The sweet golden parachute bam-5

by David Handler

  “I think you should let me reimburse you for the champagne,” he offered.

  “No way.”

  “But Moet amp; Chandon costs a fortune. I don’t like you blowing your hardearned paycheck on me. Wait, what am I saying? Yes I do. Only, what’s the occasion?”

  “No occasion,” she said firmly, her eyes avoiding his. “I just wanted to make us dinner. Can’t I do that?”

  “Any time you’d like-if it involves your smothered pork chops.”

  She rested the seared chops on a plate now and dumped the heap of onions into the pan. When the onions were good and caramelized she’d put the chops back in with them, along with some chicken stock, white wine and a sprig of fresh rosemary. This would simmer on low heat, covered, until the meat was practically falling off the bone.

  “What is with you and my pork chops?”

  “I had a deprived childhood.”

  “Your mom didn’t serve them?”

  “No, she did. But out of respect for the Jewish dietary laws, she made sure we wouldn’t enjoy them. They were so dry they tasted remarkably like the sports section of the New York Post.”

  “Baby, I’m going to need a splash of cider vinegar.”

  “Haven’t got any.”

  “Sure you have. It’s under the sink-right next to your Cocoa Puffs.”

  “Des, is there anything you don’t know about me?”

  “God, I sure hope not.”

  “How was your day?” he asked as he fetched it for her.

  “Way confusing. Claudia Widdifield thinks her mother is losing it, mental healthwise.” Des filled him in about the candy bars in the attic, and Poochie’s refusal to see a doctor. “I’m not a doctor, Mitch. I don’t know whether the lady’s in serious trouble or not. I do know this is about who controls the family fortune. And that Eric seems to think she’s fine.”

  “Yeah, like he’s a poster child for emotional security.” Mitch told her how Eric had braced him about Danielle at the Food Pantry. “He practically accused me of being her lover. Can you imagine that?”

  “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.”

  Mitch polished off the last of his Bass Ale, swallowing it thoughtfully. “You don’t suppose Claudia is trying to gaslight the old lady, do you?”

  “I don’t take your meaning.”

  “Do you think Claudia could have planted that stuff in the attic herself?”

  “What, to make Poochie appear crazy? Possibly, although some of it’s been up there for years. And I’m still not hip to your ‘gaslight’ reference.”

  “You never saw Gaslight? Charles Boyer tries to convince Ingrid Bergman that she’s losing it by dimming the lights on her and then telling her it’s all in her imagination. She won an Oscar for that movie. I’ll have to put it on top of our towatch list, right after The Monolith Monsters.”

  Des scooped the chops back into the pan with the fragrant mound of onions, put a lid over the pan and removed her apron. “I’m going to change,” she announced, starting for the bathroom. “Want to open the champagne?”

  First, he lit the candles on his little dining table over by the fireplace, and put two more logs on the fire. Then Mitch fetched the champagne out of the fridge and gently worked the cork loose until it popped open. He filled two wine glasses.

  By then, she’d emerged from the bathroom wearing that unbelievably sexy little yellow dress of hers. Out of uniform, the resident trooper’s figure was a pulsepounding revelation.

  “You are a total hottie, know that?” he said hoarsely, unable to take his eyes off her. “What are you doing with me?”

  “Right now, I’m sitting down to dinner with you. After that I intend to use you for my own selfish physical pleasure.”

  He held a glass out to her. She took it and they clinked glasses, gazing into each other’s eyes. “What shall we drink to?”

  “How about proving everyone in town wrong?”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  And so they did. Then they ate. The chops were tender and juicy. The coarsegrained grits balanced them perfectly, as did the bitter mustard greens.

  “I’m hearing you dumped me,” he mentioned as he ate.

  “I’m hearing you dumped me.”

  “Rut Peck’s trying to fix me up with his divorced niece. She’s a dentist.”

  “Marge Jewett told me the word is I’m transferring somewhere else. Now where did that come from? Town Hall, that’s where. The powers that be want me gone.”

  “They do not. You’ve won them over, Des. And you’re reading way too much into this stuff. It’s just idle village gossip.”

  “Mitch, my life is not a reality TV show.”

  “To them, it is. I’m Joe Schlub and you’re the sexy bachelorette. They can’t wait to find out whether you’ll stay with me or throw me over for some guy who looks good in a Speedo. That’s life in Dorset. Ignore it. Ignore them. And, whatever you do, don’t let them spoil our evening.”

  He got the champagne out of the fridge, refilled their glasses and sat back down.

  She took a sip, dabbing daintily at her mouth with her napkin. She had impeccable table manners. In truth, she was the most innately elegant woman he’d ever met. “Mitch, do you think I play favorites on the job?”

  “I think you’re very fair. Why?”

  “Something that Milo Kershaw said to me today. That there are two kinds of justice in Dorset-one for rich people like Poochie Vickers and the other for lowlife skeegies like Stevie and Donnie.”

  “Well, that’s pretty much true, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is,” she said quietly. “That’s how the world works.”

  “So what’s bothering you?”

  “Milo played the race card,” she confessed, staring down into her glass. “Said that I should know better than to be whoring for the ruling class. Not that he understands my world or me or any other damned thing.”

  “Exactly what did you say to the Kershaw brothers-watch your step, there’s a new sheriff in town?”

  “I threw in a little tough love. I hate to see people wasting their lives. Mixing it up with Bement Vickers on their first evening home is a notgood sign. What’s up with that envelope Justine gave me? She a wannabe screenwriter?”

  “Novelist. I’m doing a favor for Rut Peck. He hates wasted lives, too.” Mitch mopped up the last of the pan juice with his final bite of grits and sat back in his chair, sighing contentedly. “How come you haven’t talked to me about it?”

  “About what, baby?”

  “This selfportrait you’ve been working on.”

  Des stared at him across the little table. “Damn, you scare me sometimes. How did you know it’s a selfportrait?”

  “Because you haven’t talked to me about it.”

  She turned her gaze toward the fire, swallowing. “I’m not making things easy for you, am I?”

  “Des, we really don’t have to talk about this again. There’s a lot for you to consider. I understand.”

  “Still, this hasn’t been much fun for you.”

  “No, it hasn’t. And if you’d like me to tell you you’re a bad girl, throw you over my knee and spank your bare bottom, I’d be happy to.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you turning kinky on me?”

  “Get real. I’m a nice, cleancut Jewish boy. I don’t spank women-women spank me.”

  “That is so not going to happen.”

  “Then kindly allow me to tell you something else.” He leaned across the table and kissed her lightly. “You’ve had that yellow dress on way too long.”

  They left the dishes where they were.

  She started up to the sleeping loft with the rest of the champagne. He stopped to grab the royal blue necktie from her uniform. By the time he got up there, she had the bedside lantern lit and the covers pulled down. Her skin gleamed like burnished copper in the golden lantern light as she stretched her smooth naked self out before him, her eyes huge. He gazed at her, transfixed, be
fore he shucked his own clothes at Warp Factor Nine.

  “What are you doing with my tie?” she wondered, noticing it in his hand.

  “Don’t own one myself. I made a small find on the beach today, and I wanted to share it with you. Do you trust me?”

  “You know I do.”

  He bent over and gently blindfolded her with the necktie before he opened the nightstand drawer and removed the gull wing feather. “Can you see?”

  “Not really. Why, what are you going to?…”

  “Go exploring,” he replied, wafting it gently across her belly button. Her stomach muscles fluttered instantly. Then he delicately grazed her tender nipples with it, teasing them. “You okay with this so far?”

  “GGaaaah…”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” He headed due south with it-toward the back of her knees, between her toes. Then, ever so slowly, he began caressing his way up the soft flesh of her inner thighs. “Oh, hey, you’re not in any hurry tonight, are you? Because this particular expedition may take a while.”

  “BBoyfriend,” she gasped, wriggling beneath him. “You take all of the time you need.”

  And so he did, igniting a passion that burned so deeply into the night that Mitch became convinced that it was inexhaustible, they were inexhaustible. It seemed as if he’d only just collapsed into a deep sleep when Quirt woke him at fourthirty to be let out. Yawning, Mitch waddled downstairs and let him out, then got back into bed. Des hadn’t so much as stirred. He snuggled up against her, his face buried in her satiny smooth warmth. Instantly, he was asleep again.

  He dreamt. Another Maisie dream.

  They were hiking a trail together high above Lake Mohonk. Maisie was already on chemo. She had that silk scarf on over her balding head, and those dark circles under her eyes. Her complexion was sallow. And she was so tired she could hike no farther.

  She stopped and grabbed him by both shoulders. “It’s too late, Bear. You’re already leaving me. I can feel you leaving me.”

  “I’m not, Maisie. I swear.”

  “Don’t go! Please, don’t go!”

  “I won’t go. I’ll never, ever go.”

  But she didn’t believe him. She was still clutching him by the shoulders, shaking him and shaking him and…

  With a startled yelp he realized it wasn’t Maisie who had him by the shoulders-it was Des. It was daylight now, and she was standing over him wearing her uniform and her game face. He lay there panting, his heart racing, that same metallic taste in his mouth.

  “Damn, what were you dreaming about?” she asked, holding a cup of hot coffee out to him.

  “II don’t remember. Why?”

  “You were jabbering in your sleep.”

  He sipped the coffee gratefully, glancing at his alarm clock. It was just past seven. “What was I saying?”

  “Sounded like it had something to with Bosco.”

  “Sure, I remember Bosco. Used to drink that when I was a kid. It was chocolatey good. I’ll bet it still is.”

  “Mitch, you’re a very weird man,” she informed him, kissing him on the forehead. “But as long as you keep your magic feather around you will never, ever get rid of me. If you change your locks, I’ll break down the door. If you move, I’ll track you down-and break down the door.”

  “So why are you all dressed?” he wondered, reaching for her.

  “Got to run. I just got paged.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Grand theft auto. Somebody has stolen Poochie Vickers’s Mercedes.”

  CHAPTER 8

  It hadn’t taken any kind of master thief to make off with Poochie’s prized Gullwing. There was no security system at Four Chimneys to bypass or disarm. The garage door was unlocked. So was the Gullwing itself.

  In fact, Poochie’s keys had been in the ignition.

  “You’re kidding me,” Des responded in disbelief when Claudia Widdifield told her the key thing.

  “I wish I were,” Claudia snapped, her cheeks mottling with anger as they stood in the courtyard outside of the garage. It was a damp morning. Four Chimneys was shrouded in the dense fog that hugged the Connecticut River. “Mother always leaves her keys there.”

  “Mr. Tolliver is supposed to be doing the driving now,” Des reminded her.

  “And he is. But Tolly does as Mother asks.” A sheaf of insurance paperwork was clutched in Claudia’s trembling right hand. “She chooses to keep her keys there so she won’t lose them-or so she claims.”

  Claudia was the one who’d phoned it in. She’d provided the 911 responder with the fivedigit license plate number that Connecticut issued to antique cars. The particulars would be out to all troopers and municipal police departments by now. If the thief tried to drive it anywhere in the state, it would be spotted soon enough.

  “I keep telling her she needs proper security,” Claudia said, gazing into the vast fourcar garage. Her own Lexus SUV was in there. Nothing else except for a stack of firewood and an old red Radio Flyer wagon. “Maybe now she’ll listen to me. What am I saying? She never listens to me.” Claudia wore a pale blue cashmere sweater set and navy pinstriped slacks today. Des wondered if she ever tumbled out of bed and threw on a pair of jeans. Or if she even owned a pair of jeans. “By the way, Trooper, can we keep this out of the media? Because I don’t wish to advertise to every criminal in the northeast that we’re running an allyoucaneat buffet here.”

  “We can try.”

  “Thank you.” She glanced at Des uneasily. “Perhaps now you can understand why I feel it’s so imperative to have more legal control.”

  “I understood you just fine yesterday, Mrs. Widdifield. Right now, I’m here to file a stolen car report.”

  Claudia handed over the paperwork she’d been clutching.

  “Who discovered that it was gone?”

  “Mother did.”

  “Any idea who might have taken it?”

  “Those damned Kershaw boys did. You know that perfectly well.”

  Des didn’t touch that. Just wrote down the information she needed.

  “Eric was expecting them to show up for work this morning,” Claudia went on. “Instead, they took off in mother’s Gullwing. It’s painfully obvious.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay?” Des handed the paperwork back to her. “May I speak with your mother now?”

  Claudia led her inside through the laundry room. A stereo system was blasting Mel Torme backed up by a big band of at least eighty trumpets. Claudia immediately darted into the parlor to shut it off.

  “Hey, who turned down my morning music?!” roared Poochie from the kitchen, where she was filling up the entire house with the aroma of frying bacon.

  “The trooper’s here!” Claudia called in response.

  “Get your body in here, Des-breakfast’s on!”

  It was a huge kitchen with a long farmhouse table parked in its center. There were two ovens, a sixburner range, cupboards and counters everywhere-plus a walkin butler’s pantry with its own sink and counters. A bay window looked out across a meadow to the river. Bailey was dozing in the window seat. Poochie had two castiron skillets going. One had four thick slices of bacon sizzling in it, the other hash browns with sauteed onions.

  As Des walked in, Poochie snatched a third skillet from the hanging rack overhead and lit a burner under it, her movements swift and expert. She seemed amazingly peppy and chipper under the circumstances. Almost defiantly so.

  By comparison, Guy Tolliver looked positively comatose slumped there at the table in his maroon silk bathrobe and striped pajamas. Tolly was unshaven and uncombed. His color was not good, not unless gray was considered good.

  “How do you take your eggs, dear?” Poochie slapped a pat of butter into the third pan to melt. Here she differed from Des’s mom, who always cooked her eggs in bacon fat.

  “I’m a little tight for time, Poochie.”

  “Nonsense. They’re fresh from Eric’s chicken house. Danielle just brought them over, dear thing. S
he’s so sweet.”

  “I don’t trust her,” Tolly muttered, sipping his coffee shakily. “Sure, she’s got that earthy, sheep manure between the toes thing going on, but the woman is too good to be true.”

  Poochie lifted the cooked bacon from its pan and laid it on a paper towel. “Des, I don’t mean to throw my weight around but you will eat. Now sit!”

  Des sat. Clearly, Poochie wouldn’t cooperate with her otherwise. Besides, Poochie Vickers did happen to be a great American chef.

  “My Smith classmate, Maddie Barnes, sends me one of these every month from her farm in Putney, Vermont.” Poochie whacked a brisketsized slab of bacon down on the massive butcher block next to the stove and handcut four more slices. “It’s honestly smoked from her very own hogs. Best I’ve ever had. Now how would you like your eggs, Des?”

  “Sunnyside up. Two, please.”

  Poochie cracked a pair of eggs into the hot pan and started the strips of bacon she’d just sliced. Then she spooned some of the crisp hash browns onto a plate along with the bacon that had been draining. By then, Des’s eggs were done. She slid them onto the plate and put it in front of her. “Dig in, dear.”

  Not surprisingly, everything tasted amazing. “You run a pretty fair diner here, Poochie.”

  “God, I’d love nothing better,” she laughed, delighted by the compliment. “We could call it Pooch’s. Have tons of marvelously ghastly dog art everywhere. Claudia could wait tables. Wouldn’t you like that, Claude?”

  “Mummy, please,” protested Claudia, who stood before the window with her arms crossed.

  “You’re not eating, Mrs. Widdifield?” Des asked.

  “Claude never eats my cooking,” Poochie said as she turned the sizzling bacon. “Afraid I’ll poison her. I have four bestselling cookbooks to my name. Why, they’ve even called me a doyenne. And, trust me, not just anyone can be a doyenne. You have to be very knowledgeable and very old.”