The Sour Cherry Surprise (14 page)

It was a man, all right. Dressed in a light blue shirt, khaki trousers and hiking shoes. Gently, she untangled him from the branches that held him there. Then she pulled him ashore and flopped him over, her abdominal muscles clenching as the pang of recognition hit.

It was Richard Procter. Someone had cut his throat from ear to ear.

It took the uniformed troopers less than ten minutes to get there from the Troop F barracks. They immediately set up a vehicular cordon all of the way back up Turkey Neck at Old Shore Road. And another cordon around the perimeter of the crime scene itself, which included all of Sour Cherry Lane, the riverfront and, at Des’s suggestion, the woods between Sour Cherry and the Peck’s Point Nature Preserve.

Soon after that, the Major Crime Squad crime scene technicians rolled up in their blue and white cube vans along with a death investigator from the Medical Examiner’s office.

By now it was nearly midnight. The residents of Sour Cherry were huddled together out in the lane like the survivors of an apartment house fire. By now Des had expected to see or hear from Grisky. But she’d had no contact from him or Cavanaugh or anyone else associated with Operaton Burrito King. She didn’t know what to make of that beyond the fact that they seemed content to let the normal investigative process unfold. So she went ahead and did her normal thing, which was to conduct preliminary interviews of the neighbors.

Kimberly and Jen Beckwith were standing out there with Molly. Kimberly was sobbing and moaning, utterly blown away. Her frizzy red hair was wet and uncombed—she’d been in the shower when Jen answered Des’s knock on their door. When Kimberly heard what had happened to Richard she threw on a
purple caftan and came running, a damp towel still wrapped around her neck. Neither she nor Jen had heard the screams. Nor had they seen anyone fleeing the scene.

Jen seemed quite shaken herself, but unlike her mother was trying to keep her emotions in check for Molly, whose own mother was nowhere to be seen.

Molly had a surprisingly serene look on her freckled face as she stood there holding Jen’s hand. It was almost freakish how composed the girl was.

She was certainly holding up better than Amber and Keith, both of whom had turned goggle-eyed with shock and disbelief when Des told them what she’d discovered.

Patricia Beckwith stood slightly apart from the others, her posture erect, facial expression stony. Whatever emotions she was experiencing were private. Not to be displayed in front of others. “Richard and I ate a good dinner together,” she told Des in a firm, measured voice. “Scallops, rice and string beans. He had a fine appetite. He seemed very positive and upbeat. After we’d had our coffee he said he felt like taking a walk. I asked him if he would like some company. He said he’d be fine on his own, and went striding out the door shortly after nine.”

“Mrs. Beckwith, did he happen to speak to anyone on the phone before he left?”

“Not that I am aware of,” Patricia responded, pursing her thin, dry lips. “I shouldn’t have let him go by himself, I suppose.”

“He wasn’t your prisoner,” Des told her. “He was free to come and go as he pleased. So don’t blame yourself for this, ma’am. Whatever
this
is.”

Actually, Des thought she had a pretty fair idea what it was as she gazed over at Clay and Hector. The two of them were seated on the front porch of the Procter house drinking Coors and acting completely innocent. They’d been playing Texas Hold ‘Em at the
kitchen table all evening, or so they claimed. Neither of them had heard a thing, or so they claimed. No screams in the night. No footsteps. No cars leaving the lane. Nothing but good ol’ country quiet.

Neither man had a scratch on him. No indication that he’d been involved in anything remotely physical that evening.

As for Carolyn, she’d been sacked out in the bedroom since nine o’clock, according to Clay. “The poor woman still can’t chase that virus,” was how he put it to Des. “You want me to get her up?”

“No, let her sleep for now,” Des replied, detesting the man. He and Richard had already fought once over Carolyn. Tonight, they’d fought again. There was no doubt in her mind about it.

What a mess. What a great big steaming turd of a mess this ruthless drug trafficker had made in her nice little New England town.

The homicide investigators from the Major Crime Squad were the last to get there from Central district headquarters in Meriden. They sent a two-person team that Des happened to know real well—Lt. Rico “Soave” Tedone and his half-Cuban, half-black sergeant, Yolie Snipes. Soave had been Des’s stumpy, bulked-up young pup of sergeant back in her glory days when she was still the state police’s great nonwhite hope. And Yolie, a brash hard-charger out of Hartford’s burned out Frog Hollow section, was someone who Des had very high hopes for. Yolie had a Latina’s liquid brown eyes. Lips, nose and an hour-and-a-half glass figure that said sister all of the way. The boys all called her Boom Boom because of what went on inside of her sweater. She wore a sleeveless one tonight, tattoos adorning both biceps. In her chunky boots she towered over Soave, who was still trying to win cool points with that goatee and shaved head look of his.

“Hey, Miss Thing,” Yolie exclaimed, showing Des her smile.

“Back at you, girl.”

“Haven’t seen you since you and your ex got back together. How is that?”

“All good.”

“And it shows. You look fantastic.”

“Thanks. You’re the first person who’s told me that in … ever.”

“Yo, dumping that fat doofus Berger was the smartest move you ever made,” Soave declared with great assurance. “The two of you had zero future as a couple.”

“Thank you, Rico,” said Des, who was certainly ready to change the subject at any time.

“What have you got for us?” he asked.

“One dead Wesleyan history professor named Richard Procter. Our victim was the estranged husband of Carolyn Procter, who lives in that scenic farmhouse on your left. She recently took up with another man, Clay Mundy. He’s the one sitting on the porch in the white T-shirt.”

“Who’s the other gee?”

“Hector Villanueva. Works for him. Are you ready to look at the victim?”

“On it,” barked Yolie, who immediately went charging down toward the crime scene personnel gathered on the riverbank. She was more comfortable around techies than Soave, who tended to get edgy and snappish with them. Partly because he wanted quicker answers than they were able to give him. Mostly because he got insecure around people who he feared were smarter than he was. When it came to self-esteem Des’s little man was still very much a work in progress.

She could see the flashbulbs go off down there as they photographed Richard’s body. Not so long ago, she would have wanted a set of those photos. Wanted, needed to draw Richard. Richard with his carotid artery severed—the deep, puckering knife gash washed clean by the river. Richard with his eyes wide open and
that look of complete surprise on his ghostly bluish face. Her fingers would have itched at the prospect. Tonight, she felt no such itch. Only the knots in her stomach.

She filled Soave in on how Richard and Clay had scuffled in the driveway a few nights back. How she’d found him in out on Big Sister in a despondent state. How he’d been hospitalized, then had moved in that very afternoon with Patricia Beckwith.

Which was when he stopped her. “Wait, who’s Patricia Beckwith?”

“The elderly mother-in-law of Kimberly Beckwith.”

“And she is …?”

“That redhead over there in the caftan. Kimberly lives across the lane from the Procters with her daughter, Jen. Patricia was very fond of the victim. Happy to take him in for a few days until he got back his act together.”

Soave mulled this over, nodding his gleaming dome. “Who called it in?”

“A neighbor named Amber Sullivan. She lives in the house that’s nearest to the crime scene. Amber’s a grad student at Yale. The victim happened to be her mentor, for whatever that’s worth. She told me she heard a scream. Her husband Keith didn’t. But Molly Procter did. She’s the victim’s nine-year-old daughter. Molly was up in her tree house at the time. Neither she nor Amber witnessed anyone fleeing the scene. Nor did anyone else I’ve spoken with. Translation: Whoever did this to Richard is still right here among us. Or took off through the woods. Or swam, though I highly doubt that. The current is treacherous down here at the mouth of the river.”

“How about a little boat?”

“That’s possible,” Des allowed. “Though it suggests there was some degree of premeditation. To me this doesn’t play out as any kind of planned thing.”

“Fair enough. Anything else?”

Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose and said, “Couple of things. I still haven’t spoken to Carolyn.”

“She’s next of kin. Why haven’t you?” Soave started his way down toward the crime scene now.

Des walked with him. “Clay Mundy claims she’s asleep in bed. He told me she has a quote-unquote virus. But when I visited yesterday I got the distinct impression she’s way into crystal meth. Not to mention both Clay
and
Hector.”

Soave let out a short laugh. “Nice, tight little bunch you got here.”

“Welcome back to Dorset, Rico.”

“I love this place, Des. Really, I do. Every time I think the real world’s spinning out of control I come to this safe, sane little haven of yours and discover that things are even more whacked than I thought.”

“Well, then you’d better prepare yourself, wow man. Because when it comes to whacked out I am just getting rolling.”

“Why, what else have you got?” he asked, peering at her.

By now they’d arrived at the trampled marsh grass where Des had found the blood. Yolie was huddled with the medical examiner’s man and several techies. Lots of ears. Too many. The rest of her story would have to wait.

“He’s been in that water no more than two hours, boss,” Yolie reported as they approached.

“Totally consistent with the time of the nine-one-one call,” Des said, glancing at her watch.

“Mind you, that’s strictly a preliminary estimate,” cautioned the death investigator. “This is a tidal estuary. You’ve got your colder salt water from Long Island Sound ebbing and flowing with the warmer river currents. A formulation for determining the mean water temperature for any prolonged amount of time is highly
complex. I’ll have to reference the tidal charts for this evening as well as factor in the—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” blustered Soave, who had an extremely low geek speak threshold. “He put up any kind of a fight?”

“Doesn’t appear so,” Yolie answered. “No obvious defensive cuts or bruising. But we won’t know for sure until they get him on the table. We’re looking at a single cut, very deep. A smooth, sharp blade. Something along the lines of a carving knife. The cut was most likely made from behind, which means we’re talking about a person who was strong enough to overpower him.”

“Unless there were two of them,” Des said.

“I’m down with that,” Yolie agreed. “It would explain how the body was moved from here all of the way down to the water. We’re talking, what, thirty feet? The victim was good-sized, yet there’s no sign he was dragged.”

“Meaning he was carried.” Soave tugged at his goatee thoughtfully. “Got to figure his blood got all over the person or persons who did this. There ought to be bloody clothing and shoes around here somewhere. Not to mention the carving knife. Only, jeez, is it dark down here or what? Have they ever heard of a little thing called streetlights in this place?”

“You’re in the country, Rico,” Des reminded him.

“Whatever. Come daylight, I want our scuba divers down here searching the river for the knife and for weighted-down clothing. They can hook up with the DEP if they need a boat. And I want all available men combing this marsh, that brush back there, the woods, everywhere.”

“Right, boss.” Yolie flipped open her cell phone.

“Anything I can do to help, Rico?”

“Would you mind informing the victim’s wife? We’ll catch up with you in a minute.”

Des strode back to the Procter house, her thoughts straying to
Carolyn’s sister Megan. Wondering if she was en route here from Maine at this very moment. Wondering if her arrival just a few precious hours sooner would have saved Richard’s life tonight.

Clay and Hector remained seated on the porch, eyeballing her calmly. They were cool customers. Des had to give them that much.

She tipped her hat and said, “Gentlemen, I need to give Carolyn the news about her husband now.”

Slowly, Clay reached for a cigarette and lit it. “I’ll be the one to tell her, if you don’t mind.”

“I appreciate you wanting to soften the blow, Mr. Mundy. But according to the laws of this state it’s my official duty to notify the next of kin. You’re not going to impede me, are you?”

“No, ma’am,” he assured her. “Absolutely not. Do what you got to do.”

A nightstand light was on in the bedroom, which was a soiled zoo cage reeking of sour sheets, overflowing ashtrays and its sweaty, unwashed occupant. Carolyn lay naked atop the wrought iron bed with an iPod plugged into her ears, head nodding lazily to the beat. Her eyes were open but she did not seem to notice Des standing there. Or Clay hovering behind Des in the doorway. She was in a stoned-out stupor. The lady was sporting a couple of fresh cigarette burns on her arms, Des noticed. But she did not spot a blow pipe or ice any other illegal drugs on the nightstand. Only beer cans.

“Carolyn …?” she said, standing over her.

No response. Nothing.

She reached down and pulled the earphones off. “Carolyn …?”

Slowly, Carolyn’s eyes began to focus. Or almost. “You … still here?” Her voice faint and dreamy.

“That was yesterday, Carolyn. I’m back again now. I need to talk to you about Richard.”

“He … left. I-I told you.”

“I’m very sorry, but I’m here to inform you that he’s dead.”

Carolyn blinked at her. “Away. Richard went away.”

“Carolyn, I just found him floating in the river. His throat has been cut. He’s
dead
, do-you-understand?”

With tweakers there was no such thing as an emotional middle ground. One moment the lady was lying there in a persistent vegetative state. The next, as the reality of her husband’s death hit home, Carolyn Procter turned into a wild woman.