The Sour Cherry Surprise (8 page)

“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.”