The Sour Cherry Surprise (3 page)

Des took off her big hat and sat in the armchair across the coffee table from Jen. Outside, the Jewett girls backed out of the driveway and steamed up the lane for home. “Hey, Jen, I’m Resident Trooper Mitry.”

“I know who you are.” Her voice was small.

“I won’t ask you who else was here tonight because I know you won’t tell me and it would just be embarrassing for both of us. But do you want to tell me what happened?”

“I had some friends over,” Jen replied, her eyes fastened on the carpet. “We had some beers and stuff. Nothing major. But then my heart started beating
really
fast and I remembered I’m not supposed to drink because of these pills I’m taking so I—”

“Going to stick with that story, are you?”

“It’s not a story,” Jen insisted, raising her sharp chin at her.

“Okay, fine. But tell me something—was this your first?”

“My first what?”

“Rainbow Party.”

Jen reddened. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Girl, do you honestly think I don’t know what was going on here? These things started in the inner city at least eighteen months ago.”

“Look, I
don’t
want to talk to about it, okay?”

“Then do you want to wipe that dumb-ass lipstick off your mouth? You look like you just chugalugged a whole bottle of Pepto-Bismol.”

Jen heaved a suffering sigh, then reluctantly got up and fetched a tissue from the kitchen.

“Okay, here’s what I’m guessing happened,” Des said as the girl sat back down, wiping her mouth clean. “Tonight was your very first one. Maybe you weren’t even totally up for it. It was more like something of a dare. And when things started moving right along, well, you realized you
really
weren’t happy.”

“I didn’t punk out,” Jen objected heatedly.

“Didn’t say you did. I’m saying you showed a healthy dose of respect for yourself. Trouble was, you couldn’t exactly take off because this is your own house—so you dialed nine-one-one and pulled the plug. Smart move, Jen. Give yourself a high five. Only, now here comes the bad news: I have to contact your mother.
And
take you to Shoreline Clinic for a blood sample to determine your drug and alcohol level.”

“But I didn’t do anything!”

“Your call was logged, Jen. I have to follow the rules. If I don’t, I lose my job.”

“My mom’s on Block Island. I’m not even sure of the phone number.”

“Then I have to call your grandmother.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “You mean right now?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Have you ever
met
my grandmother?”

“No, I’ve never had that pleasure.”

“Oh, this is going to be just great….”

“Do you have to tell her everything?”

“She already knows about the drinking,” Des pointed out as
she steered her cruiser back toward Dorset. It had been quiet at the clinic tonight. They’d whisked Jen in and out. Now the two of them were headed for her grandmother’s house.

Patricia Beckwith was waiting up for them. When Des had phoned her the old lady hadn’t tried to talk her out of the blood test. Or demanded to accompany them, as was her legal right. She’d simply intoned: “Our society’s laws apply to everyone. Do what you must. My porch light will be on.”

“And I’m afraid I do have to tell her what else you were up to,” Des added.

“But that
is
everything,” Jen pointed out.

“Then I guess I have to tell her everything,” acknowledged Des, who was not entirely happy about it. Because if she landed too hard on a kid like Jen then Jen would never reach out to her if something truly awful was going down. Kids got high. Kids got busy. It wasn’t Des’s business to tell their parents how to raise them. But it
was
her business to make sure nobody got stupid. Some of those kids who Marge Jewett had seen hightailing it from Jen’s may have been over the legal limit. And that was the very definition of stupid. She glanced over at Jen, who’d thrown on a Dorset High hoody and was hugging a book bag in her lap, looking all of thirteen. “How about you? Do you have someone who you can talk to about this?”

Jen let out a hollow laugh. “I have my shrink. She’s the one who put me on Zoloft.”

“What happens when you’re not on it?”

“Why do you care?”

“Just asking.”

“I obsess, okay?”

“About …?”

“My flaws. Like if I screw up a single answer on a test. Or miss one free throw in a game. Trust me, I can turn myself into a real nut job.”

“Not everyone gets sixteen hundred on their SATs and scores a hundred points a game. It’s okay to fail.”

“Now you sound just like my shrink.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No way. I mean, there’s a guy I used to like but they’re all such immature assholes.”

“Most of them.” Des turned in at Patricia Beckwith’s mailbox now. As she started up the steep, twisting driveway she could feel the girl shrink into the seat, both knees jiggling. “Was he one of the boys at your party tonight?”

Jen nodded her head, swallowing.

The driveway crested at the top of the hill and circled around in front of the big house, which was one of the oldest center chimney colonials in Dorset, dating back to the early 1700s. The porch light was on, as promised. Des pulled up out front and parked. From where they sat she could see the lights of Old Saybrook across the river.

“Jen, I wear a lot of other hats besides this big one. If you ever want to sit down over a cup of coffee, call me, okay?”

Jen didn’t respond. Just took the card Des offered her and stuffed it into her book bag.

Patricia Beckwith stood out on the front porch waiting for them in a blue silk robe and red and white striped pajamas, her feet in a pair of sheepskin slippers. She was a tall, straight, silver-haired woman of rigid dignity. About seventy-five, with a long, seamed face and wide-set blue eyes. It was a face unaccustomed to spontaneous laughter and smiles. It was the face that Jen had inherited.

“Real sorry about this, Nana,” the girl murmured as she slipped past her into the house.

“As well you should be, young lady.” Patricia didn’t sound angry. Her voice was surprisingly gentle.

The entry hall had an umbrella stand with a mirror. A
grandfather clock that wasn’t running. A steep, L-shaped staircase that led up to the second floor.

“I’ve made up the room next to mine,” she called to Jen, who was already halfway up the stairs. “We shall have a proper talk in the morning.”

“Whatever you say.” Jen paused on the stairs and added, “Nice meeting you, trooper.”

“Make it Des. And I meant that about the coffee, you hear?”

Jen nodded her blond head. “I hear you. Thanks.” Then she went up to her room and shut the door.

“Why was she thanking you?” Patricia demanded to know.

“For listening, I suppose.”

“To what, her feverish adolescent rants? Did you know that a psychiatrist has put that girl on happy-happy pills? What rubbish. Jen’s a bright, healthy young woman who excels at anything she sets her mind to. She’s a born achiever. Has a wonderful life ahead of her. And instead of enjoying it she pops pills and sits in a room three times a week whining to a total stranger. We all have problems in this life. When you have a problem, you solve it. And if you’re unhappy, well, get used to it. Life isn’t for sissies.”

“Mrs. Beckwith, you and I need to have a talk.”

“Certainly.”

She led Des into a small, paneled parlor that was stuffy and smelled of old books and mold. The ceiling was very low in there, the beams exposed. There was a walk-in stone fireplace. One entire wall of built-in bookcases crammed with hardcover books. There was a chintz loveseat and matching wingback chair. Next to the chair was an end table that had a collection of Edith Wharton stories on it along with an open box of chocolate-covered cherries, a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry and a half-empty wine goblet.

A gray-muzzled dachshund was dozing in the chair. Patricia
picked it up and sat with it in her lap, the dog not so much as stirring. Des sat on the love seat, twirling her hat in her hands.

“Now what is this all about, trooper?” There was a fixed brightness to the old lady’s gaze that was meant to intimidate, and did. “And kindly do not pander to me. I cannot abide people who treat me like a doddering old fool. Speak plainly and accurately and we shall get along fine.”

“Jen was throwing a party at her house. There was alcohol. And no adult supervision on the premises.”

“An obvious failure on my part,” Patricia conceded readily. “Jen is studious and sensible—nothing at all like her mother. I had no idea she was planning any such party.” She took a small sip of her sherry. “Tell me, was there sexual activity?”

“Of a sort, yes.”

Patricia’s gaze turned icy. “Just exactly what sort?”

“That’s something I’d prefer to discuss with her mother.”

“And you shall. I have the phone number of the inn where Kimberly is presently shacked up with her married chiropractor. She will return to Dorset on the very first ferry tomorrow morning if I have anything to say about it. And believe me, I do. I allow her to live in their cottage rent-free. I provide health insurance for her and Jen both. I paid for Jen’s car. I intend to pay for her college education. Furthermore, it is
I
who you’ve phoned at two a.m. So you will kindly provide me with the details.”

Des shoved her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose and said, “There’s a game the kids play. They call it a Rainbow Party. It’s, well, think of it as an X-rated version of Spin the Bottle.”

Patricia reached for a chocolate-covered cherry and popped it in her mouth, chewing on it slowly before she said, “Please elaborate.”

“Each of the girls wears a different color of lipstick. Whichever girl leaves her mark on the most boys wins.”

“They perform fellatio on them, is that it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, I can certainly understand what the boys get out of it, but what would possess a group of bright, self-respecting young women to debase themselves in such a fashion?”

“A combination of alcohol and peer pressure. For what it’s worth, Jen told me it was her first such party. And it appears she got cold feet.”

“You’re saying that’s why she called the Jewett sisters?”

“It would appear so.”

“Please thank them for me if you happen to speak to them before I do. And thank you for attending to Jen.” The old lady shook her head. “It’s as if the women’s movement never even happened. If only these girls knew how hard it was for those of us who came before them to get up off of our knees. But for them it’s ancient history. The sad truth is that they don’t even care.” She studied Des carefully for a moment, as if she were trying to decide something about her. “I worked my entire adult life, you know. I was
not
about to be one of those ladies who play bridge and conduct meaningless affairs out of utter boredom. My late husband was involved in international banking in Brazil, Portugal, Singapore. Wherever we went, I taught English at a school for the underprivileged. After John left the bank and we returned here, I taught at the women’s prison in Niantic.” She reached for another of her chocolates. “Jen’s father was raised here. Johnny was never a strong boy, physically or emotionally. He lacked decisiveness and drive. Had a difficult time finding a career. Intelligent young women saw him as a poor choice for a husband, despite his wealth and good name. All of which made him easy prey for a conniving little gold digger like Kimberly. I insisted that he find work. I cannot abide slackers. So my boy was selling suits in the Business Casuals section of the Mens Wearhouse in Waterford when he dropped dead of a brain aneurysm three years ago last month. He
was thirty-eight years old. I also insisted that Kimberly sign a prenuptial agreement when they married. Consequently, she got very little after Johnny passed. The bulk of his assets are in a trust fund that Jen can’t touch until she graduates from college. Although she’s already displaying a good deal more emotional maturity at age sixteen than her mother has ever possessed. Running off to Block Island with a married man, the little fool. And he’s an even bigger fool.” Patricia stroked the sleeping dog in her lap, gazing down at it fondly. “Has it ever occurred to you that the reason we can’t live forever is that we know too much?”

“About what, ma’am?”

“What pathetic frauds we all are. Only the young can be taken in by the false promises of others. When you get to be my age you can see right through everyone. And believe me, that is one hopeless way to exist. I sleep very little now.” The old lady had become so chatty it occurred to Des that she might be lonely. “Mostly, I read. Are you a reader?”

“When I have time.”

“And how up are you on the village gossip?”

“I hear what people tell me.”

“I’m wondering about one of my other tenants. Perhaps you know them.”

“I know the Sullivans.”

Patricia nodded her head. “Very nice young couple. Keith is so amiable and helpful. He’s done any number of electrical repairs for me. Plows my driveway, installs my air conditioners. The man won’t ever take a nickel. And Amber is a terribly gifted scholar, I’m told. You wouldn’t think they would be happy together, being so different. But there’s just no telling with love, is there?”

“So they tell me.”

“Actually, I was wondering about Richard and Carolyn Procter. They rent the house directly across the lane from Kimberly and
Jen. They’ve been hoping to purchase it should I ever decide to sell—which I haven’t. Their little girl is named Molly.”

“Don’t know them, I’m afraid.”

“Richard is a very distinguished historian at Wesleyan,” Patricia went on, practically glowing at the mention of him. “There is no one alive who knows more about the early economic and social structure of the Connecticut shoreline than Richard Procter. He’s written numerous volumes. And Carolyn is a noted author of children’s literature herself, as well as a tremendous beauty. Comes from a fine old Massachusetts family, the Chichesters.” Now Patricia’s face dropped. “But it seems they have split up. Richard has moved out and Carolyn has taken up with some sort of a tradesman.”