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. She’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.”
“I’m watching my cholesterol,” Claudia explained tightly.
“You keep on watching it, dear. Believe me, no man is.”
Tolly let out a hoot at this.
“Trooper Mitry is very busy,” Claudia said between gritted teeth. “She is trying to get your Gullwing back.”
Poochie waved her off. “Not to worry, it’ll be returned by nightfall. This community is filled with good, honest people.”
“You should really think about upping your security around here, Poochie.”
“Nonsense. I won’t live in a highsecurity prison. And I assure you that my Gullwing will be returned. There’s really no need for you to get involved. Not that I’m not glad to see you on this fine morning.”
“Were you awake when it happened?”
“I was,” Poochie acknowledged. “I’m up doing my calisthenics at fivethirty every morning. And Bailey needs his morning constitutional, or he’ll turn into an arthritic lump.”
“Were you up, too, Mr. Tolliver?”
“God, no. I haven’t been up that early since I was a Marine in Korea.”
“Golly, I bet you looked cute in your uniform,” Poochie teased him.
“As butch as all getout.”
“Today’s recycling day,” Poochie said. “Bailey and I marched our cans and bottles for old Pete down to the road in my Radio Flyer. Claude’s as well, since she doesn’t like to go out in public that early. Afraid someone will see her in her curlers.”
“Mummy, I haven’t worn curlers since the seventies.”
Tolly brightened considerably. “Gawd, did she have big hair?”
“She looked just like Ivana Trump,” Poochie said giddily. “I have photos.”
“About the cans and bottles?…”
“Claude leaves hers in my wagon,” Poochie went on. “I’ve had that red wagon since she and Eric were babies, you know. I keep it garaged and oiled and it’s still very serviceable. Bailey and I returned it to the garage by sixthirty. I noticed the time when I came in here to put the coffee on.”
“And the Gullwing was still in there?”
“Yes, it was.”
Des got up and put her empty plate by the sink. “Did you see anyone on Route 156 when you were down there?”
“Not a soul. It was still quite dark. I needed my flashlight. I fed Bailey and planned my dinner menu while I drank my coffee, same as I do every morning. And that’s when I heard my car start. There’s no mistaking the roar of its engine. I went and looked outside and there it was, speeding down my driveway.”
“Could you see who was behind the wheel?”
Poochie shook her head. “Some local youth, I’m willing to wager.”
“Did you hear anyone coming up the drive prior to that? An engine idling, footsteps, anything like that?”
“I’m afraid not, Des.”
“How about Bailey-did he bark or growl or anything?”
“Young sir’s been deaf as a post for the past two years,” Poochie said sadly. She got down on all fours and crawled her way over to him. “And who is this handsome young man?” she cooed, bumping the old dog’s head with hers. He opened an eye and snuffled at her, his tail thumping gamely. “Des, the boy who took it will return it. I’m quite certain.”
“Nobody is going to return it, Mummy,” Claudia said heatedly. “It’s gone.”
“Not possible.” Poochie knelt there on the floor petting the dog. “That car was a present from Daddy. It’s mine. Everyone in Dorset knows that. Why would someone take it?”
“It’s worth a fortune, that’s why,” Des explained.
“Any idea how much?” Tolly tried to sound casual about it. Almost succeeded, too.
“Not offhand, no.”
“Daddy will be so upset if no one returns it,” Poochie said fretfully. “And, believe me, you do not want to make that man mad because he will…” She broke off, an alarmed expression on her strong, lovely face. “Heavens, did I just say Daddy will be upset?”
“You did, Mummy,” Claudia said, not unkindly.
Poochie got up and returned to the stove, where she cracked two eggs for herself. “I meant to say would.”
“Of course you did, old girl,” Tolly assured her.
Des turned to Claudia, who was staring right back at her, eyes narrowed. “Did you hear anything?”
“Not a thing. I must have been in the shower.”
“And how about Mr. Widdifield?”
Claudia bit down on her lower lip, reddening. “Must we involve Mark?”
“Absolutely. When a theft of this magnitude occurs we need to ascertain the whereabouts and backgrounds of everyone who routinely has access.”
In response to which Tolly released an audible sigh.
“Was Mr. Widdifield here when it happened?”
Claudia lowered her gaze to the floor. “He’s spending his nights at the office. It’s at the marina, upstairs from the Mucky Duck.”
“I didn’t see Bement’s truck outside. Has he already left for the day?”
“Bement didn’t come home last night. He hardly ever sleeps in his own bed anymore.”
“And why should he?” Poochie demanded, sitting down with her breakfast. “He’s young and gorgeous and he can have his pick of any girl in town.”
“Not just the girls,” said Tolly, winking at her.
“I think the trooper has heard just about enough of this,” Claudia blustered.
“Don’t yell at Tolly, Claude.”
“That wasn’t yelling, Mummy,” Claudia shot back, her voice getting shrill. “But if you want to hear me yell, just keep on needling me. You’ll hear such yelling you’ll wish you never got me started.”
Des heard footsteps outside on the gravel and Danielle came shlumping in the kitchen door from the courtyard in denim overalls and green rubber mud boots, her hair in pigtails. She was toting a baguette fresh out of the oven, still crackling and fragrant. “Morning everyone,” she murmured.
“Your timing is impeccable, dear. Bless you!” Poochie promptly tore a hunk from the warm loaf and used it to mop up the egg yolk on her plate. “Such a wonderful crust,” she exclaimed, smacking her lips with pleasure. “But you must stop spoiling me this way, Danielle. This is me not being serious.”
“I’m just sorry it wasn’t out of the oven sooner-our lambs needed me.” Danielle studied Des’s face with concern. “Is everything okay?”
“No, everything is not okay.” Claudia was staring daggers at her frumpy, dentally challenged sisterinlaw, clearly resenting the way her mother doted on her. “Someone has stolen the Mercedes.”
“Not your car, Poochie!” Danielle gasped.
“They’ll return it,” Poochie assured her. “By God, Danielle, you’re a miracle worker. And I don’t just mean this bread. Every time I look at Eric I thank my lucky stars he met you. That boy used to be afraid of his own shadow. He stammered, had asthma. Girls hated him. He’s come such a long way, my dear.”
“I’ve done very little, Poochie,” Danielle demurred, blushing furiously. “Do we know when the car was taken?”
“Shortly before seven this morning,” Des said to her. “Did you happen to see or hear anything?”
Danielle pondered this carefully. “I’m afraid not. We were bottlefeeding our lambs in the barn.”
“Have the Kershaw brothers shown up for work yet?”
Danielle shook her head. “No sign of them, and they were supposed to be here a halfhour ago. Why do you ask, Des?”
“Pretty damned obvious, isn’t it?” Claudia interjected. “What amazes me is that those two thieves were invited here.”
Danielle shrank away from Claudia, cowed by her harsh rebuke.
“Stay for coffee, dear,” Poochie said, ignoring Claudia completely.
“No, I must get back,” Danielle said uncomfortably. “So much to do.”
“One cup.” Tolly pushed out a chair for her obligingly. “Stay and sit.”
Des heard someone pull into the courtyard, gravel crunching under tires.
“Here’s Bement,” Claudia said, peering out the window.
Des thanked Poochie for breakfast and started out the kitchen door.
Claudia stayed with her, stride for stride. “Now do you see what I’m up against? Half the time she thinks my grandfather is still alive. You heard her.”
“I also heard her correct herself.”
“Hey, what’s up?” Bement asked as he climbed out of his Ford pickup, looking rumpled and battered. His eye was swollen nearly shut, with a purplish shiner under it.
“What happened to you?” cried Claudia, reaching for his face.
Bement recoiled from her. “Nothing. Stop fussing over me, will you?”
“I’m your mother,” she reminded him, deeply stung. “I’ll never stop fussing over you.”
To her own great surprise, Des was starting to feel sorry for Claudia Widdifield. Because absolutely nobody seemed to want her love. That sort of thing could turn a woman into a nagging, desperate loon. Des knew something about this. Brandon had turned her into one. “Your grandmother’s Gullwing has been stolen,” she informed Bement.
“Get out! Any idea who?…”
“I’ve just started to collect information,” Des replied, although she did know this much: Four Chimneys was several miles from town. And the private drive down to Route 156 added at least another halfmile. No one would have walked that distance in the dark. Whoever had taken the Gullwing must have been dropped off here-which made it a twoman job.
“Collect all you want, Trooper,” Claudia sniffed. “We all know the Kershaw brothers did it.”
“Might be payback,” acknowledged Bement. He lit a Lucky and leaned against his truck, smoking it. “I did chump Donnie last night at Justine’s.”
“Exactly what did happen?” Claudia demanded.
“I punched him in the nose,” Bement told her, fingering his tender eye. “He hit me back. Des didn’t charge us or anything.”
“You knew?” she said to Des accusingly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s not my business to do that, Mrs. Widdifield.”
Claudia heaved her chest, one foot taptaptapping on the gravel. “Bement, I really wish you’d stop seeing that girl.”
“Justine, Mom,” he said testily. “Her name is Justine.”
“No good will come from you mixing with her crowd.”
“Is that right? Tell me, what’s so damned special about my crowd? Are you and Dad all happy together in my crowd? Have you two got life all figured out? No, hunh? So let me live my own damned life, will you?”
Claudia’s lower lip quivered, but she didn’t cry. Wouldn’t cry. Instead, she stormed off toward her cottage, slamming the garden gate shut behind her.
Bement cursed under his breath. “Sorry, she just gets to me sometimes.”
“Not a problem. I come from a family, too.”
“This is why my dad left. Because she just won’t leave you the hell alone.” He flicked his cigarette butt off into the damp gravel, watching it smolder and sizzle. “They’ll trash Nana’s car, if I know them.”
“It’s worth way more if it’s in one piece.”
“Do you honestly think they’re smart enough to know that?”
“You stayed over with Justine last night?”
“Yeah. We stayed in, watched some old Eddie Murphy movie on TV.”
“Were you awake when Stevie and Donnie brought Allison home?”
“She didn’t stagger in until this morning.”
“She partied all night with them?”
“I guess. We didn’t talk. She just went straight to her room and crashed.”
“What time was this?”
“Right around six o’clock. I could hear their van idling outside.”
The kitchen door opened and closed and Danielle came tromping across the gravel toward them in her rubber boots. “Morning, Bement,” she said, smiling at him faintly.
“Hey, Danno. Listen, Des, I have to hit the shower and get to work.” He headed inside, his stride lithe and athletic.
“I should be off, too.” Danielle made no move to leave. “My chores await me.”
“So do you bring Poochie eggs every morning?” asked Des, anxious to keep her talking. The woman had something for her, she sensed.
“And bread when I have time to bake. She seems to appreciate it.” Danielle hesitated, clearing her throat. “Des, Mark Widdifield is in a very dark place right now. He’s lost the clients he had and isn’t trying to find new ones. He doesn’t even seem interested. The man’s in terrible pain. So frightened. He needs Claudia’s support, but she only sees his failure.”
Des nodded her head, patiently waiting Danielle out.
“H-He said something to me yesterday,” she continued haltingly. “He’d been drinking. And sobbing his heart out about how Claudia doesn’t care about people, only things. I don’t know if he really meant this or not…”
“Exactly what did Mark say to you, Danielle?”
“He said he’d do just about anything to make Claudia understand how desperate he is.”
Stevie and Donnie’s van was parked outside of Milo’s log cabin in the woods when Des got there. Honestly, it wouldn’t have shocked her to find Poochie’s Gullwing parked there, too. But she didn’t. There was no sign of Milo’s pickup. Nor, happily, his Doberman. Wood smoke rose from the stovepipe in the cabin’s roof. And she could hear the deep, steady thathump… thathump of heavy metal music coming from inside. Otherwise, it was quiet. An unsettling kind of quiet. As she stood there looking at the cabin, Des shuddered involuntarily.
She laid a hand against the van’s front grill. A bit warm, but not a lot warm. The van hadn’t been driven in the past couple of hours. She peeked through the driver’s window and saw fast food wrappers, rumpled drop cloths. Nothing more.
She started toward the cabin. It was nearly ninethirty now. On her way over here she’d checked all of Dorset’s beach and state forest parking lots for the Gullwing. No sign of it, but they’d have been fools if they didn’t look. There was always a chance Poochie was right-that some kids really had taken it for a joyride and then ditched it. On this point she and Luke Olman, the investigating detective from Troop F barracks, had been in total agreement. It was Luke’s case now. She was assisting with the interviews while he canvassed the neighbors and school bus drivers, and logged some computer time back at the barracks.
She knocked. No one answered. The door was unlocked. She called out “Hello?…” Heard no response. Only the music, which was “Whole Lotta Love,” a Led Zeppelin paleometal favorite. She went inside.
They were passed out in the living room-Stevie sprawled out on the sofa with his mouth open, Donnie face down on the floor beside the coffee table. Donnie’s legs twitched busily in his sleep.
Des thought she detected a whiff of marijuana smoke in the air, but she didn’t see any joints lying around. Besides, the house smelled so foul it was hard to be sure. The kitchen sink was heaped full of dirty dishes and several inches of dark, oily water. There were more dirty dishes on the table, greasy pans on the stove. Something was moving around in one of the pans. It was a mouse, she realized.
The stereo was over next to the big screen TV. She flicked off the music, knelt next to Donnie and rapped him sharply on the side of the head with her knuckles. “Knockknock!” she shouted into his ear. “Anybody home?”
Little Donnie rolled over onto his back, groaning, his eyes bloodshot, his nose looking fat and tender from his bout with ement. He smelled strongly of alcohol and sweat. “Wha’ the? Breath wasn’t real fresh either.
Over on the sofa, Stevie began to stir, blinking up at her, his pallor vaguely greenish, mullet damp and stringy. Actually, the two of them looked as if they needed to be hosed off and deloused.
“Morning, guys!” she exclaimed brightly. “Had yourselves a real welcome home celebration, didn’t you?”
Stevie staggered over to the kitchen sink and stuck his head under the cold water tap, somehow managing to overlook the dirty dishes and disgusting water. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his flannel shirt, took two cans of Miller out of the refrigerator and came back and flopped back down on the sofa, handing one to Donnie before he popped open his own and drank deeply from it. He belched hugely, then lit a cigarette, holding the cold can against his forehead.
Donnie popped open his beer and drank deeply from it. And belched. And lit a cigarette. And held the cold can against his forehead.
“What did we do now?” Stevie finally asked her, his voice raspy.
“You tell me,” Des replied, standing there with her arms crossed.
“Is the old man still here?” Donnie wondered, peering around nervously.
“I didn’t see him, or his truck.”
“Oh, yeah, he split,” Donnie recalled, scratching at his reddish beard.
“When was that?”
“Right after we got home,” Stevie replied, squinting at her.
“And when was that?”
“Lady, I ain’t no clock.”
“You got to help us out here,” Donnie said, gulping his beer. “Because we got zero idea what you’re stepping on our nuts about.”
“You didn’t show up for work this morning.”
“So we’re a little late,” Stevie said. “We’ll get there.”
Donnie stuck his chin out. “Yeah, since when is being late a crime?”
“It’s not. But grand theft auto is.”
They stared at her in blank silence.
“Poochie Vickers’s Mercedes Gullwing is gone. Are you trying to tell me you don’t know anything about it?”
“You’ve got the wrong guys, lady,” Stevie told her. “We didn’t have nothing to do with that. No way.”
“Account for your time. Where have you two been?”
“With Allison at the Yankee Doodle,” said Donnie. The Yankee Doodle, a fading motor court on the Boston Post Road, was Dorset’s designated hot sheet motel. “We stayed the night.”
“All three of you? What did you, take turns?”
Stevie smirked at her. “You want details?”
“Now that you mention it, I really don’t.”
“Allison will back us up,” he said. “Go ahead and ask her.”
“Believe me, I will. Is she at home now?”
“That’s where we dropped her.”
“Can you remember what time that was? And don’t tell me you’re not a clock again or I will step on your nuts.”
Stevie shrugged his narrow shoulders. “We left the Yankee Doodle before dawn. Ran her right home, then started for Four Chimneys. Figured we’d just crash there in the van for an hour or two before work. Right, Donnie?”
Donnie nodded his cocker spaniel head. “But then we got the munchies so we came home to eat. Only we must have crashed.”
“We didn’t get a whole lot of sleep last night,” Stevie explained. “Neither did Allison, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I’m hearing you, Stevie,” she said. “You’ve got the hugest johnson in Southern New England. She bounced, she hollered, she screamed for more. Does that about cover it?”
His face tightened. “Lady, you’re just plain evil.”
“Honey, if I were evil I’d be looking at the contents of that ashtray a lot closer. Know what I’m saying?”
“Not really,” Donnie replied, frowning.
“Shut up, Donnie.”
“Your father was here when you got home?”
“He was just leaving for work,” acknowledged Stevie, his tone considerably cooler since she’d made light of his johnson. “The old weasel’s demolishing a house on Whippoorwill. Had his truck all loaded up with stuff for the dump. He likes to make his dump runs when they first open, because when the guy on the gate’s halfasleep he’s not so particular. The old man’s always trying to lay off asbestos on him. Has no conscience when it comes to the ecology.”
“So you think he was going straight there?”
“Couldn’t do nothing else until he dumped his load.”
During the summer, the Dorset landfill opened at 7:00 A.M. This time of year it didn’t open until eight o’clock. It was a fifteenminute drive there from here. Which meant that it was entirely possible the boys didn’t get home until after seventhirty.
“What I’m hearing you tell me,” she informed them, “is that you have no one to vouch for your whereabouts at the time when the Gullwing was taken.”
“We can vouch for each other,” said Donnie, nervously licking at his lips with a rather brownish tongue. “We were together.”
“You’ll have to do better than that, sunshine.”
“But we didn’t do it.” Donnie was starting to get his whiny on again. “Why does everyone always blame us for everything?”
“You bring that on yourselves. A man like Eric holds his hand out to you and you slap it away. Don’t show up. Don’t keep your word. Instead, I find you here passed out and smelling, well, not so good. Don’t you see how this looks? Like you did show up for work. Saw Poochie tottering down the driveway with her recyclables, got to talking about that shaweet Gullwing of hers and decided to rip her off. Beats shoveling manure all day.”
“And we sure could use the bread,” Stevie acknowledged sourly. “For the sake of talking, let’s say we did jack it. Where’s it at now, lady? What’d we do with it, hunh?”
“That’s the milliondollar question. If the Gullwing is returned today, intact, I’m willing to bet Poochie will say she loaned it to you and just plain forgot. The lady’s a bit nutty that way. Thinks the best of people. But you’ve got to get out in front of it right now. An investigator is busy working this case, as am I. Not that I don’t enjoy hanging with you two, inhaling your rich, musky scents.”
“How come you keep talking about the way we smell?” wondered Donnie.
“Wait for it-it’ll come to you. But first, take me to the Gullwing.”
“For the fortieth time, lady, we don’t know nothing about it,” Stevie insisted. “We didn’t jack any car. We’re not about that stuff anymore. We’re workingmen.” He climbed to his feet unsteadily, reaching for his smokes. “And right now we’re splitting for work. That okay with you?”
“More than okay. But there is one other thing…”
“Now what is it?”
“Don’t you dare leave town.”
The Dorset Marina was situated in a horseshoeshaped cove at the mouth of the Connecticut River a halfmile upriver from the Peck’s Point Nature Preserve. As she drove there Des reached out to Allison Mapes, who answered her phone on the sixth ring, sounding even less with it than the Kershaw brothers had. After considerable prodding, Allison allowed that Stevie and Donnie had dropped her home from the Yankee Doodle some time around six in the morning, thereby confirming what Bement had told her. And the brothers as well-their version vaguely coincided with the truth, as far as it went. Which wasn’t very.
The marina was still completely shut down for the winter, its floating docks pulled from the water. The yachts and power boats were in storage, the boatyard’s parking lot crammed with their shrinkwrapped hulls. More were stacked inside the immense storage shed, where some sanding and sawing was getting going. Des could hear the whine of power equipment through the open shed doors as she eased her cruiser over near the commercial promenade that wrapped its way around the marina. The touristoriented businesses-Tshirt and postcard shops, ice cream parlor, the galleries that sold regrettable seascapes and shell art-were shuttered from Thanksgiving through Easter. The Clam House, a familyoriented seafood restaurant, stayed open year around, as did the Mucky Duck, a Britishstyle pub. Neither had opened yet for the day.
The Mucky Duck was located in the ground floor of a whiteshingled twostory building. Upstairs were the offices of a yacht broker, a marine insurance agent and Mark Widdifield, noted local architect. Des parked in back next to a smart blue Morgan Plus 4 roadster and got out, making her way around front to the promenade. It was very quiet. She could hear the water lapping against the pilings, the thwack of her own footsteps on the boardwalk.
Mark Widdifield’s office door was unlocked. She went in. Found herself in a small outer office. There was no secretary, nor a secretary’s desk. Just a sofa that was presently doubling as an unmade bed. A pair of suitcases lay open on the floor next to it, heaped with waddedup laundry. A coffeemaker sat halffull on the counter of the kitchenette along with an open box of Entenmann’s doughnuts. A doorway led into a big, bright office with windows facing the marina. There were drafting tables for two in there. One of the work stations also had a computer with a bigscreen monitor and an immense printer. Anchoring the center of the room was a work island heaped with books and documents and a pair of elaborate architectural models.
Mark was seated there, XActo knife in hand, fashioning Foamcore walls for one of the models.
“Excuse me, I need to have a word with you, Mr. Widdifield.”
“Some other time,” he said distractedly. “I’m really quite busy.”
“I’m afraid it can’t wait, sir. Someone stole your motherinlaw’s Gullwing out of her garage this morning. Do you know anything about it?”
Mark didn’t respond for a long moment. Just continued to measure out another piece of wall. “Such as?…”
“Such as who took it?”
He sat back in his swivel chair, regarding Des with an air of profound defeat. Claudia’s husband was around fifty and very likely had once been quite handsome in a dashing sort of way. These days, he merely looked dissolute, flabby and sad. His strong jaw was melting into a puddle of chins and jowls. The upturned skijump nose was blotchy. He needed a haircut. He needed a shave. Mostly, he needed to do something about the lost little boy look in his eyes. “Haven’t got a clue who might have taken it,” he told her, sitting there with his feet up. He was dressed in a yellow Izod shirt that hugged his swollen gut, worn chinos and broken down Bass Weejun loafers. His bare arms seemed uncommonly thin and pale to her. “Why, do I look like a car thief to you?”
“Not at all. The investigating detective asked me to touch all of the bases. This is me touching them.”
“Did Claudia accuse me of taking it?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Well, somebody put a bug in your ear. Otherwise you wouldn’t have dragged yourself down here.”
“I’m told you’ve been making noises about teaching her some kind of a lesson.”
“You got that from Danielle, didn’t you?” he said, blushing at the mention of his sisterinlaw’s name. Something was going on between them. “That was nothing more than barstool talk. I’m all hot air, as Claudia will be only too happy to confirm.”
“Where were you earlier this morning, Mr. Widdifield?”
“Right here. I haven’t been out.”
“Can anyone vouch for you?”
“There’s no one to vouch for me,” he confessed, gazing mournfully across the room at the computer work station. “I had to let Phillip go. There was no money to pay him.” He turned his attention back to Des. “You may tell your detective that we’ve spoken. Now if you don’t mind…”
Des stayed right where she was, studying those models on the work island before him. One appeared to be an apartment house built around a central courtyard, the other a detailed replica of a tworoom apartment, complete with furniture, kitchen appliances and even little models of people-four people, to be exact. “What’s this you’re working on?” she asked him curiously.
“It’s the holy grail, Trooper. The greatest unsolved mystery of modern American architecture. There isn’t an architect worth his salt who hasn’t tried to solve it. I’m the one who is going to succeed.” He gazed at the replica of the tworoom apartment, warming to her slightly. “You see, this is the apartment at 328 Chauncey Street.”
“Which should mean something to me because?…”
“Why, because Ralph and Alice Kramden lived here, of course. Surely you’ve seen The Honeymooners.”
In fact, Mitch had recently made her watch Norton’s sleepwalking episode, which he considered one of the four or five funniest halfhours in the history of television. Des had found the show overwhelmingly bleak and depressing. Just another one of those things that made her wonder if men were, in fact, mutant beings.
“It would not be an exaggeration to label it as a tenement, actually.” Mark pointed out. “It’s supposed to be located in the Bensonhurst section of Brooklyn. The problem is the show’s creators took artistic license-Chauncey Street isn’t in Bensonhurst. It’s in Bushwick. So we really can’t say for sure where we are, which makes the truth that much more elusive.” He swung the tworoom model around to face her. “The camera is always pointed toward the fire escape, remember? Anchoring the center of the room is this round wooden table and four chairs.” He’d built little replicas, right down to the checkered tablecloth. “We have the icebox here on our right, next to the old stove and sink. Straight ahead is the window overlooking the airshaft. To the left of the window is the hall door. Next to it is the dresser where Ralph always deposits his lunch pail when he comes home.” Mark demonstrated by moving one of the little figure people around the apartment. “Next to the dresser is the doorway into the mythical bedroom, which we never, ever see. Nor do we ever see the wall behind the camera-which presumably faces Chauncey Street. My objective is to ascertain in a systematic, architecturally grounded fashion precisely what the Kramdens’ bedroom would have looked like. Where the closet was. Which way the window would have faced. Was the toilet out in the hall or did the Kramdens have their own? Where was their bathtub? We don’t know these things, do we?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“When I’m done with this project we will. I’ve written away to the Brooklyn Department of Buildings. I’m reaching out to architectural historians, archivists. I’ll determine, once and for all, the exact age and design of the actual buildings that were on Chauncey Street at that time.”
“So they’ve all been torn down?”
He frowned at her. “I’m afraid I’m not following you.”
“If any of the apartment houses are still standing, you could go check them out. Knock on some doors, take photographs. That way you wouldn’t have to guess what was where. You’d be laying your own two eyes on it.”
Mark Widdifield looked at her with an unbelievably hurt expression on his face. She’d crossed over a line, apparently. Thrown a bucket of ice cold reality all over his little pipe dream. Because none of this was real. The man was strictly hiding in his room playing with dolls. Mark Widdifield was exceedingly fragile, she now realized.
“You damned women are so negative,” he snapped.
“No, we’re not. I’m certainly not.”
“Yes, you are. I can see the disapproval in your eyes.”
“Sir, you’re seeing what you want to see.”
“From time to time, a man needs to set sail for distant shores. Why can’t you see that?”
Des didn’t respond. He wasn’t really talking to her.
He got up now and shambled into the kitchenette to pour himself coffee. He went over to the windows with it and stared out at the water. “I’m in a bit of a slump right now,” he said hopelessly. “No one likes my ideas. Quite simply, I’ve lost it.”
“That renovation you did on your cottage is lovely.”
“Thank you, but that was mostly Claudia’s doing. She’s thrown me out, you know. Tired of my selfpity is what she told me. In Claudia’s world, if you pause for one second to take stock of your life, then you’re a leper. And she wants you far, far away.”
“Have you folks thought about counseling?”
Mark let out a short laugh. “She won’t hear of it. The idea of sharing her private fears with another human being is abhorrent to Claudia. She’s pathologically desperate for her mother’s approval, in case you haven’t noticed. The sad thing is that she doesn’t understand Poochie. Never has. The old girl’s strength comes from her simple, uncomplicated love of life. Poochie Vickers is the single happiest person I’ve ever met. All she’s ever wanted is for Claudia to be happy. But Claudia doesn’t enjoy life. I honestly can’t remember the last time I saw her laugh. And that’s a terrible thing, Trooper.”
“Her mother’s extreme behavior lately has Claudia worried. She’s looking to gain power of attorney over the family finances.”
“The old girl’s had some lapses,” Mark acknowledged cautiously.
“Is Claudia prone to extreme behavior herself?”
“Not in my experience. Claudia isn’t wired that way. Why are you… Hold on, are you wondering if she stole the Gullwing herself just to prove how irresponsible Poochie is?” Mark tugged at his ear thoughtfully. “Boy, that’s an interesting notion.”
“What do you think, Mr. Widdifield?”
“I think,” he replied slowly, “that I really don’t want to get caught in the middle of this.”
“But you are in the middle. You’re a member of the family.”
Mark made his way back over to his little models and sat down. “Trooper, I am in no mood to say anything nice about Claudia. I harbor so much anger toward that woman that I can hardly stand it. However, I do believe she’s genuinely worried about Poochie. It’s just that there’s heavy family baggage here. Eric has always been Poochie’s favorite. The old girl dotes on him. Claudia takes more after the Ambassador. Very big into proper decorum. She never shucked her panties and went skinnydipping on a hot summer day. Never picked up some guy in a bar somewhere and screwed herself silly.” Mark grinned impishly at such an unlikely thought, showing Des a glimpse at the sly charm he’d once possessed. “If you want my opinion, this power of attorney business is about Claudia trying to prove to Poochie that she, not Eric, is the one who really cares. And she does care, whether Poochie knows it or not.”
“Claudia’s not very happy about Bement being involved with Justine Kershaw. How do you feel about it?”
“I envy him,” Mark said softly, gazing out the window again. “He’s happy. To hell with the rich bitches his mother wants him to date. To hell with Stanford. None of that will make him happy. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. I’m just hanging on by my fingernails. If it weren’t for Danielle, I’m not sure I’d be making it at all.” Mark shot a quick look at her. “We’re not involved, if you’re wondering. Danielle’s like the sister I never had. She lets me talk. She believes in me.” Mark trailed off, his eyes puddling with tears. “I fell in love with a woman of great beauty and privilege. Eric married a Sheetrocker’s daughter who absolutely no one would mistake for Angelina Jolie. And yet I’d trade places with him in a second. He has work that gives him great satisfaction. And a goodhearted woman who is truly there for him when he…”
Des’s pager beeped at her now from her belt.
“I’ll have to take this,” Des said, grateful for the interruption. She was starting to feel suffocated by the man’s warm, wet blanket of selfpity. “You’ve been real helpful, Mr. Widdifield.”
He shrugged his soft shoulders, sorry to be losing his audience. “I hope I didn’t go on about myself too much.”
“Not at all. You did good.”
“Trooper, you’re a terrible liar.”
She reached for her cell phone as she darted out the door. It was Luke Olman who’d paged her. She got through to him while she was heading back down the promenade toward her cruiser. “What do you know, Oly?”
“How much that Gullwing is worth, for starters,” the investigating detective replied. “The Hemmings Motor News website has one listed for-get this-$325,000. This isn’t a car. It’s a highend antique. Nobody’s going to return that thing by nightfall. Or ever. It’s gone.”
“Color me down with that. Pick up anything on canvass?”
“One tidbit from the guy who drives the recycling truck. Know that commuter parking lot on Old Shore Road next to the I95 onramp? When he was on his way to the town garage early this morning he saw a huge tractortrailer idling there. This was at maybe a quarter past six.”
“The longhaulers pull in there sometimes to catch a few zees,” Des told him as she reached her cruiser and got in. “As long as they’re gone by rush hour, I leave ’em be. Did he notice any markings on it?”
“He didn’t, no. Think it might connect up?”
“It might,” Des said, mulling it over.
“Des, I ran that criminal background check you asked for. How did you know?”
“I didn’t.” She felt her pulse quicken. “Just had a hunch.”
“Well, this is something we definitely need to pursue. I’m heading back up there now. Would you mind sitting in? You know these people.”
She rang off and started her cruiser back toward Four Chimneys, thinking she wouldn’t mind stopping by Eric’s farm to see if the Kershaw brothers had shown for work. If they hadn’t, it would lend a whole lot of credence to the idea that they’d suddenly gotten a few thousand ahead.
The sun was starting to burn through the morning fog as she eased her way back up through the gentlemen’s farm country. The trees alongside the road were still iron gray and bare, the wild lilacs and blackberries nothing but brambles. But the sunlight on her face felt warm through the windshield, hinting tantalizingly at spring for the second day in a row.
As Des slowed down to make a left into the driveway of Four Chimneys, she noticed a ray of that sunlight glinting off of something shiny in the roadside brush. Her first thought was that it was an empty beer can that a thoughtless passerby had tossed in there. Her second thought was that it looked like something bigger. More like a bicycle. She didn’t have any current stolen bike reports. Wrong time of year. Still, she pulled onto the shoulder and got out for a closer look.
It was a beatup old mountain bike with two grocery carts chained to its rear rack. She recognized this odd little conveyance at once-it belonged to Dorset’s Can Man. Although why old Pete would ditch it in the brush near the driveway to Four Chimneys she could not imagine. The grocery carts were empty. Typically, he’d have himself a pretty full load by the time he made it this far up Route 156. Yet there was no sign of his haul. Or, for that matter, of Pete himself.
Des was standing there in the ditch, trying to puzzle it out, when she noticed the trampled, slushy mud beyond the bicycle. Someone, it appeared, had dragged something deeper into the woods. She stepped her way carefully through the thicket for a better look.
And that’s when she found Pete.