The Sour Cherry Surprise

by David Handler

  She met up with Brandon when he pulled into Bitsy’s driveway accompanied by a pair of hyper, narrow-faced party operatives. He looked relaxed and ready. Also ultra-preppy in his new khaki-colored suit from Brooks Brothers. Used to be Brandon was more of an Armani man.

  He smiled broadly at her as he got out of the car. “You’re not wearing your uniform,” he observed, giving her a big hug.

  She batted her eyelashes at him. “You noticed.”

  “Desi, I thought we decided it wouldn’t hurt to remind these good folks that I intend to be their law and order candidate.”

  “I never wear my uni when I’m off duty.”

  “Then why did you ask me if you should wear it?”

  “Because I wanted to hear what your answer would be.”

  Brandon tilted his head at her slightly. “Well, you definitely made the right choice,” he conceded, looking her up and down. “Although it’s going to be difficult for me to keep my mind on politics.”

  “Brandon, we have to talk.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “Only because it is.”

  “We’ll find a quiet spot on the porch in a little while. Right now …” He took her hand as they climbed the porch steps, squeezing it. “Are you ready for this?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” she answered, taking a deep breath.

  Together, they plunged in, Brandon towering over one and all at six-feet-six. Not that he was intimidating. The man could disarm anyone with his smile and rich, burgundy voice. Des introduced him straight away to Dorset’s snowy-haired first selectman, Bob Paffin, who still wasn’t totally comfortable having a resident trooper who was so young, female and black. And to Glynis Fairchild-Forniaux, the blond, blue-blooded attorney who felt just fine about Des—and soon hoped to unseat Bob Paffin. To Arthur Lewis, president of the local chapter of the Nature Conservancy, and Emma Knight, who ran Dorset’s No. 1 real estate agency. To the Inlands Wetlands commissioner and the commissioner of the Historic District. To the head of the school board, a mother of three whose oldest girl, Shannon, played on the Dorset High basketball team with Jen Beckwith. Des found herself wondering if Shannon had been at Jen’s Rainbow Party, and if so which color lip-gloss she’d worn.

  There were platters of sweaty cocktail wienies and ice cold shrimp. Potluck dishes of ham and scalloped potatoes, tuna casserole and Mitch’s perennial favorite, American chop suey. All of which looked heavy and gloppy and way too much like warm vomit.

  And there was talk, talk and more talk—most of it coming from Brandon’s mouth. He told the soccer moms how much he believed in public education. The chesty Lions Clubbers how antiterror he was. The environmentalists how he intended to protect the Sound from natural gas pipelines. The realtors that he was for “quality” development. The man never came up for air. Never stopped smiling. Never stopped working, working, working the crowd. As Des watched him it dawned upon her for the very first time that Brandon Stokes wasn’t an attorney at all. He was a natural born performer. Someone who could be hip or square, funny or serious, compassionate or outraged. Whatever the person who he was belly up to needed from him at a particular moment. Then he could move right along and do it all over again with someone else—and make the transition seem utterly effortless. Truly, this porch was Brandon’s stage. And he was totally at ease on it.

  Which made exactly one of them.

  Des was watching her man do his thing, utter fascinated, when without warning she felt another of her damned blackouts coming on. The porch swaying under her feet. The voices and laughter growing fainter. Horrified, she groped her way out to the farthest end of the porch and slumped into a wicker chair with her head down. Breathed slowly in and out, waiting for it to pass. Which, thank God, it did. But she did not want to risk hitting the deck in front of all of these people. So she stayed put for a while, directing her mind elsewhere.

  To the phone call she’d just made to Megan Chichester, Carolyn Procter’s very capable sounding sister up in Blue Hill, Maine. Megan was aware that Richard had moved out, but knew nothing of Clay Mundy. She’d been shocked by Des’s description of her sister’s physical state and by her concerns over Molly’s welfare. Promised Des she’d drive down to Dorset as soon as possible—if not tomorrow then the day after—to get Carolyn whatever help she needed. And, if necessary, bring Molly home with her for an early summer holiday. “I’ll take charge of the situation,” she assured Des. Which made it a good day’s work all in all. This was the job, Des reflected. Giving a family a chance to heal itself. Piecing together a way to keep the law out of it. She’d tried, anyhow. The rest was up to them.

  As she sat there, Des found herself gazing across the gardens at Bella’s lights in Mitch’s windows. Wondering how many more months it would take before the doughboy was no longer inside of her. When he would finally, mercifully, fade away.

  She heard footsteps clacking toward her now. It was her hostess, Bitsy, bringing her a goblet of white wine.

  “I thought you could use this,” she exclaimed brightly.

  Des took it from her gratefully. “You thought right.”

  “Your Brandon is certainly one handsome man. Do you know who he reminds me of?”

  Des nodded. “Denzel Washington.”

  “I was going to say Harry Belafonte.”

  “Really? My bad.”

  Bitsy Peck was a round, snub-nosed woman in her fifties with light brown hair that she wore in a pageboy. She had always been very warm and friendly toward Des, and got on extremely well with Mitch. It was Bitsy who’d taught Mitch the joy of gardening. “I did invite Bella,” she said, her gaze following Des’s. “But she told me she couldn’t make it.”

  Des drank down some of the wine. “I know,” she responded quietly.

  Bitsy studied her shrewdly. She was one of those Dorset housewives who gave the impression of being unfailingly merry and dim, and was neither. She was smart and tough. Had lost her husband right after Des came to town. And seen her daughter, Becca, battle heroin addiction. “Are you okay, Des?”

  “Never better.”

  “We’re going to lose you, aren’t we?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I can see it in your eyes as you look around. It’s as if you’re trying to memorize everything. My kids looked at this place that way when they were getting ready to leave me.”

  “Bitsy, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  Some of the Town Committee members were starting to trickle back to their cars. Bitsy scurried off to say her good-byes. Des stayed put, sipping her wine.

  Brandon found her there a few minutes later. He was all pumped up, his eyes gleaming. “Man, this is some way to live,” he exclaimed, taking in the remains of the sunset over Long Island Sound. A few sailboats were still out on the water, taking advantage of the breeze. “It’s almost enough to make you want to be white.”

  She smiled faintly. “But not quite.”

  He turned and looked at her. “This is going to take you some getting used to, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Same here. I still have to get over my long held personal belief that all politicians are assholes.” He let out a big laugh. “But we did good tonight. Huge thanks, Desi. These people carry a lot of weight.”

  “Brandon, there’s something serious I need to talk to you about.”

  “So talk to me. But smile or it’ll look like we’re having a fight.”

  “I got pulled over by a fed named Grisky just before I came here. He told me to keep away from Sour Cherry Lane. I phoned my C.O. right away and got another earful from him—mostly about Grisky and his strong-arm tactics. But he confirmed that the guy’s legit. It seems there’s been an independent operation going on here in Dorset.”

  “And you’re telling me this because …?”

  “When I asked Grisky what it was he told me to ask you.”

  Brandon’s face dropped. He said nothing.

>   “I ran criminal background checks on Clay Mundy and Hector Villanueva. Both out of Atlanta, supposedly. I came up empty. Brandon, what’s going on?”

  “I can’t discuss it with you,” he responded quietly. “All I can say is they wanted you kept clear of it.”

  “Kept clear of what? This is my town. If something’s going on here, I have a right to know.”

  “Don’t get all huffy.”

  “Trust me, this is not huffy. But if you want huffy I’ll be more than happy to—”

  “Keep your voice down, Desi. And please listen to me, will you? We are talking about a highly classified investigation involving multiple federal and state agencies. They’ve had trouble with leaks in the past, so a high-level policy decision was made to keep local uniformed personnel out of the loop. They want you going about your normal business.”

  “That’s them. What about you and me?”

  “What about us?”

  “If you’d given me any kind of a heads-up I’d have watched my step. Instead, you let me blunder my way right into the middle of whatever. And so tomorrow I’m getting called on the carpet. Do you realize how humiliating this is?”

  “I had no idea you were working anywhere near Sour Cherry. You didn’t tell me.”

  “I shouldn’t have to. You’re my man. I expect you to be watching my back.”

  “I’m watching out for us. Desi, this is the biggest case of my career. It just may put me over in this district.” His eyes found and held hers. “What’s good for me is good for you. You know that.”

  “I know that you’re good at keeping secrets. I know I don’t like secrets. And I don’t like being with anyone who does.”

  “I am not about secrets.”

  “Brandon, your whole damned life is divided into secret compartments.” Like the one that had contained his law school classmate, Anita, and the affair that they never broke off the whole time he and Des were married. “For me, it’s real simple. Either we’re honest with each or we’re not. Either we’re together as a couple or we’re not.”

  “Now you’re not being fair,” he objected.

  “I think I’m being more than fair. Are you going to tell me what the feds are doing in my town?”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “Okay, fine. Then I’ll listen to what they have to say tomorrow. And until then you’re sleeping in the guest room.”

  “I’m what?”

  “My house, my rules. If you don’t like it you can take up residence at the Frederick House. The innkeepers are standing right over there by that pillar.” She drank down the last of her wine before she added, “And hey, not to worry. When I said it I had a real sweet smile on my face.”

  CHAPTER 6

  To: Mitch Berger

  From: Bella Tillis

  Subject: Eureka

  Dear Mr. Hotshot New York Movie Critic—I’m pleased to report that I’ve finally managed to corral your roaming friend Quirt. He’s here in the house with me, though I’m not sure how much longer I can keep him here. The little fiend keeps pacing around like a caged lion. Yowling at me in angry protest. Sharpening his claws on the beetle-infested chestnut posts that barely hold this place up. He’s one giant pain in the tuchus, frankly.

  At your suggestion, I phoned our resident trooper about my phantom nighttime visitor out here. I hadn’t seen Des for a while. Not that you asked me but she looks awful. Scrawny as a half-starved Chihuahua. She says she’s fine. She’s not fine. And it pains me to report that she has abandoned her art. Do you remember how she always used to have that charcoal residue under the nail of her index finger? She doesn’t have it anymore. Not so much as a trace. This is not a happy woman, Mitch. I thought you should know since you were once so fond of her.

  Anyhow, it turns out I have been sheltering a homeless man in the barn—Molly Procter’s father, who seems to have suffered a breakdown since he and Carolyn split up. Molly has been hiding Richard out here and stealing food for him. The Jewett sisters have carted him off and now Des will no doubt try to patch the family back together again. It never ceases to amaze me how a woman whose own life is broken keeps trying to repair everyone else’s.

  Actually, Des is out here on Big Sister at this very moment. Or they are. Bitsy Peck got talked into hosting a bash for the Town Committee to get acquainted with our next congressman—assuming, I should say, that Brandon can carry this district without my vote. I was invited to the event but am staging a one-woman boycott. And voting Green Party all of the way should he receive the party’s … Oops, hang on, somebody’s at my door …

  Hi, I’m back. That was just Bitsy dropping off some of the leftover food. And to tell me something very interesting. She suspects Des will soon be leaving Dorset. This certainly wouldn’t surprise me. Now that you’re gone Des no longer has any reason to stick around here. Bitsy also told me she thought Brandon didn’t go over particularly well with Dorset’s old guard. People thought he was a bit too slick and/or insincere. This was definitely Bitsy’s own reaction. And perhaps her loyalty to you shining through.

  Oy, Quirt has just started yowling at me again. Such a set of lungs he’s got on him! Mitch, I’m not sure how long this little arrangement will last, since I do enjoy a night’s sleep now and then. Do you think you can come fetch him some time soon? If not, I’ll shove him into a carrier and bring him to the city on the train. Mind you, I’ll have to provide earplugs for my fellow passengers. But I’m game. Please advise.

  Love, Aunt Bella.

  p.s. I don’t mean to be such a yenta regarding you and Des, but it so happens that I am a pure-blooded Jewish mother. And let us never forget that the word smother is just mother with an extra S in front of it.

  To: Bella Tilllis

  From: Mitch Berger

  Subject: Re: Eureka

  Dear Aunt Bella—I’m happy that you’ve managed to corral Quirt. But I could have sworn I already told you that Quirt will never be happy living with me here in the city. I can’t take him, Bella. Quirt’s a roamer.

  And so am I, it turns out.

  I wasn’t going to say anything until the deal is officially inked but the empire’s cable news network is giving me my own weekly half-hour show, complete with Miss Hawaii as my comely sidekick. I made it, ma! Top of the world! On the downside, it means I’ll be out in Los Angeles for a while, setting up a staff and so on. Actually, the newspaper would love it if I relocated out there permanently. But that’s not going to happen. I intend to stay in New York. Once the show’s up and running, I’ll be able to spend more time here. But, short term, I’m simply not going to be around. That means I’ll have to beg my assistant to cat-sit Clemmie. Throwing Quirt into the mix is out of the question.

  I’m very sorry to hear about what’s happened to Richard Procter. Molly is so devoted to him. I did try e-mailing Molly again but I never heard back from her.

  It’s funny about being away from Dorset. When I was living there full-time the lives of the people there seemed incredibly important to me. That’s what it means to be a Dorseteer. But now that I’ve left I don’t feel connected to them at all. I really enjoyed my time there, Bella. I’ll never forget the exquisite pleasure of sitting in a lawn chair with a cold Bass Ale watching the migratory shore birds fly by. But now that I’m back here living my normal life it’s almost as if none of that was truly real—especially Des and me. We never really made a whole lot of sense, if you stop and think about it. A black state trooper and a Jewish movie critic? How farfetched is that? If you put it in a movie nobody would buy it. And how in the hell would you cast it? Well, okay, you’d go with Halle Berry for Des. That’s a no brainer. But who on earth would play me? And don’t say Ben Stiller or we will never speak again.

  Bella, I guess what I’m trying to say is that my Dorset interlude is over. I’ve moved on. You’re welcome to visit me in NYC any time. I’d love to see you—provided we talk about something, anything other than the resident trooper of Dorset, Connecticut, USA, a place tha
t is now so far removed from my thoughts that I honestly can’t imagine what it would take to drag me back there again.

  Much love,

  Mitch

  CHAPTER 7

  HER TROOP COMMANDER was a sagging accordion of a man named Rundle. Rundle was less than a year away from retirement. All he cared about was making sure Troop F ran friction-free. No emotional or jurisdictional conflicts of any kind. So it was not exactly a happy man who sat there behind his steel desk from them. Grumpy was more like it.

  His office was small and plainly furnished. Some photos on his desk of his beloved grandkids and even more beloved fishing boat. The standard issue photo of the governor on the wall. Not much else. The Troop F Barracks practically kissed the southbound right-hand lane of I-95 in Westbrook. You never stopped hearing the interstate traffic whizzing by. If you stood over by Rundle’s window you could even watch it.

  There were three others there besides Des. The supervising agent, who was a bland, buttoned-down DEA man named Cavanaugh. Capt. Joey Amalfitano, the point man for Connecticut’s Narcotics Task Force, who Des had worked a drive-by shooting with back when she was still on the Major Crime Squad. Everyone called him the Aardvark due to his huge, down-turned snout of a nose. And Agent Grisky of the FBI, who was dead wrong about the purpose of this meeting. It was not a tongue-lashing. Everyone was real polite and professional. Everyone, that is, except for Grisky himself. He was still acting all chippy when he wasn’t busy styling in his tight T-shirt and chewing gum with his mouth open.

  It was Cavanaugh of the DEA who did most of the talking. “Master Sergeant Mitry, I’m afraid you’ve stumbled your way right smack dab into the middle of Operation Burrito King.”

  Des sat there with her hands folded in her lap, wondering how it was the feds always came up with such cute names.

  “This operation originated with some wire surveillance we had going on in Tucson,” he informed her in a clipped, quiet voice. “An informant of ours happened to be meeting a dealer at a fast food restaurant of that name.”