David Handler - The sweet golden parachute

“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.

Mitch had zero problem figuring out which cashier was Justine.

Rut Peck was right-Justine Kershaw was a radiantly beautiful porcelain figurine of a young woman, no more than five feet tall and exquisitely fineboned, with huge brown eyes and smooth, shiny jet black hair that came all the way down to her waist. She couldn’t have weighed much more than ninety pounds, yet she didn’t seem the least bit delicate there in her green smock as she scanned and bagged the heavy gallon jugs of antifreeze for the guy in line ahead of Mitch.

In fact, Justine was so sparkly and alive that by contrast the cashiers working there alongside her at the big box discount store seemed downright lobotomized. They stared straight ahead as they rang up their customers’ purchases, jaws slack, eyes glazed. Not one of them smiled. Not that there was much to smile about. Their work environment was a cheerless, windowless cementfloored warehouse. The lighting was dim, the air heavy with the unappetizing scents wafting from the snack bar, chiefly greasy popcorn and the porky gray wieners that were sweating away on the rotating electric grill. Everywhere Mitch looked he saw surveillance cameras. And signs informing him that he was under surveillance. This place, he decided, was hell.