David Handler - The sweet golden parachute

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.”