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.
“You may recognize some of the structural definition from old photographs,” Claudia said, following Des’s gaze. “It’s strikingly similar to McKim, Mead and White’s long lost Grand Concourse of the old Penn Station in New York City. Architecture students from Yale make a pilgrimage here almost every semester to study it.”
It was so warm and steamy in there that Des’s glasses fogged up. It was also wonderfully fragrant. Poochie Vickers had a forest of edible trees growing everywhere in massive pots. There were lemon trees, orange trees, fig trees. Huge clumps of lavender, sage, rosemary and other aromatic herbs grew in planter boxes. In the midst of this indoor forest was a seating area of wellworn wicker sofas and chairs grouped around a coffee table heaped with books, magazines and game boards. There was also a badminton court and portable basketball hoop. A sturdy, chubby 1950s-era Lionel electric train chugged its way around the conservatory on a raised track.
“This was where we lived when we were kids,” Claudia recalled fondly, showing Des a glimpse of unbridled warmth. “It was one big jungle playhouse. It’s still Mother’s favorite room.”
Claudia led Des back out into the entry hall now and into the mansion’s south wing, where the corridor walls were crowded with photos of Poochie from her glory days. So many days, so many Poochies. There was Poochie the society debutante, her blond hair swept back, face bright and animated. Poochie the Olympic swimmer, her face resolute and strong. Poochie the bride, posed on the church steps beside Coleman Vickers, a tall aristocrat with a high forehead and cleft chin. Poochie the diplomat’s wife, photographed with two, three, four different U.S. presidents, with Queen Elizabeth, with Charles De Gaulle. Poochie the celebrity chef, in the kitchen with James Beard and Julia Child.
Perhaps the most striking picture of Poochie was one in which she was all by herself astride a tricycle with her long legs out in the air, her tongue stuck out and her eyes crossed.
“Tolly took that one, actually,” Claudia informed her quietly. “It was on the cover of Harper’s Bazaar in November of 1964. And that’s my tricycle.”
The parlor was a grandsized room in a grandsized house-although quite thoroughly lived in. Shabby even. The Turkestan rugs were threadbare. The chintzcovered sofas and chairs marked with more than a few dog pee stains. The odor was unmistakable. The parlor was also quite informal, thanks to Poochie’s collection of gaudy, brightly colored sunglasses. She owned hundreds. Also hundreds of children’s plastic water pistols. Her thoroughly kitschy collections were so prominently displayed that it took Des a moment to notice what was hanging there on the walls.
Once she did, she couldn’t stop looking.
Poochie Vickers liked to collect informal little drawings that had been hastily sketched on things like cocktail napkins and tablecloths. Many of them looked like doodles. It’s just that they’d been doodled, and signed, by the likes of Picasso, Man Ray and Miro. The more formal pieces that lined her parlor walls were amazingly eclectic. Seemingly, the lady simply displayed whatever, whomever she liked. There was a Ruscha word painting from the early ’60s next to a Pollock drip painting from the late ’40s. An immense Warhol flower painting hung beside a Hopper seascape. Paintings by Magritte, Mondrian and Leger were grouped with original drawings by Edward Gorey and Charles Addams.
“Mother has always befriended artists,” Claudia said. “She adores them, and they adore her. I think I understand why-because she’s an original, just like these works are.”
Des stood there transfixed by a truly striking Alberto Giacometti selfportrait. The master sculptor had drawn it when he was a mere teenager. His face was a boy’s face, hair a wild mop of curls. Yet his gaze was the piercing one of a mature artist, his command over his pen confident and bold. Des had seen this drawing before in books and admired it greatly-and now she was standing in a house in Dorset, Connecticut, staring right at the original. As an artist, she was awestruck.
As Dorset’s resident trooper, she was amazed that the Kershaw brothers had walked off with silver candlesticks and left this astonishing art collection behind. Then again, Stevie and Donnie were minor league crooks. It would take someone of sophistication to know what these pieces were worth. And how to dispose of them.
“What sort of a security system does she have here?” Des asked, glancing around at the tall windows.
“You’re talking to her, Trooper. Mother never so much as locks her doors.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I wish I were. I keep begging her to install a system. She won’t. She doesn’t think of her art as valuable. Just thinks of it all as ‘stuff She has ‘stuff in the attic that she’s never bothered to uncrate. Never even had catalogued. Individual paintings could go missing for weeks and we’d never know. I tried to install a system on my own, but she ordered the workmen to leave. Terribly frustrating, but it’s her house. All I can do is make sure someone is around to keep an eye on it. Frankly, part of me is grateful that Bement is back home again.”
“Do you have livein help?”
“Mother doesn’t believe in it. Not since the unfortunate incident with Milo Kershaw.”
“Who cleans for her?”
“She does,” Claudia replied. “I do. We all do.”
“But this place is huge. The bathrooms alone. Why, there must be-”
“Twelve, Trooper. Four Chimneys has twelve bathrooms. But the north wing is shut down, as I mentioned. And we only use a handful of the rooms in this wing. So we manage to stay one step ahead of the cobwebs and dust. Mind you, the whole place could use a good scrubbing by a professional cleaning crew. But Mother won’t go for that either. Too expensive. Mother is… she has her quirks.”
“Actually, her quirks are the purpose of my visit,” Des said. “There’s no tactful way to put this: Your mother has become a chronic shoplifter, Mrs. Widdifield. And I’m not sure she even comprehends how she ended up in that pond last night. I’m becoming concerned about her safety and the safety of anyone who might get in her path. I don’t wish to intrude on your family privacy, but what’s going on with her?”
Claudia sighed, her proud shoulders slumping. “The short answer is, I don’t know. But I’d like to show you something up in the attic.”
They took the marble staircase up to the second floor, where Des caught a glimpse of a wide, welllit hallway. More paintings and drawings lining the walls. Doors leading to at least eight bedrooms. A narrower wooden staircase went up to the attic, which was as huge as a warehouse and smelled strongly of mouse droppings and mothballs.
Claudia flicked on the overhead lights to reveal garment bags, garment bags and more garment bags. “Mother has every article of clothing she’s ever owned.”
There were oldfashioned hatboxes from elegant Paris shops, huge old leather steamer trunks plastered with stickers from bygone cruise lines. Everywhere, there were crates marked Fragile. Also dozens of stuffed and mounted animal heads. Lions and tigers and bears, things with antlers, tusks.
“My grandfather, John J., liked to display his hunting trophies in the library. Mother found them barbaric. After he passed away, she had them taken down. But she’s saved them out of respect.”
“For your grandfather?”
“For the animals.” Claudia lifted some heavy mover’s blankets from atop a steamer trunk and flung it open, her lip curling with distaste. “Have a look.”
Inside, Des found hundreds of packages of candy bars. Claudia unlatched another trunk. More candy bars were hidden in there, as were bags and bags of chocolate chip cookies. The cookies had been in there a good long while. The Use by date stamped on the bags had expired two years ago.
“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.
