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?”
Agent Grisky wouldn’t go there. Just smirked at her and said, “See you tomorrow, Master Sergent Mitry. Really dig the hat. Can I have one just like it when I grow up?”
The first time Des had seen Bitsy Peck’s immense, natural-shingled Victorian mansion out on Big Sister she’d said to herself: People who aren’t named Martha Stewart don’t actually live this way. They don’t own houses with this many turrets and sleeping porches. They don’t enjoy such views of Long Island Sound in every direction. They aren’t surrounded by such amazing gardens. But they did. They were. It was all for real. Same as Mitch’s little carriage house nestled beyond those gardens was real.
The early evening sky over the Sound was a dusty pink when she arrived. Parked cars were jammed everywhere. And fifty or so very polite people were enjoying drinks out on Bitsy’s deep wraparound porch, where she was hosting the monthly get-together of the Dorset Town Committee, a nonpartisan group of highly influential locals. Among other things, the Town Committee endorsed candidates for the State Senate, State Assembly and U.S. Congress. Tonight was a chance for its elite members to get to know Brandon. It was not a campaign fundraiser-although he’d warned Des there’d be people there from the party, not to mention photographers from the newspapers. It was simply a chance for Dorset’s People Who Matter to hang with the man who wanted to be their next congressman. The district’s current representative to D.C. had failed to carry Dorset, so for Brandon this was highly fertile ground.
And it certainly didn’t hurt to have the town’s resident trooper on hand to introduce him around and smile oh-so-adoringly at her brown-eyed handsome man.
The event was casual dress, which for the men meant madras blazers and for the women meant whatever was being featured in the current Talbot’s catalogue that was neutral-colored and dowdy. Des wore an untucked orange linen shirt, trimly cut ivory slacks and gold sandals.
She met up with Brandon when he pulled into Bitsy’s driveway accompanied by a pair of hyper, narrow-faced party operatives. He looked relaxed and ready. Also ultra-preppy in his new khaki-colored suit from Brooks Brothers. Used to be Brandon was more of an Armani man.
He smiled broadly at her as he got out of the car. “You’re not wearing your uniform,” he observed, giving her a big hug.
She batted her eyelashes at him. “You noticed.”
“Desi, I thought we decided it wouldn’t hurt to remind these good folks that I intend to be their law and order candidate.”
“I never wear my uni when I’m off duty.”
“Then why did you ask me if you should wear it?”
“Because I wanted to hear what your answer would be.”
Brandon tilted his head at her slightly. “Well, you definitely made the right choice,” he conceded, looking her up and down. “Although it’s going to be difficult for me to keep my mind on politics.”
“Brandon, we have to talk.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Only because it is.”
“We’ll find a quiet spot on the porch in a little while. Right now
…” He took her hand as they climbed the porch steps, squeezing it. “Are you ready for this?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she answered, taking a deep breath.
Together, they plunged in, Brandon towering over one and all at six-feet-six. Not that he was intimidating. The man could disarm anyone with his smile and rich, burgundy voice. Des introduced him straight away to Dorset’s snowy-haired first selectman, Bob Paffin, who still wasn’t totally comfortable having a resident trooper who was so young, female and black. And to Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux, the blond, blue-blooded attorney who felt just fine about Des-and soon hoped to unseat Bob Paffin. To Arthur Lewis, president of the local chapter of the Nature Conservancy, and Emma Knight, who ran Dorset’s No. 1 real estate agency. To the Inlands Wetlands commissioner and the commissioner of the Historic District. To the head of the school board, a mother of three whose oldest girl, Shannon, played on the Dorset High basketball team with Jen Beckwith. Des found herself wondering if Shannon had been at Jen’s Rainbow Party, and if so which color lip-gloss she’d worn.
There were platters of sweaty cocktail wienies and ice cold shrimp. Potluck dishes of ham and scalloped potatoes, tuna casserole and Mitch’s perennial favorite, American chop suey. All of which looked heavy and gloppy and way too much like warm vomit.
