The burnt orange sunrise

CHAPTER 3

Astrid’s Castle 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.”

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 protegee, 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 seance 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.

If you could even call what Aaron Ackerman did journalism. Mitch didn’t. Aaron specialized in skewering public figures for fun and profit, a brutal form of personal destruction that had come to be known in media circles as Ack-Ack. Ada Geiger’s grandson got his start during the Monica Lewinsky scandal as a member of what Mitch called The Young and The Damp, that perspiring, attention-starved legion of bow-tied baby neo-conservatives who began popping up all over the cable news channels to pummel Bill Clinton and tout their own right-wing agenda. Aaron had two things going for him that quickly set him apart from the others. He had a very famous left-wing grandmother and he had a giddy, unabashed love for toxic tirades. The man became a full-fledged star with the publication of Incoming Ack-Ack, a collection of his most outrageous diatribes, which spent a dizzy twenty-eight weeks atop the New York Times Best Sellers list. Among his targets: tax-and-spend liberals, mealy-mouthed moderates, yuppies, gays, feminists, environmentalists, New Yorkers, Hollywood political activists, the French-anyone and everyone whose world vision didn’t march in lock-step with his own.

Aaron Ackerman spared no one-not even his own grandmother. He’d gone so far as to Ack-Ack her just this past weekend on Larry King Live, labeling her “a misguided paleo-leftist relic.” He’d even called Ada’s films “objectively, tragically awful.”

He was in his early thirties and had the blinky, nose-twitchy look of someone who used to wear thick glasses before the advent of laser eye surgery. He had a jiggly, shapeless body and an extremely big head. Not in the sense that it was swollen, though it was, but in the sense that it was just a really big, meaty head. Mitch couldn’t imagine what size hat the man wore. Aaron had a rather simian shelf of bone where his eyebrows were. One brow, the right, was often arched in a manner that reminded Mitch of pro wrestler turned movie star The Rock-minus the calculated irony. Aaron did have an affluent surface shine. His curly black hair was neatly trimmed, teeth bleached camera-ready white, fingernails buffed and polished. And he was impeccably dressed in a navy-blue blazer, pink shirt, polka-dot bow tie and charcoal flannel slacks. But the man still had the word shlub stamped all over him. He lacked physical ease, reeked of insecurity.

“I’m surprised you’re here for Ada’s tribute,” Mitch said to him, sipping his beer. “After what you said about her on television, I mean.”

“That happened to be a great deal of nothing,” Aaron said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He had an orotund style of speaking, a manner so pompous and self-satisfied that he practically cried out to be mocked-which he had been to devastating effect on a recent Saturday Night Live by guest host David Schwimmer. “And it was by no means personal, merely something that I needed to do so as to create space between us in terms of the public Aaron. Naturally, the private Aaron is an entirely different matter. I love my grandmother dearly.” He paused, peering in Mitch’s general direction without actually looking at him. It was more as if he were looking through him. “Surely you can understand that, can’t you?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I only have the one me.”

Aaron seemed shocked by this. “Really? How very disappointing.” Now he turned in his stool to face the slender blonde over by the fire. “Mitch, allow me to introduce my lovely wife, Professor Carly Cade. Carly, say hello to Mitch Berger.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mitch,” she said in a voice that was well-bred, lightly Southern-accented and quite mature. As Mitch moved toward her outstretched hand he realized that Carly was not as young as he’d first thought. Not that he could tell how old she was, but she sure wasn’t in her twenties. She parted her shiny blond hair in the middle and combed it straight down like a teenaged girl, framing her face like half-closed curtains. It was a face that seemed peculiarly expressionless, almost as if she were wearing a mask over it. She was petite, maybe five feet three, and looked terrific in the little sleeveless black dress she had on. Her arms were toned and taut, her legs shapely and smooth.

“Your hand is absolutely frozen,” Mitch said as he released it.

“If you think my hand is cold, you should feel my toes right now,” Carly said, shivering. “I feel like we’re in the real Dorset tonight, don’t you?”

“The real Dorset?”

“In England,” she said. “Where they have no central heat.”

“We have central heat,” Les said defensively, throwing another log on the fire. “But when it gets this windy, it just goes flying right out the windows.”

The wind was definitely howling. In fact, Mitch thought it might even be picking up.

“They do have such things as sweaters, you know,” Aaron said, looking his bare-skinned wife up and down in a most proprietary fashion.

“Aaron, I can tell you don’t know one thing about women,” Les said.

“You are so right, Les,” Carly agreed. “I have spent a fortune on this dress. I have huffed and puffed for two hours a day at the gym so I can wear it. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to throw some old sweater on over it.”

“I think you look great in it,” said Mitch.

“Why, thank you, kind sir.” She treated Mitch to a dainty curtsy. “I like this man, Aaron. I just may have to run off with him.”

“Sorry, I’m taken,” said Mitch, who was trying to figure out how Carly Cade had ended up married to a mean-spirited weasel like Aaron Ackerman. She was pretty. She was classy. She wasn’t dumb-Aaron had gone out of his way to identify her as a professor.

“Mitch, you’re probably wondering what a major babe like Carly is doing with a beltway wonk like me,” Aaron said, gazing through Mitch.

“Not a chance,” Mitch smiled, sipping his beer.

“Believe me, everyone in Washington does,” Aaron assured him, his tone suggesting that the subject of their marriage was Topic Number 1 wherever people of power and influence gathered. Senators, cabinet secretaries, Supreme Court justices-they all talked about Aaron Ackerman and his comely blond wife. “They call us the beauty and the beast. You can guess which one I am. All I can say on my own behalf is that I’m the luckiest schnook in town.”

“And don’t you forget it, Acky,” Carly said tartly, tossing her blond head. “It’s like I always tell people, Mitch. I believe in equal opportunity. I’ve already been married to two handsome, athletic men with impeccable social skills. Now it’s Aaron’s turn.”

“He doesn’t need to hear about your other marriages,” Aaron grumbled at her peevishly.

She held her empty martini glass out to him. “Acky, will you get me a refill?”

He snatched it from her and took it to the bar, where Les did the honors.

“So how did you two meet, Professor?” Mitch asked her.

“God, don’t call me that. Every time I hear the P-word I think of some old hag with a mustache and a hump. Make it Carly, okay? I was up in D.C. for a symposium on U.S. global hegemony at the American Enterprise Institute. I live in Charlottesville, teach modern political history at Mary Baldwin College over in Staunton. Anyway, the two of us were seated next to each other. I knew Aaron’s work, of course. We started talking, and I ended up inviting him down as a guest lecturer. After that, he just swept me off my feet.”

“Translation: I got into her sweet little pants my first night there,” Aaron boasted, returning with her refill.

“Acky, he really doesn’t need to know that.”

“You told him I swept you off of your feet. I was merely elaborating.

“You were not. You were being disgusting.”

Over at the tavern table, the young man from Panorama was still negotiating on his cell phone: “I understand you perfectly-Quentin wants a limo. I’m just a little taken aback, because Oliver has already agreed to a town car. His people don’t want to make this into a big glitzy deal. This is not the damned Golden Globes. Those were Oliver’s exact words.”

His companion bit her lip as she continued to labor at her laptop.

“Feel like a game of eight-ball, Mitch?” Aaron asked, blinking at the vintage pool table.

“You’re on.”

Les racked the balls for them while Mitch and Aaron chose cue sticks from the rack mounted on the wall.

“How about a small wager just to make it interesting? Say, a hundred dollars?”

“Let’s make it ten,” Mitch countered. “So there won’t be any hard feelings.”

Aaron let out a derisive snort. “What are you, short on nerve?”

“Acky, he’s trying to be a gentleman.”

“Really? I never realized that ‘gentleman’ was synonymous with ‘wimp.’”

“Actually, why don’t we make it five?”

“What is your problem?” Aaron demanded.

“He’s trying to spare your feelings, if you ask me,” Les said.

“I don’t recall asking you,” Aaron snapped.

“Why don’t you break, Aaron?” Mitch offered, chalking his cue.

“Don’t you want to flip a coin or some such thing?”

“That’s okay. Go right ahead.”

“Suit yourself. But, frankly, you carry this nice-guy act a bit far. It’s somewhat embarrassing.” Aaron broke thunderously but to no avail-he sank nothing.

Mitch promptly went to work. “Three-ball, corner pocket,” he said, dropping it crisply.

“Kindly explain something to me, Mitch,” Aaron said as he watched him line up his next shot. “Why don’t you get an honest television job instead of writing for that biased liberal rag of yours?”

Mitch’s newspaper was by no means biased. It was scrupulously even-handed, and Aaron knew this. He was just trying to get a rise out of Mitch so he could show his pretty blond wife how devastatingly clever he was.

“Nine-ball, side pocket,” he said, sinking it.

“Seriously, you need to get your face on TV,” Aaron persisted. “The air time will double your book sales.”

“I’m a journalist, not an entertainer,” said Mitch, who had turned down a number of offers to review movies on television.

“God, that is so beneath you, Mitch. Those labels are demonstrably obsolete. We are communicators, nothing more or less. Accept it. Take advantage of it. You’re well-spoken, make a nice impression. And compared to Roger Ebert, hell, you’re Brad Pitt.” Aaron let out a big, booming laugh. “I like that line. I’ll have to use it.”

“You just did, Acky,” Carly pointed out tartly.

“I meant on the air,” he growled at her. “Mitch, I’m privileged to know any number of prominent people at CNN, Fox News… I’d be happy to put out some feelers for you.”

“That’s very nice of you, Aaron, but I’m fine right where I am.”

“But how can you be? That’s not possible.”

“I assure you, it’s very possible.”

“Acky, you’re doing it again.”

Aaron arched his eyebrow at his wife. “Doing what?”

“Laboring under the misapprehension that someone is unhappy because he’s not you,” she said. “Mitch is a smart man. Good at what he does, successful at it. If he wanted to be doing TV, he’d be doing TV. Since he’s not, that means he doesn’t want to. So shut up about it, okay?”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Carly. All except for the shut-up part.” Mitch scoped out the table, observing that Aaron was glowering at her, red-faced. Acky did not like to be spoken to that way. “Seven-ball, corner pocket.” It was a long rail shot, but Mitch sank it.

By now the man from Panorama was done with his calls and charging toward Mitch with his hand held out. “Spence Sibley, Mitch,” he exclaimed. “Sorry about all of this studio business. You must think I’m ultra-rude.”

“No, not at all.”

“I’ve just got so many last-minute details coming together at once. The studio’s West Coast contingent jets into Teeterboro in the morning, filled to the overhead luggage rack with heavy-hitters. Plus Tve got carload upon carload of people coming out from New York. Many of these people are directors who, believe me, have egos that are roughly akin to Afghan warlords. Stars are cupcakes in comparison.” Spence Sibley was about twenty-eight, boyishly handsome and innately self-assured. He had an open, clear-eyed face, a good strong jaw, and possibly the cleanest shave Mitch had ever seen. In fact, he was clean all over. Clean blond crew cut. Clean symmetrical features. Not particularly tall, but he looked as if he were a runner or maybe a swimmer. He practically hummed with good health. He was also exceedingly polished in that way successful corporate people so often are-upon closer inspection, his open face revealed not one thing about the man inside. Spence wore a camel’s hair blazer over a burgundy cable-stitched crew neck, perfectly creased tan slacks of heavyweight twill and polished chestnut-colored ankle boots. “Mitch, may I introduce you to Hannah Lane? Hannah is Ada’s personal assistant.”

“Pleased to meet you, Hannah,” said Mitch, thinking her name sounded familiar.

Hannah clambered awkwardly to her feet, nearly knocking over the tavern table. “Yeah, right, back at you,” she blurted out nervously. Hannah was about the same age as Spence, tall, coltish and incredibly ill at ease. Her features were striking. She had deep-set eyes, terrific cheekbones and a long, straight nose. Her look was even more striking. Hannah resembled a saucy 1920s Parisienne with her schoolboy-length henna hair, jaunty beret and bright red lipstick. The glasses she had on were thick and round and retro. She wore a bulky turtleneck and tweed slacks, a matching tweed jacket thrown over her shoulders the same way Ada’s was. In fact, it was as if Hannah had patterned her entire style after an old photo of the great director. Mitch couldn’t help wonder if she ordinarily looked completely different. “I just love your work,” she said to Mitch effusively. “Especially your weekend pieces. You’re part of my Sunday ritual. First church, then Mitch. I always read you. Always.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Same here, Mitch,” echoed Spence. “I’ve been reading you since I was at New Haven.”

Mitch, a Columbia alum, had to smile at this. Somehow, Yalies never failed to shoehorn their academic pedigree into the first sixty seconds of a conversation. It was one of the few things he could count on in life.

“Mind you, I’ll have to start reading you on the Web next month,” Spence said. “They’re moving me out to the Coast. I’ve been promoted to vice president of marketing. Still hasn’t quite sunk in, actually. The whole picking up and moving thing. I’ve never lived more than ninety minutes from New York in my whole life. But I’m plenty psyched.”

Jory entered the taproom now with a tray arrayed with pate, cheese and crackers.

“How on earth did you know I was starving?” Spence asked her as he helped himself to brie.

“Growing boys are always hungry,” she answered lightly.

Mitch and Hannah sampled the pate, which was excellent.

“I’ve been up here since Tuesday, trying to pull everything together,” Spence went on, chomping on the cheese. “Kind of a nostalgia trip for me, really. When I was a kid, the whole Sibley clan used to descend on Astrid’s during leaf-peeping season-my aunts, uncles, cousins. We always had a blast.” Spence reached for more brie from Jory’s tray. “In fact, I spent some time in this area when I was in New Haven.” Again with the Yale. “A classmate of mine belonged to the Dorset Yacht Club. We used to hang out on his dad’s Bertram. Is that outrageous diner still there on Old Shore Road?”

“McGee’s,” said Mitch, nodding. “Sure is.”

“Great fried clams.”

“The best,” Jory agreed, moving on to Aaron and Carly with the tray. Neither of them wanted anything. She set it down on the bar and returned to the kitchen.

“Hannah, it must be a thrill working with Ada,” Mitch said. “How long have you and she been together?”

“Less than a week,” she replied. “To be honest, the two of us are not exactly… What I mean is, she doesn’t even know my name yet. Won’t let me lift a finger to help her, or listen to one word of my pitch. So I’m basically just helping Spence out. I’m not complaining, the Lord knows. It’s just that I’m really desperate to make a documentary about Ada’s life. See, I-I’m a filmmaker myself.”

Spence said, “Hannah produced and directed Coffee Klatsch, that documentary about the old-time character actresses who hang out in the coffee shop of Sportsman’s Lodge. They ran it on Bravo a few months ago.”

“Oh, sure.” Mitch recognized her name now. “I saw it at Sundance last year. It had real heart. I loved it.”

“I know you did,” Hannah said, her eyes puddling with tears. “I wept with joy when I read your review.”

“And now you want to film Ada?”

“If she’ll let me. And if I can get the financial backing. Which, as you know, is no sure thing.” Hannah cleared her throat uneasily. “Mostly, I’ve been kind of regrouping back home in D.C. for the past few months.”

“Hannah’s name came up when the studio suggested that Ada hire an assistant,” Spence said. “We’ve actually known each other for years. We went through Panorama’s internship program together.”

“So you put the two of them together?” Mitch asked him.

“No, that was me, actually,” Aaron interjected from behind Spence.

Mitch thought he noticed Carly stiffen slightly. She turned to face the fire, tossing her long golden hair.

“Hannah approached me a few weeks ago in Washington through mutual friends,” Aaron explained. “It seems she wants nothing more than to follow the old girl around with a camera.”

Now Carly darted out of the taproom, her high heels clacking on the entry hall’s hardwood floor.

Aaron paid no notice to her departure. He was busy talking. And when Aaron Ackerman was talking, self-absorption took on a whole new dimension. “Quite frankly, I was impressed by the depth of Hannah’s interest, and by her passion for her subject. She seemed the ideal candidate. By the way, Mitch, it’s still your shot,” he pointed out, tapping his cue stick against the floor.

Mitch returned to the table and immediately drained his last ball. Called the eight-ball and dropped that, too. Game over. Aaron hadn’t sunk a single shot-and Mitch had actually been going easy on him.

“I guess this means I owe you ten dollars.” Aaron reached for his wallet.

“I thought we agreed on five.”

“No, it’s definitely ten.”

“Forget it. I don’t want your money.”

“Sure, we’re all friends here,” Les agreed from behind the bar.

“What are you, kidding me?” Aaron demanded. “The instant Mitch gets home tonight he’ll e-mail every liberal he knows that Aaron Ackerman stiffed him on a bet. By morning, it will be all over the Internet. Mitch and his New York media cronies just love to trash me. It’s what they live for.” Aaron started to hand over a ten-dollar bill, then stopped, glancing slyly at Mitch. “Of course, we could go double or nothing.”

Mitch smiled at him. He was going to enjoy this immensely. Really, he was. “Aaron, you talked me into it. Rack ’em up.”