on it. Doug was on the computer in his glassed-in office ordering parts from a catalogue. He got off of it quickly when he saw Des standing there in his doorway.

“How’s that working out for you?” she asked him, gesturing at the Isuzu through the glass wall.

“She’s a hurting girl, but we’ll get her right soon enough.” Doug Garvey was big and balding, with an easy-does-it small town air. More than a few of Dorset’s high school boys over the years got their first paying work pumping gas for him here at his Sunoco. A lot of them bought their first ride from him, too. Doug moved a lot of cars on consignment. Also rented them out by the week. The man was no easy-does-it businessman. He owned summer rental cottages in several shoreline towns. A piece of the boatyard at the Dorset Marina, a car wash in Old Saybrook, convenience stores in Branford and New Haven. “Have a seat, Des. How can I help you?”

She sat in the chair across the desk from him, twirling her hat in her fingers. “I’m sorry to tell you that Pete’s dead.”

“Aw, hell, that’s a damned shame. He seemed perfectly fine this morning, too. What was it, heart attack?”

“No, somebody bashed in his head.”

Doug’s eyes widened in shock. “Where did this happen?”

“Near the foot of the driveway to Four Chimneys. The Major Crime Squad is up there investigating it right now, along with the theft of Poochie’s Gullwing. We figure the two are related.”

“Pete saw it happen, is that it?”

“That’s our working theory.”

“He’d never have told a soul.”

“An outsider wouldn’t necessarily know that.”

“So you don’t think it was someone local?”

“Doug, we don’t know.”

“I was just beginning to wonder about him. He should have been home from his rounds by now.” Doug ran a scarred, meaty hand over his face, knuckles permanently etched with grease. “Any sign of the Gullwing yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Poochie will need something to get around in. I’d better run the Jeep up there later.”

Des nodded her head, thinking that everyone saw life through the prism of their own priorities. For Doug Garvey, this represented an opportunity to rent Poochie a car. “The state is legally obligated to notify Pete’s next of kin. Can you help me out?”

“Des, I’m happy to do whatever I can,” he replied, although he seemed uneasy now. “Just don’t expect much in the way of answers. It’s not like Pete opened up to me or anything.”

“You let him stay here,” she pointed out.

“I did,” he allowed, rocking back in his chair. “I felt responsible for him. He was one of ours. And he wouldn’t go into a facility. That crazy son of a gun jumped right out of my truck when I tried to take him up to Connecticut Valley Hospital. Took off running down the center divider of Route Nine, almost got himself killed. I’m no miracle worker, Des. Just an old grease monkey. I found Pete sleeping under the I-95 overpass one winter, must be five, six years ago. I was afraid he’d freeze to death, so I let him use the old trailer out back. Figured it was the decent thing to do. No different from what you and Mrs. Tillis would do for a stray cat. Speaking of which, I’ve got a ton of mice nesting up in my storage loft.”

Des treated him to a huge smile. “Stop by any time. Happy to fix you up. Doug, you mentioned that Pete was ‘one of ours.’ Does he have family in Dorset?”

“Well, you always heard stories…” “What kind of stories?”

“Crazy stuff. You know how people are. One time, I heard that he was the illegitimate son of Ted Williams, who’d kept himself a mistress here in town. Your Yankee fans were floating that one. Then I heard he was a Kennedy cousin who’d been disowned because he was loco. Your Republicans were behind that one. I also heard he was a Swamp Yankee from up in the hills, whose parents had been, well, brother and sister. Mind you, folks say that about pretty much anyone in Dorset who’s a little slow or off or whatever. In plenty of cases, it’s not so far off the mark either. I’m a Swamp Yankee myself, so I can say it.”

“Would you happen to know what Pete’s last name was?” “Des, that’s not something I can help you with.” “Then can you point me to someone who was related to him?” “That’s not something I can help you with either.” Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose, studying Doug carefully. He was acting all amiable and cooperative, but he wasn’t being the least bit forthcoming. Which wasn’t to say that he was lying. He was being scrupulously careful not to-so careful that she could swear he’d been coached. “Doug, was there anything unusual about Pete’s routine this morning?”

He shook his head. “He came in and washed up about six, had himself a cup of coffee and took off on that bike of his. I was getting ready to open up when he left.” “Were you here all morning?”

“Pretty much. I took the truck out a little after seven to jump a dead battery for Mrs. Bingham up on Old Ferry Road.”

“You have to go past Four Chimneys to get to Old Ferry. Did you see Pete making his rounds?” “Sorry, I’m afraid not.” “Doug, how long did you know Pete?” “Since we were little guys-eight, nine years old.” “Is that right?” Nothing he’d said so far had even hinted at this. “So Pete grew up in Dorset?”

“Well, yes and no. Pete was one of those kids who didn’t seem to belong to anybody. For a couple of years, he lived next door to me with the Millers. They were both schoolteachers, had a whole mess of kids. Some their own, others foster kids they took in. Although that kind of thing seemed a lot less formal back in those days. We three used to play together in the woods behind my house.”

Des frowned. “You three?”

“Me, Pete and Milo Kershaw. Milo lived right across the street. We were always getting into mischief together.”

“Are you and he still good friends?”

Doug lowered his gaze. “I run a business. I try to get along with everyone. Milo can be difficult. He’s always searching for villains in his life.”

“Did Pete seem at all strange to you when you were boys?”

“Not at all. He was a fun-loving little guy. And a real chatterbox, if you can believe that.”

“You say he lived next door for two years?”

“Until they sent him away.”

“Who sent him away, Doug?”

“No idea, Des. I don’t know where he went either. I never saw him again. Not until I spotted him camped out under the overpass, like I said. I hadn’t seen the guy for almost fifty years, but he had that same long, bony nose he had when we were kids. So I pulled over and said, ‘Holy Christmas, Pete, is that you?’ He just shrugged at me. I threw his duffel bag in my truck and brought him here. Thought maybe Pete could pump gas for me. But that didn’t work out. He got too frightened by the customers. I did what I could for him-not that he’d let me do much.”

“Did Milo reach out to him as well?”

“Milo thought he was crazy. Wanted nothing to do with him.”

“Pete had no identification on him. May I go through his personal effects?”

He led her out back through the service bays, moving none too swiftly. Doug had the ponderous duck waddle of a big man with a bad back. There were half a dozen clunkers parked out there in the mud alongside of the dilapidated old Silver Streak. The trailer was unlocked. Doug showed her in. Long ago, it had been all tricked out with a kitchen sink, propane stove and electric refrigerator. There was a dinette, a built-in bed. No doubt it once was very nice. Not anymore. The appliances were history, and it reeked in there of mildewy carpeting. There was a rumpled sleeping bag on the bare, stained mattress. A few canned goods on the counter next to the sink. Some dirty laundry. Newspapers in a pile. A dog-eared copy of The World Almanac.

“My dad used to take this baby up to Maine on fishing trips,” Doug recalled fondly, his bulky frame filling the dank little trailer. “It’s seen better days, but it suited Pete’s needs. Mostly, he just kept to himself out here. The ladies in town would drop off old clothes for him. If he wanted anything he’d take it.” Doug shook his head sadly. “Not much for a man to leave behind, is it?”

Des searched the trailer for personal papers, letters, anything that would provide a key to Pete’s identity. The storage cupboards were empty. She looked inside the pockets of his soiled, stinky clothing. Under the mattress. She found nothing.

“Doug, did you ever get mail here for him?”

“Not once, Des. He wasn’t in contact with the outside world at all.”

“Then I guess I’ve hit a dead end. You can’t help me at all.” She stood with her hands on her hips, staring at the big man. “Is that how it is, Doug?”

He cleared his throat, his eyes avoiding hers.

“Doug, I’m not trying to get in your face here, but I’m sensing you’re not telling me everything you know.”

He kicked at the moldy rug with his heavy work boot. “I just don’t want to stir up a hornet’s nest, that’s all.”

“There’s absolutely no need to worry. I’ll be the one doing the stirring.”

“Well, okay,” he said reluctantly. “Awhile back I was given instructions about what to do in case Pete’s condition ever took a serious turn for the worse.”

“By whom?”

“By Bob Paffin.”

“Is that right? Now why did the first selectman take such an interest in our village scavenger?”

“Des, I don’t know. I only know that he told me who to contact under extreme medical circumstances.”

“The man is dead, Doug. This qualifies as an extreme medical circumstance. Now just exactly who in the hell did Bob tell you to contact?”

Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux worked out of a stone cottage on Turkey Neck Road that had originally served as the town icehouse. It was built right into the granite ledge next to her riverfront center-chimney home, which had been a tavern back in the 1700s when Turkey Neck was a commercial district serving the ferry passengers who were crossing over to Old Saybrook. Des knew all of this because Glynis had represented her at the closing when she’d bought her house. Hers was the oldest and bluest of Dorset’s blue blood legal practices. Glynis had taken it over from her late father, Chase Fairchild, who’d taken it over from his father before him.

Glynis had three kids, two dogs and a veterinarian husband, Andre Forniaux, who she’d met while she was on a college ski trip to the French Alps. Dr. Andre was out in the driveway loading veterinary supplies into the drawers of his specially outfitted pickup when Des pulled in alongside of Glynis’s Dodge minivan. Dorset’s mobile vet was a tall, slender Frenchman in his early forties, with thinning sandy hair, a narrow face and a long nose with rather pinched nostrils. He cared for hundreds of Dorset’s dogs and cats by driving from house to house just like an old-time general practitioner. Dr. Andre was totally on board with the feral stray rescue program Des and Bella had undertaken. He inoculated and neutered the healthy cats at no cost, and humanely put down those too sick to be saved. He was a good vet who cared about animals. He was not so in sync with their owners, some of whom called him Andre the Drip due to his dismissive bedside manner.

“How goes it, Andre?” Des called to him as she started inside.

He puffed out his cheeks-the classic Gallic shrug for which there is no American equivalency. “It goes, Des. Round and round it goes, eh?” Andre had studied veterinary medicine at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, so in addition to his French accent he had a slight drawl. “And how are your wards?”

“Doug Garvey may adopt one. If you hear of anyone else who’s interested, please let me know, okay? We’ve got to move some of those kids out.”

Aside from the elderly secretary who she’d inherited along with the practice, Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux worked on her own. Her office was very old-timey. There was a huge oak rolltop desk. Legal books in glass-doored walnut bookcases. Clubby leather armchairs. A potbellied stove. There was also action. The phone in the outer office rang constantly from the moment Des walked in.

Glynis was a snub-nosed, fluffy blonde in her late thirties, with a trim figure and a lilting voice that could fool people into thinking she was a dippy airhead. She was not, and had the framed diplomas from Smith College and Harvard Law School to prove it. Glynis was also a highly dedicated runner who was training for next month’s Boston Marathon, which would be her seventh. She was dressed casually in a turtleneck and jeans. As she showed Des into her office, she appeared to be limping.

“Girl, what did you do to yourself?” Des asked, noticing the Ace bandage wrapped around her right ankle.

“Absolutely nothing serious. I just slipped on some ice this morning while I was running on Route 156.”

“What time was this?” Des asked, settling herself into a leather chair.

“Early. I usually get my road work in by dawn.”

“You weren’t up near Four Chimneys, were you?”

“No, I wasn’t.” Glynis hobbled over to her desk and sat in her tall-backed chair, wincing.

“You are really hurting, Glynis. Have you seen a doctor?”

“I see one every morning across the breakfast table.”

“Andre’s a vet,” Des pointed out.

“And an ankle’s an ankle. I slapped some ice on it and I wrapped it. It’ll be fine. And there is absolutely no way I’m not running tomorrow.”

“Spoken like a true fanatic,” said Des, who had a jumble of feelings about Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux, attorney at law. Glynis was gen-next-a modern, open-minded career woman who Des could vibe with better than most. But she was still a purebred member of Dorset’s inner circle and a careful keeper of confidences. Also very shrewd politically. Des had heard that Glynis might challenge Bob Paffin next election.

“Doug Garvey just alerted me that you’d be coming by,” she said in her fluty little voice. “This is an official visit regarding the death of old Pete, correct?”

“Correct.” Des pulled out her notepad and pen. Whenever the phone stopped ringing, it got real quiet there in Glynis’s icehouse office. She could hear the ticking of the wall clock, the firewood sizzling in the stove. “Did you know him well?”

Glynis did not choose to answer her. Just leaned back in her chair, bandaged ankle propped up on the desk, and said, “His full legal name was Peter Ashton Mosher. “Date of birth-March thirtieth, 1943.”

“Place of birth?”

“Dorset, Connecticut.”

“Can you provide me with a next of kin?”

“By contacting me you’ve fulfilled your legal obligation under the laws of the state of Connecticut.”

Des looked at her in surprise. “You represented Pete?”

“I had that privilege,” Glynis confirmed. “And I wish I could tell you more, but I’d be violating my responsibility to my client.”

“Even though he’s dead?”

“Especially because he’s dead. According to the terms of his will, I’m also executor of his estate.”

“There’s an estate?”

“A considerable one.”

“Glynis, are you telling me that our Can Man was an eccentric millionaire?”

“I didn’t say he was a millionaire. I said there is a considerable estate.”

“May I ask how you represented him?”

“By managing his portfolio.” Glynis gestured at a fat file on her desk. “His financial statements came here to the firm. I kept track of his income and reinvested it for him as I saw fit. Also dealt with the IRS on his behalf.”

“How often were you in contact with him?”

“I was never in contact with him. I never even met Pete. We were retained by a third party.”

“Whose identity is?…”

“Confidential, Des.”

“You said ‘we’ were retained.”

“My father was the attorney of record before me. This arrangement goes back quite some time.”

“So you basically inherited Pete as a client?”

“I did.”

“And would this third party you spoke of also be a client?”

Glynis smiled at her faintly. “Again…”

“Confidential, right.” Des took this to mean yes. “Who do I contact regarding the disposition of Pete’s body?”

“I’ll arrange for his burial. His plot at Duck River Cemetery was purchased some time ago.”

Des sat there soaking this in. “Glynis, is this all just a bit not normal?”

The blonde attorney relaxed her guard somewhat. Des doubted she ever completely lowered it. “From my end it’s not so unusual. I perform precisely this kind of service for a number of wealthy widows in town. Their late husbands have seen to it. It’s strictly Pete’s lifestyle that makes it seem odd.”

“You mentioned you’re his executor.”

“Correct.”

“Doug Garvey has been watching out for him for several years. Does he have an expectation of some money coming his way?”

“You’d have to ask Doug what his expectations are. I wouldn’t know.”

“How about First Selectman Paffin?”

“Bob merely served as an intermediary. There’s nothing more to that.”

“Well, who does get Pete’s money?”

“Des, you know perfectly well I can’t disclose the contents of my client’s will. The names of his beneficiaries are strictly confidential. You’ll have to convince a judge that this information is vital to your investigation. I’m sorry to make you jump through hoops, but those hoops are there for a purpose.”

“Okay, let me put it to you this way,” Des persisted. “Who else besides you was aware that Pete had money?”

“You’re merely asking me the same question with different words,” Glynis replied patiently. “We can’t have this conversation. Not until you come back with a signed warrant.”

Des thanked Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux and headed out the door, her head spinning. Because they might be looking at a whole new scenario now. Because that morning’s events may have had squat to do with Poochie’s Gullwing and everything to do with the Can Man. Because if Pete Mosher did have a considerable fortune then it was entirely possible that someone had murdered him for it-and stolen Poochie’s Gullwing to throw them off.

Because it was entirely possible that they had this whole damned thing backwards.