The Sour Cherry Surprise

by David Handler

  Next it was his turn. He was able to hoist himself up to the air vent on his own, no problem. But getting out was a whole other plot. Des had to grab him under the armpits and pull and pull with all of her might. He’d forgotten how strong she was, concussion or not. Strong enough to yank him right through that opening.

  And now all three of them lay there in the mud and broken glass under the deck, Molly wiping the tears from her eyes.

  Mitch dug the wire cutters and Baby Terrier from his jeans and jammed them into Des’s back pockets. “You found these down there,” he whispered. “Got loose on your own. We were never here, okay?”

  “Why?”

  “Better this way. Much cleaner. Got it?”

  She nodded that she did.

  Now the three of them slithered out from the under the deck and back across the wet grass to the big maple. It was still raining out, though not with quite as much intensity as before. The thunder and lightning had passed over.

  Once they were safely behind the barn Mitch pointed Des in the direction of those two state troopers in the driveway and gave her a quick shove. Then he and Molly dove back into the thorny thicket beyond the chicken wire fence and started their slow, hard journey back to Big Sister.

  He could hear Des call out her name to the troopers. Hear them bark in response. Then came the urgent voices into walkie-talkies. Soon somebody with a bullhorn was ordering Clay Mundy and Hector Villanueva to come out with their hands up. Mitch and Molly had made it as far as the woods when all hell broke loose. A lot of shooting. An insane amount of shooting. So much that it sounded to Mitch’s ears like the bloody finale of Bonnie and Clyde.

  The shooting was still going on back there when he and Molly cleared the woods and, hand-in-hand, dashed their way across the meadow for home.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE GLOVES GAME OFF once they found out she’d managed to free herself from the root cellar. With Des safely out of harm’s way they gave Clay and Hector one last chance to come out with their hands up. Repeated it three times through a bullhorn, loud and clear. Clay and Hector refused to comply.

  And then the shooting started.

  No one was certain which of the two suspects was responsible for firing those first shots. Although Des thought she had a pretty fair idea. Didn’t really matter though. The important thing was that the opening salvo absolutely, positively came from the house. The SWAT teams returned fire. Had no choice. Then they stormed the Procter cottage with overwhelming force. Clay Mundy and Hector Villanueva were given every opportunity to surrender. They would not.

  When it was over, both men were pronounced dead at the scene from multiple gunshot wounds. There were no casualties suffered by any sworn personnel at the scene.

  An internal State Police investigation into the raid on Sour Cherry Lane was launched the following morning. But there was very little heat behind the after-action inquiry. No bereaved loved ones coming forward to express outrage over Clay and Hector’s violent deaths. No friends or business associates demanding answers. No one asking why they’d chosen to shoot it out like they had.

  If anyone has asked her, Des would have told them: Clay had simply made good on his promise. He’d vowed to her that he would never, ever spend a single night in jail for as long as he lived. That night on Sour Cherry Lane, he made sure of it.

  Grisky’s team found the stash of ice down in the root cellar. Some 187 pounds of crystal meth buried in one-gallon plastic freezer bags under fresh dirt not four feet from where Des had lain bound and gagged. Also another twenty pounds of heroin. This information was not made public. The joint task force wasn’t giving up on its quest to crush the Vargas drug cartel just because Clay and Hector were gone. Operation Burrito King lived on. So there was no mention in the media about the raid having anything to do with illegal drugs. Instead, the coverage focused entirely on the so-called “Triangle of Death”—Richard Procter, his estranged wife, Carolyn, and her lover, Clay Mundy. The official story line coming from the Major Crime Squad’s homicide investigators was that Clay had knifed the professor in a fight over Carolyn. Hector had helped Clay dispose of the body. And when the state police closed in on them the desperate pair had set off a crisis by taking Dorset’s resident trooper hostage.

  For now, an FBI agent would remain stationed in the woods just in case someone associated with Clay and Hector moseyed along and tried to dig up their stash.

  Brandon had been standing out in the middle of the lane looking utterly distraught when Des came staggering through the rain toward him, a big, strong trooper helping her along. Brandon ran to her and hugged her tight, kissing her, kissing her. And then here came Soave and Yolie, beaming with delight. All of them wanted to know how she got out. Des’s ears were ringing. And her memory of the previous few minutes was a feverish stew of fantasy and reality. But somehow, she gave them what Mitch had fed her to say. That she’d managed to work the ropes loose. Found wire cutters and a pry bar down there. Jimmied open an air vent. Grabbed the nearest trooper. End of story.

  It didn’t fly for long, because when they searched the root cellar in the morning they found that her ropes had been cut with a knife, not loosened. And the vent cover pried open from the outside, not within. But for now no one showed any interest in pressing Des over this apparent discrepancy.

  “It’s all over.”

  That’s what a relieved Brandon kept saying to her as the Jewett sisters were getting her settled in the back of the ambulance. The media people were shouting questions her way. She wasn’t answering them. Wasn’t up for any questions.

  “It’s all over.”

  He said it as they were being whisked away to the Shoreline Clinic together, his arm wrapped around her, making her feel safe and loved. He said it as she sat there on the examining table, an eleven-year-old doctor shining a bright light in her eyes and asking her to look up, down and sideways. The doctor told her what she already knew—that she had a concussion and needed it to take it slow for a few days.

  “She’ll take it slow,” Brandon promised.

  Otherwise, Des was fine. Shockingly so. Her blood pressure was a textbook 126 over 78, her resting pulse rate a steady 74. Des knew why. Hell, yes, she knew—because Mitch had come through for her. Risked his life to save hers. He cared. He still cared…. “You can’t turn it on and off like a faucet.” … As simple as that.

  And hello, more than a tiny bit complicated. Not exactly helpful to discover that it was Mitch, not Brandon, who’d been in her heart as she lay there in that root cellar waiting to die. Des had already had her chance with Mitch and blown it. And now he’d given his own heart to someone else, according to Bella. A British dance critic-slash-bitch named Cecily. So it was too late for a do-over. Which Des accepted. Had to accept. Because it was what it was. Besides, Brandon was by her side right now being so supportive and sweet. She belonged with Brandon. And she was going to make it work with Brandon. She was determined to make it work.

  “We are taking the phone off the hook when we get home,” he told her as the doctor was patching up her head wound. “You are going to sleep in tomorrow. And I am bringing you breakfast in bed.”

  She smiled at him, stroking his cheek gently. “Careful, baby, I could get used to being spoiled.”

  “Get used to it. Your man wants you to.”

  Brandon made good on his promise, too. He let her sleep sinfully late. And he really did serve her breakfast in bed—orange juice, bacon, eggs and toast. Brandon had never been the greatest of cooks. But she forced down every greasy, lukewarm bite, yumming enthusiastically as he hovered over her, plumping her pillows. She still had herself an awful headache, as well as that persistent ringing in her ears. But she felt sinfully decadent as she lay there sipping her second cup of coffee. And was genuinely touched by the way Brandon was fussing over her. He kept the local newspapers away from her. She wasn’t ready for them. Instead, she leafed her way through the New York Times and Boston Globe, barely noticing the headlines.
Nothing was taking place in the outside world that seemed to matter to her.

  Until, that is, one particular item in the Globe caught her eye. And held it.

  As he left for work Brandon made her promise that she’d take it easy today. Des promised him she would. She was real convincing, too.

  But once he was out the door Des switched into action mode. Dialed 411 for Moodus. Had herself a good, long talk with someone who she’d been wanting to speak with for a couple of days. Then she climbed into a fresh uniform, got in her cruiser and started back to Sour Cherry Lane with her head spinning. And not because of any damned concussion.

  The thunderstorms of last night had passed over. The day was clear and bright, with puffy white clouds and a cool, fresh breeze blowing off of the Sound. Des rolled down her windows and savored it, knowing there wouldn’t be many more days like this before the sweltering humidity of summer settled in.

  The Procter house was a shattered, sodden wreck. There was broken glass everywhere. Virtually every pane of every window had gotten blown out in the firefight. The window frames and front door were in pieces. The weathered cedar shingles nothing more than splinters and shards.

  Des rolled up to find all three generations of Beckwith women hard at work out on the front porch. Patricia, who had cared for Richard Procter a great deal. Kimberly, who had been ga-ga over him. And Jen, the born achiever, who never, ever smiled. Jen was helping her mother sweep the broken glass into a trash barrel. Patricia was taking a tape measure to the windows and jotting down her findings on a yellow legal pad.

  Des got out of her Crown Vic and tipped her big hat at the regal old woman. “What do you intend to do now, ma’am?”

  “Fix it up, naturally,” Patricia answered. “Then re-let it. I was assured by a highly reputable contractor this morning that it’s still structurally sound.”

  “And it has one heck of a fine root cellar, I happen to know.”

  Patricia paused from her measuring to cast a critical eye at Des. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal, young lady. I’m surprised to see you back at work so soon.”

  “I’m fine, ma’am.”

  “I’m told that Carolyn Procter has been informed of Clay Mundy’s death,” Patricia said. “Her sister, Megan, doesn’t believe in shielding loved ones from bad news. A belief that I happen to share. I’ve never abided coddling.”

  “How did Carolyn take the news?”

  “Like the strong, capable woman she truly is. She did not fall into hysterics or any other such nonsense, Megan said. Molly is spending the day with her at the hospital today. As soon as Carolyn’s doctors feel she’s ready, Megan intends to take them home to Maine. Permanently, it would appear.”

  “I hate to admit it,” Jen said glumly. “But I’m going to miss the little squirt.”

  “Then we shall go to Maine and visit her,” her grandmother responded, gazing cooly over at Kimberly. “All three of us, if that is acceptable to you.”

  “Really? I mean, sure. Sounds … great.” Kimberly was visibly floored by her mother-in-law’s invitation. Clearly, this signaled a major thawing of family relations. “I got me a week of vacation time coming in July. We could drive up. It’ll be fun, won’t it, honey?”

  Jen blew a loose strand of blond ponytail away from her mouth. “If you say so.”

  Des stood there studying the girl, wondering if she’d ever figure out how to get her happy on. Or if her whole life would merely be filled with one grim, dogged achievement after another.

  Now Amber and Keith came toodling down Sour Cherry for home in Keith’s pickup, waving as they drove past. Des excused herself and strode down the lane after them.

  They’d been out grocery shopping. Big, blond Keith yanked a forty-pound bag of birdseed from the back of the truck, hoisted it over his shoulder and started around to the backyard with it. Several bags of groceries remained behind. Amber, who was looking bug cute in a cropped knit top and tight jeans, muscled two of them out of there. Des grabbed two more.

  “You would not believe the commotion we set off at the market,” she chattered at Des as they made their way inside through the front door. “Absolutely everyone wanted to know everything about last night. They kept asking us a million questions. It’s like we turned into overnight celebrities just because we to live across the lane. Can you believe it?”

  “I can, actually. In fact, I had something I wanted to ask you myself.”

  They put their bags down on the kitchen table. It was an old-fashioned farmhouse kitchen, sunny, cheerful and spotless.

  “Sure thing,” Amber said. “What is it?”

  “Did you wash the knife and put it back in your knife rack over there or did you bury it?”

  Amber froze, gaping at her in wide-eyed shock. “What did you just say?”

  Keith came in through the kitchen door now. All three of them were in there together.

  “After you slashed Professor Procter’s throat,” Des said to them, “did you two hide the murder weapon in plain sight or did you bury it?”

  He swallowed hard but did not respond. Just moved closer to his beloved bride, draping a beefy arm around her.

  “Because if you did bury it,” Des continued, “then my money’s on that ton of cedar mulch piled out in the driveway. I’m guessing that the troopers never got around to digging it up. And they sure won’t be bothering now. Why would they, right?” On their stunned silence she added, “I’m guessing your bloody clothes are under there, too.”

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Des,” Amber said quietly. “But are you still feeling the effects of that bump on your head?”

  “Thanks for asking, but I feel fine. Plenty well enough to take care of business before I got here.”

  “Business?” Amber’s big dark eyes bored in on hers. “What business?”

  “Well, I had a nice chat on the phone with Professor Robert Sorin, who was Richard’s closest friend on the Wesleyan faculty. You remember him, don’t you, Amber? Lives up in Moodus? He sure remembers you. Professor Sorin has been away at an academic conference in Yellow Springs, Ohio. He got home late last night and was real shaken when he heard about Richard’s death on the news. Given that his friend is no longer alive, Professor Sorin was willing to share with me something Richard told him a couple of months ago in the strictest confidence. Which was that he’d become romantically involved with a former student. A young Dorset woman who’s now a grad student at Yale. And married. Kind of sounds like someone we know, doesn’t she?”

  Amber lowered those big dark eyes and stared down at the pink and yellow linoleum floor, wringing her hands.

  Des kept going. “Keith, I also had a chance to read this morning’s Boston Globe from front to back.”

  Keith raised his square chin at her challengingly. “So …?”

  “So the Red Sox trounced Toronto eight-zip the night Richard died. At no time during the game did the Sox ever trail. Yet when I showed up here in response to Amber’s nine-one-one call you told me the Jays were killing them. You weren’t watching that game on TV at all, were you? You were out in the lane slashing Richard’s throat. Then the two of you carried him down to the river together and dumped him there, figuring he wouldn’t wash up for days and days. And when he did that any and all suspicion would land on Clay Mundy and stay there. Then you cleaned yourselves up and hid the evidence, quick like bunnies. Which Molly never saw because she was too scared to climb down from her tree house until I got here. She didn’t see anyone leaving the crime scene either. No one did. That’s because you didn’t have to leave. You were already home. Still, you two were very careful. Amber, you called nine-one-one just in case one of your neighbors had heard Richard scream—figuring it would never occur to anyone that you were involved if you were the one who reported it. Especially the way Keith kept insisting he hadn’t heard a thing.” Des shook her head them disgustedly. “Clay was telling me the truth yesterday. He had nothing to do with Richard’s death. Hell, Clay was no
killer at all. A killer would have shot Molly dead the instant she started for that kitchen door. He just tried to scare her with a warning shot. The poor bastard didn’t realize how gutsy she is. Not that I’m saying I feel the least bit sorry for him or Hector. They get no love from me. Those two sold dope that messed up thousands of people, a lot of them kids. They trashed Carolyn’s life. Terrorized Molly. Tied me up and threw me in that root cellar. No, no, I will not be mourning them. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to pin Richard’s murder on them so his real killers can go free. No one deserves that. Do they, Keith?”

  “Des, I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said in a steady, earnest voice. “It’s a total fabrication. Insane. And you can’t prove any of it.”

  “Sure we can,” she promised him. “If we have to. But I don’t think it’ll come to that. I know both of you and you’re good, decent people who love each other very much. Most of the time, you can barely take your eyes off of each other. Yet right now you’re afraid to so much as make eye contact. Would you like me to tell you why? Because you did something horrible together and you both know it. The guilt is already eating away at you. I know it’s eating away at me.”

  “At you?” Amber frowned at her, puzzled. “Why you?”

  “Because I should have seen this coming and headed it off. It was staring me right in the face, damn it. Richard told me what the deal was. Put it right out there when I found him out on Big Sister that day. He kept muttering it over and over again: ‘They both threw me out. They both threw me out.’ I thought he was referring to Clay and Carolyn. My bad. He meant Carolyn and you, Amber. Both of the women in his life. When he took that afterdinner stroll from Mrs. Beckwith’s he didn’t head for his old place to see Carolyn or Molly. He showed up here to beg you to leave Keith. He was still crazy about you, wasn’t he? Couldn’t get you out of his system. It’s like a very wise person said to me last night: You can’t turn it on and off like a faucet.”