The Hot Pink Farmhouse

CHAPTER 5

Wendell Frye did not have a doorbell, just a giant wolf’s-head knocker that resonated like a clap of thunder when Mitch used it. The door itself creaked ominously as the old man swung it open to greet him.

Mitch had half-expected that the great sculptor would have forgotten all about inviting him to dinner. But he couldn’t have been more wrong. Hangtown seemed genuinely pleased to see him, cheerful and bright-eyed. His flowing white hair and beard were neatly combed. He had red suspenders on over a navy-blue wool shirt, green moleskin trousers that were tucked into a well-worn but polished pair of riding boots. Sam, his German shepherd, followed him, tail wagging, as he led Mitch into the living room, a damp, gloomy room that smelled of mold and genteel decay. There was no wheezing organ, but there may as well have been. Mice skittered in the walls.

“I’ll get us a couple of beers,” Hangtown offered. “Shall I do that?”

“That’ll be great.”

He lumbered slowly off with the dog, leaving Mitch there alone. Upstairs, he could hear Takai shouting into her cell phone about closing dates and engineering inspections, her sharp voice piercing the house’s silence like a boning knife.

There were no lights on in the living room. What little illumination there was came from candles and the fire in the big stone fireplace, which did next to nothing against the chill. A chesterfield sofa and two battered leather wing-backed chairs were set before the fireplace, which was flanked by floor-to-ceiling bookcases. An antique rolltop desk was parked before the windows, an old Underwood manual typewriter set upon it.

But by far the most striking thing about Wendell Frye’s living room was the pair of virtually complete suits of armor standing on pedestals in the center of the room.

“My proudest possessions, Big Mitch,” Hangtown declared, returning with two large pewter mugs filled with dark beer, one of which he handed to Mitch. “Late fifteenth century. You want to talk about mm-rr-honest metal work, by God, they made these by hand. Hammered each part from a goddamned lump of metal. Missaglia family of Milan made ’em. No bogus fluting or scalloping either. Their beauty comes strictly from the form itself. And wait until you get a load of this

…” A look of childlike glee lit up his creased old face as he raised the visor of one of the suits.

Mitch heard a click and the entire wall of bookcases to the left of the fireplace rotated slowly open to reveal a secret passageway laced with cobwebs. It was like something right out of an old haunted-house movie.

“Leads straight down to the dungeon,” Hangtown explained, cackling. “Now get a load of this…” He went over to the rolltop desk and pushed a button under its middle drawer. Now a section of the bookcase on the other side of the fireplace popped open to reveal a secret wall safe with a combination lock. “Perfect place for storing secret documents, am I right?”

“Or maybe counterfeit plates,” said Mitch, who found himself wondering what, if anything, the old recluse did keep in there.

Hangtown moseyed his way back over to the suits of armor now, a sly expression on his face. “How would you like to help me choose a wine for dinner?”

“Why, sure. I’d be happy to.”

“Father, no!!” cried out Moose, who had just joined them. She wore the same homemade outfit she’d had on that morning, her sleeves turned back to reveal forearms that were uncommonly muscular. “Mitch, move three steps to your left this instant,” she commanded him urgently.

“But we’re having fun, Moose,” Hangtown protested. “Besides, he’s a healthy young buck and he’s-”

“Just do it, Mitch!”

“Tell her it’s okay, Big Mitch,” Hangtown pleaded. “Tell her you want to see what Jim and I have done.”

“Well, sure I do,” Mitch said uncertainly.

“Okay, fine,” Moose said to him with weary resignation. “Hand me your beer. Give it to me.”

Mitch gave her his mug just as he noticed Hangtown raising the right gauntlet of one of his suits of armor…

And suddenly the floor was gone under Mitch’s feet.

He’d been standing on a trapdoor.

And with a whoosh he was gone. Falling feet-first down a fun-house slide, an involuntary roar coming out of him… Faster and faster he fell-unable to see, unable to stop, out of control… Faster and faster… All of the blood rushing to his head…

Until suddenly he landed with an oof on a cushioned surface of some kind, gasping for breath. Somewhere, he could hear Hangtown cackling with maniacal laughter-either it was Hangtown or Vincent Price. But Mitch could see nothing. Everything was pitch-black. He lay there like a lump as heavy footsteps slowly descended a creaky wooden staircase. Then he saw a faint light. A pair of lights, actually. Kerosene lanterns. Hangtown was clutching them as he made his way toward him down the basement corridor, still cackling with delight.

“How did you like it, Big Mitch?”

“This is the coolest house I’ve ever been in,” he replied, taking in his surroundings in the lantern light. He was lying at the bottom of a chute in a bin that was filled with pillows.

“See? I told Moose she didn’t have to worry about you.”

Mitch got gingerly to his feet. His sweater and khakis seemed to have rearranged themselves and his feet felt numb. But once he’d stamped them on the concrete floor a few times they were fine. The narrow basement corridor they were in seemed to be part of a network of corridors. The walls were damp and slimy. It was like being in a catacomb. He accepted one of the lanterns from his host and said, “I’m half-expecting to run into The Creeper down here.”

“Sure, I remember him,” Hangtown exclaimed, wheezing as he led Mitch down the corridor. “What was that poor fellow’s name who played him?”

“Rondo Hatton. He suffered from acromegaly.”

“By God, you’re a useful man to have around.”

“I’m a waddling encyclopedia, all right.”

Now they passed through an arched doorway and Hang-town flicked on a light to reveal an extensive wine cellar. The old man was quite a connoisseur. Hundreds of bottles were stored there in row upon row of wine racks. Three of the walls were of fieldstone and mortar. The fourth, a load-bearing wall from the oldest part of the house, was made of rough oak planks that were at least eighteen inches wide and were buttressed by hand-hewn chestnut posts.

“What’s your pleasure, Big Mitch? A nice Medoc?”

“Sounds terrific.”

Hangtown slid two bottles under his arm. “Oh, hey, get a load of this,” he said, hobbling over toward the oak-plank wall. “Can’t claim I did this one. Been here since Prohibition…” He lifted a dusty bottle of port from the top shelf of the wine rack. A section of the oak wall immediately popped open. It was actually a dummy wall that had been artfully built out from the original one so as to conceal a hidden cupboard. “They used to store their hooch in here,” he said proudly, opening the cupboard doors wide for Mitch to see.

Not that there was anything in there to see. Just empty shelves coated with cobwebs and dust. Although it did appear, on closer look, that something had recently been stored on the lowest shelf-a distinct outline marked its place in the dust. It was the outline of something like a rolled-up rug, maybe eight inches wide and four feet long.

Hangtown was staring at it. He seemed startled. Almost transfixed.

“What is it?” Mitch asked him.

“Nothing.” He swung the cupboard doors quickly shut, anxious to change the subject. “Something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Big Mitch. We were joking about it this morning, but this is serious

…”

“Okay…”

“You really wouldn’t mind if I came over to watch Celebrity Deathmatch?”

Mitch gazed at the great artist with openmouthed surprise. He couldn’t believe how unassuming he was. “Are you kidding me? Come. Any time.”

“Great,” Hangtown exulted. “Just great.” Now he led them out of the wine cellar and down a clammy stone passageway, halting at a recess in the stone wall where there was a narrow wooden spiral staircase. “This goes all the way up to the second floor-there’s a secret chamber behind the master bedroom where they used to hide the slaves. A whole secret corridor runs along behind the upstairs bedrooms. In the back wall of each closet there’s a way in. The girls keep theirs bolted shut, so don’t get any sneaky ideas, heh-heh-heh. On the other side of the house it connects up with the old service stairs. You go that way. Take the wine. I’ll close up down here, okay?”

“Wait, this is another trick, am I right?” Mitch asked, as the old man started to hobble off.

“No, no. Trust me, it’s not, Big Mitch. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be giving you the wine, would I?”

Mitch supposed not. Clutching the bottles carefully under one arm, he slowly climbed the steep, narrow spiral staircase, his lantern held out before him to ward off evil spirits and vampires. Up and up he climbed, up and around, up and around, until he finally arrived at a narrow, airless wooden corridor. It was barely as wide as his shoulders, and the ceiling was so low he had to duck or he’d get a mouthful of cobwebs. There were many spiders. A million spiders. Every ten feet or so he passed a closed door with no knob-the secret doors to the bedrooms. Each had a peephole in it. Mitch tried looking through one, half-expecting to find another eye staring right back at him. There was nothing. Only blackness.

It was, he realized, very much like something out of a childhood dream. Or, more specifically, a nightmare.

When he had staggered his way down this wooden corridor to the other end of the house, he arrived at another staircase. This one was narrow and quite steep, almost like a ship’s ladder. Descending it carefully, Mitch found himself confronting another closed door with no knob. Frowning, he gave it a push, activating the touch latch that popped it open.

He was standing in a big, modern farm kitchen. Or at least it would have been modern in 1952. It had a vintage GE fridge and freezer chest, an ancient gas stove, a deep, scarred farmhouse sink. In the middle of the room Moose was tossing salad greens at a cluttered trestle table.

“Well, hello there,” she said to him pleasantly. “You survived Father’s little fun-house ride, I see.”

“God, this must have been a great house to be a kid in.” Mitch set the wine and the lantern down on the table, catching a wonderful whiff of meat roasting in the oven.

“Actually, you never stop being a kid if you live in this house. Witness father.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“You can help me feed the pig,” she replied, hefting the metal bucket filled with food scraps at her feet. “Unless that sounds too unglamorous for you.”

“No, it sounds right up my alley.”

He followed her out to the mudroom, where there were several pairs of men’s and women’s boots and garden clogs, all of them muddy. Also a second overflowing slop bucket. Mitch grabbed that one as Moose stepped into a pair of clogs, and they headed out the back door in the direction of the pigsty. It was a cold, clear night. There were stars overhead, and a full hunter’s moon that cast a low-wattage light over the entire barnyard.

“Suppertime, Elrod!” Moose called out, dumping the slop over a low wire fence into the pig’s aromatic home. “Sup-sup-suppertime!”

Mitch followed suit with his bucket, the pig ambling slowly over to check it all out. Snorking and slurping noises ensued. “I can certainly see why you’ve stayed,” he said to Moose.

“Stayed?” She seemed puzzled.

“Why you haven’t gotten your own place, I mean.”

“This is my home, Mitch,” she said simply.

“Does your sister feel the same way about it?”

“Well, that didn’t take long, did it?”

“What didn’t?”

“For us to start talking about Takai.”

“We’re not,” Mitch insisted. “I was asking you about the farm.”

“Sorry, my mistake,” Moose said hastily, shooting an uncertain glance at him in the moonlight. “You shop for Sheila Enman, is that right?”

“Yes, I do. How did you…?”

“We’re old, old friends. It was Sheila who got me interested in teaching. It’s very kind of you to do that for her, Mitch. It says a lot about you.”

“I don’t do it out of the goodness of my heart. I get amazing chocolate chip cookies out of it.”

“Do you know her secret?” Moose asked him eagerly.

“Her secret to what?”

“Her chocolate chip cookies, you silly. I’ve been trying to get that darned recipe out of her for over ten years. And I just can’t. She won’t let me have it. You know how those old ladies are. They won’t tell anyone. She makes her own chips out of the chocolate bars. I know that. But I also know she has a secret ingredient. If you do her marketing, you must have some idea what it is. Exactly what’s on her shopping list? Try to remember. Try very, very hard.”

Mitch found himself smiling at her. Because this was so Dorset. All of this intrigue over an old lady’s cookie recipe. And him caught right in the middle, his lips sealed. Because he did know Sheila’s secret ingredient. The sour cream. Had to be. Nobody ate as much sour cream as she went through in a week. Standing there, watching Elrod scarf up his supper in the moonlight, Mitch realized that here it was-the perfect hook to his Cookie Commerce story. Moose and her quest for Sheila’s recipe. But how could he write about Moose without mentioning her famous, reclusive father? The answer was he couldn’t. And that made it off-limits. He would not take unfair advantage of a private man who had invited him into his home. “If Sheila won’t tell you,” he finally said, “then you can’t expect me to. That would be a betrayal of confidence, wouldn’t it?”

“You’re someone who can be trusted, aren’t you,” she said, kicking at the mud with her clog. “Father has amazing instincts.” She lingered there watching Elrod, who didn’t seem to mind. He was not in the least bit self-conscious. “Takai mentioned that you’re in a relationship.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about Takai,” Mitch chided her.

“We’re not. We’re talking about you.”

“It’s true, I am involved. And it’s a big step for me. I… I lost my wife to cancer last year.”

“And you still think about her.”

“All the time,” he said, his voice growing husky.

“I’m sure she’d be very proud of you, Mitch.”

“That was a very kind thing to say,” he said, glancing at Moose in the moonlight. “But I’m still not going to tell you what’s in Sheila’s cookies.”

She let out an unexpectedly huge, full-throated whoop of a laugh. “Okay, you win. And in answer to your previous question, Takai doesn’t feel the same way I do about this place. She isn’t the least bit attached to it. In fact, if you get to know her better-and for your sake, I sincerely hope you do not-you’ll discover that she doesn’t care about anything or anyone.”

Mitch wondered if he had ever heard someone deliver such a sweeping denunciation of another human being.

“We should really tell Jim that dinner’s ready,” she said now, glancing over in the direction of his little wood-framed cottage, where lights were on. “He can seem a little scary, but he’s been a good, good friend to Father.”

Mitch began to hear music as they made their way to Jim’s cottage-an old sixties San Francisco band, Quicksilver Messenger Service. Mitch had always admired the soaring, quivering licks of Quicksilver’s lead guitarist, John Cipollina. He’d never been able to duplicate the sound on his Stratocaster.

“How come Jim was in prison?” he asked Moose.

She rapped on the crusty Vietnam vet’s door with her knuckles. Inside, the music went silent. “You can ask him. He doesn’t mind talking about it.”

“Talking about what, girl?” Jim wondered as he pulled open the door, wearing an aged Pendleton plaid wool shirt over a tie-dyed T-shirt. A strong scent of marijuana came wafting out of the cottage along with him.

“Mitch wondered why they sent you to prison,” Moose said to him.

“Son, I’m a big bad drug trafficker,” Jim answered as the three of them started toward the house together. “Or so the law says. I say otherwise. Had me my own place over on the other side of those trees. Sixty good acres that had been in my family since forever. I was working that land and minding my own business.”

“Jim raised organic produce for the local health-food stores,” Moose said. “Lettuce, spinach, strawberries… All of it wonderful.”

“So why did they come after you?”

“I raised me another crop, too,” Jim replied. “The demon weed, son. Not for profit. Nothing like that. I grew it for my friends with cancer who were on chemo and sick to their stomachs night and day. I grew it for the older people who’ve got the arthritis so bad they can’t get out of bed in the morning. It was medicine for them. I gave it to ’em for free.”

“Some might even say he was an angel of mercy,” Moose said.

“Don’t know if I’d go that far,” Jim said. “I did smoke me a lot of it, too. But, hell, I was doing some good. And it’s legal to use it for medical purposes in this state. Just ain’t legal to grow it. Someone ratted me out to the law. Got me a pretty fair idea who, too. And they said my farm was being used in the commission of a drug crime and therefore could be seized. They took my family’s land away from me, son. Put me on the shelf for three years. I’m still on parole. And if Hangtown hadn’t given me a place to stay, I’d be living out of a cardboard box under an overpass.”

“What’s happened to your farm?” Mitch asked.

“Some Canadian real estate syndicate bought it,” he replied hoarsely. “Tore the house right down. Been in my family a hundred sixty years and they level it like a paper cup. Now the land’s just sitting there waiting for something bad to happen. And Bruce Leanse’s fingerprints are all over it.”

“You can’t prove that, Jim,” Moose pointed out. From her tone, Mitch gathered that Jim had voiced his theory before.

“I know what I know,” Jim said stubbornly. “He was the one making me all of those offers. He wanted my place, and he got it.”

“What do you think he intends to do with it?” Mitch asked.

“Ask Takai,” Jim said harshly.

“She’s the Brat’s realtor?”

Jim let out a laugh. “ ‘Enabler’ is more like it. She’s as slick as owl poop, too. But I know it was her ratted me out to the law. And if the day ever comes when I can prove it… Trust me, son, blood will get shed.”

“Jim, I wish you wouldn’t talk that way,” Moose said to him crossly.

“It’s the truth, girl. Can’t help it if it ain’t pretty.”

They went back inside the house through the mudroom door. After exchanging her mud clogs for wool ones, Moose returned to the kitchen.

Jim tugged off his own muddy work boots and changed into Indian moccasins. Then he set to work washing his veiny hands in the mudroom’s work sink. “Meantime, son,” he said, a malevolent grin creasing his leathery face, “I know how to get even with Brucie.”

“How?” asked Mitch, wondering if this particular swamp Yankee had smoked a bit too much of his own medicine.

“Next spring, soon as it gets good and warm, I’ll plant me some dope plants on his place up on the hill. Deep in the woods, where he can’t find ’em. Serve that bastard right.” Jim reached for a towel to dry his hands, his expression turning serious. “Whatever you do, son, stay away from Takai. She’s pure evil.”

She was in the kitchen now, sipping a glass of wine and looking exceptionally gorgeous in an artfully unbuttoned cashmere cardigan, skintight leather miniskirt and spiked heels. Takai’s legs were long, shapely and golden. She smelled of a musky perfume that was positively intoxicating.

“It’s like I found out a long time ago,” Jim added in a low voice. “Nothing that looks like that can possibly be good for you.”

“What’s that you’re saying, Jim?” Takai demanded.

“Just saying how good you look, baby.”

“Nice to see you again, Mitch,” she said, her eyes gleaming at him. “I have this damned business meeting to go to tonight, so I won’t be able to stick around for long. I apologize in advance.”

“Absolutely no need to,” said Mitch, who was starting to feel a bit light-headed. It was that perfume of hers.

Dinner was a roasted leg of lamb studded with garlic and rosemary, mashed potatoes and sauteed greens that Moose had harvested from the garden. All of it was superb. They ate in the low-ceilinged dining room, a very old room with exposed chestnut beams and a walk-in fireplace with a beehive oven and cast-iron crane. A big fire of massive oak logs roared in the fireplace, bathing the room in warmth and golden light. A highly precious handful of landscape paintings by Hangtown’s father and grandfather adorned the walls, all of them paintings of this very farm. Hangtown sat at one end of the scarred oak dining table, his back to the fire and Sam at his feet. Mitch, the guest of honor, faced the fire.

“Used to do all of their cooking in that fireplace,” Hang-town informed Mitch as they ate. “There was a spit with a clock-jack to turn it. House belonged to a clergyman then. There mm-rr-were a whole lot of clergymen in Grandmother’s family. Distinguished theologians and scholars.” He paused to sip his wine. “Obsessive foot fetishists, one and all. Inveterate toe suckers.”

“Father!” objected Moose. “What has gotten into you tonight?”

“It’s Big Mitch,” Hangtown responded, his blue eyes twinkling devilishly. “He’s a baad influence.”

“Mitch is behaving like a perfect gentleman,” Takai sniffed, gazing at him invitingly. Her eyes promised him unimaginable erotic riches. Strictly an act. Mitch knew a performance when he saw one. “Too perfect, if you ask me.”

“Well, he cheers me up,” Hangtown declared. “Nice to have a healthy young goat around here for a change.” He pointed a wavering finger at Moose. “What’s this I hear about Colin Falconer swallowing a bottle of pills today?”

“I was there,” she affirmed somberly. “He would have died if the resident trooper hadn’t gotten to him in time. Poor Colin’s just caught in this awful school-bond snare. For his sake, I hope he resigns. He’s a good, kind man.”

“He’s a wimp,” Hangtown shot back. “Never punish yourself-punish the other guy.”

“Besides, pills are the coward’s way out,” Jim added, nodding.

“I suppose if he were a manly man he would have blown his head off,” Moose said sharply.

“What Colin needs to accept,” Takai interjected, “is that there are a lot of people in Dorset who simply won’t rest until he’s out. They want their new school. And they want a superintendent who recognizes that we need it.”

“Like hell we do, princess,” Hangtown grumbled. “Fix the old one if it needs fixing. Fit it and shut up about it.”

“A fine new school will be a credit to our community,” Takai said.

“It will kill our community,” he argued. “Our property taxes will be doubled. The old folks on fixed incomes will be driven out. The working folks will be driven out. The only people who’ll be able to afford to live in Dorset anymore are the yuppie scum with their fat six-figure incomes and their fat, snot-nosed brats!”

Takai drained her wine, patting her lips with her napkin. “Nonsense, Father. It’s a very good deal for the town. Bruce is offering to donate that land on Old Ferry Road. And Babette’s waiving her fee. She’ll design it for nothing.”

“In exchange for what?” Jim demanded. “People like them don’t do anything for nothing.”

“Bruce Leanse is a man of integrity,” she responded, tossing her head. Her glossy black hair gleamed in the firelight, as if she were lit from within. “And he’s bending over backward to do the right thing. I think he should be given credit for it, not vilified.”

Jim lit a Lucky Strike and passed the pack over to Hang-town, who did the same despite Moose’s disapproving look. “And when the dust settles,” Jim said, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, “he’ll have brung a town road, power and phone lines into what used to be nothing but farmland and old-growth forest. That school’s his damned Trojan horse, can’t you see that, girl? We’ll have sewers here before we know it. And town-house condos. And then this won’t be Dorset no more.”

“Jim, you’re a paranoid lunatic,” Takai said flatly.

“I know what I know,” Jim insisted, glowering across the table at her. “Too many places in this valley are getting gobbled up all of a sudden. Big chunks of acreage, too.”

“Not this chunk,” Hangtown roared, pounding the table with his fist. “That bastard will never get his hands on my place.”

“Look at a map sometime,” Jim said. “Connect the dots-the school site, my place, them others… You’ll see just how nuts I am.” He turned his squinty gaze on Mitch. “You’re the journalist, son. Ought to write about it. Tell the people what’s going on here.”

Mitch shot a glance over at Hangtown, whose face had immediately turned to stone, his bright-blue eyes icy and unyielding. “I’m not that kind of a journalist,” Mitch said carefully. “Besides, I’m not even sure I see a story here.”

“Then maybe you ought to try opening your eyes,” Jim growled at him.

“Leave him alone, Jim,” said Moose, rushing to Mitch’s defense.

“Well, I think we should be flattered that Bruce Leanse has taken an interest in Dorset,” Takai said, glancing at the Rolex on her slim wrist. “He believes in environmentally sensitive growth. He believes in preserving an area’s tradition. Whether you know it or not, he’s our best hope for the future.”

“Our best hope for the future is that he gets cancer,” Hangtown snarled.

“You’re wrong about him, Father,” she said, angry red splotches forming on her chiseled cheeks. “He’s not Satan.”

“He’ll do,” cackled Hangtown, who clearly relished these sparring sessions with his younger daughter.

His older daughter did not seem to be enjoying it at all. Moose’s eyes were cast down at her empty plate, her hands folded in her lap.

“This is the price you pay for living in paradise,” Takai said emphatically. “Other people want in, too.”

“In which case it’s not paradise anymore,” Hangtown said. “We never learn. We destroyed southern California. We destroyed Florida. We destroyed Long Island-”

“Wait, I have to take issue with you there,” Mitch interrupted. “Long Island was never nice.”

“It’s enough to make one wish for a nationwide economic calamity,” Hangtown argued. “People need to simplify their lives. Spend less. Consume less. We are pigs.”

“I’m going to have to take issue with you again-on behalf of Elrod,” Mitch said. “He seems like a very efficient fellow who’s doing no harm to anyone.”

“I like this man,” Hangtown said to Moose, as Jim refilled the wineglasses. “You ought to marry him.”

“You are the pig, Father,” Takai spoke up angrily. “You get to live here in luxuriant splendor but no one else can. That’s not a community-that’s a country club with a ceiling on its membership.”

“I just want to be left in peace. Don’t I have that right?”

“Not if it means denying other people their rights!”

Hangtown sat there in heavy silence for a moment, the fire crackling behind him. “You’ve been blinded by your own greed, princess. You think Bruce Leanse will line your pockets with gold, and you don’t care who or what gets destroyed.”

“You’re wrong, Father. He’s a good, good man.”

He leered at her. “Well, you ought to know just how good he is.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Father, please,” Moose interjected, glancing uncomfortably at Mitch, who was sitting there wondering if Hangtown was always so hard on Takai. “This is getting a little out of hand.”

The old man ignored her, glaring across the table at Takai. “Shall I tell you what your problem is?”

“What is it?” she demanded hotly, glowering right back at him. “I’d really love to know.”

“You inherited the Frye artistic vision but none of our talent. So you have to feed on real people in order to express yourself. You’re a leech, my dear. A lovely, silken parasite.”

“Th-that…” Takai was practically speechless, nothing but bottled-up fury. “That was an awful thing to say to anyone.” She got up suddenly, toppling her chair over behind her, and threw her wine in her father’s face. Then she stormed out, her spiked heels clacking, her hips swinging.

The dinner table fell silent as Mitch heard the front door slam, then the roar of the Porsche’s engine. It pulled away in a splatter of gravel.

“Hot damn!” the great Wendell Frye exclaimed happily, using his napkin to dab at the wine that was streaming down his face and neck. “Another quiet evening at the Ponderosa. More lamb, Big Mitch?”

• • •

“I thought I’d make dinner for Bella here on Friday,” Des said drowsily as she kneaded his chest with her bare toes. The two of them were lolling in Mitch’s claw-footed bathtub together, still aglow from the atomic passion they’d just detonated upstairs in the sleeping loft. “I had hoped to be in my new place by now, but…”

“Not a problem,” Mitch murmured contentedly, stroking her smooth, taut calf. “That’s fine. Wonderful…”

With the bathroom door open they could see the fire in the fireplace and hear the vintage Doug Sahm on the stereo-Sir Doug’s old San Antonio recordings with The Pharaohs. Both Clemmie and Quirt were balanced precariously on the edge of the tub, transfixed by the plopping, shifting water below. Quirt even dangled a paw down toward it, only to yank it back when Des playfully flicked water at him. It was strange how Quirt would only hang around in the house when Des was there, Mitch reflected. Even Clemmie seemed happier.

“There’s somebody else I’d like to invite,” she told him. “One of my… that is to say, a certain individual with whom I’m related is having a personal occasion.”

Mitch eyed her curiously. Whenever she retreated into police-speak it meant she was ill at ease. “What kind of a personal occasion?”

“A birthday.”

“And which particular relative would we be discussing, Master Sergeant?”

“Um, it’s my father. And we have this tradition where I make Hoppin’ John for him every year on his birthday. That’s black-eyed peas and ham and-”

“Whoa…”

“Rice, with lots and lots of Tabasco sauce. I usually make cornbread to sop it all up and-”

“Whoa! Pull over a second, girlfriend. We’re not exactly talking about what we’re talking about, are we?”

Des frowned at him. “Which is what?”

“That you just said you want me to meet your father.”

She fell silent a moment, shifting uneasily in the tub. “Well, yeah. Unless you don’t want to, which I would certainly… Man, why are you grinning at me that way?”

“I’m kvelling.”

“What does that mean-kvelling?”

“It’s what your Jewish people do in lieu of an end-zone celebration. It means I’m tremendously pleased. But tell me, who am I supposed to be? A friend? An acquaintance? A portly, somewhat pink person you bumped into at the supermarket?”

“Okay, that’s a fair question.”

“And…?”

“And it’s none of his damned business.”

“Hey, this sounds promising.”

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He’ll know what’s going on between us the second he walks through the door.”

“How?”

“He’s the Deacon, that’s how. You think you can read me. Compared to you, he’s Evelyn Wood. Besides which, I’m not a very good actress.”

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that,” Mitch said.

“Why’s that?”

“Because it means you weren’t faking just now when we were upstairs.”

“Boyfriend, nobody’s that good an actress,” she said softly, her eyes shining at him.

Mitch had not known whether to expect Des when he got home from Hangtown’s or not. Happily, he’d found her cruiser parked outside his cottage. And the lady herself parked on a stool at her easel, glasses sliding down her nose as she pondered an arrangement of empty bottles that she’d positioned on the floor at her feet. She’d stripped down to a halter top and gym shorts. And for Mitch there was something about the sight of her peerless caboose perched there on that stool that

… well, within sixty seconds they were out of their clothes and up in his sleeping loft together.

It was so different than it had been like with Maisie. Within two weeks, he and Maisie had moved in together. Des was much more guarded and careful. In many ways, she was exactly like one of her feral cats. One moment she would inch toward his outstretched hand, purring. The next moment she would hiss and dart away. She was the most skittish woman he had ever known. Also the most alluring. Sometimes, he felt he knew exactly what she was thinking. Other times she totally befuddled him. For sure, she was not the sort of woman who he ever thought he’d find himself involved with. It was not the racial thing-which was not a thing at all as far as he was concerned. It was that she was a goddamned state trooper. And big into rules. She refused to keep any of her clothes at his place-always carting them to and fro in a gym bag. Refused to stay in his New York apartment, which she felt was Maisie’s place. More than anything, Mitch felt, she was afraid of getting in too deep. Possibly this was the baggage she’d brought along from her divorce. Possibly this was because the two of them were so different. He didn’t know. He only knew that she was beautiful and smart and honest, and the thought of her got him through each day.

“How was your drawing class tonight?”

“Way frustrating. He’s trying to teach us three-point perspective. That’s where you’re looking directly down at the objects…”

“Hence the bottles on the floor?”

“Hence the bottles on the floor,” she affirmed. “And it looks easy, but there’s this killer foreshortening and I am so not getting it.”

“On the plus side, I understand you saved Colin Falconer’s life this morning.”

“Man’s a total mess,” she acknowledged. “You would not believe what he’s gotten himself into. But, word, you can’t tell anyone one syllable of this…”

“Not even Lacy?” Mitch usually told his editor everything.

“Okay, no one local. Promise?”

On his sworn oath she told Mitch about Colin’s online romance with another man, his secretary’s sexual-harassment lawsuit and Babette Leanse’s insistence that he resign. “Either he goes quietly or he’ll be outed,” Des said, shaking her head. “It’s amazing to me that somebody smart would mess up his whole life over cyber sex. Damn, it’s not even real.”

“What is real anymore?” Mitch countered. “Folks go to theme parks instead of actual places. They watch people do daring things on television instead of doing them themselves. Hell, The Lord of the Flies is now a prime-time game show. Can real get any weirder than that?” Mitch reached for a washcloth and mopped at his face with it. “While we’re on the subject of a man messing up his life-would you bust a small farmer for growing pot on his land?”

“I have to,” she responded. “It’s against the law.”

“Even if he wasn’t selling it?”

“And I’m supposed to care because…?”

“He was giving it away for free to cancer patients.”

“It’s still against the law.”

“His name is Jim Bolan. He thinks a developer wanted his land and used the law to pry it away from him.”

“Which developer?”

“Bruce Leanse.”

Des fell silent, her body tensing slightly next to his in the water. “That man sure does think a lot of himself.”

“He’s what is known as a pub slut.”

“Promoting himself is part of his business, isn’t it?”

“Nope. It violates one of Hopalong Cassidy’s most important rules in his Ten-Point Creed for American Boys and Girls: Don’t boast or be a show-off.”

Des smiled at him, the mega-wattage smile that did strange, wonderful things to the lower half of his body. “Will you kindly explain something to me…?”

“You’re wondering how you ended up with someone like me.”

“How did you know that?”

“Dunno. I just did.”

“Well, how did I…?”

“You got lucky, that’s all. Don’t question it. Just be thankful. I know I am.” He sat up in the tub and kissed her gently. “Guess who else I met today,” he said, his face very close to hers.

“I can’t imagine,” she said softly, gazing deep into his eyes. “Howdy Doody? The Lone Ranger? Lassie?”

A loud buzzing noise interrupted them. Someone was at the security gate that closed off Big Sister’s causeway to the public. It took a key to raise it. Either a key or someone to buzz you in.

“Now who would that be?” Mitch threw on his robe and padded wetly to the kitchen window for a look. Across the water he could make out a single headlight at the gate, and faintly hear the phlegmy putt-putt-putt of a vintage engine. He immediately hit the buzzer, raising the security gate, and dashed to his closet for some clothes.

“Who is it?” Des called to him from the tub.

“Girlfriend, you are in for a real treat,” Mitch assured her, flinging open the front door to the frosty night air just as Hangtown came roaring up to the cottage on his Indian Chief.

“Took you at your word, Big Mitch,” he called out to him, yanking off his leather helmet and goggles. “Tonight’s family night-it’s Jerry and Ben Stiller versus Bob and Jakob Dylan.” He was referring to Celebrity Deathmatch.

“Well, sure… Come on in.” Mitch flicked on the television while his new friend came thumping heavily into the room. The old master seemed to fill the entire house with his massive size and aura. “Have a seat, Hangtown. Can I get you a whiskey?”

“Naw, I’m cool… Oh, damn!”

Johnny Gomez and Nick Diamond, Deathmatch ’s commentators, were delivering their patented sign-off: “Good fight, good night.” The Claymation wrestling show was already over. He’d missed it.

“Next time I’ll tape it,” Mitch vowed, as Des came striding in. She’d toweled off and thrown on one of Mitch’s old flannel shirts, which just did manage to cover the essentials. “Hangtown, say hello to Desiree Mitry. Des, this is Wendell Frye.”

Des was speechless. She could not believe she was face-to-face with such a famous and reclusive man.

“You’re the new resident trooper,” Hangtown exclaimed, feasting on her with his bright-blue eyes. “I was told that you mm-rr-draw beautifully. But I was not told you are an utter goddess. By God, if I were fifty years younger I’d fall right to my knees and kiss your dainty pink toes.”

“Dainty? Man, you must be looking through the wrong end of a telescope.”

“In fact, I just may have to anyway,” he said valiantly. “Although I won’t be able to get back up without assistance.”

“You, sir, are an old goat,” Des observed.

“Third generation. I come by it honestly.”

“Well, if you don’t behave yourself I’ll have to get my handcuffs.”

“Hey, you promised you’d only play that game with me,” Mitch objected.

Now Hangtown was peering at the still-life display on the floor next to her easel. “God, you’re in three-point perspective hell, aren’t you.”

“Totally,” she answered glumly.

“You’re frustrated. Don’t be. I can help you with this. But you have to make me a promise.”

“What is it?”

“I want you to think of yourself as growing one day younger each and every day for the rest of your life,” Hangtown said to her, his voice soaring. “Growing more open to new ideas, more excited, more alive. Will you do that?”

Des considered this, her brow furrowing. “Okay…”

“Now, take this drawing-it’s wrong, all wrong.” He hobbled over to the easel and flipped her sketch pad to a fresh page, gripping the stub of graphite stick she’d left there. “Your problem is your damned adult brain,” he said, squinting down at the arrangement of bottles at his feet. “It’s telling you that the wine bottle is twelve inches high, the same way it tells you the curb you’re about to step off of is twelve inches high, even though your eyes are trying to tell your brain it’s only four inches high-that’s the foreshortening. But if your brain believed your eyes, you’d fall in the street and scrape your beautiful knees, am I right?”

Des shook her head at him, mystified. “I guess, but-”

“A child does accept that the curb is four inches high, and does trip and fall. I say this to you, Desiree, because children in pre-school art classes can do three-point perspective without a hitch. They ace it. It’s only we adults who have trouble with it. You must break free of your adult mind. See as a child sees. Accept as a child accepts. Here, I’ll show you…”

Now Hangtown began to draw, working swiftly and lightly from top to bottom, first finding the proportions of his bottles, then his shapes. Then he began to apply more pressure, deftly using the side of the stick to add shading and weight until the bottles were suddenly there on the page, each in exact proportion to the other. The old man drew with passion and vitality, wielding the graphite stick like a sword. He seemed forty years younger. He reminded Mitch of Zorro.

And in less than three minutes he had created a still-life drawing that was not only incredibly accurate but bursting with vitality.

“I had no idea you could draw,” Des whispered, awestruck.

“Of course I can draw,” he said indignantly. “I’m an artist, girl. And you, Big Mitch, you’re a lucky man. To think I was trying to press Moose on you.”

“Moose doesn’t have to be pressed on anyone,” Mitch said, feeling Des’s eyes on him.

“And now I shall leave you healthy young lovers. You’ve much better things to do. But before I go…” Hangtown hurriedly scrawled his name on the lower right-hand corner of his drawing, then dropped the graphite stub in Des’s hand. “From me to you, Trooper Mitry. Welcome to Dorset.”

Des stared at him, gape-jawed. By signing his drawing he had just presented her with a gift that was worth thousands of dollars.

“You know why I did that, don’t you?” he said, cackling at her with glee. “Because I can’t make love to you tonight. I’m too damned old, and you’re my friend’s girl. But I still fell in love tonight. Madly and truly.” He leaned forward and kissed Des on the cheek. “Greta can authenticate it in case you ever need to sell it. Stuff happens. Believe me, I know.”

“I-I can’t accept this,” she sputtered.

“Of course you can.”

“But, Mr. Frye, you can’t just give me this. This is insane!”

“Beautiful, and stubborn, too.” Hangtown held a gnarled hand out, palm up. “Twenty bucks.”

“Deal.” She promptly went up to the sleeping loft to get her wallet, leaving Mitch alone in the living room with him.

“I wanted to assure you of something,” Mitch said. “We were talking about it at dinner and it’s been on my mind…”

“What is it, Big Mitch?”

“I’d never write about you. I’d never do that.”

“Hell, I know that,” he said, clapping him on the back. “But I also know that you may have to.” Hangtown fell silent, a troubled look crossing his face. “Some things can’t be avoided.”

“What makes you say that?” Mitch asked, studying him.

“You get a feeling about things at my age,” he replied darkly. “About people and what they might do. Whatever happens, Big Mitch, whatever needs doing… it’s okay by me. Better you than some effete bed wetter who can’t stand Bud and Lou.”

Des came back down the stairs now, money in hand.

Hangtown snatched it from her and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. “Easiest double-sawbuck I ever made,” he exclaimed happily. “Beer and smokes money for a week.” He started toward the door now, waving an arm at them. “Good fight, good night.”

“Are you okay to drive?” Mitch asked, heading outside with him. “I can run you home in my truck.”

“Nonsense, I’m not drunk,” he replied, climbing slowly back onto his bike. “Just crazy.” And with that the great Wendell Frye kick-started his engine, donned his helmet and goggles and headed off into the night.

Mitch threw another log on the fire, and he and Des curled up together in front of it, snuggling under the afghan that Mitch kept there for that very purpose. Clemmie and Quirt, who had disappeared with such a big, loud stranger in the house, ventured back out, Quirt rolling around on his back while Clemmie determinedly pad-pad-padded at Mitch’s tummy with her front paws. Clemmie did this with great regularity. Mitch chose to take it as a sign of affection, rather than a commentary on his weight.

“Well, well, he’s still got him some funk in his trunks, hasn’t he?”

“Quite the lady’s man,” Mitch agreed. “In fact, I’d be willing to bet there are beautiful women scattered all over the world with his signed drawings.”

“Um, okay, did you just say what I think you said?”

“I don’t know. What do you think I said?”

She batted her eyelashes at him. “That you think I’m beautiful.”

“Why, do you have a problem with that?”

“Shoot no. I just like to know where I stand-especially when I find out someone’s been pressing his daughter on you.”

Mitch raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

“I don’t get jealous. Don’t have to. I carry a loaded semiautomatic weapon, remember?”

“Believe me, that’s not something I ever forget.”

“See that you don’t,” she said, rubbing her cheek gently against his to let him know she was kidding. They were still new with each other’s feelings, and still careful with them. “I met Moose myself today. I liked her.”

“Well, you won’t like Takai, believe me.”

“She was bitchy to Bella on the phone. Really arrogant.”

“That’s Takai. She’s hooked up with Bruce Leanse-in more ways than one, I gather.” Mitch tipped her face up toward his, kissing her lightly on the forehead. “He hit on you today, am I right?”

Her eyes widened. “Damn, you scare me sometimes.”

“Hey, I have a really crazy idea…”

“What is it?” she demanded, instantly tensing.

“Whoa, why are you suddenly on red alert?”

“Because the last time I heard those words from a man’s mouth it was Brandon wanting to get us into a threesome with a paralegal named Amber.”

“And did you?” asked Mitch. “Ow, that hurt!”

“So stop talking trash at me.”

“I was going to suggest you spend the night,” he grumbled, rubbing his arm where she’d slugged him.

“Mitch, we have been over this up, down and sideways. I am brand-new on this job. And appearances matter. And until the people get a chance to know me I don’t want them getting any wrong ideas.”

“They know all about us, girlfriend,” he informed her. “Takai did.”

“But how?”

“There are no secrets in Dorset, that’s how. Gossip is their lifeblood. Face up to it-they are going to talk about us, and there’s not a thing we can do about it except enjoy doing exactly what they say we’re doing.” He kissed her gently. Or at least it started out gently. If possible, they wanted each other more than they had an hour ago. “Although I can’t imagine they have any idea just how good it is.”

“None,” she whispered, stroking his face, bathing him in the glow of her smile. “Um, okay, I’m thinking maybe I can make an exception tonight…”

“You won’t be sorry,” he vowed.

“I haven’t been sorry yet.”

“Des, I have a serious confession to make…”

“Now what?” she wondered, her voice filling with dread.

“At this very moment, in this very spot, I am the happiest man on earth.”

She let out a faint whimper, which was something she did when he said something unexpectedly nice to her. Like that afternoon in Woodbridge when he brought her those flowers and they ended up together on the kitchen floor of her old house. Right now, she threw off the flannel shirt she had on and melted right into his arms, her caramel-toned skin warm and smooth and satiny.

They stayed right there in front of the fire, making slow, tender love deep into the night. Eventually, they stumbled upstairs to bed and slept, both cats curled trustingly around them.

Mitch dreamed he was in a dungeon. Rondo Hattan was there. And so was Des. The Creeper had her stretched out on a rack, naked, just as in one of those lurid comic-book illustrations of the early fifties. And he was mashing her dainty pink toes with a pair of pliers, one by one. And she was screaming. And Mitch tried to cry out, but he could not make a sound. Except for a beeping noise…

Until with a start Mitch realized he was awake and the beeping was coming from Des’s pager. She was out of bed and reaching for the phone on his nightstand. He looked at the alarm clock, yawning. It was only five thirty. Barely light out.

“It’s Mitry,” Des barked into the phone. “Go.” She listened to the calm, detached voice on the other end of the phone, her face revealing nothing. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” she said, when it fell silent. Then she went dashing outside in Mitch’s robe for the clean uniform that was in her cruiser.

Mitch padded downstairs after her, fuzzy-headed. He felt as if they’d slept for less than ten minutes. Quirt was meowing fiercely to be let out. Mitch complied, and was putting the coffee on when Des came back with her uniform inside a dry cleaner’s bag. “Trouble?” he asked her.

“Got me a major-league hot one,” she responded, starting toward the bathroom to change. “A car’s exploded on Route 156 up by Winston Farms. I’ve got dead cows, bales of hay on fire. A real mess.” She paused in the bathroom doorway, a troubled expression on her face. “Plus there’s the remains of a victim inside the car. We can’t be positive yet, but…”

“Who is it, Des?”

She took a deep breath and said, “Mitch, it’s Takai Frye’s Porsche.”

“Oh my God…”