The Kershaws lived in the wooded hill country north of Uncas Lake off of Laurel Ridge, a key connector road between Nowhere and Nowhere Else. A mailbox by the side of the road marked the Kershaws’ property, as did the handlettered plywood signs that read KEEP OUT and NO DUMPING. Des had to take it slow up the steep rutted drive that climbed and twisted its way through bleak, scrubby woodland before it finally arrived at a clearing.
There was a squat log cabin here. Wood smoke rose from a stovepipe. A Doberman was chained to the porch, barking furiously at her arrival. A mudcaked blue Toyota pickup was parked out front next to a canary yellow Ford van that had D amp; S PAINTING written on its side.
Near the cabin there was a leanto where many cords of firewood were stored. The rest of the clearing resembled the salvage yard out behind a secondhand building supply center. There were piles of old windows and doors, kitchen cabinets, shutters, chimney tiles. Milo Kershaw was Dorset’s most noted pack rat, famous for dragging things home from residential demolition jobs and reselling them. On occasion, some of these items didn’t exactly belong to him. A few weeks back, Des had had to smooth over a dispute over some mahogany pocket doors he’d liberated from a house he was renovating. Milo insisted the owner had told him to go ahead and take them. The owner vehemently denied this. Grudgingly, Milo had coughed them up. No charges were filed.
But it was not the first time Des had dealt with Milo. Over Christmas, he’d gotten into a drunken brawl with a man half his age at the Rustic Inn, Dorset’s popular inspot for the inbred. Milo was getting the better of him, too. Again, no charges were filed, but Milo Kershaw was definitely one of those men who Des had to keep her eye on. He was sneaky, not to mention highly antagonistic.
His sons Stevie and Donnie, aged twentysix and twentyfour, were obviously no bargains either. They’d started out with the usual playground bully stuff like vandalism, criminal mischief and unlawful possession of alcohol by a minor. Then they started boosting items from parked cars. Then they started boosting the cars. Along the way there was a string of drug possession collars. They’d been given chance after chance-counseling, community service, probation without incarceration. Until, that is, they got caught shoplifting a brand new chainsaw. For that they were deemed incorrigible and sent to the Long Lane Boys’ Facility. With their most recent offense-attempted distribution of stolen property-they’d graduated to a felony and been sentenced to two years, discounted to eighteen months for good behavior, at Enfield Correctional, a mediumsecurity institution.
Still, when it came to the Kershaw brothers the criminal record didn’t tell the whole story. These boys were local legends. When they’d boosted a parked car from the lot at White Sand Beach one summer evening, for example, they’d been unaware that a couple was getting busy in the backseat at the time. And that one half of the couple was Dorset’s second selectman, who was making love to someone else’s… husband. Or take that chainsaw. They’d stolen it from Lakeside Hardware the morning after a significant snowstorm. On foot. All the resident trooper had to do was follow their footsteps home, where he found Stevie and Donnie using the stolen chainsaw on a dead, frozen deer. As for their most recent offense, some valuable items of silver were stolen from Poochie Vickers’s place, Four Chimneys. Two days after the theft was discovered, Stevie and Donnie strolled right into Great White Whale Antiques and tried to sell Bement Vickers his own grandmother’s silver candlesticks. Bement had politely excused himself and called the resident trooper.
Des parked next to the yellow van and got out, big Smokey hat square on her head, her boots squishing in the mud. The country air here smelled of wood smoke and of a septic tank that badly needed pumping.
Milo came out onto the porch at once and hollered at the Doberman to shut up. Milo was a feisty little whippet in his early sixties. He stood fivefeetfive tops and she doubted he weighed more than onehundredforty pounds, most of it gristle. He wore a heavy wool sweater, jeans, work boots and a tattered orange goose down vest that was patched with silver duct tape. Milo was one of those weathered, hardscrabble workmen who seemed to be deeply tanned even in the winter. He had a suspicious, sidelong way of squinting out at the world. Just his way of letting people know that he was a force to be reckoned with.
“Morning, Mr. Kershaw,” she called to him pleasantly, tipping her hat. “Thought I’d pay your boys a little courtesy call.”
“Oh, is that what you call it?” he demanded, restraining the snarling Doberman by its choke collar. “I call it harassment. They ain’t even been home an hour and already you’re looking to put ’em back in.”
“Mr. Kershaw, I’m strictly the welcome wagon. We’ll have ourselves a getacquainted chat and I’ll be on my way, okay?”
Milo did not go in much for adornment. There were no pictures on the cabin’s walls, no curtains on its windows. There was a woodburning stove in the living room. A bigscreen television, an old sofa with a blanket thrown over it. A spiral staircase led up to the bedrooms. The only other room downstairs was the kitchen, which smelled of cigarette smoke, cooked bacon and unwashed Kershaws. The unwashed Kershaws, Stevie and Donnie, were seated at the kitchen table knocking back cans of Budweiser and savoring their freedom. They’d just put away some bacon and eggs, apparently. There was a greasy cast iron skillet on the stove, egg shells and an empty bacon wrapper on the counter. The sink was heaped with dirty dishes.
“Resident trooper’s come to bust your balls,” Milo informed them sourly. “That tall one’s Stevie. The short, ugly one’s Donnie.”
Stevie’s eyes widened instantly at the sight of someone in uniform.
“Whoa, talk about a buzz kill,” groaned Donnie, whose own eyes were hidden behind a pair of reflecting shades.
“I just came by to introduce myself,” Des assured them, sticking out her hand. “I’m Des Mitry. Glad to know you both.”
The Kershaw brothers got slowly to their feet and shook hands with her. Both wore flannel shirts and jeans. Beyond that, they looked almost nothing alike.
Stevie, who towered over his younger brother, was skinny, darkhaired and, seemingly, determined to prove to the world that the mullet haircut wasn’t dead. Stevie had strikingly delicate features. His pink rosebud of a mouth was almost girlish. Perhaps to compensate for it, he’d grown a soul patch beneath his lower lip. He had a cocky smirk on his face as he eyed Des up and down. Somehow, Stevie Kershaw had gotten the idea that he was a babe magnet.
Donnie was built low to the ground like his dad, though he was a lot stockier and a whole lot hairier. He had reddish brown hair that flopped down over his eyebrows and a scraggly beard that grew right on down his neck into his shirt. Donnie Kershaw looked more like a wet cocker spaniel than any man Des had ever met.
“Would you remove your shades, please? I like to look at a man when I’m talking to him.”
Reluctantly, Donnie complied, jiggling them in his hand. He had nervous, clueless eyes.
Actually, her initial impression was that neither of them reeked of being ten different kinds of nasty. Which wasn’t to say they were harmless bunnies, either. Both of them projected an unsettling air of menace that she couldn’t quite identify yet. And that troubled her. Des liked to be able to place people.
“So you’re the new sheriff in town?” Stevie was still smirking.
“Something like that.”
“Lady, how tall are you?” asked Donnie, gaping at her.
“Sixfootone.” With her boots on she was close to sixfour.
“I think you must be the tallest female I ever met,” Donnie marveled.
“What about Ray Ryan’s sister, Lizzie?” Stevie said to him. “Played center on the girls basketball team my senior year, remember? Wasn’t she over six foot?”
“Nah, she was like fiveeleven. Plus, she was a major porker. This one’s shaweet. Wouldn’t mind seeing it out of uniform.”
“Not one little bit,” agreed Stevie, bumping knucks with him.
“Okay, I’m standing right here, guys,” Des pointed out sharply.
Which seemed to startle both of them.
“You, like, want to sit down?” Stevie asked her, turning vaguely polite.
She sat, still puzzled by them. They didn’t strike her as that hardened or tough. Just seemed like a couple of hapless small town skeegie boys. And yet they made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Why? “I understand you boys paint houses. If I hear of anybody who’s looking for someone, I can let you know.”
“It’s still a little early in the year,” Stevie said. “You need your nighttime lows up over freezing. It’ll be another month before we can get going.”
“We’ve got work though,” said Donnie, scratching at his unkempt muzzle. “We start at Four Chimneys Farm first thing in the morning.”
“A little hard work never hurt nobody.” Milo leaned against the sink with his arms crossed, eyeing her coldly. “Not that these two have broken a sweat in their lives. Laziest goodfornothings I ever met. Not to mention the dumbest. But if Eric’s willing to give ’em a chance, I say what the hell. He’s a Vickers, but he tries to do decent by people. Not like his sister. And for sure not the old lady.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that you have a plan. And I want you to know you have a clean slate with me. You’ve served your time, and now we’re moving on.”
“True or false, lady,” Milo said accusingly. “If anything goes wrong in Dorset, you’ll be all over them for it.”
“They’re convicted felons now. That’s something they’ll have to live with.”
“But everybody’s always blamed stuff on us,” complained Donnie, his voice taking on a whiny, adolescent edge.
“All because we don’t get along with the Vickers.” Stevie shook a Marlboro from his pack and lit it.
“And now you show up here to do their bidding,” Milo grumbled at her.
“You’ve got that wrong, Mr. Kershaw.”
“Like hell. They tell Bob Paffin what to do, and he tells you. You call this fair? Hell, if one of us did what that drunken old bitch done to Duck River Pond last night you’d have thrown our ass in jail. Her, you just sent home. It ain’t right, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You especially.”
Des narrowed her gaze at him. “And you’re going where with this?…”
“Don’t play cute. You know where.”
“Maybe I do know what you mean, Mr. Kershaw. A lot of people in Dorset want your boys to fail. Same as they want me to fail.” She turned back to Stevie and Donnie and said, “Let’s prove them wrong, okay?”
The brothers looked down at their hands. They were plenty interested in seeing her naked, but not so crazy about being put in the same boat with her.
“Ma’am, we’re not looking to go back in,” Stevie vowed. “All we want to do is get our act together. Right, Donnie?”
Donnie nodded his head. “Get our van running.”
“She runs, dummy,” Milo said gruffly. “Just needs a new muffler.”
“So why didn’t you put one in?” Stevie asked him.
“Why the hell should I?”
“As a welcome home present.”
“I came and got your sorry asses, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you cheap old buzzard,” Donnie groused.
“Hey, nipplehead, if you’re living under my roof you’ll show me some respect,” warned Milo, clenching a fist at him.
Des found herself thinking that these two ought to find a place of their own, like their sister Justine had. Because their biggest problem in life, she felt quite certain, was their human hemorrhoid of a father. “I hope you guys don’t bear a grudge. Justine is dating Bement Vickers these days. And he does happen to be the person who turned you in to the law.”
“See?” snorted Milo. “Doing their bidding again.”
“You’ve pretty much made that point, Mr. Kershaw. Want to move off of it?”
“I’ll say what I want to say,” he shot back stubbornly.
“You guys forced Bement into a situation where he had zero leeway. If he hadn’t contacted the state police, he could have gone to jail for receiving stolen property.”
“He didn’t have to go narc on us,” Stevie said. “Could have just said no.”
“Not their way,” Milo put in. “They want to keep us down.”
“Mr. Kershaw, I’m urging all three of you to deal with Justine’s relationship in a civil fashion. Are we clear on that?”
“Here’s what I’m clear on, lady,” Milo responded. “Every time I think about that rich bastard pawing my little girl I just about blow a gasket. And I don’t appreciate you telling me how I’m supposed to feel about my own flesh and-”
“Were plenty clear, ma’am.” Stevie raised his voice over his father’s. “Who Teeny hangs with is her business. Right, Donnie?”
“Totally,” Donnie affirmed, nodding his spaniel head. “You won’t have any trouble from us, ma’am. Honest. We’re just happy to be home.”
“Are we through now?” Milo demanded angrily.
What Des really wanted to do was take aim at this snarly little man’s family jewels and drop kick him right through the wall. Instead, she flashed him her sweetest smile. “I hope we are, Mr. Kershaw. I really do.”
In keeping with Dorset’s unofficial motto-Above all, invisibility-the private drive that led to Four Chimneys was not marked as such. There was simply a turnin on Route 156 with three mailboxes and a small handlettered sign that read: ORGANIC FARM THIS
WAY.
As Des eased her cruiser slowly up the long drive, she couldn’t help notice how lush and fertile this land was compared to the stony hill country where the Kershaws lived. There were stands of towering oaks and hickories, rolling meadows that tumbled gently all the way down to the Connecticut River, which sparkled in the late morning sunlight. As she took a narrow stone bridge over a halffrozen stream, she glimpsed loamy planting fields and pastures enclosed by old fieldstone walls. She caught sight of a big, weathered red barn off to her left, along with a complex of greenhouses, and the small tenant farmer’s house where Eric and Danielle lived. Another handlettered sign pointed to the farm’s entrance on her left. There was no indication of what lay ahead on her right. Des continued on that way, came around a big treelined bend and found herself before a massive wrought iron gate, which was open.
She passed on through into a courtyard. And now she was face to face with Four Chimneys. It was the grandest manor house she’d ever seen, three stories of ivycovered red brick with a slate mansard roof, two massive central chimneys and another chimney at each end. It did not look like someone’s private home to her. More like a boarding school or research institute. Some of this had to do with its hugeness. But mostly it was the rotunda that the mansion was built around-a spectacular fourstory glass dome framed in greenishtinged copper.
An archway led around to a fourcar garage and brickwalled service courtyard. She parked there behind Claudia’s Lexus SUV, which was stashed in the garage next to her mother’s gleaming silver Mercedes Gullwing.
The sun felt good on her face when Des got out. There was a garden gate in the courtyard wall. She went through it and down a brick path that passed through a formal rose garden before she arrived at Claudia and Mark’s cottage, which was so tiny and exquisite that it looked as if it were never meant to be left out in the elements. It was painted a creamy white, its shutters and window boxes bright blue. Oldfashioned tavern lanterns flanked its double Dutch front doors, which were painted that same bright blue. Snowdrops and snow crocuses were coming up in the little cottage’s ornamental herb garden, which was neatly edged with manicured boxwoods.
Des used the brass knocker, feeling size huge as she loomed there in the doorway.
Claudia Widdifield swung the top door open and gazed out at her coolly. “I see you’ve made it, Trooper. Apparently you’re serious about this matter.”
Claudia did not invite her in, and Des was not about to barge in. Claudia did not inspire easy familiarity. She was more the type who made Des feel as if she had something smelly stuck to her shoe. Des did get a look at the beautifully appointed living room behind her. The grandfather clock and antique writing table. The basket full of peeling birch logs that sat beside the fireplace. Dried lavender was arranged in a battered milk pitcher on the coffee table, where a selection of art books was stacked just so. It was obvious that an interior designer lived here. Either that or the ghost of Laura Ashley.
“Perhaps we should go to the big house,” Claudia said. “There’s something you may wish to see.”
She joined Des outside, pulling the blue door shut behind her. Claudia’s shiny blond hair was held in place by a hair band today. And she was going with a lot of vanilla blingbling. Not only pearl earrings but a pearl choker and bracelet as well. She wore a pair of aupecolored slacks and a sweater set of white cashmere that was the sort of thing Des admired greatly but would never dare wear. Ten minutes after she put it on she’d spill something on it.
“Your house is charming,” she observed as they started down the brick path. Charming was a word Des had never used before she moved to Dorset. Here, it popped out a lot.
“Why, thank you,” Claudia said, thawing perhaps two degrees. “Mark served as project architect. I did the interior. It was actually mother’s kennel in a previous life. She used to raise her golden retrievers out here. Bailey is the last of a proud line, old thing. It has only the one bedroom, so Bement is bunking in the big house with mother. It’s where he grew up. Our move out to the cottage is very recent. Mind you, I’m…” Claudia trailed off into silence. Briefly, Des thought she might get into where Mark was presently bunking. “I’m exceedingly happy that Bement is back with us. But I’d hoped he would graduate from Stanford and pursue something worthwhile. Instead, he’s refinishing furniture. That’s something a man putters at in his workshop, don’t you think?”
“I think we should all do what makes us happy.”
“That’s a very hedonistic approach to life,” Claudia said disapprovingly. “I wouldn’t expect to hear that from someone in uniform.”
“We sworn personnel are a diverse bunch.”
“I’d forgotten that you’re an artist. Mother raves about your work.”
Claudia chose a different path from the one Des had taken. This one led past a tennis court and Olympicsized swimming pool. The pool had been covered for the winter. Claudia strode like a power walker, her head high, fists pumping. Des, even with her long stride, had to walk briskly to keep up with her.
“I don’t mean to sound narrowminded, trooper, but I’m also not crazy about his relationship with the Kershaw girl. I’m fully aware that she’s a terribly cute thing. And when it comes to sex, well, men don’t think very clearly when they’re Bement’s age.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t try to impose any age limit on it.”
“I’d just hate to see him get trapped. Because I just know she’s after our money. Milo is after our money. That insidious little man is behind this whole romance.”
“Actually, he’s just as upset about it as you are. Told me so himself not thirty minutes ago.”
“And you believed him? Milo Kershaw is a murderer. My father dropped dead of a heart attack when Milo torched our barn. He might just as well have taken out a gun and shot Father.”
“That doesn’t make Justine a criminal.”
“Her brothers stole from this very house.”
“That still doesn’t make Justine a criminal.”
“I guarantee you Eric will be sorry he’s hired those two. He’s only done it to tick me off. Eric loves nothing better than to poke me in the eye with a sharp stick. He’s been that way since we were little children.”
Poochie’s sleek silver twoseater was idling out in the courtyard, its exotically breathtaking doors raised, its engine burbling. Despite being nearly fifty years old, the Gullwing looked boldly modern. Also fresh off of the showroom floor. Its body gleamed, chrome bumpers and wheels sparkled. The red leather interior was spotless.
Guy Tolliver was behind the wheel, sporting a tweed racing cap, jaunty red scarf and black leather bomber jacket.
Poochie Vickers came striding across the courtyard toward them decked out in an outlandishly huge pair of yellow sunglasses, shawlcollared cardigan, paintsplattered jeans and her tattered sneakers. “Hullo, Des!” the grand dame roared as Bailey loped along behind her. “Can you believe it-spring has sprung!”
“That it has. Quite some ride you’ve got here.”
“There’s nothing quite like the sweet smell of excess,” Tolly concurred, patting the dashboard.
“Nonsense,” Poochie sniffed. “When Daddy gave it to me for graduation, it was quite reasonably priced. And I’ve never babied it. Machines are meant to be worked.”
“There’s still an awful lot of salt on the roads, Mummy,” cautioned Claudia. Winter road salt was highly corrosive to the undercarriage of any car, let alone a rare antique.
“I can’t help that-my clunker’s in Doug’s shop. What did you wish to see me about, Des? I hope it’s not more to do with last night.”
“I’m here to see Mrs. Widdifield, actually.”
“By all means.” Poochie climbed into the passenger seat and patted her lap. Bailey obediently climbed into it. Then she lowered her door shut and hollered, “Floor it, Tolly!”
As they sped off with a roar, Des could hear the old girl cry, “Wheeeeee!”
“They’re just like a pair of naughty children,” Claudia said, starting across the courtyard toward the main house.
“What’s his story?”
“Who, Tolly? He’s what’s known as a permanent houseguest. Older gay men like Tolly often attach themselves to wealthy widows. He keeps Mother company. Escorts her to social functions. Makes no demands upon her. No physical ones, I should say.”
“Sounds like you don’t exactly approve.”
“I don’t care for the way she’s always buying him expensive gifts. That’s how he operates. He’s been sponging off of wealthy hostesses for years. Plus one hears stories. It’s a sad thing, really, because he was once a top photographer for Harper’s Bazaar, Town amp;Country, all the best. He claims to be gathering up his old photos for a book.”
They strode up the steps now to the massive front doors and went inside. Des was instantly awed as she stood there in the vast, marblefloored entrance hall, gazing first at the grand winding staircase, then up at the inlaid paneled ceiling forty feet overhead. Before her, beyond double doors of hardwood and glass, was the glassdomed conservatory, its interior bathed in the noon sunlight.
“My greatgrandfather built Four Chimneys for his bride as a wedding present,” Claudia informed her proudly. “It’s a McKim, Mead and White home. In fact, Four Chimneys was the last project Charles McKim designed before he died in 1909. My greatgrandmother loved orchids, which explains the conservatory, and she loved parties. The north wing exists entirely for the purpose of entertaining on a grand scale. There’s a ballroom and formal dining room, rooms for billiards and cards, a restaurantsized kitchen. When father was still active in diplomatic circles, he and mother threw huge functions. But mother shut down the north wing years ago. Prefers the south wing, which is much homier. And the conservatory, of course. Would you care to?…”
“I’d love to.”
They passed through the conservatory doors and into an extraordinary world. Not only was the conservatory’s fourstoryhigh domed ceiling made of glass but so was its entire back wall, which overlooked the Connecticut River. The dome was supported by a network of huge cast iron girders and trusses. Brightly colored tropical birds were flying around up there, squawking.
“You may recognize some of the structural definition from old photographs,” Claudia said, following Des’s gaze. “It’s strikingly similar to McKim, Mead and White’s long lost Grand Concourse of the old Penn Station in New York City. Architecture students from Yale make a pilgrimage here almost every semester to study it.”
It was so warm and steamy in there that Des’s glasses fogged up. It was also wonderfully fragrant. Poochie Vickers had a forest of edible trees growing everywhere in massive pots. There were lemon trees, orange trees, fig trees. Huge clumps of lavender, sage, rosemary and other aromatic herbs grew in planter boxes. In the midst of this indoor forest was a seating area of wellworn wicker sofas and chairs grouped around a coffee table heaped with books, magazines and game boards. There was also a badminton court and portable basketball hoop. A sturdy, chubby 1950s-era Lionel electric train chugged its way around the conservatory on a raised track.
“This was where we lived when we were kids,” Claudia recalled fondly, showing Des a glimpse of unbridled warmth. “It was one big jungle playhouse. It’s still Mother’s favorite room.”
Claudia led Des back out into the entry hall now and into the mansion’s south wing, where the corridor walls were crowded with photos of Poochie from her glory days. So many days, so many Poochies. There was Poochie the society debutante, her blond hair swept back, face bright and animated. Poochie the Olympic swimmer, her face resolute and strong. Poochie the bride, posed on the church steps beside Coleman Vickers, a tall aristocrat with a high forehead and cleft chin. Poochie the diplomat’s wife, photographed with two, three, four different U.S. presidents, with Queen Elizabeth, with Charles De Gaulle. Poochie the celebrity chef, in the kitchen with James Beard and Julia Child.
Perhaps the most striking picture of Poochie was one in which she was all by herself astride a tricycle with her long legs out in the air, her tongue stuck out and her eyes crossed.
“Tolly took that one, actually,” Claudia informed her quietly. “It was on the cover of Harper’s Bazaar in November of 1964. And that’s my tricycle.”
The parlor was a grandsized room in a grandsized house-although quite thoroughly lived in. Shabby even. The Turkestan rugs were threadbare. The chintzcovered sofas and chairs marked with more than a few dog pee stains. The odor was unmistakable. The parlor was also quite informal, thanks to Poochie’s collection of gaudy, brightly colored sunglasses. She owned hundreds. Also hundreds of children’s plastic water pistols. Her thoroughly kitschy collections were so prominently displayed that it took Des a moment to notice what was hanging there on the walls.
Once she did, she couldn’t stop looking.
Poochie Vickers liked to collect informal little drawings that had been hastily sketched on things like cocktail napkins and tablecloths. Many of them looked like doodles. It’s just that they’d been doodled, and signed, by the likes of Picasso, Man Ray and Miro. The more formal pieces that lined her parlor walls were amazingly eclectic. Seemingly, the lady simply displayed whatever, whomever she liked. There was a Ruscha word painting from the early ’60s next to a Pollock drip painting from the late ’40s. An immense Warhol flower painting hung beside a Hopper seascape. Paintings by Magritte, Mondrian and Leger were grouped with original drawings by Edward Gorey and Charles Addams.
“Mother has always befriended artists,” Claudia said. “She adores them, and they adore her. I think I understand why-because she’s an original, just like these works are.”
Des stood there transfixed by a truly striking Alberto Giacometti selfportrait. The master sculptor had drawn it when he was a mere teenager. His face was a boy’s face, hair a wild mop of curls. Yet his gaze was the piercing one of a mature artist, his command over his pen confident and bold. Des had seen this drawing before in books and admired it greatly-and now she was standing in a house in Dorset, Connecticut, staring right at the original. As an artist, she was awestruck.
As Dorset’s resident trooper, she was amazed that the Kershaw brothers had walked off with silver candlesticks and left this astonishing art collection behind. Then again, Stevie and Donnie were minor league crooks. It would take someone of sophistication to know what these pieces were worth. And how to dispose of them.
“What sort of a security system does she have here?” Des asked, glancing around at the tall windows.
“You’re talking to her, Trooper. Mother never so much as locks her doors.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I wish I were. I keep begging her to install a system. She won’t. She doesn’t think of her art as valuable. Just thinks of it all as ‘stuff She has ‘stuff in the attic that she’s never bothered to uncrate. Never even had catalogued. Individual paintings could go missing for weeks and we’d never know. I tried to install a system on my own, but she ordered the workmen to leave. Terribly frustrating, but it’s her house. All I can do is make sure someone is around to keep an eye on it. Frankly, part of me is grateful that Bement is back home again.”
“Do you have livein help?”
“Mother doesn’t believe in it. Not since the unfortunate incident with Milo Kershaw.”
“Who cleans for her?”
“She does,” Claudia replied. “I do. We all do.”
“But this place is huge. The bathrooms alone. Why, there must be-”
“Twelve, Trooper. Four Chimneys has twelve bathrooms. But the north wing is shut down, as I mentioned. And we only use a handful of the rooms in this wing. So we manage to stay one step ahead of the cobwebs and dust. Mind you, the whole place could use a good scrubbing by a professional cleaning crew. But Mother won’t go for that either. Too expensive. Mother is… she has her quirks.”
“Actually, her quirks are the purpose of my visit,” Des said. “There’s no tactful way to put this: Your mother has become a chronic shoplifter, Mrs. Widdifield. And I’m not sure she even comprehends how she ended up in that pond last night. I’m becoming concerned about her safety and the safety of anyone who might get in her path. I don’t wish to intrude on your family privacy, but what’s going on with her?”
Claudia sighed, her proud shoulders slumping. “The short answer is, I don’t know. But I’d like to show you something up in the attic.”
They took the marble staircase up to the second floor, where Des caught a glimpse of a wide, welllit hallway. More paintings and drawings lining the walls. Doors leading to at least eight bedrooms. A narrower wooden staircase went up to the attic, which was as huge as a warehouse and smelled strongly of mouse droppings and mothballs.
Claudia flicked on the overhead lights to reveal garment bags, garment bags and more garment bags. “Mother has every article of clothing she’s ever owned.”
There were oldfashioned hatboxes from elegant Paris shops, huge old leather steamer trunks plastered with stickers from bygone cruise lines. Everywhere, there were crates marked Fragile. Also dozens of stuffed and mounted animal heads. Lions and tigers and bears, things with antlers, tusks.
“My grandfather, John J., liked to display his hunting trophies in the library. Mother found them barbaric. After he passed away, she had them taken down. But she’s saved them out of respect.”
“For your grandfather?”
“For the animals.” Claudia lifted some heavy mover’s blankets from atop a steamer trunk and flung it open, her lip curling with distaste. “Have a look.”
Inside, Des found hundreds of packages of candy bars. Claudia unlatched another trunk. More candy bars were hidden in there, as were bags and bags of chocolate chip cookies. The cookies had been in there a good long while. The Use by date stamped on the bags had expired two years ago.
“I stumbled upon all of this by accident last fall,” Claudia revealed in a low, quavering voice.
Des said nothing. She’d encountered this once before on the job. It was not a pleasant memory.
“Truly, I don’t understand why Mother is doing this. She never eats a sweet that she hasn’t baked herself. Everyone knows that. And yet, she hides these thing away up here like aa thief.”
“You’re sure it’s she who’s been doing it?”
“Who else could it be? Tolly’s only been around for a few months. This has been going on for years.” Claudia stood there wringing her hands, distraught. “Sometimes, she can’t remember where she’s just been or what she’s been doing. She’ll even drift away in the middle of a sentence. I’ve been doing a bit of reading on the subject. Medical encyclopedias and so forth. Apparently, hoarding things away like this is considered to be a sign of… paranoia. There are a number of possible explanations. The onset of Alzheimer’s disease is the most obvious. Or a brain tumor. Or it may have to do with her drinking.”
“How much does your mother drink?”
“A lot. She always has. Wine with lunch. Cocktails before dinner, more wine, then brandy. It’s possible the longterm effects have caught up with her.”
“Does she act as if she thinks someone is trying to do her bodily harm? Does she seem frightened?”
“I don’t believe so, no.”
“Has she experienced temporary numbness to a hand or one side of her face?”
Claudia raised her chin at her. “You’re wondering if she’s getting TIAs.”
Des nodded. “Transient Ischemic Attacks are quite common among older people.” TIAs were caused by tiny clots or plaque particles breaking away from the wall of an artery. Blood flow to the brain was temporarily impeded. “But surely her physician must have an opinion, no?”
“Now you’ve put your finger squarely on my dilemma,” Claudia replied. “The awful truth is that Mother hasn’t been examined by a doctor for more than twenty years. Calls them ‘pillpushing quacks.’ I keep begging her to get a checkup. This is a woman who’s in her seventies, for God’s sake. But she won’t do it. And you can’t make Mother do anything. Physically, she seems perfectly healthy. I can’t remember the last time she caught so much as a cold. But we have no way of verifying even what her blood pressure is.”
“I’m sorry to hear this, Mrs. Widdifield.”
“I’m sorry to be saying it. Candidly, I’m concerned about my family’s financial affairs.” Claudia moved away from the candy bars and cookies now, arms folded tightly in front of her chest. “I’m considering certain legal steps that will enable my brother and me to take control of them from her.”
“This is a mighty big step.”
“I realize that. And you may as well know that Eric-when I can pin him down-thinks I’m overreacting. It’s his view that Mother has always been batty. That nothing has changed. The same goes for our family lawyer, who believes mother remains perfectly capable of making sound financial decisions. I do not. I believe her behavior in regards to money has become downright frightening. She’s blown thousands of dollars on Tolly-cash withdrawals, expensive gifts, monstrous credit card bills. That is not my mother. I’m concerned that Tolly is preying upon her. I wish the others understood this, but they simply don’t. You understand, don’t you? You were there last evening. You interrogated her.”
“I questioned her. My job was strictly to make sure everyone was safe.” Des had to be very careful here. She did not want to get roped into a family dispute over money. “Have you confronted her with your concerns?”
“She won’t discuss it. Just calls me vile things-power hungry, joyless, ffrigid. We’ve always had our difficulties. Eric, she adores. Me, I’ve never been able to please her. That’s something I’ve had to live with my whole life.”
Des nodded, thinking that this particular vanilla ice princess was turning into the Morton Salt girl-when it rained, it poured.
Claudia glanced at her uncertainly, as if realizing she’d been more forthcoming than she wanted. “Have you any experience with the legal aspects of such competency proceedings?”
“A little. When a motion is filed by a family member, the state’s Social Services system gets involved, specifically Services for the Elderly. An investigator interviews family members and friends. Your mother’s physical and mental condition would be evaluated by independent physicians. Eventually, a hearing before a judge would take place. Witnesses will be called. So if, as you say, other family members are not on board, then that’ll present a problem. Does your husband, Mark, share your concerns?”
“My husband is much too busy flushing his life down the toilet right now to be of any…” Claudia broke off, her chest rising and falling. “May we go back downstairs? I find this attic overwhelmingly depressing.” They retraced their steps across the cluttered attic and started back down. “My situation with Mark is very upsetting,” she confessed. “I get so damned tired of being the mommy. I want a man. What I’ve got is a big baby. Mark simply won’t face up to anything hard or painful. Eric is the same way. All men are. They expect us to do the emotional dirty work while they hide under our aprons, sucking their thumbs.”
“I hear you,” agreed Des, who was thinking she did know one man who wasn’t like that. Not a bit.
“I suspect you’ve gotten a bit more than you bargained for today. Mind you, I’ve spoken with you in the strictest…”
“No need to even go there. What we just talked about stays with me.”
“I appreciate that, Trooper. And I’m sorry if I seem a bit emotional in regards to Mother. I’ve never dealt with anything quite like this before.”
“I have.”
“How did everything turn out?” Claudia asked, glancing at her curiously.
“There were some problems.”
Des left it at that. She didn’t share any more details about Ellen Pitcher, a fiftysixyearold housewife up in Glastonbury. Plastic clothes hangers had been Ellen’s thing. Hundreds and hundreds of plastic clothes hangers. Ellen’s hoarding had been accompanied by rampant paranoia. She became convinced that her husband, her son and her pregnant daughter were conspiring to destroy her. When they tried to take her to see a doctor, Ellen panicked and took her own life with a. 38.
Before she did so, she took all of theirs, too.