mom, an art critic, was tight with Lacy, his editor.
Callie’s bicycle was parked by the sagging front porch. So was the sisters’ ancient blue Peugeot station wagon. Winston’s vintage MGTD ragtop was parked there, too, though it no longer ran.
Which was just as well. Winston, who’d been married to Luanne and Lila’s late sister Lorelei, was in no condition to drive it or any other vehicle. He’d been a celebrated New Yorker cartoonist back in his heyday, a dashing and colorful personality with a signature handlebar moustache. Near as Mitch could tell, both Luanne and Lila had harbored schoolgirl crushes on him when Lorelei was alive. These days they functioned as his full-time caregivers. He needed full-time caregivers. At first, folks around Dorset had attributed Winston’s increasingly peculiar behavior to his tippling. He did like his liquor. And Dorset was no stranger to elderly drinkers who liked to kick up their heels after eight or ten martinis. But Winston’s case took an extreme turn. One day, he ran stark naked down Turkey Neck in broad daylight shouting about how badly he wanted to stick his pecker in “some one or some thing.” Actually made it all the way to the mini-mart on Old Shore Road before Des was able to corral him. Then he took to behaving badly in the dining room at the Dorset Country Club. Groping the breasts and bottoms of the waitresses. Groping himself. And then-the final straw-diving under a table and burying his face between the enormous wattled thighs of Amanda Heyer, age eighty-two.
Quite simply, the poor man seemed to have lost all sexual inhibitions. It wasn’t Alzheimer’s disease, as some around town had speculated. It was frontotemporal dementia. There was no cure and no effective way to slow its progression. All that the doctors could do was try to manage Winston’s behavioral symptoms with medication. All that the sisters could do was try to keep him calm, clean and fed-and watch him get steadily worse. They’d have to put him in a nursing home when they could no longer handle him.
Mitch climbed out of his Studey, gathered up the two cartons of food he’d brought and let himself in the front door. Like a lot of the old houses in Dorset, the Joshua place had wide-planked oak floors and low ceilings. Unlike a lot of the old houses it reeked of mildewed rugs and cat urine. Nearly a dozen cats dozed here, there, everywhere. The sisters needed them. They had mice here, there, everywhere. Also spiderwebs and dust bunnies like he’d never seen before. If they owned a vacuum they hadn’t used it since the dawn of the twenty-first century. There was an eerie, lost-in-time aura about the Joshua place. Maybe it was all of those antique, hand-wound wall clocks that were tick-tick-ticking away in every room, each one keeping its own sweet time. Or maybe it was all of those empty spaces on the walls. Luanne and Lila had been forced to sell off many of the old family paintings. A lot of their antique furniture was gone, too. He could still see the depressions in the rug where their dining table once stood.
He called out to them.
“Good morning, Mitch!” Luanne responded cheerily.
“We’re in the kitchen, dear!” Lila chimed in.
They were sipping their morning coffee at the kitchen table, each of them immaculately turned out in a crisp summer dress, freshly made-up, coiffed and perfumed. Luanne and Lila were always very particular about their appearance. They were also unfailingly gracious and upbeat. Both sisters were blue eyed and silver haired, but the resemblance ended there. Lila, the younger of the two, was slender, shy and had a fluttery, clueless manner. Luanne, her big sister, was stockier, calmer and gave the impression of being on top of things. She wasn’t. They were equally helpless. As far as Mitch knew, neither sister had ever held a job. Or lived anywhere else. All they had was each other and this old house, which they refused to sell but couldn’t afford to keep up. To save on heat during the cold months they occupied a mere half-dozen of its twenty-eight rooms. There were entire wings of the place that Mitch felt certain they hadn’t entered in years. He couldn’t imagine what manner of wildlife lived up in the attic.
There was a glassed-in sun porch off the kitchen that the sisters were letting Callie use as a studio. She liked to work on her free-form paintings in there. Fling paint, in other words. It was all over the windows, walls and floors. Think Jackson Pollack. Think projectile vomiting.
“It’s a beautiful day, is it not, Mitch?” Luanne exclaimed, petting the black cat that was sprawled on the kitchen table.
“Yes, it certainly is,” agreed Mitch, who was starting to feel light-headed. It wasn’t just their heavy, fruity perfume. It smelled awful in there, as if something had died in one of the cupboards. He deposited the cartons of provisions on the counter. The canned goods, cereal and bread were courtesy of the Food Pantry. He’d bought the milk, eggs and orange juice at the A amp;P with his own money. Not that they knew. There was no reason for them to know.
“This is so kind of you, Mitch,” Lila said in that trembly voice of hers that always reminded him of Katherine Hepburn in Stage Door. He kept expecting her to come out with: “The calla lilies are in bloom again. ”
“My pleasure,” he said, edging over toward an open window for some fresh air. From there he could see their stone patio and the two acres or so of lawn that he’d mowed for them last week. Beyond the lawn there was a sliver of beach at the water’s edge. And an incredible panoramic view. On a clear day you could see Long Island. A dense thicket of trees stood between the Joshuas and their new neighbor. “How is Winston doing this morning?”
“Fine and dandy,” Luanne replied. “I just shaved him with that nice Norelco you picked up for us. You’re so clever.” A decline in personal hygiene was another symptom of Winston’s dementia. The sisters had been unable to shave him with a blade because he refused to sit still. “Right now he’s having a good soak in a hot tub. Or I should say a warm tub. Our furnace is on its last legs. Assuming, that is, furnaces have legs.”
“Ours does. It most certainly sits on legs.” Lila glanced at him hesitantly. “Mitch, I hate to bother you but have you noticed a slight odor?”
“Why, no, I haven’t.”
“That silly sink of ours is backed up again. Could you?…”
Mitch had a look. And a whiff. The sink had two inches of fetid brown water in it. “Where do you keep your plunger?”
“In the cupboard under the sink,” Luanne said.
He could hear all sorts of scurrying around in there as he searched for the plunger, shuddering inwardly. There was no telling what lived under there. Or how sharp its teeth were. He took the plunger to the clogged drain and brought up a fist-sized clump of either stringy vegetable matter, hair or, possibly, the earthly remains of a drowned mouse. He didn’t know. Didn’t want to know. But that black cat was watching him from the kitchen table with keen interest. Mitch bagged it-the clump, not the cat-and took it out to the trash. Then he ran the faucet for a minute to make sure the drain was clear.
He was just about to take off when he heard a loud thud upstairs.
“Ah, that’ll be Winston,” Luanne said. “Mitch, would you mind lending us your strong back? He’s a bit heavy for us to hoist out of the tub.”
There were at least eight bedrooms on the second floor. The bath that adjoined Winston’s room was right at the top of the stairs.
He was sitting in an old claw-footed tub calmly soaking away. Winston was a big man, well over six feet tall. He’d rowed at Princeton and still had the broad shoulders to prove it. But the rest of him resembled a sagging old water buffalo. His skin hung from him in loose, billowing folds. Winston’s hair, what little there was of it, was white. So was his handlebar moustache, which Mitch noticed looked kind of ratty and uneven.
Luanne noticed it, too. “Winnie, have you been chewing on our moustache again?”
“I’d rather chew on yours,” he replied, his blue eyes twinkling at her.
“Now don’t you be naughty, dear.”
“What’s that man doing in my bathroom, Lorelei?”
“I’m Luanne. Lorelei is gone, remember?”
“Then what are you doing in here?”
“Helping you take your bath.”
“In that case, get out of that dress and hop in.” Winston reached for her with his wet, soapy hands. “We’ll go for a little spin.”
“Behave, Winnie. You’ll get me all wet.” She bent down to wipe him with a washcloth. He immediately reached for her left breast and gave it a good squeeze. “And please remember you’re a gentleman.”
“You’re mistaken. No gentlemen here. Who is that curly haired fellow?”
“Why, that’s Mitch,” Lila answered.
