“Lacy, I’m completely over Des.”
“If that’s the case then I have a terrific woman for you.”
“Not interested. I’m really not looking to get involved again. Not for a long, long time.” Mitch drained his espresso. “Why, who is she?”
“My new dance critic. She just moved here from London. In fact, she’s living in my spare room until she finds a place. Her grand-daddy was the Earl of somewhere. She’s a graduate of Oxford. A gourmet chef. Tall, slim and a dead ringer for Diana Rigg.”
“Diana Rigg then or now?”
“She’s twenty-eight. And don’t be mean. Her name is Cecily Naughton. She goes by C.C. in her byline.”
“Sure, I’ve read her pieces in Vanity Fair. She’s wicked funny. And so insightful.”
“She used to be a dancer herself.”
Mitch’s eyes widened. “Really?”
Lacy let out a hoot. “What is it with men? I can talk until I’m blue in the face about a terrific woman and get nowhere with you. But if I so much as mention the word ‘dancer’ or ‘model’ you start drooling like horny teenaged boys.”
“That’s totally your imagination.”
“Do you want to call her?”
“Lacy, I’m afraid I just don’t have the time right now.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mitch. And very sorry that you and I won’t be working together again.” Her eyes searched his for a moment before they let go. “My door is always open in case you change your mind.”
“That’s incredibly nice of you, but I won’t be.” Mitch beamed at her. “Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I was this happy.”
CHAPTER 5
“You’ve got a nice soft touch, girl, ” Des observed as Molly Procter sank jumper after jumper in the driveway of the farmhouse that Jen Beckwith shared with her mother, Kimberly. There were no cars in the driveway. Neither Jen nor Kimberly was around. Nor was anyone home at the Sullivans’, whose cottage was a hundred feet farther down Sour Cherry in the direction of the river. The only thing sitting in their driveway was a huge pile of cedar mulch that had been heaped onto a blue tarp. Across the narrow lane, that same Nutmegger Professional Seamless Gutters van was parked at the Procter place. Two men sat out on the front porch drinking beer and trying to pretend they weren’t watching Des’s every move.
Molly didn’t want to look at Des. Or say one word to her. Just play ball. She was all gamed out in a UConn Lady Huskies T-shirt, gym shorts, sneakers and floppy socks that harked back to the heyday of Pistol Pete Maravich.
Des went over to the basket and retrieved the ball after Molly drained it. Bounce-passed it crisply to her, leading her to her left. Molly caught it in stride, stutter stepped right and parked a twelve-footer. Now Des led her to her right. Again, nothing but net.
“Did you used to play?” she asked Des finally, her voice cool.
“Rode the bench in high school. I’ve got no skills, but if you’re tall they point you toward the hoop.” Des flashed her a smile but got nothing but a glower in return. “Your dad’s going to be okay, Molly. No concussion or other serious physical injuries. He’s suffering from what they call situational depression, which is a fancy way of saying he’s been kind of thrown for a loop.”
“Okay,” Molly responded quietly as she put up another jumper.
According to Marge Jewett, Richard Procter would be kept overnight at Connecticut Valley Hospital in Middletown for observation. Since he did not appear to be an imminent threat to himself or others, chances were they’d prescribe an antidepressant and counseling-and release him in the morning. It seemed cold but that was the sad reality of medical life today. Unless someone was running down the street waving a gun or threatening to jump off a roof then they were likely to be medicated and kicked.
The only question with the professor was kicked to whom.
“I had to do what I did, Molly. Really, I had no choice in the matter. I’m heading over to talk to your mom about it now.”
“Good luck,” Molly said scornfully.
Des raised an eyebrow at her but Molly had nothing more to say. Just more baskets to shoot.
The two men on the porch were drinking Coors. One of them sat in an old wooden rocker, the other on the front steps. The one on the steps, a husky young Hispanic in a tank top and baggy jeans, was very anxious to let Des know that he was not someone to be messed with. His chin was stuck out, his gaze hard and cold.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said pleasantly, tipping her big hat at them.
“Right back at you, trooper,” the man in the rocker said with an easy smile. He was older, about forty. Wiry and weathered, with slicked back dark blond hair and a lot of squint lines around his eyes. He wore a T-shirt, low-slung jeans and beat up Top-Siders.
“I’m Resident Trooper Mitry. Is Carolyn home?”
“She sure is, ma’am,” he replied, just a real pleasant and accommodating fellow. Unlike his mute, glowering young friend on the steps. “May I ask what this is about?”
“A situation has arisen concerning her husband Richard.”
“Is the prof okay?”
“I’ll talk to her about it, if you don’t mind.”
“You can talk to me if you want. What I mean is, I’m the man of the house now. The name’s Clay Mundy.” Clay lit a Marlboro with a disposable lighter, cupping it in his large, knuckly hands. “This here’s Hector Villanueva. Hector works for me.”
“Glad to know you, Hector.”
Hector muttered, “And to know you, too.” He had no trouble with English. It was her uniform that was his problem.
“You fellows clean roof gutters, am I right?”
“That’s what the van says,” Clay replied, grinning at her.
“I could use some help with mine. They haven’t been cleaned in at least three years. Can you swing by and give me an estimate?”
Clay shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am, but we wouldn’t be able to get to you for at least six weeks. This is our busy season.”
Des stood there thinking they sure didn’t seem real busy. It was, what, three in the afternoon and they were sitting around drinking beer? “I’m in no rush. If you’ll give me your business card I’ll call you.”
Clay patted his chest pocket absently. “There’s a batch in the van somewhere, isn’t there, Hector?”
Hector grunted in vague response. Neither of them got up to fetch her one. Just sat there nursing their beers.
Des studied them, feeling a prickly sensation on the back of her neck. She didn’t necessarily smell yard on them, but she did smell something. “Have you been in Dorset long, Mr. Mundy?”
“Why are you asking?”
“It’s a small town. I like to get to know the people who I serve.”
“Rolled in a couple of months back from Atlanta,” he replied, pulling on his cigarette. “Me and Hector both.”
“And how did you pick our fair town?”
“I’ve just always loved this area. Done a lot of different things in my time. Worked construction in West Texas. Oil rigs in Louisiana. Long-haul trucking out of Atlanta these past few years. That’s how I came to know this this area. Soon as I saw it I made a promise to myself I’d settle down here and do my thing. It’s a slice of heaven, really. You’ve got the water right outside your door. The fishing’s good. Casinos are a half-hour away. That’s where I met Carolyn-playing the slots at Foxwoods. I really hit the jackpot, too. She’s a doll. Only, she’s not feeling too well right now. Lying down last time I looked.”
“I really do need to talk to her. Or both of you, if you prefer.”
“Whatever you say, ma’am.” Clay flicked his cigarette butt out across the front lawn. “Come on in.”
She went on in with him. Hector stayed behind on the porch.
The parlor was cozy. There were a couple of overstuffed chairs and a love seat to curl up in. The framed covers of Carolyn’s animal books for kids, which had titles such as Molly Lays An Egg and Molly Finds a Fox, were displayed on one wall. The artwork was colorful and cheerful. Her photo on the back cover was that of a beautiful and confident looking blonde with high cheekbones, bright eyes and a terrific smile.