The Sour Cherry Surprise (7 page)

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.”