The Burnt Orange Sunrise (6 page)

“Bella, I’m not sabotaging anything,” she insisted. “And I’m not playing a head game. I know the signs. I know the man. I know where this is heading.” Des drew in her breath, her chest tightening. “Mitch Berger is getting ready to break my heart. And when he does, you may as well just dig me a hole and shove me in, because I am not going to survive. Not this one. I will die. Hear me? I will absolutely die.”

A
STRID’S
C
ASTLE WAS PERCHED
high atop an exposed granite cliff that overlooked the Connecticut River about ten miles upriver from the village of Dorset. For drivers heading north to Boston on Interstate 95, the immense stone replica of a medieval fortress was hard to miss, looming there as it did above the river, so majestic, so improbable, so floodlit. Many people, especially those who wrote travel brochures for the state’s tourism office, thought Astrid’s looked like something straight out of a fairy tale.

Mitch thought it looked more like the main attraction of Six Flags Dorset. If such a place existed. Which, happily, it did not.

A gate with stone pillars marked its entrance on Route 156. During the summer, when tourists flocked to the castle by the thousands, there was an attendant in a kiosk there, collecting admission. Now there was no one. Inside the gate, the private drive forked almost at once. The left fork was for visitors who had come to ride Choo-Choo Cholly, the castle’s whimsical, brightly colored narrow-gauge steam train. From May through October, Cholly was a big attraction for day-trippers with kids. It made a couple of stops at scenic overlooks and hiking trails as it chugged its way up the mountain to the castle.

The right fork, which was for guests of the inn and deliveries, led to a private road that climbed for three miles through heavily forested grounds. Mitch’s old truck labored as it made the ascent. The road was steep, twisty and very narrow, especially with the plowed snowbanks crowding in on both sides. Finally, he came around a big bend and crested at the top, and there it was before him in the floodlights, framed by a pair of giant sycamores that flanked the end of the road like sentries. Astrid’s was eye-poppingly massive from close up—wide, vast and three stories high, not counting its
trademark tower. There was a moat. For arriving and departing guests, a circular driveway passed over it on a drawbridge to the castle’s main entrance. For Choo-Choo Cholly riders, there was a miniature train station with a platform that was roofed in copper and illuminated by Victorian lamps.

Mitch eased into the guest parking lot in between a silver Mercedes wagon with Washington, D.C., plates and a rental Ford Taurus from New York. The temperature had moderated since morning, up close to 30, but when he got out he discovered the wind was absolutely howling off the river, especially up on this exposed hilltop. Mitch could see the lights of Essex directly across the river. Yet he could not make out the moon or the stars, which he found a bit peculiar. When it blew this hard it generally meant the sky was clearing. Tonight, it was not.

The moat was solidly frozen. Mitch clomped his way over it on the wooden drawbridge, half expecting to run into Errol Flynn and Basil Rathbone locked in a sword fight.

Instead he encountered a short, powerfully built young guy hunched over a snow shovel, clearing the remains of the day’s snow from the blue stone path that led to the front door. He wore a heavy wool lumberjack shirt over a hooded sweatshirt. The stocking cap he had on was pulled low over his eyes. His jeans were baggy, his boots scuffed. He wore no gloves. His hands were chapped and red, nails blackened with grease. He halted from his labors to glance up at Mitch. He had a thick reddish beard that grew up unusually close to his eye sockets. Very little skin showed, especially with that knit cap pulled so low over his eyes. Mitch thought it gave him the Lon Chaney, Jr., look, as in when the moon is full, as in
Wha-oooo
…

“Get your bags… you, sir?” the Wolfman asked him in a voice so faint that Mitch could barely hear him.

“I’m not an overnight guest, thanks. Just here for dinner.” Mitch realized on closer inspection that he recognized this particular lycan-thrope. “I see you at the hardware store all the time, don’t I?”

“Could be,” he replied shyly. “I’m in and out of there a lot.”

“Mitch Berger,” he said, sticking out his hand.

“Oh, sure. You’re looking after things out on Big Sister. I’m Jase Hearn,” he said, gripping Mitch’s hand. His was so rough it was like grabbing a chunk of firewood. “You’re a brave soul, man, wintering over out there,” he added, his voice growing stronger as he got more at ease.

“Or possibly just crazy,” Mitch said, grinning at him.

“They usually just hire some poor doofus to do it.”

“No need to—they have me for free.”

“Me, I keep things running here,” Jase said, leaning his weight on his shovel. “Me and my big sister, Jory. She’s head housekeeper, I’m maintenance.”

“That must keep you pretty busy,” Mitch said, his eyes taking in the hugeness of the place. “Especially this time of year.”

“She’s a beauty and a beast,” Jase admitted, scratching at his furry face. “Took twenty men five whole years to build her. She’s all native fieldstone. And, man, does she eat up the fuel. Three furnaces, two hot-water heaters, forty-eight guest rooms with forty-eight wood-burning fireplaces. Windows everywhere, on account of the views. You wouldn’t believe what it costs to heat her. Winters, they got to close down the third floor entirely. Lay off most of the staff, too. Me and Jory are the only full-timers.”

“Business is slow this time of year?”

“Dead slow, unless we get like a corporate retreat or a wedding. Tonight, we got no paying guests at all. This thing for Mrs. Geiger is huge for us. All kinds of Hollywood celebrities will be staying here. Movie studio’s picking up the whole tab. A hotshot, Spence Sibley, is already here, job-bossing the whole thing. Better him than me. I just keep the fires burning and the road clear.” Jase resumed his shoveling. “Watch out for black ice on your way back down tonight. It can be a real bitch.”

“Will do,” Mitch promised, continuing up the footpath toward the castle’s big slab of an oak front door. Hand-painted wooden signs marked the paths leading off across the courtyard to the rose garden, wisteria arbor, lily pond and greenhouse. There was also a service path that led to the caretaker’s cottage and adjoining woodshed.

Les was waiting for him with the front door opened wide. “I saw your lights,” he explained cheerily as he ushered Mitch into the cavernous three-story entry hall, where the lights from the chandeliers glowed golden on the yellow pine floors. A pianist was playing something jazzy and up-tempo in a nearby room, filling the hall with vibrant tones. “So glad you could make it.”

“Glad to be here,” said Mitch, thinking that Les really played his ruddy New England innkeeper role to the hilt. He even dressed the part in his Viyella tattersall shirt, cable-stitched sweater vest and gray flannel slacks. His head of lush silver hair was brushed so wavy and lustrous it reminded Mitch of plumage.

“Where’s our resident trooper?”

“Running late.” Mitch realized that he recognized what the pianist was playing—it was the theme song to the TV sitcom
Will and Grace.
He was not proud that he knew this. “She’ll be along as soon as she can.”

“Mitch, you’ll have to refresh my memory. Have you been with us before?”

“No, I haven’t,” Mitch replied, gazing up, up, up at the intricately carved, winding three-story center staircase.

“That’s solid cherry,” Les said proudly. “It was imported from a castle in Wiltshire, England, as was a lot of the woodwork and molding. The paneling and upstairs doors are native oak. Would you believe that the local gentry were in a dither about Astrid’s when it was first built? They thought it was vulgar. Now it’s Dorset’s most famous landmark, known the world over.”

There was a coatroom where Mitch deposited his hat, scarf and parka. Underneath, he wore his standard corduroy sports jacket, V-neck sweater and Oxford button-down shirt, along with baggy wide-wale cords and Mephistos. Mitch didn’t own a tie. Refused to. Just as he’d refused to rent a tuxedo for Saturday night’s big tribute bash. They could take him as he was, or not at all.

There was a glassed-in gift shop, closed now, that sold things like postcards and a wide array of Astrid’s Castle merchandise. There was a reception desk with wall-mounted racks filled with tourist
brochures and maps. Doorways led off to the morning room and dining room. Also the taproom, where Mitch could hear voices and polite laughter.

Les led him through a wide doorway toward the music. “We call this room the Sunset Lounge because the windows face west. We’re famous for our sunsets up here, Mitch. You can see Long Island Sound, the boats on the river. The view’s really quite extraordinary, actually.”

Actually, the Sunset Lounge was more like a ballroom in Mitch’s estimation, with a twenty-four-foot ceiling, shimmering chandelier and a stone fireplace big enough to walk into. A fire was roaring in it. Leather sofas and armchairs were grouped there. And a radiant oil portrait of Astrid Lindstrom hung over the mantel—beautiful, pink-cheeked Astrid in an elegant silver gown, gazing over one bare ivory shoulder at the artist, her eyes bright with amusement. The one-time Zigfeld Follies girl bore more than a passing resemblance to Mary Pickford, or so the artist had portrayed her.

The elegantly dressed older gentleman at the Steinway grand piano had moved on to “They All Laughed,” a Gershwin brothers number from
Shall We Dance
, which was Mitch’s favorite of the Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers musicals. In this he was alone. Every other film critic on earth thought
Top Hat
was Fred and Ginger’s best.

“Come meet Teddy Ackerman, Mitch. Teddy is Aaron’s uncle. His brother, Paul, was Norma’s first husband.”

Teddy was in his early sixties, slender and pale to the point of wan. In fact, his complexion closely resembled the ivory of the keyboard before him. Teddy had a long, narrow face, finely chiseled features and a high forehead with receding steel-wool hair. He wore his navy-blue suit very well. He had on a burgundy tie with it and a sparkling white shirt with French cuffs. His cuff links were of gold with sapphires.

“Say hello to Mitch Berger, Teddy,” Les said.

Teddy paused from his playing to offer Mitch his hand. It was a very cold hand, the fingers long and smooth. “Glad to know you, Mitch.”

“You play beautifully,” Mitch said, because he did. Teddy had a touch so natural it was as if he and the piano were a single organism.

“Thanks much. You’ll have to come hear the whole gang this weekend. We’re playing at the cocktail mixer Saturday afternoon. We call ourselves the Night Blooming Jazzmen because all four of us have held on to our day jobs. Much better off that way, Mitch.” Teddy spoke with a wistful air, his voice tinged with loss and regret. “You should never, ever try to make a living doing the one thing you care about most. You’ll only get your heart broken. I came up a couple of days early at Norma’s invitation,” he added, with just enough emphasis on “Norma” to suggest some tension between him and Les.

If it was there, Les didn’t acknowledge it. Just beamed at the two of them, the genial host.

“Too bad you never got a chance to meet my brother, Paul,” Teddy said to Mitch, sipping from the goblet of red wine that was set atop the piano. “Big Paul was a living hero. Graduated top of his class at Columbia Law School, turned down every single big-money offer to go to work for the American Civil Liberties Union. Paul fought for the underdog. Tilted at windmills. Me, I just tilt at wineglasses. He dropped dead of a heart attack in 1992. Seems like it was just last week.”

“I’m sorry,” Mitch said.

“Say, Les, where were
you
in ’92?” Teddy asked him mockingly. “Still writing trenchant ad copy for Preparation H?”

“Something like that,” Les responded shortly, not wanting to mix it up with him, although it was obvious from his clenched jaw that he disliked the guy. Just as it was obvious that Teddy resented him for wooing and winning his beloved brother’s widow.

“The rest of the boys are coming up tomorrow, Mitch,” Teddy said, launching into a bluesy version of “Stardust.” “We’re a diverse bunch. We’ve got an eye doctor, an accountant, a pharmacist and me—I sell suits at Sig Klein’s Big and Tall Man’s store.”

“On Union Square? Sure, I know that place,” Mitch said, smiling. Sig Klein’s had been advertising on New York radio since Mitch was a little boy. Any number of second-tier Knicks big men had done
spots for Sig’s over the years, going all the way back to Kenny “The Animal” Bannister.

“I’m surprised I haven’t seen you in there,” Teddy said, checking Mitch over with a professional eye. “You’re a good, healthy-sized boy.”

“I’m mostly wearing insulated goose down these days.”

“Still, I could fit the heck out of you. You ought to stop by, buddy.”

“Right now, let’s go get you a drink,” Les offered, clapping Mitch on the back.

“Will you join us?” Mitch asked Teddy.

“I’m fine right here, thanks. Any requests?”

“No Billy Joel?”

“No problem,” Teddy responded, chuckling.

“The family ne’er-do-well,” Les explained under his breath as he and Mitch moved back toward the entry hall. “Real, real sad case. Still lives with his mother in an apartment in Forest Hills. Never got married. Loses every dime he makes playing high-stakes poker. It was Norma’s idea to throw some work his way this weekend. She’s always felt sorry for him, I think. Aaron can’t stand him. Although, near as I can tell, Aaron can’t stand any of his relatives. Remarkably enough, the feeling is entirely mutual.”

Les was steering him toward the taproom when a rather pillowy woman in her sixties came bustling out of a service door and very nearly collided with them.

“Ah, here she is now,” Les said with a jovial laugh. “Mitch, have you met my lovely wife, Norma?”

“No, he has not,” Norma said briskly, swiping a loose strand of gray hair from her eyes. “A pleasure, Mitch. I’m sorry if I seem to be run ragged. It’s only because it so happens I am.”