The sour cherry surprise

“Then he shall stay here with me,” Patricia said without hesitation.

“Are you sure that’s okay?”

“Absolutely. I have plenty of room.”

Des had obtained the name and phone number of Richard’s doctor from Marge Jewett. She jotted the information down and handed it to Patricia. “Will you be able to pick him up tomorrow in Middletown?”

“I choose not to drive long distances anymore,” she replied. “But I can certainly arrange to retrieve him. Don’t you worry about Richard. He will be fine here. I’ll make sure he follows his doctor’s orders. Eats three square meals, gets his proper rest. And he and I shall sit down together and talk things over. He’s a highly intelligent man. He just needs a little time. And someone to listen to him.”

“You’re very kind, Mrs. Beckwith.”

“I assure you I am not. I’m the nastiest old bitch in town. Ask anyone.”

Des got back in her ride and started down the driveway, thinking about how all of this spoke to the single most important lesson she’d learned about Dorset: No one was who they appeared to be. Those frosty, scary patrician dowagers weren’t necessarily so frosty or scary. And those blond, perfect families like the Procters turned out to be just as screwed up as everyone else. More so, maybe, since they were such strangers to trouble in this orderly, privileged, unreal place. When they fell they fell hard. Which explained how a respected historian ended up out on Big Sister, mumbling to himself and subsisting on whatever food his daughter could steal for him, while his wife got strung out on crystal meth and allowed a pair of relative strangers to climb into her bed and do God knows what to her.

It was all just another nice, neat Dorset family snapshot, suitable for framing.

Des headed back up Turkey Neck to the stop sign at Old Shore Road. Made a left onto Old Shore Road and started home to change clothes for tonight’s big event. She hadn’t gone more than a half-mile when she noticed the big black Chevy Suburban in her rearview mirror coming up fast on her. Its driver, a jarhead in aviator shades, was way over the speed limit. And now the bastard was actually riding right up on her tail. Anybody dumb enough to climb up on a Crown Vic either had to be several drinks over the line or a complete chowderhead. She was wondering which this one was when he flashed his brights at her several times and gestured at her to pull over. As she slowed down he rocketed past her and made a hard, screeching right onto Mile Creek Road. She pursued him. Found him pulling onto the shoulder there and coming to a stop. Des pulled in behind him.

Before she could get out he’d leapt out of the Suburban and come charging at her with his his chest all puffed out. He was young, muscle-bound and terribly full of himself. A real testosterone cowboy in a red Izod shirt, jeans and running shoes. “Master Sergeant Mitry,” he blustered at her, his voice positively dripping with contempt. “Whatever are we going to do with you, Master Sergeant Mitry?“

“That all depends on who you are and why you pulled me over.”

He whipped off his shades, his eyes icy blue slits as he peered at her through her open window. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t know?”

“I am.”

“You must think I’m a total cretin.”

“Too soon to say, wow man. But give me time.”

He made an elaborate show of reaching into his back pocket for the FBI shield that identified him as Agent Grisky. “Now, I don’t know whether you’ve got a lost puppy or stolen tricycle or whatever it is you resident troopers do, but we can’t have you and your big hat tromping around in our pea patch, understand?”

“Not even a little, agent.”

Grisky sighed impatiently. “Back the hell off, will you? Because I will not let you take a crap all over six months of hard work.”

“Um, okay, are you trying to say I’ve walked into something?”

“As you know perfectly well.”

Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. “And how would I know that?”

“So, what, you’re really going to keep playing dumb?”

“I really am. Because I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Fine,” he snapped. “You want to play games, we’ll play games. For starters, stay put.” And with that he strutted his mad skills back toward his Suburban.

Watching him, Des felt absolutely certain he was a consummate quick draw artist between the sheets. A red hot thirty seconds from launch pad until blastoff, max. Following by ten good minutes of self-congratulation.

He reached inside the Suburban for his cell, flipped it open and speed-dialed someone. Talked into the phone. Listened. Then flipped it shut with a flourish and came back to her. “Tomorrow morning at ten in your barracks commander’s office,” he said. “And, lady, be prepared to get your ears chewed off.”

“I’ll be there. But I sure would appreciate it, one law enforcement professional to another, if you’d tell me what’s going on.”

“Not authorized to. But here’s an extreme idea-why don’t you give U.S. Attorney Stokes a nudge tonight and ask him?”

“Why, what’s Brandon got to do with this?”