The Sour Cherry Surprise

by David Handler

  “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 con
firmed. “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.”

  “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?”