afternoon.
Amber was a slender, lovely little thing in a sleeveless summer dress and rubber flip-flops. She was Portuguese on her mother’s side. It showed in her olive complexion and thick, shiny black hair, which she wore cropped short like a boy. Amber’s big, brown eyes were shiny and searching. She and Keith had been married for four months now, but it could just as easily have been four days the way he kept gazing at her. “And what brings you out this way?” she demanded in that spunky, forthright manner of hers.
Des filled them in on Richard Procter’s situation.
“This is so upsetting,” Amber lamented, her brow furrowing. “Richard was my mentor at Wesleyan. I wrote my senior thesis for him.” She was keenly interested in the social history of the Portuguese mill workers who’d settled in Southern Connecticut and Rhode Island a hundred years back. “It’s thanks to his recommendation that I was accepted into the master’s program at Yale. He also found us our cottage. I can’t believe he… It’s just awful him going to pieces this way. And it’s been real hard on Molly since he left.”
“We try to keep tabs on her,” said Keith, whose love-struck eyes never left Amber. Des tried to remember if Brandon had ever looked at her that way. The short answer was no. “I can’t tell you how many times we’ve asked that girl over for dinner. Or to watch a movie with us on TV. She always says ‘Gotta go’ and splits.”
“And do you know where that child sleeps at night?” demanded Amber, hands parked on her slim hips. “In her tree house. I can see her up there reading by flashlight.”
Which explained why Molly bunked with Jen whenever it rained, Des reflected as she continued to idle there in the road. You could sit in the middle of Sour Cherry for ten minutes and not encounter another vehicle. “Would you happen to know if either Richard or Carolyn have any family nearby?”
“None,” Amber replied with a shake of her head. “Both sets of parents are dead and Richard’s an only child. Carolyn’s sister, Megan, lives on an organic farm up in Blue Hill, Maine, with her life partner, Sue. The Procters go there every summer for their vacation. Or at least they used to.”
“Carolyn’s maiden name is Chichester?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Des jotted down that information before she said, “Did Richard and Carolyn used to fight a lot?”
“No, but…” Amber glanced up and down the lane just to make absolutely certain no one was within earshot. “Apparently, Richard got himself involved with another woman. And when Carolyn got wind of it she threw him out.”
“He brought this on himself,” Keith said soberly. “Not that we’re taking sides or anything. These things happen, right?”
“Any idea who the other woman is?”
Amber studied Des intently. “Why do you ask?”
“Because Richard’s a man who needs all of the help he can get right now.”
“We haven’t the slightest idea who she is.”
Meaning the odds were she wasn’t someone local. In Dorset it was practically impossible to play in the dirt without people finding out.
“And if Richard hasn’t sought her help,” Amber added, “then she must not be in a position to help.”
“You mean because she’s married herself?”
“That would be my guess.”
“This whole business came as a total shock to us,” Keith said. “Richard used to stop over for a beer all of the time. Him and me would talk carpentry projects. He’d ask Amber about her studies. He was always upbeat. We had no inkling that he was unhappy at home.”
“Carolyn we’ve never been quite as close to,” Amber said. “She’s so devoted to her responsibilities. Running Molly to and from school, working on one of her books. And ever since Richard has moved out she’s, well, how should I put this…”
“Gone skanky,” Keith put it bluntly. “Drinking morning, noon and night. Bringing strange guys home at all hours. One of them was this Clay who, near as I can tell, never does a day’s work. Not one guy I know has ever seen him on a job anywhere in town. You ask me, he’s just a drifter who’s found someone he can sponge off. Him and his buddy Hector both.”
Amber said, “I caught a glimpse of Carolyn on her porch the other day and I almost didn’t recognize her. The poor woman looks like she just walked away from a train wreck.”
“Only because she has.” Des wished the two lovebirds well, then eased her cruiser down the lane and up Patricia Beckwith’s steep, twisting driveway.
Dorset’s meanest, richest widow wasn’t sitting in her stuffy parlor sipping sweet sherry. She was perched regally on a kneeling stool, weeding one of the flower beds in front of her house. She wore green garden gloves for the job, with a fraying old seersucker shirt and raspberry-colored slacks. Her little dachshund was stretched out in the grass near her. It didn’t bark when Des climbed out of her cruiser, delivery in hand. Just watched her, black nose quivering.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Beckwith,” Des called out, pausing to savor the old lady’s panoramic view of Long Island Sound.
“And to you as well, trooper,” Patricia responded cordially. “What’s that you’ve got in your hand?”
“I bumped into it this morning,” Des said, holding Mitch’s worn paperback copy of Time and Again out to her.
Patricia took it from her gratefully. “How very thoughtful. I’ll look forward to reading and discussing it with you. And I promise to take good care of it. Would you like to come in for some lemonade?”
“Thank you, no. I can only stay a second. I just wanted you to know that I’ve located Professor Procter. It seems he’s been sleeping in somebody’s barn out on Big Sister.”
The old woman’s eyes widened in shock. “Why, the poor man must be out of his mind.”
“Situational depression is what they call it.”
“To do with his problems at home?”
Des nodded. “Apparently, he even got into a scuffle with the new man in Carolyn’s life. He’s presently up at Connecticut Valley Hospital in Middletown. Likely to be released tomorrow.”
“I see. Well, I thank you for the update. And for your thorough professionalism of last night. I apologize for the manner in which Jen inconvenienced you.”
“It was no inconvenience. That’s why I’m here.”
“Nonetheless, I’ve spoken with First Selectman Paffin and told him what an outstanding asset you are to our community.”
“That really wasn’t necessary, ma’am.”
“I assure you it was. And if I can ever repay you…”
“You can, as a matter of fact.”
The old woman stiffened ever so slightly. “Yes, what is it?”
“Richard is going to need supervision for a while. Someone making sure he takes his medication and shows up at his counseling appointments and so forth. He doesn’t seem to have anyone to turn to. Or a place to stay.”
“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
