The sour cherry surprise

And lights blazing inside and outside the first farmhouse on the left, where Dorset’s volunteer ambulance van was wedged in the driveway between a red Saab convertible and a portable basketball hoop. The name on the mailbox said Beckwith. Des knew the Beckwith name. Patricia Beckwith, who lived in that mansion up there, was the village’s richest, most fearsome old widow. Des also knew Sour Cherry. Keith Sullivan, the young electrician who’d rewired her house, lived in a little place next door to this one with his new bride, Amber, who was a grad student at Yale. Des had been to a cookout at the Sullivans’ house back when she and Mitch were still together. She did not know who lived in the house directly across the lane from the Beckwith farmhouse. The van parked in the driveway there, which belonged to Nutmegger Professional Seamless Gutters, reminded Des she needed to call someone to come clean out her own downspouts. Because when it came to such dirty household chores Brandon qualified as a never.

Marge and Mary Jewett, two no-nonsense sisters in their fifties, ran Dorset’s volunteer ambulance service. Marge was loading their gear back into the van when Des got out of her cruiser. Mary was still inside the house.

“Hey, Marge, what have we got?”

“A slightly freaked out sixteen-year-old named Jen Beckwith,” Marge responded with cool professional detachment.

No familiarity. No warmth. Just that same cold shoulder so many of the locals had been giving Des since the breakup. Her romance with Mitch had been a feel-good story in Dorset. The single black female trooper and the Jewish widower from New York were beloved prime-time entertainment. But now that Mitch was out and Brandon was in, Des was simply one half of That Black Couple who lived on Uncas Lake Road. She hadn’t known how good she’d had it before. She’d enjoyed Dorset at its most welcoming. Now she was experiencing its other side. In a small town, other people felt they owned your life.

“It seems Jen was hosting a party,” Marge continued crisply. “There were boys. There was alcohol. And she’s on Zoloft, a prescription antidepressant that does not interact well with alcohol. She claims she downed a couple of Mike’s Hard Lemonades. Then her heart started racing so fast she thought she was having a heart attack and she called us. But her heart rate was totally normal when we got here. Blood pressure, too. She’s alert, responsive and seems completely sober. Frankly, if she had more than two sips of anything I’d be surprised.”

“Were they doing drugs?”

“She says no.”

“And do we believe her?”

“I do,” Marge said defensively. “With all due respect, I know Jen. She’s as straight as they come. A National Merit Scholar. First team All-Shoreline at basketball and soccer. My guess? Reaching out to us was her way of hitting the panic button. Something was going on here tonight that upset her.”

“Something sexual?”

“Doesn’t look like she was fighting anybody off. But she won’t tell us a thing.”

“Any of the other kids still around?”

Marge shook her head. “They were hightailing it up Turkey Neck just as we were getting here.”

“Recognize any of them?”

“I was just trying to keep my bus on the road. But I do know who some of her friends are, if it comes to that. They’re athletes, most of them. Good families.”

“And where are her parents?”

“Single parent, Kimberly. Jen says she’s out of town for a couple of nights.” Marge gestured with her chin over in the direction of the mansion. “Jen’s dad was Johnny Junior, old lady Beckwith’s son. He died three, four years ago.”

Now Mary Jewett came out the front door of the house and joined them. Marge was three years older but the sisters looked enough alike to be twins.

“The latest I heard,” Mary put in, “is Kimberly’s been having her spine readjusted by Steve Gardiner, that chiropractor over in Old Saybrook. He’s her boss. He’s also married, which is nothing new for Kimberly.”

“She left Jen here alone?”

“Her grandmother’s supposed to be looking out for her,” Marge answered.

“You’re not expecting us to call her, are you?” Mary’s voice grew heavy with dread.

“No, I’ll take over from here. You girls can go back to bed.”

The small living room was strewn with beer cans and hard lemonade bottles. Since Des hadn’t personally witnessed any illegal drinking she had wiggle room, which was a good thing. Under a new Connecticut state law, adults were being busted for allowing underage drinking in their homes-even if they hadn’t known it was going on. The law complicated her life as a resident trooper. She preferred to work with parents and their teenaged kids, not treat them like felons.

Cushions were heaped here and there on the floor. A lot of candles lit, the lights turned low. The air reeked of heavy perfume and cologne. She did not smell any pot smoke. Saw no roaches in the ashtray on the coffee table. What she did see on the table were five, six, seven different lipsticks in colors ranging from tangerine to bronze to grape.