The sour cherry surprise bam-6 Read online

  “Brandon, you don’t even know me anymore,” she had said.

  To which he had said: “Yes, I do. You’re still the woman I fell in love with. We weren’t ready for each other, Desi. And we both got a little lost. But now we’ve found each other again.”

  When he’d taken her in his arms and kissed her it was as if he’d never left. And she had never even known that overweight Jewish film critic from New York City named Mitch Berger. There was Brandon and there was no one else. He was everything she’d ever wanted. Everything. They belonged together. So she had forgiven him. That’s what you did when you loved someone. Okay, sure, their marriage had failed. But Des believed in their marriage. Believed in commitment. That was who she was. Life with Brandon was who she was. He had a new high-powered federal prosecutor’s gig in New Haven. Exciting plans to run for the U.S. Congress as the Democratic Party’s great black hope. They were getting along great. Life was good. It was all good.

  Mitch hadn’t been a mistake. He was simply what she’d needed at the time. Just as her art had been what she’d needed. Her walk on the wild side. The one she’d never had when she was such a straight arrow at West Point. She would always look back on Mitch fondly. Dream about him, too, apparently. But that time in her life was over now. She was back to real.

  When the coffee was ready she filled her travel mug and went out the side door to her Crown Vic, sipping the strong brew as she eased her way down the hill to the Boston Post Road, then south toward Old Shore Road. Soon it would be Des’s busy season here on the Gold Coast. After the Fourth of July Dorset’s sedate year-round population of 7,000 would swell to a boisterous 14,000. Right now, the historic shoreline village at the mouth of the Connecticut River, halfway between New York and Boston, was fast asleep in the hazy dark of night. Des drove with her high beams on, the eyes of night creatures shining at her from the brush alongside the deserted road.

  She got off Old Shore Road at Turkey Neck Lane, which wended its way through meadows and marshland before it arrived at Sour Cherry Lane, onetime home of the landing for the ferry that in days of yore was the only way across the river to Old Saybrook. These days, Sour Cherry was a remote little enclave tucked away among the wild orchards that gave the lane its name. There were three weathered farmhouses, rentals, all of them. And perched high on a rocky ledge above them, a white-shingled mansion that commanded a view of the farmhouses, the river, Big Sister Island and Long Island Sound. There were lights on in the mansion.

  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.

  Right away, Des had a pretty good idea what had been going on. She just hadn’t known it was going on in Dorset.

  The lipstick Jen Beckwith had on was hot pink. She wore no other makeup. Jen was a slim girl with blue eyes and long, shiny blond hair. She was almost but not quite pretty. Her forehead was a bit high, chin too pointy. And her mouth was drawn terribly tight. Hers was not the face of a girl who smiled easily. Jen wore a cropped, sleeveless belly shirt, a pair of thigh-high shorts and flipflops. She took care of her body.
There wasn’t an ounce of extra flab on her toned, muscular arms or shapely golden legs. Her right knee jiggled nervously as she sat there on the sofa. Her hair and clothing appeared totally neat. No scratches. No signs of a struggle.

  Des took off her big hat and sat in the armchair across the coffee table from Jen. Outside, the Jewett girls backed out of the driveway and steamed up the lane for home. “Hey, Jen, I’m Resident Trooper Mitry.”

  “I know who you are.” Her voice was small.

  “I won’t ask you who else was here tonight because I know you won’t tell me and it would just be embarrassing for both of us. But do you want to tell me what happened?”

  “I had some friends over,” Jen replied, her eyes fastened on the carpet. “We had some beers and stuff. Nothing major. But then my heart started beating really fast and I remembered I’m not supposed to drink because of these pills I’m taking so I-”

  “Going to stick with that story, are you?”

  “It’s not a story,” Jen insisted, raising her sharp chin at her.

  “Okay, fine. But tell me something-was this your first?”

  “My first what?”

  “Rainbow Party.”

  Jen reddened. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Girl, do you honestly think I don’t know what was going on here? These things started in the inner city at least eighteen months ago.”

  “Look, I don’t want to talk to about it, okay?”

  “Then do you want to wipe that dumb-ass lipstick off your mouth? You look like you just chugalugged a whole bottle of Pepto-Bismol.”

  Jen heaved a suffering sigh, then reluctantly got up and fetched a tissue from the kitchen.

  “Okay, here’s what I’m guessing happened,” Des said as the girl sat back down, wiping her mouth clean. “Tonight was your very first one. Maybe you weren’t even totally up for it. It was more like something of a dare. And when things started moving right along, well, you realized you really weren’t happy.”

  “I didn’t punk out,” Jen objected heatedly.

  “Didn’t say you did. I’m saying you showed a healthy dose of respect for yourself. Trouble was, you couldn’t exactly take off because this is your own house-so you dialed nine-one-one and pulled the plug. Smart move, Jen. Give yourself a high five. Only, now here comes the bad news: I have to contact your mother. And take you to Shoreline Clinic for a blood sample to determine your drug and alcohol level.”

  “But I didn’t do anything!”

  “Your call was logged, Jen. I have to follow the rules. If I don’t, I lose my job.”

  “My mom’s on Block Island. I’m not even sure of the phone number.”

  “Then I have to call your grandmother.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “You mean right now?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Have you ever met my grandmother?”

  “No, I’ve never had that pleasure.”

  “Oh, this is going to be just great…”

  “Do you have to tell her everything?”

  “She already knows about the drinking,” Des pointed out as she steered her cruiser back toward Dorset. It had been quiet at the clinic tonight. They’d whisked Jen in and out. Now the two of them were headed for her grandmother’s house.

  Patricia Beckwith was waiting up for them. When Des had phoned her the old lady hadn’t tried to talk her out of the blood test. Or demanded to accompany them, as was her legal right. She’d simply intoned: “Our society’s laws apply to everyone. Do what you must. My porch light will be on.”

  “And I’m afraid I do have to tell her what else you were up to,” Des added.

  “But that is everything,” Jen pointed out.

  “Then I guess I have to tell her everything,” acknowledged Des, who was not entirely happy about it. Because if she landed too hard on a kid like Jen then Jen would never reach out to her if something truly awful was going down. Kids got high. Kids got busy. It wasn’t Des’s business to tell their parents how to raise them. But it was her business to make sure nobody got stupid. Some of those kids who Marge Jewett had seen hightailing it from Jen’s may have been over the legal limit. And that was the very definition of stupid. She glanced over at Jen, who’d thrown on a Dorset High hoody and was hugging a book bag in her lap, looking all of thirteen. “How about you? Do you have someone who you can talk to about this?”

  Jen let out a hollow laugh. “I have my shrink. She’s the one who put me on Zoloft.”

  “What happens when you’re not on it?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Just asking.”

  “I obsess, okay?”

  “About…?”

  “My flaws. Like if I screw up a single answer on a test. Or miss one free throw in a game. Trust me, I can turn myself into a real nut job.”

  “Not everyone gets sixteen hundred on their SATs and scores a hundred points a game. It’s okay to fail.”

  “Now you sound just like my shrink.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “No way. I mean, there’s a guy I used to like but they’re all such immature assholes.”

  “Most of them.” Des turned in at Patricia Beckwith’s mailbox now. As she started up the steep, twisting driveway she could feel the girl shrink into the seat, both knees jiggling. “Was he one of the boys at your party tonight?”

  Jen nodded her head, swallowing.

  The driveway crested at the top of the hill and circled around in front of the big house, which was one of the oldest center chimney colonials in Dorset, dating back to the early 1700s. The porch light was on, as promised. Des pulled up out front and parked. From where they sat she could see the lights of Old Saybrook across the river.

  “Jen, I wear a lot of other hats besides this big one. If you ever want to sit down over a cup of coffee, call me, okay?”

  Jen didn’t respond. Just took the card Des offered her and stuffed it into her book bag.

  Patricia Beckwith stood out on the front porch waiting for them in a blue silk robe and red and white striped pajamas, her feet in a pair of sheepskin slippers. She was a tall, straight, silver-haired woman of rigid dignity. About seventy-five, with a long, seamed face and wide-set blue eyes. It was a face unaccustomed to spontaneous laughter and smiles. It was the face that Jen had inherited.

  “Real sorry about this, Nana,” the girl murmured as she slipped past her into the house.

  “As well you should be, young lady.” Patricia didn’t sound angry. Her voice was surprisingly gentle.

  The entry hall had an umbrella stand with a mirror. A grandfather clock that wasn’t running. A steep, L-shaped staircase that led up to the second floor.

  “I’ve made up the room next to mine,” she called to Jen, who was already halfway up the stairs. “We shall have a proper talk in the morning.”

  “Whatever you say.” Jen paused on the stairs and added, “Nice meeting you, trooper.”

  “Make it Des. And I meant that about the coffee, you hear?”

  Jen nodded her blond head. “I hear you. Thanks.” Then she went up to her room and shut the door.

  “Why was she thanking you?” Patricia demanded to know.

  “For listening, I suppose.”

  “To what, her feverish adolescent rants? Did you know that a psychiatrist has put that girl on happy-happy pills? What rubbish. Jen’s a bright, healthy young woman who excels at anything she sets her mind to. She’s a born achiever. Has a wonderful life ahead of her. And instead of enjoying it she pops pills and sits in a room three times a week whining to a total stranger. We all have problems in this life. When you have a problem, you solve it. And if you’re unhappy, well, get used to it. Life isn’t for sissies.”

  “Mrs. Beckwith, you and I need to have a talk.”

  “Certainly.”

  She led Des into a small, paneled parlor that was stuffy and smelled of old books and mold. The ceiling was very low in there, the beams exposed. There was a walk-in stone fireplace. One
entire wall of built-in bookcases crammed with hardcover books. There was a chintz loveseat and matching wingback chair. Next to the chair was an end table that had a collection of Edith Wharton stories on it along with an open box of chocolate-covered cherries, a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry and a half-empty wine goblet.

  A gray-muzzled dachshund was dozing in the chair. Patricia picked it up and sat with it in her lap, the dog not so much as stirring. Des sat on the love seat, twirling her hat in her hands.

  “Now what is this all about, trooper?” There was a fixed brightness to the old lady’s gaze that was meant to intimidate, and did. “And kindly do not pander to me. I cannot abide people who treat me like a doddering old fool. Speak plainly and accurately and we shall get along fine.”

  “Jen was throwing a party at her house. There was alcohol. And no adult supervision on the premises.”

  “An obvious failure on my part,” Patricia conceded readily. “Jen is studious and sensible-nothing at all like her mother. I had no idea she was planning any such party.” She took a small sip of her sherry. “Tell me, was there sexual activity?”

  “Of a sort, yes.”

  Patricia’s gaze turned icy. “Just exactly what sort?”

  “That’s something I’d prefer to discuss with her mother.”

  “And you shall. I have the phone number of the inn where Kimberly is presently shacked up with her married chiropractor. She will return to Dorset on the very first ferry tomorrow morning if I have anything to say about it. And believe me, I do. I allow her to live in their cottage rent-free. I provide health insurance for her and Jen both. I paid for Jen’s car. I intend to pay for her college education. Furthermore, it is I who you’ve phoned at two a.m. So you will kindly provide me with the details.”

  Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose and said, “There’s a game the kids play. They call it a Rainbow Party. It’s, well, think of it as an X-rated version of Spin the Bottle.”