The Hot Pink Farmhouse Read online

  “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “Some are wolves. Some are asses . . .”

  “I repeat, tell me—”

  “Mitch Berger is a bunny rabbit.”

  Des instantly softened, her face breaking into a silly smile. “Isn’t he? I just melt into a puddle when I’m around him.”

  “Do you want to know what your problem is?”

  “Aside from the fact that you’re breaking my hand?”

  Bella released her. “You have no faith in happiness. People without faith are lonely, bitter people, my dear. You are not such a person. Tell me, it’s not the sex, is it?”

  “No, that part is fine. More than fine. The best.”

  “Speaking of which . . .” Bella leaned over the table toward her. “Any idea who our moaner is?”

  Des glanced at her sharply. “You can hear her, too?”

  “Tattela, they can hear her in Flatbush.”

  “Good morning, ladies,” interjected Colin Falconer, who stood there before them with a shy smile on his long, rather pinched face. Colin wore a pair of birdwatcher’s glasses around his neck and clutched a brown-bag lunch. The innkeepers made one for him every morning. “What a pretty time of year, is it not? I thought I’d ride out to Peck Point to see the terns before school.”

  “I took a nice long walk myself before breakfast,” Des responded, smiling up at him. “It was beautiful.”

  Colin lingered there, his tongue flicking nervously across his thin, dry lips. “I’m guilty of having a terribly awkward question for you,” he murmured at Des.

  “Go right ahead.”

  “I was wondering . . . That is, are you hearing noises in the night?”

  “Do you mean like animals?”

  “Of a sort,” he said, reddening.

  “You, too?” Bella exclaimed, beaming at him conspiratorially.

  “I haven’t slept all week,” Colin blurted out. “It’s so unsettling. I don’t suppose it would be appropriate to have the innkeeper ask them to enjoy themselves a little less . . . enthusiastically.”

  “It’s not as if they’re breaking any laws,” Des said, her eyes falling on that blond hunk of muscle seated by himself across the room, tearing into a plate of blueberry pancakes and sausages. She couldn’t tell if he was hearing what they were saying or not. He gave no sign of it. “I guess we’ll just have to live with it.”

  “I guess we will,” Colin said ruefully before he headed out the door to fetch his bike.

  It was time for Des to get moving, too. She went upstairs and stripped and jumped in the shower. She didn’t take long in the bathroom. She kept her hair short and nubby these days, and had never been into war paint. Never needed it, really. She had almond-shaped green eyes, a smooth complexion, a wraparound smile that could melt titanium.

  Her charcoal-gray trousers were cut full for comfort. The contrasting stripe that ran down the outside seam was royal blue with yellow piping, same as the epaulets on her light gray shirt. Her necktie was that same shade of royal blue, her tie clasp gold, her square-toed oxfords black and gleaming. She tucked her shirt neatly into her trousers, found her horn-rimmed glasses on the dresser and wiped them clean and put them on. Then she unlocked the dresser drawer that she kept under padlock and key. Inside was her crime girl kit—her nameplate and badge, her eight-pound black leather belt complete with radio, her holstered Sig-Sauer semiautomatic weapon.

  The last but by no means least thing Des put on was her great big Smokey the Bear hat. Armed, dressed and dangerous, Resident Trooper Desiree Mitry of Dorset—formerly Lieutenant Desiree Mitry of the Major Crime Squad, the highest-ranking black female homicide investigator in the entire history of the Connecticut State Police—headed out the door to perform her first official duty of the day:

  Directing traffic outside of Center School.

  CHAPTER 3

  Hangtown led Mitch home on Dunn’s Road, which twisted its way through a cluster of old, family-run dairy farms. These were genuine working farms, complete with silos and animals and fragrant smells.

  And they were an endangered species.

  Even over the flatulent putt-putting of Hangtown’s vintage motorcycle Mitch could hear the big bulldozers flattening a nearby stretch of forest. And then he could see them—they were like giant, grotesque yellow insects devouring the landscape in starved bites. A tastefully lettered billboard announced that this soon-to-be ex-forest was soon-to be “Sweet Hollow Farms, a Bruce Leanse Concept for Living, featuring 23 Grand Manor homes.” Mitch had seen the glowing ad for the development in his paper’s real estate section. Each home, it promised, would enjoy its own seven-acre wooded parcel, classic architecture, handcrafted detail. Floor plans ranged in size from 5,800 to 7,600 square feet.

  Prices started at $1.35 million.

  As the great Wendell Frye wheeled past the workmen on his Indian Chief, cutting quite the raffish figure in his leather helmet and goggles, several of them waved and gave him appreciative thumbs-up.

  In response, he treated them to a good look at his own upraised middle finger.

  Dunn’s Road ran into Route 156 at the crossroads at Winston Farms. Hangtown crossed over onto Old Ferry Road, scooting past the proposed site of the new elementary school. Mitch followed. Just before Old Ferry Road ran smack into the Connecticut River, the old man turned in at a private dirt road called Lord’s Cove Lane, sending a flock of wild turkeys scattering. Lord’s Cove bumped its way a half mile or so deep into the woods before it broke into a clearing marked by two twenty-foot-high totem poles made of junked personal computers stacked one atop the other and spray painted Day-Glo orange.

  As they passed in between these they were met by a forty-foot-tall grasshopper made of fenders and hubcaps, a Wendell Frye creation that stood guard over several acres of meadow filled with junked cars and buses, stacks of bicycles, airplane propellers, dinged-up aluminum garden furniture, bedsprings, rain gutters—a virtual junkyard, or it would have been if it weren’t also home to dozens of immense, half-completed Wendell Frye mobiles and whirligigs that had been left to rust in the tall weeds along with everything else.

  Around a bend they approached a rambling center-chimney colonial that backed right up onto the river, affording it a panoramic view across the marshes all the way to Essex. The house had been added on to numerous times and painted the brightest shade of pink Mitch had ever seen. Or maybe it was just that he’d never seen a historic home that was painted hot pink before. An ancient, tan-colored Land Rover was parked out front, alongside a Toyota pickup and a spanking-new red Porsche 911 Turbo.

  A German shepherd started streaking toward Hangtown’s motorcycle from the front porch, barking with unbridled glee. Two women immediately came out of the house, gesturing frantically at Hangtown, who waved and kept right on going, the dog sprinting alongside of him. Mitch followed. The dirt road took them past a row of sagging one-room cottages, past apple and pear orchards, past a fenced meadow with sheep. Past a chicken coop, a pigsty, a vegetable garden.

  They finally pulled up alongside a huge old barn, which was also painted hot pink, the shepherd hopping into its master’s sidecar, tail thumping.

  “This is an amazing place,” Mitch marveled as he got out of his truck.

  “You should see it after the first snow,” Hangtown wheezed, yanking off his helmet and goggles. “You’d swear you’d gone to heaven.”

  “You believe in heaven?” Mitch asked him.

  “Of course I do, Big Mitch. All children believe in heaven.”

  Mitch dropped the tailgate of the truck, the big dog sniffing at the cat scent on his legs. Back at the house, one of the women started determinedly across the meadow toward them.

  “Not that any of this is really mine,” Hangtown went on. “My granddad married into it. Plundered himself a local girl with good Teasman bloodlines and no damned sense. Hell, she mm-rr-married an artist.” Wendell Frye was a third-generation Dorset artist. It was his grandfather, an emin
ent landscape painter, who founded the Dorset Academy. His father, also a fine painter, ran it for many years. “There’s eight hundred acres in all. My dad nearly lost it to the tax man when I was a boy, but it’s still ours. And it’ll stay ours as long as there’s enough fools out there who’ll pay good cash money for my contraptions. The developers would love to get their hands on it. All they see is the dollar signs. Me, I see what granddad saw—the freshwater tidal marsh with osprey and great blues, the eagles nesting in our cliffs. He used to come out here from the city every summer to paint them. That’s what those cottages were for,” Hangtown explained, waving at the little bungalows. “Painters lived in ’em. Nowadays, I’ve got Jim Bolan in residence. You’ll like Big Jim. A part of him died in ’Nam, but he does honest work with his hands. Been helping me with my contraptions since he got out of prison. These old hands aren’t what they used to be.”

  The antenna was not heavy, just clumsy. They eased it out of the truck and started toward the barn with it, Mitch wondering just exactly what Jim Bolan had been in prison for.

  “Got my two beautiful daughters living here, too,” Hang-town added. “They can do any of the farm chores need doing. I taught ’em to hunt, fish, change a tire, you name it. Moose—not a soul calls her Mary Susan—Moose took to it more than Takai. Does most of the farm chores. Now Moose is the one for you, if you want to plant your seed in some fine, fertile soil. She’ll make you jump through hoops for it. She’s a full-time practicing virgin, but she’s—”

  “Hangtown, I’m really not looking to—”

  “A big healthy brown-skinned girl, just like her mother was. Loves children. Makes all of her own clothes, pickles, bread. Can slaughter a pig. Hell, she could probably take out your appendix on the kitchen table if she had to.”

  “It’s already out,” said Mitch, reflecting on just how different it was in Dorset than in the city. Here, he regularly came in contact with people who could do things. In New York no one knew how to do anything except express their opinions, loudly.

  “Mind you, Takai will catch your eye first,” Hangtown pointed out. “Get your blood to boiling.”

  “She’s the realtor, right?” Mitch had seen her sign on Dorset Street.

  “She’s a serial destroyer of men, is what she is. Nothing but teeth and claws. Stay clear of her, Big Mitch. Her mother was half-Japanese, half Hawaiian, and all she-devil. I married Kiki after Moose’s mother, Gentle Kate, got sick and passed away . . .” Hangtown’s lined face broke into a sudden scowl behind the beard, his piercing blue eyes very far away. “Then I lost Kiki, too.”

  “She died?”

  “She left us. Died out in California. Kiki’s death . . . it was very sudden. I raised the girls myself. It’s just been we three for a long, long time.”

  They made their way inside the big barn now and dropped the antenna on the dirt floor next to an old potbellied wooden stove. Mitch gazed around in pure, wide-eyed wonderment. He was actually inside Wendell Frye’s studio, the very place where the master created his works of art. It was like being inside the cluttered workshop of a gifted and mad Santa Claus. There were tin snips, cutting tools, shaping tools and welding torches of every conceivable type on his workbench. There were bins filled with hubcaps and fenders. There were deep-sea-diver’s helmets, boat propellers, copper pipes and elbow joints, bales of wire, rolls of copper flashing. There were mobiles in the shapes of birds and animals and planets hanging from the beams overhead. A ladder led up to a loft where there was even more stuff.

  Mitch was enthralled. “How will you use this?” he asked Hangtown, meaning the antenna. “What will it be?”

  “I collect things,” the old master replied, shrugging his heavy shoulders. “And I collect ideas. Sometimes the two connect up, sometimes they don’t. I have very little say in the matter. Most people don’t believe me when I tell ’em that. I’m sure you do.”

  Mitch nodded dumbly, wondering why Wendell Frye had so much confidence in him. They’d known each other less an hour. Now he heard footsteps approaching.

  “Father, where have you been?” a young woman demanded from the doorway.

  “Foraging. And now I’m going to show my friend around.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to show him around later,” she lectured him, as if he were an unruly child. “You’ll be late for your appointment.”

  Hangtown waved her off. “Moose, my dear, say hello to Mitch Berger, an honest writer and one hell of an Abbott and Costello fan. You might consider taking him into your bed. You could do a lot worse.”

  Moose was a tall, strongly built woman in her early thirties. She had her father’s piercing blue eyes. A face and hands that were weathered by outdoor work. Ash-blond hair that was gathered up in a bun. Her homemade denim jumper and wool cardigan lent her a dowdy, Swiss-peasant sort of look. She was not homely but she was not exactly pretty either. She had too much chin and way too many worry lines. She seemed like someone who was accustomed to carrying a considerable burden. Possibly Mitch had just met him.

  “You’ll have to forgive my father, Mitch,” she said, gripping his hand firmly. Her manner, like her gaze, was direct and no-nonsense. “He’s of that age where he says whatever comes into his head, just like one of my second graders. He’s always wandering off, too. Father, you can’t just take off without telling us. Jim’s been waiting to take you to the doctor.”

  “Now where are those apple-butter tubs . . .?” Hangtown muttered, ignoring her completely as he clumped his way over toward the loft ladder. “I always pay my honest debts.”

  “Father, you were supposed to be in New Haven at eight o’clock. Father, be careful up there! Father . . .?”

  “Damned doctors,” Hangtown groused as he made his way slowly up the ladder. “What’s he going to tell me I don’t already know? I need a new hip, two new knees. Got to stop smoking and drinking—if I don’t I’m going to die. Well, guess what? I’m going to be taking myself a nice long dirt nap any day now, and there’s not a goddamned thing anyone can do about it except grab a shovel.”

  “Please don’t talk that way,” she said fretfully. “You know I don’t like it. Father . . .?” Moose followed him up into the loft, sighing with exasperation.

  As the two of them began thudding around up there Mitch heard another set of footsteps approach. And now Wendell Frye’s other daughter came striding across the dirt floor toward Mitch, who immediately drew in his breath.

  Takai Frye wasn’t just pretty. She was exotically, stunningly beautiful—without a doubt the sexiest woman he had ever been face to face with in his life. And he was someone who had interviewed Uma Thurman. Takai was uncommonly tall, slim and long-limbed. And decidedly Asian, with gleaming slanted eyes, silken skin, a perfect rosebud mouth and a face that was all angles and planes and cheekbones. She wore her jet-black hair cropped at her chin, her nails long and painted black. Her thumbs were unusually long and narrow, more like index fingers than thumbs. She wore a shearling jacket that must have cost three thousand dollars over a black turtleneck sweater, stirrup pants and ankle boots. She carried a black leather appointment book in one hand, a cell phone in the other.

  “Well, well, I have to admit you’re a cut above the usual skeegie characters the old man drags home.” Takai spoke in a clipped, somewhat mocking manner, as if there were invisible quote marks around everything. She possessed major attitude. Clearly, she was used to being smarter, richer and prettier than anyone else she came in contact with. “At least in outward appearance you are,” she continued, circling Mitch as if he were a farm animal at auction. “You’ve shaved, run a comb through your hair. You have a decent, relatively clean sweater on. You’re amply fed . . .” She poked him indelicately in the tummy with a talon. “More than amply, in fact.” Now she gave him a final once-over, a probing examination that seemed to scan the size of his IQ, bank balance and sexual equipment. “Yes, I would say you’re a cut or two above his usual dump crowd.”

  “In Dorset we don’t s
ay ‘dump,’ ” Mitch pointed out. “We say recyclable waste transfer station.”

  Takai drew back, raising an eyebrow at him haughtily. “I suppose he promised you that you could stay in one of the cottages for as long as you like, free of charge. And that one of his two—count ’em two—lusty daughters would make passionate love to you in the night. Cook you a hot breakfast. Mend your filthy socks. Well, forget it, Buster Brown. None of that is ever going to happen.”

  “The subject of bearing my round, healthy children also came up. At least I think it did—he mentioned the word seed.”

  Takai peered at him suspiciously. “You don’t sound like his usual swamp Yankee either. I’m beginning to think that we have a case of mistaken identity.”

  “In movies, they call this a meet-cute,” Mitch said. “Honestly, I just brought an antenna home for him, is all. And I already have a home of my own on Big Sister, an apartment in New York, a job, a book contract, an investment portfolio and . . .” Mitch trailed off, wondering why he was trying to justify himself to Takai Frye. She’d instantly gotten under his skin, that was why. “And I know how to mend my own socks.”

  Overhead, Hangtown and Moose were still thudding around in the loft, sending trickles of dust down upon them.

  “Wait, I know who you are,” Takai exclaimed, switching her thermostat all the way from icy to toasty warm. “You’re Mitchell Berger. I’ve heard of you. Christ, who hasn’t? You’re one of our local celebrities. I’m Takai. It’s so great to finally meet you. And I’m really sorry if I seemed bitchy, but Father needs protecting.” She pulled a slim black leather card case out of her jacket pocket and handed him her business card. “When you outgrow that starter cottage of yours, and you will, call me, okay? I’m the number-one property mover in town.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Mitch said, shaking his head at her.

  “Nonsense,” she insisted, looking at him through her eyelashes. “There’s no room there for you to expand.”