David Handler - The sour cherry surprise

“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.