The Burnt Orange Sunrise (7 page)

Ada Geiger’s daughter spoke in a clipped, precise manner. And she most definitely had an English accent, which made sense since she would have been a little girl when Ada and Luther fled there in the fifties. Norma was plump, heavy-bosomed and rather slump-shouldered. She had soft, dark eyes and a kindly face, a face that once might have been very smooth and lovely, Mitch felt. Right now she just seemed worn and tired. There was a sheen of perspiration on
her forehead, and her breathing seemed quite labored. Mitch could actually hear the air bellowing in and out of her lungs. She practically sounded like Choo-Choo Cholly trying to chug its way up a hill. Norma wore her gray hair cropped at the chin. She had on a dark blue cardigan sweater over a light blue turtleneck, blue slacks and red kitchen clogs.

“There will be a huge kitchen staff arriving tomorrow,” Norma explained to him. “But tonight, there is no one. Unless, of course, one counts Jory. As I do. She’s a gem. I’d be lost without her. I am accustomed to the grind, naturally. But it’s always just a bit harder when one’s mother is around. Especially
my
mother. She’s having a nap right now. She tires easily. Where’s Des? She
is
coming, isn’t she?”

“She’ll be along soon,” Mitch assured her.

Back in the Sunset Lounge, Teddy segued from “Stardust” into a heartfelt rendition of “More Than You Know.”

Norma seemed to melt as soon as she heard it, a fond, faraway smile creasing her face.

“Are you okay, dear?” Les asked, peering at her.

“Why, yes,” she replied, coloring. “Fine. I’ve just always loved this song.”

An efficient young woman with curly ginger-colored hair came barging through the service door. “We can plate the main course whenever you’re ready, Norma,” she announced.

“I’m afraid we’re still minus one, dear,” Norma told her.

“No problem. I can keep it warm.” She gave Mitch a quick, bright smile and said, “You must be our movie critic. I’m Jory Hearn. Welcome to the castle.”

Jase’s big sister was in her late twenties and not conventionally pretty. Jory had a bit too much bulldog in her chin, and her nose was a good deal broader and flatter than the beauty magazines would have liked. But she had creamy, lovely skin, an inviting rosebud of a mouth and an eager vitality that was very appealing. Jory was by no means a frail little thing. She was about five feet nine, big-boned and ripely, head-turningly
zaftig.
Her curves were hard to miss even in
her sober dining hall uniform of black vest, white blouse and black slacks.

She was also available. Very available. Her eyes gleamed at Mitch invitingly.

“I just met your brother outside,” he said to her. “He seemed real nice.

Jory and Norma exchanged a confused look before Jory said, “Jase
spoke
to you?”

“He seemed a little quiet at first, but once we got going about the castle, he was very talkative.”

“Normally, our guests can’t get one single word out of him,” Les said. “They think he’s a mute. The little kids even call him Igor.”

“He’s a good, hard-working boy,” Norma spoke up. “And he takes wonderful care of this place. He’s just a bit delicate, poor thing.”

“Our mother died in childbirth,” Jory explained to Mitch. “And Jeremy died three days later.”

“Jeremy?”

“Our brother. Jase’s twin.”

“That must have been very hard for you,” Mitch said to her quietly.

“It’s still hard, sometimes,” Jory admitted, swallowing.

“Well, he sure seems to love this place.”

“Believe me, Mitch, we both do,” Jory assured him. “It’s round-the-clock hard work, but it’s rewarding. And it’s home. The drinks are in the taproom. May I pour you something?”

“No need to worry about me. I’ll manage.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” she fired back, showing him her dimples before she headed back to the kitchen, her hips moving with just a little extra oomph. Definitely for Mitch’s benefit. Although, as she passed on through the staff door, he couldn’t help notice that Les was missing none of the show.

If Norma was aware of this, she didn’t let on. Just said, “I’m still relatively new here myself. My brother, Herbert, ran the castle until 1993, when he was killed by a drunk driver. I had recently lost Paul.
Aaron was off in Washington. I was lonely, lost, too much time on my hands. And so I took the plunge. And then one weekend Les showed up here as a guest…”

“And I never left,” he said happily, squeezing her hand. “I know a good thing when I see it.”

“Mind you, it’s a small miracle that this place has survived at all,” Norma said. “When Grandpa Moses died back in 1948, he left the castle to his dear protégée, Astrid, for as long as she lived. Which turned out to be until 1980, as it happens.”

“I didn’t realize Astrid stayed on here for so many years,” Mitch said.

“Local legend has it that she still haunts the place,” Les revealed in a low, guarded voice. “That is, if you can dismiss it as a legend. Strange noises have been heard in the night, Mitch.”

“You’ve actually heard them?”

“Oh, heck no,” Les said, winking at him. “But we hold a séance for her every Halloween. Our guests get a real kick out of it. A couple of young actresses from Yale Drama School come up for the occasion. One plays Astrid, the other summons her.”

“The sad reality is that poor Astrid became quite decrepit in her later years,” Norma said. “And the castle fell into terrible disrepair. Plumbing, wiring, everything. Herbert went to the bank, hat in hand, and restored it from top to bottom as an inn. He got Choo-Choo Cholly up and running again. He also arranged for some three thousand acres of grounds to be donated to the state in exchange for historic landmark status. If he hadn’t, well, the property taxes would totally cripple us.”

“And, hey, some years we actually break even,” Les said gamely. “Well, almost.”

“Such a far, far cry from the castle’s glory days,” Norma said nostalgically. “Grandpa Moses was quite the theatrical impresario. And Astrid, his greatest stage discovery, blossomed into the reigning society hostess of her day. There were truly remarkable weekend parties up here, Mitch. San Simeon East, Dorothy Parker famously dubbed
it. The Marx Brothers stayed here. Lunt and Fontanne, Mae West, Cole Porter, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. They all had grand, giddy fun at Astrid’s. She was a great lady. After Grandpa passed away, she converted the place into a private club for his Wall Street friends. They used to motor up from the city to hunt and fish and—”

“Jesus Christ, Norma, what a load of simpering, G-rated crap!” a voice erupted from somewhere upstairs. It was an elderly woman’s voice, raspy but strong. It was Ada Geiger’s voice. Evidently, she’d been eavesdropping on Norma ‘s historical retelling. Evidently, there was not a thing wrong with her hearing. “Moses Geiger was a goddamned bootlegger and racketeer!” the ninety-four-year-old director thundered as she descended the hand-carved staircase, tall, regal and so remarkably light on her feet that she seemed to waft. “Astrid was his succulent lemon tart on the side, and she turned this underheated pile of rocks into the fanciest cathouse in New England. What is this, Norma, kiddie hour?”

“Why, no, Mother.” Norma reddened under her mother’s rebuke.

“Then tell this poor man the goddamned truth. Tell him how the entire New York Yankees team used to get laid here after a weekend series up at Fenway Park.” Ada Geiger had been famous throughout her career for her bold, savage directness. Clearly, she had not changed. “Tell him how Astrid always had to keep silk sheets around for DiMaggio because Joe D wouldn’t sleep on anything else. I swear, Norma, by the time I’m gone you’ll have turned this place into a former convent. And Moses into, well,
Moses.
Don’t try to cover up the truth. Revel in it. It’s your heritage, dear.”

“Yes, Mother,” Norma said, lowering her eyes.

When Ada reached the bottom of the stairs she glided slowly toward them, her aquiline nose raised high in the air. She reminded Mitch of an ancient bird of prey. An osprey, perhaps—proud, fierce and defiantly alert, her hooded eyes sharp and keen. Ada combed her pure white hair straight back. Her face was still beautiful. It wasn’t an old face. It was a lived-in face. Her hands shook slightly, but she stood strong and straight. She wore a pair of eyeglasses on a chain
around her neck. No makeup or lipstick. She was dressed in a bulky black turtleneck, wool slacks and sturdy walking shoes. A tweed jacket was thrown over her shoulders like a cape.

“Besides which,” she continued, “Astrid was a great dame in her own right. Somebody ought to be getting her life story down on paper instead of trying to ‘summon’ her every year with a crystal ball and a bad Romanian accent. True story: My mother never even knew Astrid existed. Hell, I didn’t meet her myself until I was forty. But people knew how to keep secrets in those days. Not like now. Now everyone wants
to share.
What fun is that?” Ada turned her piercing glare on Mitch. “You must be this Mitch person. Well, speak up. Are you or aren’t you?”

“I am,” Mitch responded, a bit awestruck. “How are you, Mrs. Geiger?”

“First of all, the name’s Ada. Second of all, don’t ever ask someone my age how they are. They might actually answer you, individual organ by organ, and it will consume the entire evening’s conversation. I have health problems. They’re not very interesting problems. Now let’s leave it at that, shall we?” She took him by the arm and pulled away from Norma and Les, her grip surprisingly strong. “I’m glad you could make it, Mitch. I know you had zero to do with this freak show they’re putting on for me. Or I prefer to think you didn’t.”

“I didn’t, actually. And meeting you this way is an incredible honor for me.”

“Nonsense. It’s entirely due to your efforts that today’s young people have so much as heard of my movies. I wished to thank you.”

“I was just doing my job.”

“Hah! You say that as if most people actually
do
their jobs. Your lady friend is the one who draws dead people, am I right?”

“Why, yes. She’s very talented.”

“Of course she is, of course she is,” Ada said impatiently. “Where is she? I need to speak with her.”

“She’s running late,” Mitch said, wondering why the grand old director wanted to speak to Des.

Jory reappeared now to see to her. “How about a nice cup of your herbal tea, Mrs. Geiger?” she asked, raising her voice.

“You needn’t shout at me, tootsie,” Ada barked. “I’m not deaf.”

“I’m sorry. I just wondered if you’d like a cup of your Lemon Zinger.”

“I would. With a generous slice of fresh ginger…”

“And a half teaspoon of honey. I know, ma’am.”

“I can’t abide most American tea,” Ada explained to Mitch. “It tastes like monkey piss to me. I’ll make it myself, if you don’t mind,” she told Jory. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s that I, well, don’t trust you.”

“At least let me help you,” Jory offered.

“If you must, Dory,” Ada said imperiously.

“It’s
Jory
, ma’am,” she pointed out as the two of them started for the kitchen.

Norma let out a suffering sigh as soon as they’d disappeared through the service door. “I love the old dear, Mitch. But, as you can see, she is absolutely impossible. Not that she’s any different now than she was when I was a girl. She’s just more so.”

“I like her,” Mitch said admiringly. “She’s real.”

“Ada’s one of a kind, all right,” Les agreed. “Thank God.”

“I don’t know
how
I shall ever make this up to poor Jory,” Norma fretted.

“Have she and Jase worked here long?”

“Their whole lives. Their father, Gussie, was caretaker here going all the way back to Astrid’s days. He raised the two of them on his own out in the cottage. When they were old enough to work, they stayed on. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d best see to dinner—
and
rescue the girl.”

“Come on, let’s get you that drink,” Les said, steering Mitch toward the taproom.

The castle’s taproom was paneled, cozy and clubby, as in the Union League Club, circa 1929. There was a hand-carved hardwood bar with half a dozen stools before it. Behind it, an antique wall clock seemed to be keeping perfect time. There were tavern tables
and card tables, and comfy leather armchairs parked before the fire that was crackling in the fireplace. There were Rex Brasher Audubon Society prints hanging from the walls, built-in bookcases filled with hardcover volumes of literature and history. A vintage Brunswick pool table with ornate carved legs and hand-sewn leather pockets anchored the middle of the room. An amber glass light fixture was suspended over it, casting a warm glow over the green felt. The sound of Teddy’s piano was fainter in here, but Mitch could still hear it—just as he could hear the howl of the wind through the chimney flue.

A slender, striking blonde with very long straight hair was standing over by the fire in a sleeveless black dress and stiletto heels, sipping a martini and looking rather sulky. The great Aaron Ackerman sat gloomily at the bar, both hands wrapped around a snifter of single malt Scotch, a bottle of twenty-one-year-old Balvenie parked at his elbow.

A second couple, both in their twenties, were working away at a tavern table in the corner. She was busy inputting notes in a laptop computer. He was busy negotiating with someone on his cell phone: “I understand you perfectly—Oliver wants a limo from JFK. But I can’t give him one. If Oliver gets a limo, then Quentin will want one.” Spence Sibley from Panorama Studios, evidently. “I swear,
no one
is getting a limo. This is not the damned Golden Globes!”

“Now what can I get you, Mitch?” Les asked as he bustled around behind the bar.

“Whatever you have on draft will be fine.”

Les drew a Double Diamond for him in an Astrid’s Castle pilsner glass and set it before him on an Astrid’s Castle bar coaster. Mitch began to wonder if he’d be seeing that damned logo in his sleep tonight.

“We’ve never had the pleasure, Mitch,” Aaron spoke up, sticking his hand out toward him. “I enjoy your work thoroughly.”

Mitch shook Aaron’s hand, which was limp and sodden. “Thanks, glad to meet you,” he said, even though he was far from it. As far as
Mitch was concerned, Aaron Ackerman was one of the most despicable figures in modern American journalism.