The sour cherry surprise

CHAPTER 5

“You’ve got a nice soft touch, girl, ” Des observed as Molly Procter sank jumper after jumper in the driveway of the farmhouse that Jen Beckwith shared with her mother, Kimberly. There were no cars in the driveway. Neither Jen nor Kimberly was around. Nor was anyone home at the Sullivans’, whose cottage was a hundred feet farther down Sour Cherry in the direction of the river. The only thing sitting in their driveway was a huge pile of cedar mulch that had been heaped onto a blue tarp. Across the narrow lane, that same Nutmegger Professional Seamless Gutters van was parked at the Procter place. Two men sat out on the front porch drinking beer and trying to pretend they weren’t watching Des’s every move.

Molly didn’t want to look at Des. Or say one word to her. Just play ball. She was all gamed out in a UConn Lady Huskies T-shirt, gym shorts, sneakers and floppy socks that harked back to the heyday of Pistol Pete Maravich.

Des went over to the basket and retrieved the ball after Molly drained it. Bounce-passed it crisply to her, leading her to her left. Molly caught it in stride, stutter stepped right and parked a twelve-footer. Now Des led her to her right. Again, nothing but net.

“Did you used to play?” she asked Des finally, her voice cool.

“Rode the bench in high school. I’ve got no skills, but if you’re tall they point you toward the hoop.” Des flashed her a smile but got nothing but a glower in return. “Your dad’s going to be okay, Molly. No concussion or other serious physical injuries. He’s suffering from what they call situational depression, which is a fancy way of saying he’s been kind of thrown for a loop.”

“Okay,” Molly responded quietly as she put up another jumper.

According to Marge Jewett, Richard Procter would be kept overnight at Connecticut Valley Hospital in Middletown for observation. Since he did not appear to be an imminent threat to himself or others, chances were they’d prescribe an antidepressant and counseling-and release him in the morning. It seemed cold but that was the sad reality of medical life today. Unless someone was running down the street waving a gun or threatening to jump off a roof then they were likely to be medicated and kicked.

The only question with the professor was kicked to whom.

“I had to do what I did, Molly. Really, I had no choice in the matter. I’m heading over to talk to your mom about it now.”

“Good luck,” Molly said scornfully.

Des raised an eyebrow at her but Molly had nothing more to say. Just more baskets to shoot.

The two men on the porch were drinking Coors. One of them sat in an old wooden rocker, the other on the front steps. The one on the steps, a husky young Hispanic in a tank top and baggy jeans, was very anxious to let Des know that he was not someone to be messed with. His chin was stuck out, his gaze hard and cold.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said pleasantly, tipping her big hat at them.

“Right back at you, trooper,” the man in the rocker said with an easy smile. He was older, about forty. Wiry and weathered, with slicked back dark blond hair and a lot of squint lines around his eyes. He wore a T-shirt, low-slung jeans and beat up Top-Siders.

“I’m Resident Trooper Mitry. Is Carolyn home?”

“She sure is, ma’am,” he replied, just a real pleasant and accommodating fellow. Unlike his mute, glowering young friend on the steps. “May I ask what this is about?”

“A situation has arisen concerning her husband Richard.”

“Is the prof okay?”

“I’ll talk to her about it, if you don’t mind.”

“You can talk to me if you want. What I mean is, I’m the man of the house now. The name’s Clay Mundy.” Clay lit a Marlboro with a disposable lighter, cupping it in his large, knuckly hands. “This here’s Hector Villanueva. Hector works for me.”

“Glad to know you, Hector.”

Hector muttered, “And to know you, too.” He had no trouble with English. It was her uniform that was his problem.

“You fellows clean roof gutters, am I right?”

“That’s what the van says,” Clay replied, grinning at her.

“I could use some help with mine. They haven’t been cleaned in at least three years. Can you swing by and give me an estimate?”

Clay shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am, but we wouldn’t be able to get to you for at least six weeks. This is our busy season.”

Des stood there thinking they sure didn’t seem real busy. It was, what, three in the afternoon and they were sitting around drinking beer? “I’m in no rush. If you’ll give me your business card I’ll call you.”

Clay patted his chest pocket absently. “There’s a batch in the van somewhere, isn’t there, Hector?”

Hector grunted in vague response. Neither of them got up to fetch her one. Just sat there nursing their beers.

Des studied them, feeling a prickly sensation on the back of her neck. She didn’t necessarily smell yard on them, but she did smell something. “Have you been in Dorset long, Mr. Mundy?”

“Why are you asking?”

“It’s a small town. I like to get to know the people who I serve.”

“Rolled in a couple of months back from Atlanta,” he replied, pulling on his cigarette. “Me and Hector both.”

“And how did you pick our fair town?”

“I’ve just always loved this area. Done a lot of different things in my time. Worked construction in West Texas. Oil rigs in Louisiana. Long-haul trucking out of Atlanta these past few years. That’s how I came to know this this area. Soon as I saw it I made a promise to myself I’d settle down here and do my thing. It’s a slice of heaven, really. You’ve got the water right outside your door. The fishing’s good. Casinos are a half-hour away. That’s where I met Carolyn-playing the slots at Foxwoods. I really hit the jackpot, too. She’s a doll. Only, she’s not feeling too well right now. Lying down last time I looked.”

“I really do need to talk to her. Or both of you, if you prefer.”

“Whatever you say, ma’am.” Clay flicked his cigarette butt out across the front lawn. “Come on in.”

She went on in with him. Hector stayed behind on the porch.

The parlor was cozy. There were a couple of overstuffed chairs and a love seat to curl up in. The framed covers of Carolyn’s animal books for kids, which had titles such as Molly Lays An Egg and Molly Finds a Fox, were displayed on one wall. The artwork was colorful and cheerful. Her photo on the back cover was that of a beautiful and confident looking blonde with high cheekbones, bright eyes and a terrific smile.

“Let me see if I can rouse her,” Clay said, crossing to a short hallway off of the parlor.

There was a sunny eat-in kitchen with French doors leading out to a deck. It would have been a nice kitchen if it weren’t such a mess. The sink and counter were heaped with dirty dishes. The stove covered with greasy pots and pans. The trash container by the back door was overflowing with empty pizza cartons and beer cans. There were more empty beer cans on the long oak kitchen table, as well as assorted liquor bottles, ashtrays and magazines devoted to the joys of stock car racing and naked women with giant boobs. At one end of the table, someone had been playing a game of solitaire.

Des heard a murmur of voices coming from the bedroom. Carolyn’s a plaintive whine of protest. Clay’s low and insistent.

Then he joined Des in the kitchen with that same crinkly-eyed grin on his face. “Poor girl’s been knocked low by some darned virus. All she seems to do is sleep. But she’ll be right out.”

“Fine. Thank you.”

“Kind of repulsive in here, isn’t it?” he acknowledged, glancing around. “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m no good around the house, and I can’t seem to get Molly to help out one bit. She’s resents me being here. You know how that goes.”

“Sure do,” Des said, turning at the sound of Carolyn Procter’s footsteps.

They were not steady footsteps. In fact, Richard Procter’s estranged wife could barely put one foot in front of the other as she staggered her way weakly through the doorway in a soiled white T-shirt and nothing else, a wavering hand groping at the door frame for support. Carolyn barely resembled the cheery, beautiful woman pictured on the cover of her books. She was deathly pale, with dark blue circles under her bleary eyes. The skin on her bare arms was all scratched and blotchy. And it seemed to hang loose from her, as if she’d lost a great deal of muscle tone very quickly. Her long blond hair was stringy and filthy. She gave off a sour odor, as if she hadn’t bathed in a week.

One look was all it took. Des knew instantly it was no virus that had hold of Carolyn Procter.

“How are you feeling, Carolyn?” Des asked, feeling Clay’s eyes on her. “I understand you haven’t been well.”

“I am… so sick,” she moaned, slumping into a chair at the kitchen table.

“But she’s getting better every day,” Clay said encouragingly. “You just need you a nice hot bath, hon. Freshen you right up.”

“I’m Trooper Mitry, Carolyn. I’ve come to see you about Richard.”

At the mention of her husband’s name Carolyn reached for a cigarette and lit it, her hands shaking badly. Then she sat back in her chair, one slender, dirty foot propped up on the table. She wore no panties under her T-shirt yet didn’t seem to care that she was flashing her goodies. Her long leg started twitching as she sat there pulling anxiously on her cigarette. She was sweating. And grinding her teeth. And picking at the skin on her face with her fingers.

Carolyn Procter: Portrait of a tweaker.

There was no doubt in Des’s mind that Carolyn Procter had gotten herself hooked on crystal meth, which kept you up, up, up for twelve or more hours straight, then sent you crashing into the shaky, agitated state Des found her in now. True, a woman who was as accomplished and classy as Carolyn hardly seemed the type. But Des had learned long ago that when it came to dope there was no type. And crystal meth was very popular around the casinos. Gamblers got off on its all-night rush.

She was shaking her head at Des in confusion. “You said…” Her voice seemed disconnected, as if the words had to travel several time zones from her brain. “Something about… Richard?”

“Yes, ma’am. I found him today out on Big Sister Island. I’m afraid he’s been in a fight of some kind.”

“He swung at me first.” Clay spoke up defensively. “And if he says otherwise he’s-”

“Professor Procter’s not saying much of anything right now, actually. He’s quite dazed and despondent.”

“I was just standing up for myself,” he went on. “And, speaking candidly, I don’t see any place for the law in this.”

“Mr. Mundy, no one is swearing out a complaint. I’m simply trying to help. So why don’t you just tell me what happened, okay?”

Clay shrugged his shoulders. “Not much to tell. He stopped by a few nights back and we had us a little scuffle out in the driveway.”

“Over…?”

“Him refusing to accept the new reality of his situation.”

“When I encountered him today he kept mumbling, ‘They both threw me out.’ By ‘they’ he was referring to Carolyn and you?”

“That’s right,” Clay confirmed. “I was trying to set the man straight, you know? And maybe things got a bit rough. But he started it. And he seemed okay when he took off. I wouldn’t have let him go if I thought he was in bad shape. That’s not my style at all. I try to get along with people. Right, hon?”

Carolyn didn’t answer him. Didn’t seem to hear him. Just sat there, bare leg twitching, cigarette burning down in her fingers.

“He’s been admitted to Connecticut Valley Hospital for observation,” Des informed her. “When he’s released he’ll need to be in a supervised home setting. Any idea who he can stay with?”

Slowly, Carolyn stubbed out her cigarette in a ceramic ashtray full of butts. Then she hurled the ashtray against the kitchen wall, shattering it and sending butts and ashes flying everywhere. “Not here!” she screamed, her eyes blazing with rage. “He can’t stay here!”

“That’s fine,” Des said to her gently. “I understand perfectly. Does he have any other family in the area?”

“Not… here,” she repeated, quieter this time. Slowly, she got back on her feet and weaved her way back toward the bedroom.

“That’s right, you get yourself back into bed,” Clay called after her. To Des he said, “Poor girl. Those viruses sure can hang on sometimes.”

“Yes, they certainly can,” Des said, starting for the front door.

Clay stayed right with her. “Real sorry about this business with the professor, ma’am. It was just one of those things. I had no idea he’d take it so hard, being he’s such an educated guy and all.”

Hector was still sitting on the front steps, burly shoulders hunched over a stock car magazine.

“Maybe you’re better off being a dumb ass like me,” Clay added with a not so easy laugh. “Know what I’m saying?”

“I absolutely do. Don’t sweat it, Mr. Mundy. And thanks for your time.” Des tipped her big hat at him and headed back across the lane, thinking about how she was going to run a criminal background check on these two just as soon as she had a chance.

Molly was still over there shooting baskets. A silver VW Passat was now parked behind her in the driveway.

“It’s happened to her, too, hasn’t it?” Molly said glumly.

“What has, Molly?”

“My mom’s body is still there but she isn’t. She’s been taken away same as my dad. It’s just like I Married a Monster from Outer Space with Mr. Tom Tryon.”

Des snagged the ball and bounce-passed it to her, feeling sorrier for this bespectacled little waif than she had for anyone in a long while. “How do you know about such a black-and-white oldie?”

“Mitch was always uber-cool about loaning me DVDs. I’m really into old-school sci-fi. Also anything that has haunted houses with secret passageways and dungeons.”

“You and Mitch really spoke the same language, didn’t you?”

“Totally. I really miss Mitch. He’s like my dad-real smart but he doesn’t try to make you feel stupid.” Molly drove to the hoop and laid it in off of the glass. “Why’d you break his heart?”

“Is that what you think happened?”

“Duh. It’s why he left town. Everybody knows that.”

“Sometimes two people just don’t belong together anymore.”

“Will you guys ever get back together?”

“No, Molly, we won’t.”

“But you’re supposed to be together,” Molly said insistently. “You belong together.”

“You’ve been talking to Mrs. Tillis about us, haven’t you?”

“Have not. I just know it, that’s all. I know about a lot of things.”

Des glanced back across the lane. Clay and Hector had gone inside the house. “Do you know if your mom has been to see a doctor lately?”

Molly shook her head. “She hasn’t been anywhere in weeks. Just sleeps all day. Clay does all of the grocery shopping and stuff.”

“Do you like Clay?”

“I hate him,” she said flatly. “He’s bossy and he’s mean. Always acting like he can tell me what to do.”

“Has he ever put his hands on you?”

“You mean like hit me? No way.” Molly lowered her eyes evasively before she added, “Hector’s okay. He shoots hoops with me sometimes.”

“And where does he live?”

“With us. Except sometimes he goes away for a few days. So does Clay.”

“They go away together?”

“No, when one of them leaves the other one stays behind. Hector crashes on the sofa usually. Except if Clay’s out of town. Then he gets to…” Molly trailed off, her pink nose twitching. “One morning I saw Hector coming out of my mom’s room without any clothes on. He sleeps in her bed just like Clay does. And sometimes they’re both in there with her at the same time.” Molly gazed up at her now, wide-eyed and earnest. “Trooper Des, what’s wrong with my mom?”

“Nothing we can’t set right,” Des answered confidently, even though she sure wasn’t feeling that way. The girl’s father was out to lunch and her drugged-out mother was getting it on with the entire staff of Nutmegger Professional Seamless Gutters. The truth was that this situation was edging dangerously close to actionable-if Des had reason to suspect that Molly was being abused, neglected or exposed to criminal behavior then she was supposed to toss it to the Department of Children and Families.

A driveway side door to the Beckwith farmhouse opened now. A fortyish, frizzy-haired redhead in a short-sleeved pink blouse and white slacks came bustling out with a basket of laundry and started around back with it.

“Don’t you worry, Molly,” Des said with a reassuring smile. “And hey, my folks split up, too. So if you ever want to talk I’m around, okay?” She offered the girl her card. Molly just stared at it. “Look, I know you were mad at me this morning, but I need for you to come up big for me now, okay?”

Molly frowned at her. “Big how?”

“By being my eyes and ears. If anything goes down over there that scares you, pick up the phone and call me, deal?”

Grudgingly, Molly tucked the card inside of her sneaker. Then she went back to draining jump shots.

Kimberly Beckwith’s small backyard was weedy and untamed. She was hanging sheets and towels on the clothesline when Des made her way back there, the wet sheets billowing and flapping in the breeze off of the river.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Beckwith.”

“Hiya, Trooper Mitry. Call me Kimberly, okay? When I hear Mrs. Beckwith I think of that bitter old broad sitting up there in her parlor chugalugging that god-awful sherry.” Jen’s mother spoke with the folksy nasal bray that was characteristic to working class Hartford. She was a small woman, five-feet-four, tops. Riding a tiny bit low in the caboose but still plenty curvy-particularly in the boobage department. Kimberly had the look of someone who’d been tons of cute, cuddly fun when she was younger. A real cupcake. But the years and the extra pounds were starting to show in her face. Her cheeks had plumped up. Her chin was disappearing into a soft puddle of jowls. And her blue eyes looked out at Des with weariness and disappointment. “You have no idea how humiliating it was to get a call from that old hag at four in the morning ordering me home because my daughter’s been throwing a drunken sex orgy. Patricia already thinks I’m a terrible mother. Not to mention the slutsky of the century. She’d be thrilled if I just went poof so she could raise Jen herself. Well, screw her. I’m not going anywhere.”

Des nodded politely. Nothing but happy families here on Sour Cherry Lane.

“That woman gives me nonstop grief,” Kimberly rattled on. “I was never, ever good enough for her precious Johnny. Just a conniving piece of Polish ass after his money. So what if I graduated from Bod College? So what if my dad worked the line at Stanley in New Britain for thirty-two years? I married Johnny because I loved him.” She let out a bitter laugh as she reached for another handful of clothespins. “Some gold digger, hunh? Here I am in the lap of luxury trying to save twenty bucks a month on my electric bill by hanging this crap out to dry. I’m a single mother doing the best I can to scrape by. I spend fifty, sixty hours a week in the therapy room at Dr. Gardiner’s listening to those goddamned old ladies bitch, bitch, bitch about their sciatica and lumbago. I get one chance to go away for a couple of nights and have a teensy bit of fun with a nice guy and that old hag treats me like I’m out on the street selling my…” She halted, glancing at Des uneasily. “Sorry, I talk a blue streak when I’m nervous.”

“I don’t mean to make you nervous.”

“It’s the uniform, honey. Every time I see one I feel like I’m sixteen again myself-by which I mean sprawled in the backseat of Pauly Mondello’s Trans Am with my panties down around one ankle and a half-smoked joint in the ashtray.” She squinted at Des, her nose wrinkling. “Just so we’re clear here, did you take Jen into custody last night? Cite her for a violation or anything?”

Des shook her head. “Nothing will go on her record.”

Kimberly let out a sigh of relief. “Good, because my Jen has a chance to go to some very, very good colleges. The sky’s the limit for her. I stopped off at The Works on my way home and she told me everything about their… what do they call it, Rainbow Party? Believe me, that’ll never happen again. Well, it will. But not in my house it won’t. No more parties. Listen, when will you have the results from her blood test?”

“Not for at least a couple of weeks.”

“That long?”

“I’m afraid so. This is real life, not CSI: Dorset.”

“Well, I guarantee you it’ll turn up clean. Jen doesn’t drink or smoke dope. If she did she’d tell me. We’re best friends, and she’s never lied to me. I asked her straight up just now if she needs to go on birth control. She said no. Even sounded offended that I asked. But I had to, right? Honestly, she has very nice friends. The girls are jocks just like her. And the boys aren’t druggies.”

“I didn’t find any drugs,” Des confirmed. “But there was alcohol. And I need for you to know that you’re legally responsible for what goes on in your home-even if you’re not around. If one of those kids, say, got loaded here last night and then smashed into somebody on Old Shore Road, guess whose fault that would have been? Understand what I’m saying?”

Kimberly nodded her head, gulping.

“Fortunately, nobody got hurt. And we all learned a lesson. Believe me, I’m on your side. Just trying to make sure that good kids like Jen and her friends stay in one piece. Because at that age there is such a fine line between good and idiot.”

“No need to remind me. God, when I think back to some of the stuff I put my own folks through…” Kimberly smiled at Des faintly. “With Jen I count my blessings every day. She is a good kid. And it’s just us two. Well, two and half if you count Diana Taurasi Junior out there,” she added, cocking an ear to the steady thud of the basketball in the driveway out front.

“So you see a lot of Molly?”

“Are you kidding? She must have dinner with us four, five nights a week. Sleeps over in Jen’s room a lot, too. Especially when it rains. Poor thing’s really bothered by storms for some reason. Not that Jen minds. Molly’s like a kid sister to her.”

“Are you tight with the Procters?”

“We don’t exactly move in the same crowd, if you know what I mean. Not because of Richard.” Kimberly blushed instantly at the mention of his name. Had herself a small crush on the professor, it seemed. “He is such a sweet guy. Nice manners. Never puts on any airs. But that Carolyn is a whole other story. The great big fancy author with her Miss Porter’s this and her Radcliffe that. They split up, you know. Some other guy moved right in. A real roughneck, too, if you ask me. Does gutters for some big outfit. Has himself a Mexican helper who’s always hanging around, and I don’t like the way he stares at Jen. They’re hard workers though, I’ll give them that.”

“Is that right?”

“Absolutely. I’ve seen two, three of those white Nutmegger vans parked over there at a time. Sometimes I even hear them out there in the middle of the night.”

“Doing what?”

“Unloading their gear. They try to be quiet about it but I’m a real light sleeper. Didn’t use to be when I had a man in bed next to me. Now the slightest breeze wakes me.” She hung the last of the towels, grabbed the empty basket and started back toward the house. “It’s funny, isn’t it?”

“What is?” asked Des, walking with her.

“How you can live fifty feet away from someone, wave to them every day in the driveway, take in each other’s mail, exchange cookies at Christmas-and really not know them at all. If you’d asked me six months ago I’d have told you that the Procters were the ideal family. Now look at them.”

Des climbed into her cruiser, waved good-bye to Molly and started her way back toward Turkey Neck, not liking what she was hearing about the Procters one bit. Clearly, the little girl was being neglected. Clearly, Des ought to be reaching out to the Department of Children and Families. Starting the bureaucratic process rolling. DCF would send an investigator down to interview the family members. Possibly place Molly in a foster home until her parents could sort out their lives. That was the required procedure. It was also the easy thing to do. But shoving Molly into the system wasn’t necessarily the right thing to do.

So what was?

As Des eased her way around a bend, mulling her options, she rolled up on a young couple walking slowly along, hand in hand.

She pulled up next to them, lowered her window and barked, “Folks, I’ll need to see your driver’s licenses and passports if you intend to proceed any further down this lane.”

In response, Keith and Amber Sullivan both broke into big smiles.

Keith was thickly built and sunburned, with wiry sun-bleached hairs on his tree-trunk forearms. No more than twenty-five but already losing his wavy blond hair. So Keith looked much younger when he had his Sullivan Electric Co. baseball cap on. He wore it with a weathered T-shirt, cargo shorts and work boots. When Des got acquainted with him she’d discovered that Keith was one of those rare individuals who knew who he was, where he belonged and who with. Which put him way ahead of most people. Keith was by no means a slacker. He and his older brother Kevin worked plenty hard at their business. But it was Kevin who was the real go-getter of the two. Keith was more easygoing. A man who made time for a leisurely walk down a country lane with his bride on a beautiful June afternoon.

Amber was a slender, lovely little thing in a sleeveless summer dress and rubber flip-flops. She was Portuguese on her mother’s side. It showed in her olive complexion and thick, shiny black hair, which she wore cropped short like a boy. Amber’s big, brown eyes were shiny and searching. She and Keith had been married for four months now, but it could just as easily have been four days the way he kept gazing at her. “And what brings you out this way?” she demanded in that spunky, forthright manner of hers.

Des filled them in on Richard Procter’s situation.

“This is so upsetting,” Amber lamented, her brow furrowing. “Richard was my mentor at Wesleyan. I wrote my senior thesis for him.” She was keenly interested in the social history of the Portuguese mill workers who’d settled in Southern Connecticut and Rhode Island a hundred years back. “It’s thanks to his recommendation that I was accepted into the master’s program at Yale. He also found us our cottage. I can’t believe he… It’s just awful him going to pieces this way. And it’s been real hard on Molly since he left.”

“We try to keep tabs on her,” said Keith, whose love-struck eyes never left Amber. Des tried to remember if Brandon had ever looked at her that way. The short answer was no. “I can’t tell you how many times we’ve asked that girl over for dinner. Or to watch a movie with us on TV. She always says ‘Gotta go’ and splits.”

“And do you know where that child sleeps at night?” demanded Amber, hands parked on her slim hips. “In her tree house. I can see her up there reading by flashlight.”

Which explained why Molly bunked with Jen whenever it rained, Des reflected as she continued to idle there in the road. You could sit in the middle of Sour Cherry for ten minutes and not encounter another vehicle. “Would you happen to know if either Richard or Carolyn have any family nearby?”

“None,” Amber replied with a shake of her head. “Both sets of parents are dead and Richard’s an only child. Carolyn’s sister, Megan, lives on an organic farm up in Blue Hill, Maine, with her life partner, Sue. The Procters go there every summer for their vacation. Or at least they used to.”

“Carolyn’s maiden name is Chichester?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Des jotted down that information before she said, “Did Richard and Carolyn used to fight a lot?”

“No, but…” Amber glanced up and down the lane just to make absolutely certain no one was within earshot. “Apparently, Richard got himself involved with another woman. And when Carolyn got wind of it she threw him out.”

“He brought this on himself,” Keith said soberly. “Not that we’re taking sides or anything. These things happen, right?”

“Any idea who the other woman is?”

Amber studied Des intently. “Why do you ask?”

“Because Richard’s a man who needs all of the help he can get right now.”

“We haven’t the slightest idea who she is.”

Meaning the odds were she wasn’t someone local. In Dorset it was practically impossible to play in the dirt without people finding out.

“And if Richard hasn’t sought her help,” Amber added, “then she must not be in a position to help.”

“You mean because she’s married herself?”

“That would be my guess.”

“This whole business came as a total shock to us,” Keith said. “Richard used to stop over for a beer all of the time. Him and me would talk carpentry projects. He’d ask Amber about her studies. He was always upbeat. We had no inkling that he was unhappy at home.”

“Carolyn we’ve never been quite as close to,” Amber said. “She’s so devoted to her responsibilities. Running Molly to and from school, working on one of her books. And ever since Richard has moved out she’s, well, how should I put this…”

“Gone skanky,” Keith put it bluntly. “Drinking morning, noon and night. Bringing strange guys home at all hours. One of them was this Clay who, near as I can tell, never does a day’s work. Not one guy I know has ever seen him on a job anywhere in town. You ask me, he’s just a drifter who’s found someone he can sponge off. Him and his buddy Hector both.”

Amber said, “I caught a glimpse of Carolyn on her porch the other day and I almost didn’t recognize her. The poor woman looks like she just walked away from a train wreck.”

“Only because she has.” Des wished the two lovebirds well, then eased her cruiser down the lane and up Patricia Beckwith’s steep, twisting driveway.

Dorset’s meanest, richest widow wasn’t sitting in her stuffy parlor sipping sweet sherry. She was perched regally on a kneeling stool, weeding one of the flower beds in front of her house. She wore green garden gloves for the job, with a fraying old seersucker shirt and raspberry-colored slacks. Her little dachshund was stretched out in the grass near her. It didn’t bark when Des climbed out of her cruiser, delivery in hand. Just watched her, black nose quivering.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Beckwith,” Des called out, pausing to savor the old lady’s panoramic view of Long Island Sound.

“And to you as well, trooper,” Patricia responded cordially. “What’s that you’ve got in your hand?”

“I bumped into it this morning,” Des said, holding Mitch’s worn paperback copy of Time and Again out to her.

Patricia took it from her gratefully. “How very thoughtful. I’ll look forward to reading and discussing it with you. And I promise to take good care of it. Would you like to come in for some lemonade?”

“Thank you, no. I can only stay a second. I just wanted you to know that I’ve located Professor Procter. It seems he’s been sleeping in somebody’s barn out on Big Sister.”

The old woman’s eyes widened in shock. “Why, the poor man must be out of his mind.”

“Situational depression is what they call it.”

“To do with his problems at home?”

Des nodded. “Apparently, he even got into a scuffle with the new man in Carolyn’s life. He’s presently up at Connecticut Valley Hospital in Middletown. Likely to be released tomorrow.”

“I see. Well, I thank you for the update. And for your thorough professionalism of last night. I apologize for the manner in which Jen inconvenienced you.”

“It was no inconvenience. That’s why I’m here.”

“Nonetheless, I’ve spoken with First Selectman Paffin and told him what an outstanding asset you are to our community.”

“That really wasn’t necessary, ma’am.”

“I assure you it was. And if I can ever repay you…”

“You can, as a matter of fact.”

The old woman stiffened ever so slightly. “Yes, what is it?”

“Richard is going to need supervision for a while. Someone making sure he takes his medication and shows up at his counseling appointments and so forth. He doesn’t seem to have anyone to turn to. Or a place to stay.”

“Then he shall stay here with me,” Patricia said without hesitation.

“Are you sure that’s okay?”

“Absolutely. I have plenty of room.”

Des had obtained the name and phone number of Richard’s doctor from Marge Jewett. She jotted the information down and handed it to Patricia. “Will you be able to pick him up tomorrow in Middletown?”

“I choose not to drive long distances anymore,” she replied. “But I can certainly arrange to retrieve him. Don’t you worry about Richard. He will be fine here. I’ll make sure he follows his doctor’s orders. Eats three square meals, gets his proper rest. And he and I shall sit down together and talk things over. He’s a highly intelligent man. He just needs a little time. And someone to listen to him.”

“You’re very kind, Mrs. Beckwith.”

“I assure you I am not. I’m the nastiest old bitch in town. Ask anyone.”

Des got back in her ride and started down the driveway, thinking about how all of this spoke to the single most important lesson she’d learned about Dorset: No one was who they appeared to be. Those frosty, scary patrician dowagers weren’t necessarily so frosty or scary. And those blond, perfect families like the Procters turned out to be just as screwed up as everyone else. More so, maybe, since they were such strangers to trouble in this orderly, privileged, unreal place. When they fell they fell hard. Which explained how a respected historian ended up out on Big Sister, mumbling to himself and subsisting on whatever food his daughter could steal for him, while his wife got strung out on crystal meth and allowed a pair of relative strangers to climb into her bed and do God knows what to her.

It was all just another nice, neat Dorset family snapshot, suitable for framing.

Des headed back up Turkey Neck to the stop sign at Old Shore Road. Made a left onto Old Shore Road and started home to change clothes for tonight’s big event. She hadn’t gone more than a half-mile when she noticed the big black Chevy Suburban in her rearview mirror coming up fast on her. Its driver, a jarhead in aviator shades, was way over the speed limit. And now the bastard was actually riding right up on her tail. Anybody dumb enough to climb up on a Crown Vic either had to be several drinks over the line or a complete chowderhead. She was wondering which this one was when he flashed his brights at her several times and gestured at her to pull over. As she slowed down he rocketed past her and made a hard, screeching right onto Mile Creek Road. She pursued him. Found him pulling onto the shoulder there and coming to a stop. Des pulled in behind him.

Before she could get out he’d leapt out of the Suburban and come charging at her with his his chest all puffed out. He was young, muscle-bound and terribly full of himself. A real testosterone cowboy in a red Izod shirt, jeans and running shoes. “Master Sergeant Mitry,” he blustered at her, his voice positively dripping with contempt. “Whatever are we going to do with you, Master Sergeant Mitry?“

“That all depends on who you are and why you pulled me over.”

He whipped off his shades, his eyes icy blue slits as he peered at her through her open window. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t know?”

“I am.”

“You must think I’m a total cretin.”

“Too soon to say, wow man. But give me time.”

He made an elaborate show of reaching into his back pocket for the FBI shield that identified him as Agent Grisky. “Now, I don’t know whether you’ve got a lost puppy or stolen tricycle or whatever it is you resident troopers do, but we can’t have you and your big hat tromping around in our pea patch, understand?”

“Not even a little, agent.”

Grisky sighed impatiently. “Back the hell off, will you? Because I will not let you take a crap all over six months of hard work.”

“Um, okay, are you trying to say I’ve walked into something?”

“As you know perfectly well.”

Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. “And how would I know that?”

“So, what, you’re really going to keep playing dumb?”

“I really am. Because I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Fine,” he snapped. “You want to play games, we’ll play games. For starters, stay put.” And with that he strutted his mad skills back toward his Suburban.

Watching him, Des felt absolutely certain he was a consummate quick draw artist between the sheets. A red hot thirty seconds from launch pad until blastoff, max. Following by ten good minutes of self-congratulation.

He reached inside the Suburban for his cell, flipped it open and speed-dialed someone. Talked into the phone. Listened. Then flipped it shut with a flourish and came back to her. “Tomorrow morning at ten in your barracks commander’s office,” he said. “And, lady, be prepared to get your ears chewed off.”

“I’ll be there. But I sure would appreciate it, one law enforcement professional to another, if you’d tell me what’s going on.”

“Not authorized to. But here’s an extreme idea-why don’t you give U.S. Attorney Stokes a nudge tonight and ask him?”

“Why, what’s Brandon got to do with this?”

Agent Grisky wouldn’t go there. Just smirked at her and said, “See you tomorrow, Master Sergent Mitry. Really dig the hat. Can I have one just like it when I grow up?”

The first time Des had seen Bitsy Peck’s immense, natural-shingled Victorian mansion out on Big Sister she’d said to herself: People who aren’t named Martha Stewart don’t actually live this way. They don’t own houses with this many turrets and sleeping porches. They don’t enjoy such views of Long Island Sound in every direction. They aren’t surrounded by such amazing gardens. But they did. They were. It was all for real. Same as Mitch’s little carriage house nestled beyond those gardens was real.

The early evening sky over the Sound was a dusty pink when she arrived. Parked cars were jammed everywhere. And fifty or so very polite people were enjoying drinks out on Bitsy’s deep wraparound porch, where she was hosting the monthly get-together of the Dorset Town Committee, a nonpartisan group of highly influential locals. Among other things, the Town Committee endorsed candidates for the State Senate, State Assembly and U.S. Congress. Tonight was a chance for its elite members to get to know Brandon. It was not a campaign fundraiser-although he’d warned Des there’d be people there from the party, not to mention photographers from the newspapers. It was simply a chance for Dorset’s People Who Matter to hang with the man who wanted to be their next congressman. The district’s current representative to D.C. had failed to carry Dorset, so for Brandon this was highly fertile ground.

And it certainly didn’t hurt to have the town’s resident trooper on hand to introduce him around and smile oh-so-adoringly at her brown-eyed handsome man.

The event was casual dress, which for the men meant madras blazers and for the women meant whatever was being featured in the current Talbot’s catalogue that was neutral-colored and dowdy. Des wore an untucked orange linen shirt, trimly cut ivory slacks and gold sandals.

She met up with Brandon when he pulled into Bitsy’s driveway accompanied by a pair of hyper, narrow-faced party operatives. He looked relaxed and ready. Also ultra-preppy in his new khaki-colored suit from Brooks Brothers. Used to be Brandon was more of an Armani man.

He smiled broadly at her as he got out of the car. “You’re not wearing your uniform,” he observed, giving her a big hug.

She batted her eyelashes at him. “You noticed.”

“Desi, I thought we decided it wouldn’t hurt to remind these good folks that I intend to be their law and order candidate.”

“I never wear my uni when I’m off duty.”

“Then why did you ask me if you should wear it?”

“Because I wanted to hear what your answer would be.”

Brandon tilted his head at her slightly. “Well, you definitely made the right choice,” he conceded, looking her up and down. “Although it’s going to be difficult for me to keep my mind on politics.”

“Brandon, we have to talk.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Only because it is.”

“We’ll find a quiet spot on the porch in a little while. Right now

…” He took her hand as they climbed the porch steps, squeezing it. “Are you ready for this?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she answered, taking a deep breath.

Together, they plunged in, Brandon towering over one and all at six-feet-six. Not that he was intimidating. The man could disarm anyone with his smile and rich, burgundy voice. Des introduced him straight away to Dorset’s snowy-haired first selectman, Bob Paffin, who still wasn’t totally comfortable having a resident trooper who was so young, female and black. And to Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux, the blond, blue-blooded attorney who felt just fine about Des-and soon hoped to unseat Bob Paffin. To Arthur Lewis, president of the local chapter of the Nature Conservancy, and Emma Knight, who ran Dorset’s No. 1 real estate agency. To the Inlands Wetlands commissioner and the commissioner of the Historic District. To the head of the school board, a mother of three whose oldest girl, Shannon, played on the Dorset High basketball team with Jen Beckwith. Des found herself wondering if Shannon had been at Jen’s Rainbow Party, and if so which color lip-gloss she’d worn.

There were platters of sweaty cocktail wienies and ice cold shrimp. Potluck dishes of ham and scalloped potatoes, tuna casserole and Mitch’s perennial favorite, American chop suey. All of which looked heavy and gloppy and way too much like warm vomit.

And there was talk, talk and more talk-most of it coming from Brandon’s mouth. He told the soccer moms how much he believed in public education. The chesty Lions Clubbers how antiterror he was. The environmentalists how he intended to protect the Sound from natural gas pipelines. The realtors that he was for “quality” development. The man never came up for air. Never stopped smiling. Never stopped working, working, working the crowd. As Des watched him it dawned upon her for the very first time that Brandon Stokes wasn’t an attorney at all. He was a natural born performer. Someone who could be hip or square, funny or serious, compassionate or outraged. Whatever the person who he was belly up to needed from him at a particular moment. Then he could move right along and do it all over again with someone else-and make the transition seem utterly effortless. Truly, this porch was Brandon’s stage. And he was totally at ease on it.

Which made exactly one of them.

Des was watching her man do his thing, utter fascinated, when without warning she felt another of her damned blackouts coming on. The porch swaying under her feet. The voices and laughter growing fainter. Horrified, she groped her way out to the farthest end of the porch and slumped into a wicker chair with her head down. Breathed slowly in and out, waiting for it to pass. Which, thank God, it did. But she did not want to risk hitting the deck in front of all of these people. So she stayed put for a while, directing her mind elsewhere.

To the phone call she’d just made to Megan Chichester, Carolyn Procter’s very capable sounding sister up in Blue Hill, Maine. Megan was aware that Richard had moved out, but knew nothing of Clay Mundy. She’d been shocked by Des’s description of her sister’s physical state and by her concerns over Molly’s welfare. Promised Des she’d drive down to Dorset as soon as possible-if not tomorrow then the day after-to get Carolyn whatever help she needed. And, if necessary, bring Molly home with her for an early summer holiday. “I’ll take charge of the situation,” she assured Des. Which made it a good day’s work all in all. This was the job, Des reflected. Giving a family a chance to heal itself. Piecing together a way to keep the law out of it. She’d tried, anyhow. The rest was up to them.

As she sat there, Des found herself gazing across the gardens at Bella’s lights in Mitch’s windows. Wondering how many more months it would take before the doughboy was no longer inside of her. When he would finally, mercifully, fade away.

She heard footsteps clacking toward her now. It was her hostess, Bitsy, bringing her a goblet of white wine.

“I thought you could use this,” she exclaimed brightly.

Des took it from her gratefully. “You thought right.”

“Your Brandon is certainly one handsome man. Do you know who he reminds me of?”

Des nodded. “Denzel Washington.”

“I was going to say Harry Belafonte.”

“Really? My bad.”

Bitsy Peck was a round, snub-nosed woman in her fifties with light brown hair that she wore in a pageboy. She had always been very warm and friendly toward Des, and got on extremely well with Mitch. It was Bitsy who’d taught Mitch the joy of gardening. “I did invite Bella,” she said, her gaze following Des’s. “But she told me she couldn’t make it.”

Des drank down some of the wine. “I know,” she responded quietly.

Bitsy studied her shrewdly. She was one of those Dorset housewives who gave the impression of being unfailingly merry and dim, and was neither. She was smart and tough. Had lost her husband right after Des came to town. And seen her daughter, Becca, battle heroin addiction. “Are you okay, Des?”

“Never better.”

“We’re going to lose you, aren’t we?”

“Excuse me?”

“I can see it in your eyes as you look around. It’s as if you’re trying to memorize everything. My kids looked at this place that way when they were getting ready to leave me.”

“Bitsy, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

Some of the Town Committee members were starting to trickle back to their cars. Bitsy scurried off to say her good-byes. Des stayed put, sipping her wine.

Brandon found her there a few minutes later. He was all pumped up, his eyes gleaming. “Man, this is some way to live,” he exclaimed, taking in the remains of the sunset over Long Island Sound. A few sailboats were still out on the water, taking advantage of the breeze. “It’s almost enough to make you want to be white.”

She smiled faintly. “But not quite.”

He turned and looked at her. “This is going to take you some getting used to, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Same here. I still have to get over my long held personal belief that all politicians are assholes.” He let out a big laugh. “But we did good tonight. Huge thanks, Desi. These people carry a lot of weight.”

“Brandon, there’s something serious I need to talk to you about.”

“So talk to me. But smile or it’ll look like we’re having a fight.”

“I got pulled over by a fed named Grisky just before I came here. He told me to keep away from Sour Cherry Lane. I phoned my C.O. right away and got another earful from him-mostly about Grisky and his strong-arm tactics. But he confirmed that the guy’s legit. It seems there’s been an independent operation going on here in Dorset.”

“And you’re telling me this because…?”

“When I asked Grisky what it was he told me to ask you.”

Brandon’s face dropped. He said nothing.

“I ran criminal background checks on Clay Mundy and Hector Villanueva. Both out of Atlanta, supposedly. I came up empty. Brandon, what’s going on?”

“I can’t discuss it with you,” he responded quietly. “All I can say is they wanted you kept clear of it.”

“Kept clear of what? This is my town. If something’s going on here, I have a right to know.”

“Don’t get all huffy.”

“Trust me, this is not huffy. But if you want huffy I’ll be more than happy to-”

“Keep your voice down, Desi. And please listen to me, will you? We are talking about a highly classified investigation involving multiple federal and state agencies. They’ve had trouble with leaks in the past, so a high-level policy decision was made to keep local uniformed personnel out of the loop. They want you going about your normal business.”

“That’s them. What about you and me?”

“What about us?”

“If you’d given me any kind of a heads-up I’d have watched my step. Instead, you let me blunder my way right into the middle of whatever. And so tomorrow I’m getting called on the carpet. Do you realize how humiliating this is?”

“I had no idea you were working anywhere near Sour Cherry. You didn’t tell me.”

“I shouldn’t have to. You’re my man. I expect you to be watching my back.”

“I’m watching out for us. Desi, this is the biggest case of my career. It just may put me over in this district.” His eyes found and held hers. “What’s good for me is good for you. You know that.”

“I know that you’re good at keeping secrets. I know I don’t like secrets. And I don’t like being with anyone who does.”

“I am not about secrets.”

“Brandon, your whole damned life is divided into secret compartments.” Like the one that had contained his law school classmate, Anita, and the affair that they never broke off the whole time he and Des were married. “For me, it’s real simple. Either we’re honest with each or we’re not. Either we’re together as a couple or we’re not.”

“Now you’re not being fair,” he objected.

“I think I’m being more than fair. Are you going to tell me what the feds are doing in my town?”

“You know I can’t.”

“Okay, fine. Then I’ll listen to what they have to say tomorrow. And until then you’re sleeping in the guest room.”

“I’m what?”

“My house, my rules. If you don’t like it you can take up residence at the Frederick House. The innkeepers are standing right over there by that pillar.” She drank down the last of her wine before she added, “And hey, not to worry. When I said it I had a real sweet smile on my face.”