“The matter doesn’t fall under our jurisdiction, Mrs. Widdi-field,” Des said as the Kershaw brothers stood there over in the planting bed missing nothing. “Stevie and Donnie were invited here.”
“By m-me,” Eric stammered, his eyes fastened on the soil at Claudia’s feet. “I have to start field planting soon. I need the help. What’s the big deal?”
“What’s the big deal?” Claudia’s voice dripped with scorn. “Eric, do I have to remind you what’s happened here today?”
“You don’t,” he mumbled, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “And you don’t need to talk to me that way either. I happen to be a full-fledged adult.”
“Then why can’t you act like one?”
“Why can’t you let other p-people alone?” he sputtered angrily. “Those guys aren’t hurting anybody. They’re just slinging manure. If you want to pitch in, grab yourself a fork. Otherwise, go home.”
Claudia stood her ground. “I am home.”
“This is my farm, not yours. So just back off!”
“Eric…”
“And let people live their own lives, will you? Maybe then you’ll actually have one of your own. And Danielle won’t have Mark crying on her shoulder about what a cold-hearted bitch you are!”
Claudia drew her breath in, stung. “My marriage is my business.”
“Oh, I see.” Eric nodded his head up and down convulsively, blinking, blinking. “And my business is your business, too.”
“It is when it threatens everyone else’s health and safety.”
“Get your own house in order, Claude. Stop trying to control mine. And mom’s. And everybody else’s.” Now Eric flung himself into his truck, started it up and went roaring bumpety-bump-bump back across the meadow.
Claudia was left standing there, speechless, her face etched with strain. She was a deeply frightened woman, Des observed. And yet she hadn’t been able to share her fears with Eric. Couldn’t, wouldn’t admit them to him. And so they butted heads. Again, to her surprise, Des felt sorry for this vanilla ice princess.
Another car door slammed shut. Soave had nosed his slicktop up behind Claudia’s Lexus. He started toward them, his weight-lifter’s chest puffed out, shaved head shining in the sunlight. Claudia immediately charged her way across the meadow toward him. Soave froze in his tracks, eyes widening as she got closer.
Yolie let out a sigh. “Maybe I’d better get his back for him.”
“And maybe I’d better get yours,” Des said, tagging along with her.
The Kershaw brothers just kept right on turning over their planting bed, taking in every bit of this.
“Lieutenant, these are convicted felons.” Claudia was chest to chest with Soave. “How can they be permitted to be here?”
“We have no proof that they were involved, Mrs. Widdifeld,” he said soothingly. “We’re still collecting evidence. These things take time.”
“I don’t mean to be difficult, Lieutenant, but I don’t have time. I have a mother who is not in complete control of her faculties. I have a brother who is a dangerously naive fool. I need results.”
“And you’ll get them, ma’am. Just give us a chance to do our job, okay?”
“Now you’re trying to pacify me,” Claudia sniffed. “Let me give you a word of advice-don’t.” She marched back to her Lexus now and got in, slamming the door behind her.
Soave exhaled with relief as she headed up the drive toward Four Chimneys. “Next time I see that coming I’m staying in the car with my doors locked.”
“How’d you make out with that judge in New London?” Yolie asked him.
“Got it,” he exclaimed, yanking the folded warrant from his breast pocket. “Des, why don’t you roll on back to that lawyer’s office with this. Yolie and me will have ourselves a talk with Mrs. Vickers about her long-lost brother, Pete.”
“Sounds good, Rico,” Des said, reaching for the warrant.
He snatched it back from her; his goateed chin stuck out belligerently. “How come it feels like me and her are just along for the ride? You’ve generated every single productive lead so far.”
Des sighed inwardly. Rico could do this-get all competitive and turfy. It was his insecurity showing. “Not even close, wow man. You’ve pretty much nailed down what happened to the Gullwing, haven’t you?”
“Which would do us some good if we actually had the Gull-wing. Guess what? We don’t.”
“Rico, I’m not trying to bogart your investigation. All I’m doing is taking direction from you.”
“So kindly stuff your male ego crap, little man,” Yolie agreed.
Soave shot a scowl at her before he turned back to Des. “How did you come by all of this family history, anyhow?”
“Got it off of the local gossip mill.”
“By way of who, Berger? Because this has his jumbo-sized shadow looming all over it.”
“My man does not loom.”
“What is he, your unofficial deputy now?”
“Rico, I’ve got no agenda here. If we close this out, you’re the one who gets the props, not me. It’s your investigation. If you want me off of it, just say so and I’m gone.”
“God, I hate it when you act all accommodating and reasonable. Bugs the hell out of me.”
“Do you want me in or don’t you?”
“In,” he barked. “Go talk to that lawyer lady about Pete Mosher’s will.”
“Fine.” She pocketed the warrant, Yolie standing there grinning at her.
“You want to know something?” Soave fumed. “My life was way simpler before there were so damned many women in it.”
“Maybe so, Rico. But you dressed like a chump.”
“Plus you never, ever got any touch,” Yolie added.
“Are you ladies quite through?” he demanded, glowering at them. “Des, reach out to us soon as you have something.”
Des was about to say she’d do just that when things suddenly got a lot simpler. A Dodge minivan was bouncing its way up the gravel drive toward Four Chimneys. And behind the wheel was Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux, attorney at law.
“In answer to what will doubtless be your first question, I’m present for this interview in my capacity as Mrs. Vickers’s attorney,” Glynis announced once she’d examined the judge’s warrant carefully. She limped on her bandaged ankle over to a chintz armchair and sat, a batch of thick files in her lap. Glynis had traded in her jeans for gray flannel slacks. Her fluffy blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her manner was brisk and confident. “As previously requested, I come bearing the last will and testament of Peter Ashton Mosher. I also have a copy of John J. Meier’s will, which was filed in Probate Court in New London some thirty years ago and is therefore a matter of public record.”
They’d gathered in the parlor, with its faded, pee-stained furniture, its priceless art and Poochie’s bizarre collections of sunglasses and water pistols. A couple of lamps were on, since dusk was fast approaching. Poochie sat in an armchair with Bailey asleep in her lap. She had poured herself a generous jolt of brandy from the decanter on the side table and was sipping from it. Soave and Yolie faced them on the sofa.
Des had started out there, but found it so hard to keep her eyes off of Giacometti’s self-portrait that she’d moved over to a chair. “When you and I spoke earlier,” she said to Glynis, “you didn’t tell me you were Poochie’s attorney.”
“I’m under no obligation to divulge the identity of a client. You’d been tasked with notifying Peter Mosher’s next of kin of his death. I told you that by speaking to me you’d dispatched your official responsibility. And you had.”
“We can talk like regular people, can’t we, dear?” Poochie chided Glynis, glancing down into her brandy snifter. The great lady wore her sadness like a mask. Her lively, lovely face was expressionless. “Des, I am Pete’s next of kin and Glynis is my lawyer. We Smithies stick together, after all. Besides, her father was our family attorney, as was his father. We place great stock in continuity.” Poochie sipped her brandy, stroking Bailey absently. “I told her that you’d requested another interview, and she’d insisted upon being here-assuming that’s all right with you.”
“Absolutely, ma’am,” Soave assured Poochie. “It’s your legal right.”
