David Handler - The sweet golden parachute

Guy Tolliver, who had to be pushing eighty, was lanky and lanternjawed and plenty elegant himself, although his immense ears and loose, sagging jowls did give him a more than passing resemblance to a bloodhound. Tolly’s glossy silver hair was perfectly coiffed, his fingernails manicured and glossed. He wore a beautiful shearling coat over a shawlcollared burgundy cardigan, gray tweed slacks and black kid leather ankle boots.

Des crouched there in the ambulance with them and did the smile thing. “How are you folks feeling?”

“Honestly, I don’t understand the fuss, Des,” Poochie answered. “This road has always been poorly marked. I simply took the wrong fork.”

“Could have happened to anyone,” Tolly concurred, nodding.

“There is no fork. Just a curve, which you failed to negotiate.”

“Now, Des, there’s no need to get all quibbly.”

“Mrs. Vickers…”

“Please call me Poochie, dear.”

“The Jewett sisters say you’re refusing to go to the hospital.”

“That’s correct. Don’t believe in them. Hospitals are where people go to die. Des, what have you done with my dear young sir?”

“Bailey’s in my ride, safe and sound. Are you formally refusing to give a blood sample?”

“I most certainly am. I am not some laboratory specimen.”

“In that case, I have to ask you to submit to a Breathalyzer exam. You’ve been drinking and driving. I have to determine whether or not you’re over the legal limit.”

“Why, that’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. May I refuse?”

“You may, but it means you’ll automatically lose your license to drive for three months. That’s mandatory in this state.”

“So be it then,” Poochie said with an easy shrug.

“That’s showing ’em, girl,” exclaimed Tolly, patting her on the knee. “Hell, I can drive you anywhere you want. I think my license is still valid. Des, is a Bahamian license valid in Connecticut?”

“I’ve phoned Claudia,” Des said, getting up out of her crouch. “She’ll be here shortly to take you home.”

“Fabulous,” Poochie responded gleefully. “A good, strong dose of Miss Stick Up Her Butt is just what I need right now. Seriously, Tolly, do you think she’s ever experienced an orgasm?”

“I can’t imagine our Mark has the the stamina,” he replied with catty relish.

“Our Mark is out of the picture,” she confided, raising an eyebrow at him.

His eyes widened in surprise. “Since when?”

“Since this morning.”

“Where has he gone? Who with? Dish, you bad thing.”

Des left them to their gossip only to find Bob Paffin hovering right there outside the ambulance.

“Must you pull her license?” he pressed when she’d filled him in.

“Bob, the nineoneone call was logged, our emergency crews mobilized. I couldn’t cut her any slack even if I wanted to-which I don’t. She shouldn’t have been behind that wheel.”

“Sure, sure. Understood.” Bob pushed it no further, but he wasn’t done getting right up in her business. “Des, I think we ought to talk about your plans for tomorrow. It’s an awfully big day.”

“Is this the Kershaw brothers we’re talking about?”

“Folks are mighty uneasy about Stevie and Donnie coming home. I don’t have to tell you that.”

“You’re right, you don’t,” said Des, who knew all about Stevie and Donnie Kershaw. They were Dorset’s answer to Frank and Jesse James-if the James brothers had been lowlife swamp Yankee cheeseheads. Which wasn’t to minimize them. The Kershaw brothers were thieving louts, and their release after a twoyear stint in prison was sending genuine ripples of fear through Dorset. Everyone was wondering whether the current resident trooper could handle them. This would be a big test for Des. Not that she wasn’t accustomed to being tested. Or watched. She was a single young woman of color. She was sixfeetone, broadshouldered, highrumped and cut with muscle. In a closeknit, uniformly white New England village with a winter population of seven thousand, she did not exactly blend. “There’s no need to worry about this, Bob,” she assured him. “I’m on it.”

“I don’t doubt that for one second,” the first selectman said encouragingly. He was not patronizing her. No, he was not. “But I’ve been hearing from a lot of people.”

“Tell them to chill. This isn’t the Kershaws’ town-it’s mine.”

Claudia Widdifield pulled up now in her black Lexus SUV and got out, looking chilly and imposing. Des excused herself and strode over to her, instantly intimidated. In Dorset, it wasn’t raggies like the Kershaws who daunted her. It was vanilla ice princesses like Claudia-the poised, privileged blondes who had never wanted for anything in their entire lives. Des was not at ease around such ohsosuperior women. Mostly, she resented the hell out of them.

“Is mother okay?” Claudia demanded, her manner decidedly takecharge.

“She seems fine, although she won’t let the Jewett sisters take her to the hospital.”

“Of course not. That’s the sort of thing sensible people do. Not mother. Never mother.”

Claudia was in her late forties. Like her famous mother, she was tall, slim and strongjawed. Unlike her mother, Claudia was very carefully put together. Her earrings were lustrous pearls. Her makeup and lipstick were fresh. The length of yarn that held her blond hair in place was color coordinated with her red quilted Burberry jacket. By profession, she was an interior decorator. One of the top decorators in New England, in fact. Claudia’s specialty was English country casual. Absolutely nothing about the lady herself was casual. She was so tightly wrapped that she bristled.

Then again, Des did just hear that Claudia’s architect husband, Mark, had left her that morning. So she supposed the woman could be forgiven if she seemed less than jolly.

Bailey had started barking at the sound of her voice. Des let him out of the back of the cruiser and Claudia marched the aging dog toward her Lexus.

“I’m pulling your mother’s license,” Des said, following her. “Which, quite honestly, might not be the worst thing in the world. How would you describe her overall health these days?”

“My mother has the constitution of an ox.” Claudia eyed her probingly. “Why do you ask?”

“Because we need to have a talk,” Des replied, clearing her throat. “Our little phone calls are getting to be a habit.” Des showed Claudia the stash of candy bars in Poochie’s handbag. “Your mother claims she has no idea where these came from.”

“Trooper, I appreciate your concern but this is a family matter,” Claudia said stiffly, closing Bailey inside the back of her SUV.

“Mrs. Widdifield, look around you. Look at all these folks who’ve been called out of their homes on a cold night. This is not a family matter.”

The Jewett sisters were helping Poochie and Tolly out of the back of the ambulance now.

Poochie immediately caught sight of First Selectman Paffin standing there. “Hullo, Bob!” she roared cheerily. “Millie kick you out of the house again?”

“Heard you were having some problems, old girl.”

“Nonsense. Just missed that damned fork in the road.”

“Awfully icy out, too,” Bob Paffin added sympathetically.

Poochie gazed around at the emergency personnel who were gathered there, hands stuffed in the pockets of their coats. “By God, the lot of you look as if you’re ready for a parade.”

They laughed politely. All except for Doug Garvey, who was out in the middle of the icy pond hooking up his winch chain to the Isuzu’s rear axle.

“Come along, Mummy,” Claudia said, mustering a tight smile. “I’ll take you home.”