“What have we got, Des?” Marge called to her as she and Mary waded out with their emergency kits, their own trousers rolled up.
“Probable DWI. Sure smells like one. They’re responding to questions and way cheerful-just somewhat disoriented.”
“Welcome to Dorset,” Mary grunted. “We’ll check ’em out just to play it safe. Then they’re all yours.”
Des collected Poochie’s leather shoulder bag from the back seat. It had pitched over when the Isuzu hit the pond, dumping its contents-a dozen or so tenpacks of Baby Ruth bars-all over the seat.
“Getting ready for Halloween a little early, Mrs. Vickers?” she asked as Marge checked the old woman’s blood pressure.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Poochie replied, glancing back at the candy bars. “Those aren’t mine.”
“This isn’t your purse?”
“No, it is. But those candies aren’t. Never touch the things.”
Des stuffed them into her shoulder bag anyway, wondering how the old lady had come by them. An unpleasant pattern was emerging. Just a few days earlier, Poochie Vickers had strolled right out of Gene’s liquor store with a gallon of vodka that she hadn’t paid for. Gene’s parttime clerk had stopped her in the parking lot and held her until Des got there. By then Gene had returned from the bank and smoothed the whole thing over, assuring Des that Poochie had simply forgotten to have the clerk put the vodka on her tab. After Poochie had departed, Gene confided to Des that Dorset’s first lady frequently walked out the door without paying for things.
Shoving her heavy hornrimmed glasses back up her nose, Des started for dry land with the shoulder bag. One of the firemen waded out and carried Bailey to safety. Des had him put the old dog in the back seat of her cruiser. Then she phoned Poochie’s daughter, Claudia, thinking she ought to put the woman on her speed dial. “It’s Resident Trooper Mitry, Mrs. Widdifield,” she said, stamping her wet, frozen feet. “She’s driven into Duck River Pond.”
“Is she hurt?” Claudia’s voice was filled with dread.
“Not visibly, no. The Jewett sisters are looking her over, but she and Mr. Tolliver both appear to be fine.”
“Thank you for informing me, Trooper,” Claudia said coolly. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”
The firefighters gently lifted Poochie Vickers and Guy Tolliver from the Isuzu and started across the pond with them toward the ambulance. By then Doug Garvey from the Sunoco station had pulled up next to Des in his big tow truck.
Doug was a large, fleshy man in his early sixties. “Thank God she was driving her Isuzu tonight,” he said to Des as he climbed out, hitching up his pants.
“I hear you,” she agreed. In warmer weather, Poochie Vickers drove around town in a kickass silver 1956 Mercedes Gullwing that she’d owned since it was new. The antique car was worth more than Des’s house-which was saying something considering what they got for a starter cottage in Dorset.
Following closely behind Doug in his townissued Ford Taurus was Bob Paffin, Dorset’s snowy haired noodge of a first selectman, who monitored local emergency calls day and night. At the merest mention of Poochie Vickers’s name, Bob came running. “Des, I don’t suppose you have any wiggle room on this, do you?” he asked, his eyes taking in the shattered wooden safety barrier.
Des took off her big Smokey hat and ran a hand over her short, nubby hair. “I smelled alcohol, Bob, so she has to pass a Breathalyzer. That’s a state law.” Des brushed past him and popped her trunk. Yanked off her sopping wet boots and socks. Rubbed her frozen size twelve and a half AA feet dry with paper towels. Put on her spare socks and boots, then unrolled her soaked pant legs and grabbed her Breathalyzer.
The Jewett sisters had finished checking over Poochie and Tolly in the back of the ambulance.
“Their vital signs are normal,” Marge told her. “No bumps that we can see. We’d like to run them both to the hospital for a doctor to look at, but Poochie won’t hear of it. Or a blood sample.”
“Okay if I question them further?”
“Yeah, sure. They seem fine.” Mary furrowed her brow at Des. “But how are you, honey? Believe me, I know what it’s like to break up with a man in this town.”
Des puffed out her cheeks, exasperated. “Mitch and I haven’t broken up, Mary.”
“That’s not what we’re hearing.”
“We heard you proposed to the Berger man,” Marge chimed in. “And he said no and now you two are kaput.”
“That is so not what happened.”
“So you’re not putting in for a transfer?” Marge asked.
“Putting in for a what? I’m not going anywhere.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Mary. “We both think you should stay. We’ve grown rather fond of you, you know.”
“Back at you,” growled Des, who absolutely despised the way her private life had turned into everyone else’s business.
Poochie and Tolly were huddled together in the back of the ambulance, giggling like a pair of giddy little kids. Poochie Vickers had to be the most thoroughly unflappable person Des had ever come across. She was a tall, slim woman of seventythree who’d been a champion swimmer back in her Smith College days. Still looked as if she’d dive right into Long Island Sound and swim across to Orient Point if you dared her to. Poochie wore no makeup or lipstick. Her shock of white hair looked as if she combed it with her fingers. She had on a scuffed up barn coat, a turtleneck sweater, rumpled painter’s paints and Jack Purcell tennis sneakers that were so old one of her big toes was sticking out. Yet despite her dresseddown sloppiness, the lady was elegantly, effortlessly beautiful. She had good high cheekbones, a long, straight nose, strong chin and an air of indomitable good cheer.
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.”
