“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.
“Aren’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.
“Man doesn’t need no powerized equipment, little brother. He’s got us.”
Donnie leaned against his fork and peered at them, his red-rimmed eyes bleary. “Whoa, I’m seeing double-or I’m tripping.”
“You’re not tripping,” Stevie said, looking Yolie up and down.
“Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Sergeant Yolanda Snipes of the Major Crime Squad. Yolie, give it up for Dorset’s own kings of cruel, the Kershaw boys. That tall stud is Stevie. The hirsute one’s Donnie.”
“What’s hirsute mean?” Donnie demanded.
“I was referencing your beard,” Des said to him.
Stevie wasn’t saying anything. He was too busy ogling Yolie’s super-sized boobage. Actually, both brothers were.
“Yo, I’m up here, guys,” she said to them pleasantly. “Keep going north… here I am. Hi, nice to make eye contact with you.”
“How would you two ladies like to go on a double-date with us some time?” Stevie asked.
Yolie studied him, hands on her hips. “Honey, you don’t mess around with the get-acquainted thing, do you?”
“I’m no good at hiding my feelings,” Stevie said, smirking at her.
“You say that like you are good at something.”
“We don’t look so hot right now. But we clean up real good.”
“Well, I sure believe half of what you just said.”
“Guys, this isn’t a social call. Sergeant Snipes is looking into Pete’s death.”
Stevie fished a cigarette from the pocket of his flannel shirt and passed the pack over to Donnie. They lit their cigarettes in silence, all playfulness gone. They’d retreated into their prison shells.
“Know anything about it?” Yolie asked.
“We heard about it from Eric when we got here,” Stevie replied, his face a blank.
“Did you know the victim?”
“We used to goof on him back in high school.”
“You used to throw rocks at him,” Des said reproachfully.
“We never hurt him or nothing,” Donnie insisted. “Just having fun.”
“I hear you, sure,” Yolie said easily. “Does the name Mosher mean anything to you?”
“Our grandma on the old man’s side was a Mosher,” Stevie said.
“Do you know how your grandma died?” Des asked.
“How would we know that? We weren’t even born yet.”
“Your dad never mentioned it to you?”
“Nope,” Stevie said, pulling on his cigarette.
“If I told you Pete’s last name was Mosher what would you say?”
The brothers exchanged a guarded look before Donnie said, “There’s tons of Moshers around here.”
Des said, “Your dad claims he found some black trash bags full of returnables at the foot of your drive when he left for work this morning. You told me you were home by then from your night out with Allison, right?”
“Uh, okay…” Donnie said uncertainly.
“You do remember we talked this morning, don’t you?”
“So what?” Stevie demanded.
“So did you guys notice those trash bags there at the foot of your drive when you made it home?”
“I don’t remember seeing ’em,” said Stevie.
“Me neither,” said Donnie.
“Maybe you boys left them there yourselves after you killed Pete,” Yolie suggested.
“It wasn’t us, lady,” Stevie said. “We weren’t even there. And if you ask me, somebody’s goofing on you. This is all some kind of a frame, this stuff going down as soon as we get out. Don’t you think it’s even a little weird?”
“Not really,” Yolie replied. “Not if you did it.”
“But we didn’t,” Donnie protested.
Quite possibly someone had fitted the Kershaw brothers for a frame, Des reflected. Using their release from prison as a convenient cover for a crime that they’d been planning for a good long while. Then again, quite possibly Stevie and Donnie were the culprits. Sometimes, the most obvious explanation was obvious for a reason.
“Oh, no-o-o…” Donnie groaned, his bloodshot eyes focusing across the meadow. “Please tell me I’m not seeing what I’m seeing.”
A battered Ford F-150 pickup loaded down with more manure was bumping its way toward them. Eric was behind the wheel, waving to them excitedly.
“Big brother, I will pass out in my own vomit if I have to fork one more load.”
“That man is beyond crazy,” Stevie concurred glumly. “He should be kept away from other people.”
Eric cozied the truck up close to the bed the brothers were working and hopped out, a lanky, hyperkinetic bundle of geeki-ness in his shapeless sweater and too-short jeans, a he-guy Leatherman multipurpose knife sheathed to his belt. “Afternoon, Des!” he called to her. “Isn’t this a great afternoon?”
“It’s a fine one,” Des said, thinking he needed to take sheep shears to all of that hair growing out of his ears. “Eric, I’d like you to meet Sgt. Yolie Snipes.”
“Re-eally pleased to meet you.” Eric dropped the tailgate of the truck, jumped in back and began shoveling the manure out onto the ground. The man was positively raring with bright-eyed vigor. “Sergeant, you are one lucky lady.”
Yolie stared up at him with her mouth open. “Is that right?”
“Oh, absolutely. This is the most exciting day of the year to visit Four Chimneys Farm, right, boys?”
“Don’t ask us, man,” grumbled Stevie. “We’re just spreading manure.”
“It’s not manure, it’s gold!” exulted Eric. “By spreading it you are helping to create life. Honestly, if you can’t get excited about this, what can you get excited about?”
“A hot bath,” Donnie answered promptly. “A cold beer. A nice, soft place to lie down.”
“You guys had it too soft up at Enfield,” Eric scoffed, scooping the chicken manure out of his truck with manic energy. “Just sat around all day doing nothing. Not here. Here, we are taking on The Man.”
“We’re doing what?” asked Donnie, puzzled.
“Big corporations control the agribusiness now. It’s all multinational this, genetically engineered that. Here we grow things the way nature intended them to be grown. No artificial anything. We’re fighting the system here. This is right up your alley, don’t you get it? You have a problem with authority and so do I.”
“Man, are you like a farmer or some kind of cult leader?” Ste-vie wondered, shaking his mullet head at him wearily.
Des heard a car door slam. Danielle’s Subaru was pulled up at the meadow gate and she was trudging her way toward them with a Thermos and two big plastic tumblers.
“I made some cold lemonade,” she called out. “Thought you might be thirsty.”
“Wow, thank you, ma’am,” Stevie said gratefully.
“Real nice of you, ma’am,” echoed Donnie.
Danielle filled the tumblers for them. The brothers gulped down their lemonade so fast that some of it streamed down their chins.
Danielle poured them more before she glanced somewhat meekly up at Eric in the truck. “I’m heading out for a few minutes, okay?” she said, twirling one of her pigtails around her fingers.
“Where are you off to?” A slight edge had crept into Eric’s voice.
“I made a big pot of stew. I thought Mark might eat some.”
“Yeah, okay,” he said disapprovingly.
“Eric, if I don’t take him food he doesn’t eat.”
“I said it was okay, didn’t I? I just don’t like him taking advantage of you.”
“He’s not.”
“Fine, he’s not,” Eric snapped, effectively closing down the conversation.
“Big thanks for the lemonade, ma’am,” said Stevie.
“You’re quite welcome. I’ll make some more for you tomorrow.”
“We’ll be here.”
“Unless we’re in jail,” said Donnie, glancing at Des and Yolie.
Eric watched Danielle scurry back across the meadow, a concerned look on his face. Then he shook himself and said, “How about you guys start working that other bed over there? If you get moving, we can still mix this in before dark.”
The brothers glanced unhappily at the broad swath of raw, untilled soil that awaited them fifty yards away.
“You’re the boss,” Stevie said defeatedly.
They slunk off, trailing their forks along behind them on the ground.
“Des, I still can’t get over what happened this morning,” Eric confessed, hopping down out of the truck. “That’s my land down where Pete was found. It’s upsetting, knowing that a murder was committed there. I feel responsible.”
“You’re not responsible for what somebody did to Pete.”
“I know that, but it’s going to take me a while to process this. Maybe I should plant some new trees down there.”
“That’ll have to wait,” Yolie said. “It’s still an active crime scene.”
“When you’re done with your investigation, I meant.” Eric glanced over at the Kershaw brothers, who’d begun poking at the new planting bed with a tremendous lack of enthusiasm. “I just need to do something.”
“Can you tell us anything about Pete?” Des asked him.
“Not a whole lot,” he replied, blinking at her rapidly. “I did get the impression that there was something special about him. The old-timers at the soup kitchen would whisper to each other when he came in. Almost with a kind of awe. I asked Doug once whether Pete was a Vietnam War hero…” Eric left off, his eyes on a vehicle tearing its way up the gravel drive. It was Claudia’s black Lexus SUV, and it was slowing up now, stopping.
“And what did Doug say?”
“He said no,” Eric replied distractedly, his buoyant spirit deflating as Claudia got out of her Lexus and marched her way across the meadow toward them, her clenched fists pumping furiously.
“This don’t look jolly,” Yolie observed.
“When it comes to my sister there is no such thing.”
In fact, Claudia looked exceedingly hostile. “Officers, how can you allow those criminals to work here!” she demanded, her eyes icy blue slits.
“The matter doesn’t fall under our jurisdiction, Mrs. Widdi-field,” Des said as the Kershaw brothers stood there over in the planting bed missing nothing. “Stevie and Donnie were invited here.”
“By m-me,” Eric stammered, his eyes fastened on the soil at Claudia’s feet. “I have to start field planting soon. I need the help. What’s the big deal?”
“What’s the big deal?” Claudia’s voice dripped with scorn. “Eric, do I have to remind you what’s happened here today?”
“You don’t,” he mumbled, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “And you don’t need to talk to me that way either. I happen to be a full-fledged adult.”
“Then why can’t you act like one?”
“Why can’t you let other p-people alone?” he sputtered angrily. “Those guys aren’t hurting anybody. They’re just slinging manure. If you want to pitch in, grab yourself a fork. Otherwise, go home.”
Claudia stood her ground. “I am home.”
“This is my farm, not yours. So just back off!”
“Eric…”
“And let people live their own lives, will you? Maybe then you’ll actually have one of your own. And Danielle won’t have Mark crying on her shoulder about what a cold-hearted bitch you are!”
Claudia drew her breath in, stung. “My marriage is my business.”
“Oh, I see.” Eric nodded his head up and down convulsively, blinking, blinking. “And my business is your business, too.”
“It is when it threatens everyone else’s health and safety.”
“Get your own house in order, Claude. Stop trying to control mine. And mom’s. And everybody else’s.” Now Eric flung himself into his truck, started it up and went roaring bumpety-bump-bump back across the meadow.
Claudia was left standing there, speechless, her face etched with strain. She was a deeply frightened woman, Des observed. And yet she hadn’t been able to share her fears with Eric. Couldn’t, wouldn’t admit them to him. And so they butted heads. Again, to her surprise, Des felt sorry for this vanilla ice princess.
Another car door slammed shut. Soave had nosed his slicktop up behind Claudia’s Lexus. He started toward them, his weight-lifter’s chest puffed out, shaved head shining in the sunlight. Claudia immediately charged her way across the meadow toward him. Soave froze in his tracks, eyes widening as she got closer.
Yolie let out a sigh. “Maybe I’d better get his back for him.”
“And maybe I’d better get yours,” Des said, tagging along with her.
The Kershaw brothers just kept right on turning over their planting bed, taking in every bit of this.
“Lieutenant, these are convicted felons.” Claudia was chest to chest with Soave. “How can they be permitted to be here?”
“We have no proof that they were involved, Mrs. Widdifeld,” he said soothingly. “We’re still collecting evidence. These things take time.”
“I don’t mean to be difficult, Lieutenant, but I don’t have time. I have a mother who is not in complete control of her faculties. I have a brother who is a dangerously naive fool. I need results.”
“And you’ll get them, ma’am. Just give us a chance to do our job, okay?”
“Now you’re trying to pacify me,” Claudia sniffed. “Let me give you a word of advice-don’t.” She marched back to her Lexus now and got in, slamming the door behind her.
Soave exhaled with relief as she headed up the drive toward Four Chimneys. “Next time I see that coming I’m staying in the car with my doors locked.”
“How’d you make out with that judge in New London?” Yolie asked him.
“Got it,” he exclaimed, yanking the folded warrant from his breast pocket. “Des, why don’t you roll on back to that lawyer’s office with this. Yolie and me will have ourselves a talk with Mrs. Vickers about her long-lost brother, Pete.”
“Sounds good, Rico,” Des said, reaching for the warrant.
He snatched it back from her; his goateed chin stuck out belligerently. “How come it feels like me and her are just along for the ride? You’ve generated every single productive lead so far.”
Des sighed inwardly. Rico could do this-get all competitive and turfy. It was his insecurity showing. “Not even close, wow man. You’ve pretty much nailed down what happened to the Gullwing, haven’t you?”
“Which would do us some good if we actually had the Gull-wing. Guess what? We don’t.”
“Rico, I’m not trying to bogart your investigation. All I’m doing is taking direction from you.”
“So kindly stuff your male ego crap, little man,” Yolie agreed.
Soave shot a scowl at her before he turned back to Des. “How did you come by all of this family history, anyhow?”
“Got it off of the local gossip mill.”
“By way of who, Berger? Because this has his jumbo-sized shadow looming all over it.”
“My man does not loom.”
“What is he, your unofficial deputy now?”
“Rico, I’ve got no agenda here. If we close this out, you’re the one who gets the props, not me. It’s your investigation. If you want me off of it, just say so and I’m gone.”
“God, I hate it when you act all accommodating and reasonable. Bugs the hell out of me.”
“Do you want me in or don’t you?”
“In,” he barked. “Go talk to that lawyer lady about Pete Mosher’s will.”
“Fine.” She pocketed the warrant, Yolie standing there grinning at her.
“You want to know something?” Soave fumed. “My life was way simpler before there were so damned many women in it.”
“Maybe so, Rico. But you dressed like a chump.”
“Plus you never, ever got any touch,” Yolie added.
“Are you ladies quite through?” he demanded, glowering at them. “Des, reach out to us soon as you have something.”
Des was about to say she’d do just that when things suddenly got a lot simpler. A Dodge minivan was bouncing its way up the gravel drive toward Four Chimneys. And behind the wheel was Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux, attorney at law.
“In answer to what will doubtless be your first question, I’m present for this interview in my capacity as Mrs. Vickers’s attorney,” Glynis announced once she’d examined the judge’s warrant carefully. She limped on her bandaged ankle over to a chintz armchair and sat, a batch of thick files in her lap. Glynis had traded in her jeans for gray flannel slacks. Her fluffy blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her manner was brisk and confident. “As previously requested, I come bearing the last will and testament of Peter Ashton Mosher. I also have a copy of John J. Meier’s will, which was filed in Probate Court in New London some thirty years ago and is therefore a matter of public record.”
They’d gathered in the parlor, with its faded, pee-stained furniture, its priceless art and Poochie’s bizarre collections of sunglasses and water pistols. A couple of lamps were on, since dusk was fast approaching. Poochie sat in an armchair with Bailey asleep in her lap. She had poured herself a generous jolt of brandy from the decanter on the side table and was sipping from it. Soave and Yolie faced them on the sofa.
Des had started out there, but found it so hard to keep her eyes off of Giacometti’s self-portrait that she’d moved over to a chair. “When you and I spoke earlier,” she said to Glynis, “you didn’t tell me you were Poochie’s attorney.”
“I’m under no obligation to divulge the identity of a client. You’d been tasked with notifying Peter Mosher’s next of kin of his death. I told you that by speaking to me you’d dispatched your official responsibility. And you had.”
“We can talk like regular people, can’t we, dear?” Poochie chided Glynis, glancing down into her brandy snifter. The great lady wore her sadness like a mask. Her lively, lovely face was expressionless. “Des, I am Pete’s next of kin and Glynis is my lawyer. We Smithies stick together, after all. Besides, her father was our family attorney, as was his father. We place great stock in continuity.” Poochie sipped her brandy, stroking Bailey absently. “I told her that you’d requested another interview, and she’d insisted upon being here-assuming that’s all right with you.”
“Absolutely, ma’am,” Soave assured Poochie. “It’s your legal right.”
“Will Mr. Tolliver be joining us?” Des asked.
“No, Tolly’s cutting back my rosebushes,” Poochie replied with a wave of her hand. “Got his gloves and pruners and off he went. He’s been upset ever since you three spoke to him this morning.”
“We have to look at everyone,” Yolie said. “It was nothing personal.”
“I don’t wish to be rudely contradictory, Sergeant, but it was very personal. Also hurtful. You’ve completely failed to grasp our situation. Tolly would never, ever steal from me.” Poochie gazed out the window at her view of the river. Her face had a fond, faraway look on it. “Funny, him wanting to garden all of a sudden. When we were first married, he wouldn’t go near it. Ladies’ work, he called it.”
Soave looked at Des, puzzled. Des kept her own expression neutral, though she could feel her stomach muscles flutter.
Glynis smiled gently at her client. “Poochie, it’s Tolly who we were discussing.”
“And your point is?…”
“You just said that when you two were first married he disliked gardening.”
“No, dear, you’re mistaken. Tolly and I have never been married. But I do wish he’d sit in on this conversation. He ought to be here.”
“Would you like us to go get him?” Des offered.
“No, leave him be. He needs to work out his creative tensions.” Poochie reached for the brandy decanter and poured more of it into her snifter.
“Poochie, we’ve been told that Peter Mosher was the offspring of your father, John J. Meier, and the family maid, Bessie Mosher,” Des began. Soave wanted her to get it rolling. “Can you confirm this?”
“I can,” Poochie said forthrightly.
“We’ve requested access to Mr. Mosher’s will so that we might learn who he’d named as his beneficiaries.”
“I have his most recent financial statements as well.” Glynis opened one of the files in her lap, scanning it. “The income from Mr. Mosher’s trust fund was more than adequate for him to live on comfortably. In point of fact, we hadn’t even touched his interest income for more than twenty years. Consequently, his assets have…” Glynis, cleared her throat. “At the time of his death, Peter Mosher was worth somewhere in the vicinity of eighteen million dollars.”
“Shut up!” Yolie immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. “So sorry. Didn’t mean for that to… are you sure about this?”
“Quite sure, Sergeant,” Glynis replied tartly.
“But why does a man worth that kind of green live like he was living?”
Glynis looked to Poochie for an answer.
Poochie was staring down at Bailey in her lap, stroking the old golden retriever with so much focused intent that she seemed not be listening. “I wish I could give you a decent answer, Sergeant,” she replied softly. “But Peter and I hardly knew each other. That was father’s wish. For mother’s sake, he didn’t want the two of us to form an attachment.”
Soave’s cell phone rang. He answered it and listened a moment before he glanced up at Poochie and said, “Doug Garvey’s here.”
“Send him through.”
“He can pass,” Soave said into the phone, flicking it off. “Go ahead, Des.”
“Poochie, did your mother ever speak to you about Peter?”
“Absolutely never,” Poochie replied. “Mother wasn’t one to share her secrets. Mind you, she knew the truth about him. How could she not? There were so many whispers around town. I was only a girl, yet I can still remember them. I can remember the shame as well. And father did feel shame, so young Peter had to go and young Peter did go-off to boarding school.” Poochie sipped her brandy, swirling it around in the snifter. “He wrote father regularly from England. Father kept a post office box for that sole purpose. He would read each letter carefully, then burn it. He burned all of Peter’s letters. He confided this to me over martinis one evening when I was home from Smith. Father told me things he could never tell Mother.” Poochie’s face had a faraway look on it again, though this one was not especially fond. “I was his confidante, his pet, his plucky little pard.”
Des heard the flatulent rumble of a vehicle arriving out front, a car door slamming, heavy footsteps on the gravel. Then the front door opened and a husky male voice called out, “You around, Pooch?!”
“In here, Dougie!”
Doug Garvey lumbered into the parlor jangling a set of keys. “Brought you that Jeep of mine to get around in.”
“Bless you, dear. Need a lift back to the station?”
“Not necessary,” Doug said, his eyes flicking around at everyone curiously. “I’m meeting one of my boys down at the foot of the drive in a minute. I’ll leave these keys by the front door.”
“Don’t people ring doorbells in this town?” Soave wondered as Doug tromped back outside.
“Doug is a friend. Why would he do that?” Poochie hesitated now, frowning. “Sorry, where was?…”
“Peter was away at boarding school,” Glynis reminded her.
“And giving every appearance of being a bright, outgoing young man,” she continued, nodding her head. “He played soccer and rugby, was a fine horseman. An excellent shot, too, all of which made father exceedingly proud. But Peter didn’t much care for university life. He left Cambridge during his second year and settled in London, where he fell in with a rather wild crowd. That ‘mod’ scene was all the rage, and Peter embraced it fully-no cares, no worries, nothing but one big party. Father did keep him comfortably provided for, after all. Winters, he’d ski in Gstaad. Summers, he’d head for St. Tropez. He took lots of girlfriends. Dropped them when he felt like it. Was seldom sober. Eventually, when Coleman was posted to Paris, I had him to the residence for lunch.” Poochie paused, her face darkening. “It was not easy for either of us. I was a good little diplomat’s wife. Peter was a full-time hedonist. Exceedingly hostile to me. High on pot, I might add. He offered to smoke some with me. He’d recently been up to the Montreux Jazz Festival, where he’d seen a group that he wanted to manage. Champion somebody and…” She shook her head. “I can’t remember their name. It came to nothing. None of Peter’s plans ever amounted to anything. They were drug-induced fantasies. He went on who knows how many LSD trips. I can’t say for certain whether it was the drugs that triggered the… change in him. I only know that Peter became uncontrollable, given to fits of wild, schizophrenic rage. In 1971, he attacked a policeman and had to be put in restraints in a London hospital. A friend of his wrote Father, who saw to it that Peter was transferred to a highly regarded psychiatric institute in Lausanne, Switzerland. Not that they actually helped him. Mostly, they just kept him sedated. If they didn’t he’d try to escape.”
“Did your father think about hospitalizing him closer to home?” Soave wondered.
“Switzerland was Peter’s home,” Poochie answered in a strained voice. “I heard very little about him after that. Coleman and I were posted back to Washington. And then, of course, Father passed away.”
“After John J.’s death in ’74 our firm took over guardianship of Peter’s financial affairs,” Glynis stated. “We paid for his long-term care by drawing on the income from his trust fund. In 1983 Peter was transferred to another institute, in Livorno, Italy. Their experimental treatments were showing promising results. Their security, however, left a great deal to be desired. Peter was able to discharge himself two months after he arrived, at which point he slipped under the radar. Wandered God only knows where for years. Had no known means of support. Apparently, he was able to get a passport, because he did make his way back to America eventually.”
“Back to Dorset,” Poochie said. “He just showed up here one day, filthy and homeless. Doug phoned me after he’d found him. I drove straight down to the filling station, hugged him and said, ‘Welcome home, Brother.’ He just looked away and said two words to me: ‘Sneaky Pete.’ Those were the only two words he ever spoke. I brought him back here, set him up in a room, ordered him some clothes from the men’s shop. But he ran away that very night. Turned up back at Doug’s like a stray animal. Doug brought him back here but the same thing happened again. Finally, Doug was kind enough to put him up. But it was all so incredibly heartbreaking. I couldn’t help thinking Peter wanted his family’s love. He could have gone anywhere in the world and he chose to come here. And yet he wouldn’t speak to me or let me…” Poochie’s eyes filled with tears. They spilled down her cheeks. She swiped at them with her hand. “I’m sorry to be so emotional. But this is very hard for me.”
“I was rebuffed as well,” Glynis put in. “He wouldn’t touch a penny of his money.”
“Poochie, what did you tell Eric and Claudia when you brought Peter home?” Des asked.
“That he was an old childhood chum fallen on hard times. Eric was fine with that, chiefly because he smelled a cheap, useful field worker. Claudia told me I’d lost my mind. I’ve never fit her idea of a suitable mother, I’m afraid. I didn’t tell them who Peter was. But I intend to this very evening. They deserve to know, and I believe I’m free to speak the truth now. Is that all right, Glynis?”
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s fine.”
“Father didn’t want them to know. He made it very clear to me on his deathbed. Mother was in failing health herself. She died less than three months after father.”
“How was Peter provided for in his will?” Des asked Glynis.
Glynis scanned John J. Meier’s file folder before she said, “He’d already seen to Peter’s needs when he set up the trust fund. Initially, it consisted of shares in the Meier Steel Corporation equal to but not exceeding the sum of five million dollars-which over the past thirty-some years has grown into the eighteen-million-dollar figure we discussed. The vast majority of John J.’s holdings, including Four Chimneys, he left to Poochie.”
“Was anyone else provided for?”
“Bessie Mosher was long dead, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“By her own hand, I’m told.”
“Yes,” Poochie said. “Father felt no financial obligation toward Ed or Bessie’s other son, Milo. He provided only for Peter.”
“With certain safeguards,” Glynis pointed out. “Peter had been institutionalized by this time, after all. Legal guardianship was granted to my father, who subsequently signed it over to me when he retired from the firm.”
“Did Peter ever marry?” Des asked.
“There was a brief misadventure with a German fashion model back in, oh, ’66,” Poochie recalled. “Apparently, they ran off and got hitched in Marbella, both of them high as kites. A week later it turned out she was still legally married to another man, so her marriage to Peter was annulled or voided or whatever it is they do. She didn’t get a penny off of him.”
“How about children-did he ever have any?”
Poochie gazed at Des blankly. “Why, no.”
“None that we are presently aware of,” Glynis hedged, going legalese. “To the best of our knowledge, Peter died without issue.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“As sure as we can be. No one has come forward to make any such claim.”
“Say someone does. What happens then?”
Glynis studied the Can Man’s last will and testament, her lips pursed primly. “No provision was made for heirs. And with good reason, I might add. Peter’s doctors kept him in a drugged state. There was genuine concern that an unscrupulous nurse might try to get herself pregnant by him, produce an heir and make a claim to his fortune. Such things have been known to happen. John J. made sure that it could not by spelling out unequivocally that upon Peter’s death the entirety of his trust fund passes to Poochie and no one else. You’re correct to suggest that an unknown heir could come forward and try to contest it, thereby throwing the ball into a judge’s court, but John J.’s wishes were quite clear. Absolutely no one else is provided for.”
No one like, say, Pete’s half-brother Milo. Or his old friend Doug Garvey. Neither man had a financial upside in seeing Pete dead. At least none that was apparent to Des. “Forgive me if this sounds morbid, but who would his trust fund have passed to if Poochie had predeceased him?”
“It would have gone to her heirs, Eric and Claudia,” Glynis replied.
“Poochie, may we talk about your own estate for a moment?”
Poochie didn’t respond. Didn’t even seem to be listening to Des. She was too busy gazing at Yolie. “You have such a sad aura, sergeant,” she observed. “A healthy girl like you ought to have a man in her life.”
Yolie swallowed uncomfortably. “What makes you think I don’t?”
“Because I know you’re lonely. You’ve never been so lonely.”
“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” responded Yolie, seriously weirded out.
“Poochie, we seem to be straying a bit,” Glynis put in tactfully. “Des wants to know who stands to inherit from you. You’re under no legal obligation to respond, The judge’s warrant applies to the contents of Peter’s will, not your own.”
“I don’t have anything to hide, do I?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then tell Des what she wants to know.”
“As you wish,” Glynis said deferentially. “In fact, there is one slightly unusual wrinkle. John J. was very particular about this house and land, all two hundred and seven acres of it. As his sole male issue Peter stood to inherit Four Chimneys upon Poochie’s death-not Claudia and Eric.”
“Did that include the house’s contents?” Des asked.
The attorney shot a quick glance at Poochie before she said, “The contents of the house are considered separate. As are Poochie’s own financial assets, which are hers to distribute as she sees fit. But as to Four Chimneys itself, John J.’s wishes were quite specific.”
“So, in a sense, Poochie and Peter have owned Four Chimneys together all of these years, am I right?”
“You are,” Glynis replied. “But now that Peter has predeceased her, it will pass to Claudia and Eric-and from them on to Be-ment. Should Eric and Danielle have a child, then he or she would share title with Bement until one of-”
“Stop this horrid nonsense!” Poochie erupted suddenly. “I cannot abide it!”
“We’re trying to help, Mrs. Vickers,” Soave said. “Sorry if this is upsetting to you.”
“It’s very upsetting!” Poochie had grown highly agitated. “I feel as if my cold dead flesh were being picked apart by turkey vultures. I hate talking about money. I won’t! Glynis, you’re on your own. I’m starting dinner.” She scrambled out from underneath Bailey and charged off toward the kitchen.
The snoozing dog remained where he was. In terms of alertness, Bailey was only slightly keener than a napa cabbage.
Soave watched Poochie go, tugging at his goatee thoughtfully. “How big an estate are we talking about?”
“I’m not going to talk specifics,” Glynis answered, hands folded neatly in her lap. “I will say that Poochie was born into great wealth, married great wealth and has amassed a considerable amount through her own hard work.” She glanced at her wrist-watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to return to soccer mom mode. Number two daughter needs picking up.”
“Glynis, there’s something else that’s staring us right in the face,” Des said.
Glynis returned the files to her briefcase and snapped it shut. “Which is?…”
“Poochie herself. She’s been acting a little strange lately.”
“I heard that,” Yolie agreed. “What was that about my aura?”
“That was just Poochie being Poochie, Sergeant. She’s apt to say the oddest things.” Glynis hobbled her way across the parlor toward the front hall, the three of them joining her. “When I was fourteen she pulled me aside and told me to focus my intellectual energy on science. Geology, specifically. Why? Because I was obviously destined to become the first woman in history to reach the planet Mars.”
They headed out into the front courtyard. Doug’s Jeep was parked there alongside their Crown Vics and Glynis’s mini-van.
“Poochie is also very upset about Peter,” Glynis added. “Perfectly understandable under the circumstances.”
“Perfectly,” Des allowed. “Except I’ve been getting her out of a lot of jams lately. And Claudia wants power of attorney over the family’s financial affairs. She’s told me so. Given that we’ve been talking about estates worth millions of dollars, it’s hard not to wonder if it all connects up.”
Glynis opened the door to her minivan and set her briefcase inside. “I regret that Claudia spoke to you about this matter. I’ve tried to discourage her from pursuing it. As far I’m concerned, Poochie remains perfectly capable.”
“Glynis, there are a whole lot of candy bars squirreled away in that attic.”
“What of it?” Glynis said mildly. “When I cleaned out my father’s attic I discovered that he’d stolen ashtrays from seemingly every saloon, nightclub and restaurant he’d been to since his undergraduate days at Harvard. There were thousands of them. This was a man who didn’t smoke. And he was practicing good, solid law right up until the day he died.”
“Claudia wants Poochie to see a doctor.”
“As do I. Poochie hasn’t had a checkup in years. But do you nuke the entire family in order to force her hand? You do not, as I’ve told Claudia again and again.” Glynis climbed in and started the engine, rolling down her window. “I’ve also told her that if she chooses to pursue this she’ll have to retain another attorney. Poochie is my client.”
Glynis put the minivan in gear and took off down the drive. The three of them stood there in the courtyard watching her go, the setting sun casting a golden reflection off of her back window.
“We should be bearing in mind that Pete was ten years younger than Poochie,” Des said quietly.
Soave furrowed his brow at her. “Meaning what?”
“That our Can Man stood a better than decent chance of coming into this whole place. Or I should say his trust fund did-with Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux running the show.”
“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.”