David Handler - The sweet golden parachute

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.