The sour cherry surprise

“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.