The Sour Cherry Surprise (6 page)

“Bella …”

“And don’t you tell me he’s changed because he hasn’t. People never do.”

“Bella, if we’re going to stay friends then the subject of Brandon will have to remain off-limits. Deal?”

“Fine,” she snapped. “But only if you eat a little something. How about a nice, thick brisket sandwich? I’ve got fresh challah.”

“Why don’t you just tell me about this prowler?”

“I’m not sure it’s a
prowler
. But I do keep finding signs that someone has taken up residence out here.”

“You mean like a homeless person?”

“Come, I’ll show you.”

She led Des outside to the barn. The stray cats that they’d rescued together were parked inside in their cages, waiting not-so-patiently for homes. A lanky, bespectacled girl of about ten was feeding them.

“Hey, Bella,” the girl said, studying Des guardedly.

“Molly, this is Trooper Mitry.”

Molly had curly blond hair and freckles and a pink, busy little nose. “Hullo …”

Des smiled at the girl. “Hello, yourself.”

“Now, do you see the way these tarps and dropcloths are all laid out?” Bella was motioning to the sprung, moth-eaten old sofa. “Every morning, I find them rearranged. One morning, there was a pea coat here. A man’s coat. Next morning, it was gone. Also, someone has been taking food from me. When I came home from the dentist the other day my fruit bowl on the table was empty.”

“Have any of the other residents seen him?”

Bella shook her head. “Bitsy Peck thinks I’m seeing ghosts.”

Which was only natural, Des reflected. The whole damned island felt haunted. “How about you, Molly? Have you seen anyone out here who doesn’t belong?”

“Absolutely not,” the girl answered vehemently, her cheeks mottling.

Des studied her curiously. “You sound pretty sure about that.”

“Because I am.”

Des gestured for Bella to follow her back out into the sunlight. “Talk to me about this Molly,” she said to her softly.

“She helps me with the cats. Lives on Sour Cherry Lane. She’s a bright little thing, but a bit lost. Her parents have split up.”

“Last name Procter?”

“That’s right.”

Des stood there thinking about her conversation of last night with the regal Patricia Beckwith. Putting two and two together. Wondering what it added up to. “If you don’t mind,” she said, her voice raised, “I think I will have that brisket sandwich.”

They went back inside, Bella charging straight into the kitchen. “Do you want mustard or mayo on that?” she called to Des.

“Neither,” Des replied, watching the barn through the bay window in the living room. “And you can hold the sandwich.”

“I don’t get it,
tattela
. What are you doing?”

“Playing a hunch.”

Sure enough, little Molly soon came scurrying out of the barn. She shot a wide-eyed glance over her shoulder at Mitch’s cottage, then skedaddled down the path to the lighthouse. Des went out the door after her, following from a careful distance as the path wound its way through the wild beach plum and beach roses. Molly dashed past the lighthouse toward the island’s narrow stretch of beach. Her destination was a little sand knoll about thirty feet back from the high tide line. A valiant cluster of little cedars grew there. Molly squeezed in between them and then vanished.

Des followed, her footsteps silent on the soft, dry sand.

There was a protected little burrow there amid the trees where the man was seated on his pea coat. He was thin and unshaven, with receding sandy-colored hair and a long, sharp nose. He wore a torn, bloodstained blue button-down shirt and khaki trousers that were filthy. He’d been in a fight. His eggplant-colored left eye was swollen shut. His lower lip all fat and raw, as was his left ear. In his hand was a plastic bottle of Poland Spring water.

The girl was trying to get him to drink some of it. He wasn’t showing any interest.

“Your dad may need professional help, Molly,” Des spoke up, startling the hell out of her.

Richard Procter didn’t react at all.

“Just leave us alone, will you?” Molly cried out angrily. “He’s
okay!
“

Des knelt before the professor. He didn’t seem okay. Dazed was more like it, his gaze unfocused and blank. “Richard, do you know where you are?”

“They both threw me out.” His voice was a hollow murmur.

“Can you tell me what day this is, Richard?”

“They both threw me out,” he repeated.

“Richard …?”

“Leave him
alone!
“

Gently, Des pushed the man over onto his side so she could snatch his wallet from his back pocket. He offered no resistance. His Connecticut driver’s license did indeed identify him as Richard Hearn Procter. As did his credit cards. There was no money in the wallet.

“Molly, how long has he been this way?”

“Why?”

“Honey, I know you’re trying to help him but he needs medical attention. Trust me, it’s for his own good.”

“Oh, what would
you
know about it?” Molly demanded. “You’re going to wreck everything.
Everything!”
Then the little girl gave her an angry shove and went sprinting back across the beach in the direction of Mitch’s cottage.

Her father didn’t seem to notice. Just stared out at the water, unblinking, and said it one more time: “They both threw me out.”

Shaking her head, Des reached for her cell and called the Jewett sisters.

“H
ONESTLY
, I
CAN’T REMEMBER
the last time I was this happy,” Mitch exclaimed as he wolfed down some more of his chef salad. “The job is fun. Being on TV is fun. And I feel incredible.”

Lacy Nickerson took a bite of her ten-ounce bacon cheeseburger, gazing admiringly at Mitch’s biceps inside his fitted polo shirt. “Well, you certainly look incredible. But just between us, kiddo, what happened to your eyebrows?”

“Why, what’s wrong with them?”

“Not a thing. I simply never realized before that you bear such an eerie resemblance to Joan Crawford.”

Mitch’s former editor speared some fries with her fork and washed them down with a swig of New Amsterdam ale. Lacy ate and drank like a longshoreman, yet remained needle thin. She was a tall, impeccably groomed tuning fork of a woman who, at age fifty-seven, had been the most influential cultural arbiter in New York until the empire pushed her out in favor of the younger Shauna. Not that Lacy seemed at all bitter. She was her same upbeat, A-list self. It was she who had called Mitch to meet her for lunch at Pete’s Tavern, the historic landmark on East 18th and Irving Place that opened its doors when Lincoln was in the White House and had never closed them. She lived right around the corner in a three-bedroom apartment overlooking Gramercy Park with husband number five, a Wall Street titan.

And she still had pull—they were sharing one of Pete’s prized sidewalk tables. Lacy dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and
studied him there in the afternoon sunlight. “If you’re doing what you want to be doing then I couldn’t be more pleased for you. Although that does mean I’m wasting my time.”

“Wasting your time how?”

“I’m here to proposition you.”

“Lacy, I’m flattered but I’ve never thought of you as more than a friend.”

“Stop! This is me being serious. Mitch, I’ve been reading your pieces very closely of late and I don’t feel you’re doing your best work. Your insights lack their usual depth and passion. You seem hurried.”

Mitch sipped his iced tea with lemon, no sugar. “Only because I am. I’m still learning how to manage my time better. I’ve decided to take on a Web intern for all of the Peg Entwistles.”

“All of the what?”

“The movie trivia for my Web site. We get a ton of hits. Shauna says people are totally hooked.”

“And Peg Entwistle is …?”

“Was
the struggling young actress who jumped to her death from the letter H of the HOLLYWOOD sign on September 18, 1932. Caused quite a stir at the time, believe me.”

“Oh, I do.” Lacy cocked her head at him slightly. “And I think I get it now. This new editor …”

“Intergroup manager.”

“She’s trying to dumb you down.”

“She is not. I’m free to write what I want, how I want. She’s just not much for spitballing is all. Maybe that’s what you’re noticing—how much I miss
us
.”

“Stop it, you’re going to make me weep.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t tell me you’re sorry,” she huffed. “Tell me what you’re working on for Sunday.”

He grinned at her. “I thought you’d never ask. Okay, here it is: I keep noticing how there are two distinct species of leading men—those who ripen and mature before our eyes and those who simply become aging boys. Take Tom Cruise …”

“You take him,” she sniffed.

“For me, he’s still a boy up there on that screen even though he’s, what, forty-six? Same goes for Hugh Grant. Sean Penn, on the other hand, has become a man.”

“Just like Harrison Ford,” Lacy said, nodding her head. “He gets better the older he grows. Meanwhile, Sly Stallone has become a total joke.”

“Hold on, Sly Stallone was always a total joke.”

“I am absolutely loving your premise, Mitch. Trust me, I have dated a lot of successful men in my time….” In her wild youth Lacy claimed to have bedded the likes of Irwin Shaw, Mickey Mantle and Nelson Rockefeller. “It doesn’t matter whether they’re forty or fifty or even sixty—some grow up, others never do.”

“And the screen merely reflects it,” Mitch said, nodding. “Like a great big wide-screen mirror—complete with Dolby sound.”

“God, a million names are suddenly racing through my head,” Lacy said excitedly. “Like Newman …”

“A grown man.”

“And Redford?”

“Still a boy, definitely.”

Their waiter came by and cleared their table. They ordered espressos.

“I’ve missed this, too,” Lacy sighed. “Mitch, we owe it to ourselves to be together again.”

“How?”

“Funny you should ask,” she said, wagging a long, manicured finger at him. “I’ve spent these past months figuring out what I would do if I could do anything. And I’m doing it. Kiddo, I’m
starting up a new arts magazine. Or I should say Webzine, since my money genius has convinced me it’s the only way to go. I’m bringing all of the finest young critics and essayists I know together on one site. Our primary focus will be on New York at first, but I believe we’ll build a national following very quickly because I’m convinced that fresh, passionate writing is still what people want—no matter whether they live in Tribeca or Billings, Montana. I want the best, Mitch. And when it comes to movies that means you. It’ll mean less money, of course. I can’t compete with the empire. I’m not even sure I can offer you a health plan. But it’s a chance for us to be together again. And to hell with Peg Entwistle.”

The waiter returned with their coffees.

Mitch took a slow sip of his before he said, “They’re giving me my own weekly half-hour show, Lacy. I’ll be spending a lot of my time in L.A. from now on.”

She looked at him in surprise. “You never wanted that sort of thing before.”

“You’re right, I didn’t. But the world is changing, and I have to embrace change.”

She nodded her head at him sagely. “This is all about Des, isn’t it?”

“It has nothing to do with Des. Why would you even think that?”

“Because I’ve been dumped by the best—and
embraced change
like you wouldn’t believe. God, I even moved to Tibet for six months after my Harry Reasoner thing. Honestly, kiddo, you’re doing great. You’re positive. You’re productive. I just want to make sure you’re not turning yourself into a sculpted Roger Ebert wannabe because you think it will impress her.”

“Lacy, I’m completely over Des.”

“If that’s the case then I have a terrific woman for you.”

“Not interested. I’m really not looking to get involved again.
Not for a long, long time.” Mitch drained his espresso. “Why, who is she?”

“My new dance critic. She just moved here from London. In fact, she’s living in my spare room until she finds a place. Her grand-daddy was the Earl of somewhere. She’s a graduate of Oxford. A gourmet chef. Tall, slim
and
a dead ringer for Diana Rigg.”

“Diana Rigg then or now?”

“She’s twenty-eight. And don’t be mean. Her name is Cecily Naughton. She goes by C.C. in her byline.”

“Sure, I’ve read her pieces in
Vanity Fair
. She’s wicked funny. And so insightful.”

“She used to be a dancer herself.”

Mitch’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Lacy let out a hoot. “What is it with men? I can talk until I’m blue in the face about a terrific woman and get nowhere with you. But if I so much as mention the word ‘dancer’ or ‘model’ you start drooling like horny teenaged boys.”

“That’s totally your imagination.”

“Do you want to call her?”

“Lacy, I’m afraid I just don’t have the time right now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mitch. And very sorry that you and I won’t be working together again.” Her eyes searched his for a moment before they let go. “My door is always open in case you change your mind.”

“That’s incredibly nice of you, but I won’t be.” Mitch beamed at her. “Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I was this happy.”

“Y
OU’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.