The nurse came out of Carolyn’s room. Megan excused herself and went back in to be with her. Des started down the hallway toward the elevator. As she passed the visitors’ waiting room, she discovered Patricia Beckwith seated in there all alone reading Mitch’s tattered copy of Time and Again. Dorset’s meanest, richest widow sat very regally in her cardigan sweater and slacks, her back straight, shoulders squared, sensible shoes pressed close together on the floor.
“Why hello, Mrs. Beckwith,” Des said, surprised to see her there.
“This is a fiendishly clever yarn,” Patricia responded, glancing up from her book. “So inventive. And Mr. Finney’s prose practically jumps from the page.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Not that I am aware of. I’ve stopped by to see if there was anything I could do for Carolyn. When I discovered that you were in there with her I thought it best to give you your privacy. How is she feeling?”
“Down on herself. And plenty sick.”
“Putting all of that poison in her system certainly didn’t help.”
“Never does. Did Fred Griswold run you up here? Because I can give you a lift back if you need one.”
“It so happens I drove here myself,” Patricia said proudly. “I simply could not abide being home with all of those troopers tromp, tromp, tromping around my family’s land, bellowing to each other like wild boars. I felt trapped. Even violated, although I’m not certain why. I simply had to get away, so I got in my car and I drove. Would you believe this is the longest trip I’ve made in ten years? I was quite intimidated by Route Nine at the outset, I must confess. But once I became accustomed to my cruising speed I felt very comfortable. Although I must point out to you that absolutely no one in this state obeys the speed limit. I was doing a swift, steady fifty-five miles per hour and drivers were flying by me. My lord, how fast do they go?” she demanded. “Seventy-five? Eighty?”
“At least.”
“And this is something that you’re aware of?”
“It’s not exactly a secret, ma’am.”
“Well, why don’t you enforce the speed limits?”
“We do the very best we can with limited resources.”
“Yes, of course you do. I didn’t mean to sound critical, dear. I was simply taken aback.” Patricia hesitated, pursing her thin, dry lips uneasily. “The truth is I don’t know why I’m here. I barely know Carolyn. It was Richard who I shared a bond with. I shall miss him terribly. And I wish to apologize to you with all of my heart.”
“For what, ma’am?”
“You entrusted me with his care. I let you down. Let him down.”
“None of this was your fault. I told you that last night.”
“And I appreciate the sentiment. But I do not accept it. Frankly, I am overwhelmed by guilt, which I assure you is not a feeling with which I am accustomed. Nor is… this.”
“What, Mrs. Beckwith?”
“Unburdening myself upon others. Don’t believe in it. Never have. One’s innermost reflections ought to remain one’s own. This is why God invented the diary.” Patricia reached for her handbag and got slowly to her feet, drawing herself up to her full, rigid height. “Do you think I may pay my respects now? I won’t stay long.”
“I don’t see why not.”
With great dignity the old woman left the waiting room and started down the corridor toward Carolyn’s room. Des watched her go, thinking that Patricia Beckwith was not the coldhearted bitch everyone in town thought she was. But that was the reality of life in Dorset-once you got a rep it stuck to you. Des found herself wondering what Mitch would have to say to about this sensitive, caring and highly conflicted lady, probably while spraying a mouthful of his American Chop Suey across the dinner table. The doughboy never failed to wow Des with his keen insights into people. Maybe because his mind had been programmed so differently. Hers was the product of exhaustive professional training and old-school shoe leather experience. His a whacked-out kaleidoscope of human depravity, Hollywood style. Much as she hated to admit it, there were times when Des missed what he had to say. This was one of those times. So she tried putting herself in his Mephisto walking shoes, size chunky, and asked herself what he would see going on here that she wasn’t.
And, damn it, she realized what it might be. Weird, yes. But staring right at her.
She’d been assuming that Patricia’s attachment to Richard Procter was of the motherly variety. What if it wasn’t? What if Patricia was the Other Woman who had destroyed the professor’s happy home? Not your typical May-December romance, to be sure. But this was Dorset, ground zero for unusual love matches-as Des knew only too well. Was a torrid romance between Richard and a lady thirty-something years his senior a totally crazy idea? Maybe. Or maybe not. It would certainly explain why Patricia Beckwith was so wracked by guilt.
The nurse’s station was right next to the elevator. Carolyn’s nurse was parked there over a pile of charts. She was a stern-looking Asian woman in her fifties. Not real approachable.
Des approached her anyway. “How is Carolyn doing?”
“Mrs. Procter has been through a lot,” she answered impatiently.
“That she has.”
It wasn’t long before the nurse realized that Des was lingering there. And looked up at her, frowning. “Is there something else, trooper?”
“There is, actually. And if I’m out of line please say so, but I was wondering if you could do me a small favor…”
The call came through as Des was steering her Crown Vic back down to Dorset on Route 9, her hands wrapped tight around the wheel, mind turning over what the nurse had just told her:
Today her blood pressure was even higher-144 over 92. Not that this should have surprised her. Not when she’d come so close to blacking out at The Works when was she was with Bella. They’d been walking out to the parking lot. Bella was telling her about Mitch’s new TV gig out in L.A. when, wham, there it was-the whole world a-rocking and a-rolling before her eyes. She’d recovered quickly, but Bella could tell something was wrong. Bella knew her.
So why can’t she understand Brandon and me?
Maybe because no one else can understand what goes on between two other people. Those who seem to have nothing in common, like Amber and Keith, can’t take their eyes off of each other. And yet the couples that seem to have it all together, like Carolyn and Richard, can unravel with the slightest tug of a thread.
The nurse had jotted down Des’s blood pressure reading on a card and handed it to her. “Be sure to report this to your doctor when you speak with her.”
“I understand these numbers are a bit borderline.”
“They are not borderline, trooper. You may need to go on medication.”
“I hate pills. Is there no other alternative?”
The nurse looked her up and down before she said, “Have you thought about a different line of work?”
This was where Des’s head was when her cell phone rang. It was 5:30.
“You told me to call if I ever needed to tell you something or whatever…” It was Jen Beckwith, trying real hard not to sound upset.
“Absolutely, Jen. What’s up?”
“Probably nothing. I mean, maybe I’m just being paranoid.”
“Jen, what is it?”
“I think Molly has gone in the house.”
“What house?”
“Her house.”
“I thought we all agreed that Molly was going to stay out of there.”
“We did. We absolutely did.”
“So how did…?”
“I was in the kitchen getting dinner started. My mom’s not home from work yet. So I’m rummaging around in the fridge, you know?” Jen’s words were tumbling out fast now. “And Molly calls out to me from the living room that she has to go fetch this copy of To Kill a Mockingbird she’s been reading. Like she has to return it tonight or it’ll be overdue. That girl is so anal about library fines. So what if a dumb library book is overdue one day? What does that cost, a whole nickel?”