“Is that right?”
“Absolutely. I’ve seen two, three of those white Nutmegger vans parked over there at a time. Sometimes I even hear them out there in the middle of the night.”
“Doing what?”
“Unloading their gear. They try to be quiet about it but I’m a real light sleeper. Didn’t use to be when I had a man in bed next to me. Now the slightest breeze wakes me.” She hung the last of the towels, grabbed the empty basket and started back toward the house. “It’s funny, isn’t it?”
“What is?” asked Des, walking with her.
“How you can live fifty feet away from someone, wave to them every day in the driveway, take in each other’s mail, exchange cookies at Christmas-and really not know them at all. If you’d asked me six months ago I’d have told you that the Procters were the ideal family. Now look at them.”
Des climbed into her cruiser, waved good-bye to Molly and started her way back toward Turkey Neck, not liking what she was hearing about the Procters one bit. Clearly, the little girl was being neglected. Clearly, Des ought to be reaching out to the Department of Children and Families. Starting the bureaucratic process rolling. DCF would send an investigator down to interview the family members. Possibly place Molly in a foster home until her parents could sort out their lives. That was the required procedure. It was also the easy thing to do. But shoving Molly into the system wasn’t necessarily the right thing to do.
So what was?
As Des eased her way around a bend, mulling her options, she rolled up on a young couple walking slowly along, hand in hand.
She pulled up next to them, lowered her window and barked, “Folks, I’ll need to see your driver’s licenses and passports if you intend to proceed any further down this lane.”
In response, Keith and Amber Sullivan both broke into big smiles.
Keith was thickly built and sunburned, with wiry sun-bleached hairs on his tree-trunk forearms. No more than twenty-five but already losing his wavy blond hair. So Keith looked much younger when he had his Sullivan Electric Co. baseball cap on. He wore it with a weathered T-shirt, cargo shorts and work boots. When Des got acquainted with him she’d discovered that Keith was one of those rare individuals who knew who he was, where he belonged and who with. Which put him way ahead of most people. Keith was by no means a slacker. He and his older brother Kevin worked plenty hard at their business. But it was Kevin who was the real go-getter of the two. Keith was more easygoing. A man who made time for a leisurely walk down a country lane with his bride on a beautiful June 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.