The sweet golden parachute

CHAPTER 21

“Kind of busy here,” Des said back to him over the cell phone.

“That’s what I figured,” Mitch responded as he sat behind the wheel of his truck, sipping hot coffee. “But I need face time with you. I’m parked out on Route 156 about a hundred yards from the driveway.” He and a crush of TV news vans. “I tried to get inside, but the trooper told me to am-scray. And it’s been a long time since I’ve heard anyone use pig latin, let me tell you.”

“Mitch, I can’t give you any time right-”

“Wait, have you guys figured out yet that Poochie’s the next victim?”

Silence from her end. Until she said, “We’re putting a twenty-four-hour guard on her.”

“No, you don’t want to do that. This is what I need to see you about. I have fresh doughnuts.”

“Mitch, I can’t just pick up and… did you get any jelly?”

“Do I know you or do I know you?”

He heard her sigh. “Okay, the trooper will let you through. I’ll met you at the fork.”

Eric’s fragrant sheep farm seemed uncommonly peaceful in the morning sunlight after the hubbub down at the road. It was so quiet Mitch could hear the bleating of the denizens as he waited there.

It took Des ten minutes to stride her way down the private drive to him, looking ultra-stressed. When the master sergeant was tightly coiled she developed a yen for jelly doughnuts. Absolutely her only junk food vice-unless you classified carrot sticks as junk food, and Mitch did.

She hopped in next to him and lunged for a football-sized jelly doughnut, attacking it ravenously. “Tell me how you figured out that Poochie is next in line. I’m a trained homicide investigator and I just got there. What makes you so damned smart?”

“I watched a great deal of Larry, Moe and Curly in my formative years. And I know how you can cut through all of the procedure and nail your killers. In movie parlance, it’s known as cutting to the chase.”

“That’s funny, we call it that in real life, too.”

“Okay, now you’re being pointy.”

Des stuffed the last of the doughnut in her mouth, dabbing at her face with a napkin. “Mitch, tell me why we don’t want to put a guard on Poochie.”

“Because if she has police protection then she’ll never be attacked.”

“Well, yeah, that’s kind of the whole idea.”

“No, it’s not. You have a golden opportunity here to smoke them out. But our killers have to think she’s alone in the house when she calls them up. Otherwise, they won’t come over.”

“Slow down. Who is she calling?”

“We’ll get to that in a minute.”

“Keep talking.” She reached for another doughnut.

“You set up a video camera in Poochie’s parlor. Wire the whole room for visuals and sound. Then, at your behest, Poochie calls up the suspects and says, ‘I know it’s you. We need to talk about this. Please come over right now.’ And so they do. Meanwhile, you’re in the next room watching the whole thing on the monitor. She gets them to incriminate themselves on tape. And you swoop down on them and, bam, case closed.” It occurred to Mitch that Des had not stopped staring at him for the longest time. “Okay, I know exactly what you’re going to say next.”

“No, I really don’t think you do.”

“It smacks of entrapment, right? I’m well aware of that particular problem, and I have a way around it-Soave’s on board from the get-go. He can run it by the district prosecutor. Get proper au-thorization for the video camera. It’ll all be aboveboard.” Mitch dug a cinnamon cruller out of the bag and bit into it. “I’m done. Say what you were going to say.”

“First of all, it’s not my case. Second of all, no. Third of all, that’s not a plan-it’s a Hail Mary pass from the last reel of one of your dumb-assed old Saint movies.”

“The Saint movies were not dumb-assed. And it so happens the police were happy for Simon Templar’s help. Especially when George Sanders played him. He was a highly undervalued leading man.”

“Mitch, there is absolutely no way any of this can happen.”

“Sure it can. You own Soave.”

“Tawny owns him. I just rent him out by the day.”

“You think he won’t go for it?”

“Baby, we can’t possibly endanger a civilian’s life that way. They could just come right through the door, guns blasting. Meanwhile we’re sitting in the next room going ‘Uh-oh, what just happened?’ Besides, you’re assuming they’ll confess everything in great detail. That’s strictly Hollywood. Out here in the reality-based community the bad guys just deny, deny, deny. Only way we can ever get one to admit he’s done anything is by offering him a deal to rat out his partner. And the only way we can do that is if we know who the hell they are.”

“So let’s use our heads.” Mitch paused to collect his thoughts. “Back story, we’re looking at two families who share a history of hostility and, it now turns out, common blood-in the person of Pete Mosher. Both Poochie Vickers and Milo Kershaw knew about it and kept it to themselves, correct?”

“Correct. Poochie because she was told to by her father. Or so she claims. Milo because he was ashamed that John J. Meier had gotten his mother pregnant.”

“Cut to the present. We have one missing Mercedes Gullwing and two dead guys. One is the very same Pete Mosher, who it turns out was worth a fortune, and the other is Guy Tolliver.”

“Who stood to inherit a fortune,” Des put in. “We just found out that Poochie left him her entire art collection.”

“No way! I mean, that’s good. Now we don’t have to ask ourselves why he died. We know why. Are you still looking for a pair of killers?”

“That’s our working theory.”

“Then let’s put a few potential alliances out there. People who share an interest in what’s been happening. Like Milo and Doug. They were childhood buddies with Pete, right? Doug gave Pete a place to stay. Milo was Pete’s half-brother. Pete was way rich.”

“Milo wasn’t provided for in Pete’s will. Neither man was.”

“Which Milo was bound to resent. Doug, too, maybe.”

“The Jeep…” Des said suddenly. “Doug delivered an old Jeep to Poochie while I was there yesterday. He was around Four Chimneys at the time of Tolly’s death. And he was out in his tow truck when Pete was murdered.”

“Meanwhile, Milo’s also allied by blood to that twosome perennially voted Dorset’s least likely to succeed…”

“Stevie and Donnie.” Des picked up this ball and ran with it. “Fact: These crimes occurred as soon as they got out of jail. Fact: The Kershaw brothers were supposed to show up for work at Four Chimneys Farm at the same time the Gullwing disappeared and Pete got whacked. Fact: They were on the premises, finishing up work for the day, when Tolly got it. Fact: They’re lying, scummy bad boys.”

“Then we’ve got their sister, Justine, whose boyfriend happens to be the sole living member of Four Chimneys’ gen-next. And therefore has a huge stake in how the financial future shakes out. Bement has a temper, and no one but Justine to vouch for his whereabouts when Pete was murdered.”

“No one to vouch for him period yesterday. He got back from work well within our time frame of when Tolly died. Claims he was home alone at Four Chimneys.”

“And where was Justine?”

“Good question.” She jotted that down in the notepad she kept in the left breast pocket of her jacket. “Let’s look at Poochie’s two heirs, Claudia and Eric.”

“We know they can’t stand each other. We know Claudia’s not getting along with her husband, Mark.”

“And now we know why she’s been trying to seize control of the family purse strings,” Des added. “Because Poochie recently amended her will to leave Tolly her art collection. Which Eric claims he could care less about.”

“I can believe that.” Mitch bit into another doughnut, sorry he’d settled for a half-dozen. “Eric is way too wrapped up in his farm to care about anything else. The man is over-the-top intense about it. And, let’s face it, madness runs in the…” Mitch trailed off, swallowing.

She looked at him. “Were you going somewhere with that?”

“Not really.” His head was suddenly spinning. Something had just clicked. Something he’d forgotten.

“We also have to look at their respective spouses, Mark and Danielle, who may or may not be involved with each other.”

“Mark’s definitely into her,” Mitch said, chewing on his doughnut. “Danielle’s the iffy one. She may be a caring, good-hearted sister-in-law. Or she may be a scheming slut.”

“She hardly seems that type, does she?”

“Why not? Where is it written that scheming sluts have to be sex kittens in tight skirts and Jimmy Choo stiletto heels?”

“They make for an awfully unlikely couple,” Des said doubtfully.

“Have you caught a look at us in the mirror lately, slats?”

“Good point,” she admitted. “But what’s their motive for mowing down Pete and Tolly?”

“On paper, their respective spouses end up a whole lot wealthier. That could translate to much heftier divorce settlements should they choose to opt out and marry each other.”

“They may have signed prenups. That would cut your argument right off at the knees. Worth looking into, though.” This Des jotted down, too.

Mitch beamed at her. “You’ve come to depend on these skull sessions, haven’t you? Just between us, where would you be without me?”

“Still on the Major Crime Squad, for starters.”

“Okay, now you’re just being outright nasty.”

“We’ve also got to consider Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux, official keeper of secrets. She’s known the truth about Pete’s identity and wealth all along. The details of his will, Poochie’s bequest to Tolly-these are things that she’s had inside knowledge of. And she’s a player, our Glynis. Someone with political ambitions. A thriving law practice. An amazing home, kids, a veterinarian husband who’s handsome and…” Des drew her breath in.

Mitch studied her curiously. “Handsome and what?”

“Plus there’s her ankle. She told me she twisted it yesterday morning while she was training for the marathon. There was a toe skid in the mud near Pete’s body. Someone tripped and fell. Possibly that someone sustained a minor ankle injury. Plus Yolie dislikes her intensely. I’ve never seen Yolie take such an intense personal dislike to someone. That’s worth something, don’t you think?”

“I do,” Mitch said, nodding his head.

“Mitch, is there something else you haven’t told me?” she asked, her eyes locking onto his. “Because on the phone last night I had the feeling you were holding something back. Is it to do with that hypothetical statutory rape?”

“I’ve told you everything I can without putting you in an awkward position.”

“To hell with awkward,” she said angrily. “We’re trying to solve two murders here. Why are you holding out on me?”

“Because I gave my word. I’m a working journalist, Des. If I’m told something in confidence then it has to stay in confidence. It’s a matter of ethics.”

“Know what? I hate it when you invoke your holy journalistic calling this way. It’s like you have a bubble of moral superiority around you and if I try to burst it I’m being all evil. It’s not fair, Mitch.”

“I don’t disagree, but here we are. Doing any better on that self-portrait?”

“Much better. I drop-kicked it.”

“Good.”

“Why good?”

“Because you obviously weren’t enjoying it. That’s a clear sign that you should be doing something else. I had a dream about you last night.”

“What was I doing?”

“Drowning in Long Island Sound. We both were, actually.”

“Did you rescue me?”

He took her hand and squeezed it. “No, you rescued me.”

“Glad to be of service,” she said huskily, her eyes softening.

“I believe in you, Des. This is a tough case, but you’ll crack it open.”

“Right now, I don’t see how.”

“Well, I do have another idea.”

“Somehow, I knew you would.”

“We go with my plan but we don’t tell Soave. I’ve got a tape recorder back at my place. We can stash it somewhere in the parlor with Poochie while she braces the suspects.”

“Mitch, we both know that’s not going to happen. I’d lose my job, my pension, my…” She drew back from him, stiffening. “You know who Poochie places that first call to, don’t you? That’s why you’re so sold on this.”

“Not really. But it wouldn’t surprise me if Poochie has her suspicions. She might even be protecting them out of family loyalty.”

“And you think she’ll give them up if we hold her feet to the fire?”

“The thought did occur to me.”

“You may not be wrong,” Des conceded. “But it’s Rico’s investigation, and we move the ball downfield his way. That’s how it has to be. And now I’d better get back.” She started to get out, then stopped, staring at him intently. “Will you promise me you won’t pull anything suicidal the minute my back is turned?”

“Why would you think I’d do that?”

“How about because you always do?”

“You make it sound like I have a death wish.”

“No, never. I think you’re a good-hearted man who sometimes does truly hose-headed things.”

“That’s one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me.”

“Mitch, promise me you won’t do anything crazy. Otherwise, I swear I’ll handcuff you to that steering wheel right this instant.”

“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

“Promise me.”

“Okay, okay. I promise.”