The sour cherry surprise bam-6

by David Handler

  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.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Honestly, 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 y
ou.”

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “You’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.

  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 con
fident 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.