The sour cherry surprise

Megan shrugged her shoulders. “Sorry for Carolyn, mostly. Richard was a smart man. And a decent father, I suppose. But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t be a complete ass. Was I surprised when Carolyn told me he’d been sleeping with another woman? Not at all. Was I surprised that she told him to get out? You bet. And kind of proud of her, too. Carolyn can be something of a doormat. But she stood up for herself this time.”

“Did you encourage her?”

“Maybe I did,” Megan admitted. “She’s my baby sister. I’ve looked out for her since she was in pigtails. But, believe me, I had no way of knowing the two of them would completely crash and burn like they did. I never saw it coming. If I had I would have been down here in a heartbeat. And if she’d wanted to take him back I would have made every effort to help, despite my own feelings for the man.” Megan ran a hand over her face, stifling another yawn. “May I ask you something now?”

“Absolutely.”

“How do I get Clay Mundy and that friend of his out of my sister’s house?”

“We can help you there-when the time comes.”

“When the time comes,” she repeated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Right now, it’s best if they stay where they are.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re suspects in an ongoing murder investigation. We want them right where we can find them. The status quo is the way to go-no matter how odious it may seem. Understand?”

“I’m a farmer. I understand pigs and goats. But you seem to care about what you’re doing, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt for now. Provided you’re looking out for Molly.”

“Molly’s perfectly safe, I assure you.”

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.”