The Burnt Orange Sunrise (23 page)

“I guess,” he said, relaxing a little. “I mean, sure.”

“Did you get up at all during the night? I’m wondering if you might have seen anything going on downstairs in the kitchen.”

Jase cocked his head at her curiously. “Like what?”

“Somebody’s flashlight. Somebody moving around in there.”

Jase shook his head. “Jory gave me my pill.”

“What pill is that, Jase?”

“So I can sleep.”

“You take one every night?”

“I do,” he said, scratching at his beard. “If I don’t I can’t stop thinking about stuff.”

“What stuff?”

“Stuff I need to do. There’s just so much stuff.”

“Okay, sure,” she said easily. “Jase, I’d like to go over what happened this morning. Where were you when Ada got strangled?”

“I don’t know,” he answered flatly.

Des frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know when it happened. I only know when I heard that girl scream.”

“You’re right. That wasn’t a very precise question. My bad. Where were you when you heard Hannah scream?”

“Washing my hands,” he said, staring down at them as if they belonged to someone else. “In the mud room.”

“And Jory was in the kitchen?”

“Yeah.”

“And where was Les?”

“With her, serving breakfast.”

“Okay, that’s good. Very good.” Des stood back up, her hamstrings and calves starting to ache from the cold. “Thank you, Jase.”

“Can I go outside now?” he asked her.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to stay put.”

“How much longer?” he wondered, squirming around on the edge of the bed.

“A little while. Can you do that for me?”

“Sure. I’ll stay right here,” he promised, nodding his head—up, down, up, down.

Des went back out in the hallway, closing the door softly behind her.

A very anxious Jory stood right there before her, eyes searching Des’s face. “Is he okay?”

“A little twitchy, but hanging in there,” Des replied. “Tell me, what’s his story?”

“He doesn’t like to be cooped up. It makes him very uncomfortable.”

“I noticed.” Des also noticed that Jory was highly protective of her brother. This was to be expected. She was several years older than he. Their mother had died giving birth to him. So Jory had had to raise him herself, with an assist from Norma. Still, she seemed particularly worried. Des wondered if she had a reason to be. “He’s not going to throw a chair through the window or anything, is he?”

“No, nothing like that. He’s a good, sweet boy. Just emotionally fragile.”

“I told him to stay put.”

“If that’s what you told him, that’s what he’ll do.”

“He said you gave him a sleeping pill last night.”

“I did,” Jory admitted. “He has nightmares. They’re anxiety-related. His doctor at the family practice here in town prescribed a mild sedative called diazepam a couple of years ago.”

“His name is …?”

“Dr. Dillon,” Jory replied. “Why?”

“Just being thorough.”

“Honestly, Jase is fine. It’s not like he’s seeing a shrink or anything.”

“I understand. Except for one thing, Jory. When we were downstairs just now, you told me he slept well because he worked so hard. You didn’t say anything about meds.”

“I know I didn’t. And I’m sorry. I was afraid that, see, if Aaron thinks Jase is drug-dependent, that would give him just the excuse he needs to get rid of us.”

“Is
Jase drug-dependent?”

“Totally not. Dr. Dillon said it isn’t strong or habit-forming or …” Jory trailed off, scrunching her mouth nervously. “Des, does Aaron have to know about this?”

“He won’t hear about it from me,” Des promised her.

Jory’s face broke into a dimply, pink-cheeked smile. “Thanks. You’re a real friend.”

Mitch moseyed toward them from the top of the stairs and said, “Les wants to know if he can go down and stoke the fires.”

“Not now,” Des replied. “I want everyone right where they are.”

“He needs to keep those fireplaces going, Des,” Mitch pointed out. “Otherwise the pipes might freeze.”

“You do have a point there,” she conceded, shoving her heavy horn-rimmed glasses up her nose. “Okay, go ahead and take him downstairs. Feed the fires—and yourselves while you’re at it.”

“I am liking this plan,” he said, grinning at her.

“Somehow I thought you would. And take Teddy, why don’t you?”

“Safety in numbers?”

“Something like that.”

“May I join them, too?” Jory asked.

“I may need to ask you some more questions.”

“But I don’t know anything else.”

“Jory, please return to your room.”

Sullenly the housekeeper went back into room nine, closing the door behind her.

“How will you keep tabs on everyone while I’m downstairs?” Mitch asked.

“I can move a second chair out to your sentry post and conduct my interviews there.” Des ducked into their room, grabbed their desk chair and brought it out with her. “Be careful while you’re down there. Keep them in front of you at all times.”

“Not to worry,” he said over the sound of his growling stomach. “You can count on me.”

Les was exceedingly grateful to be sprung from his room. “Norma would never, ever forgive me if our pipes froze,” he told Des, his eyes moistening. “I may have to go get more firewood from the woodshed. Is that okay?”

“Do what you have to do, Les. Just don’t do it alone.”

Teddy seemed plenty thrilled himself. “I’m so hungry I’m ready to start gnawing on the wallpaper,” he exulted.

The three of them started down the center stairs immediately, Mitch bringing up the rear.

Des watched them go, mulling over her next move. She’d made a bit of progress, she believed. She knew what had gone down, and
pretty much how. But she still didn’t know the why. Or the who. Or what kind of a crowbar would pry this damned thing open. Or how to …

Actually, come to think of it, she still didn’t know a damned thing.

“W
HO GETS REFUELED FIRST
?” Mitch asked when the three of them had arrived downstairs. “The fireplaces or us?”

“Well, what’s your vote?” Les asked him.

“I’m definitely going to come down in favor of us. Unless, that is, a few more minutes is critical to the pipes.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” offered Les, ever the good host. “Let me just check the taproom fire real quick. It’s the smallest one, and usually goes out first. Then we’ll hit the kitchen. Sound good to you, Teddy?”

“Whatever you’d like,” Teddy responded. “I’m not very hungry, actually.”

“You just told Des you were starved,” Mitch pointed out,

“Sure, I did. I wanted to get the hell out of that room.”

The fire in the taproom fireplace had burned down to hot, glowing coals. There were three logs left in the wood bin. Les laid them onto the coals and took a bellows to them, pumping vigorously.

“It’s important that we keep all of these fires going,” he explained, as the logs caught fire, crackling. “Especially in the Sunset Lounge, which has the most windows. Even a few degrees of warmth can make a critical difference.”

Les seemed genuinely worried about the castle’s pipes, Mitch observed. But he also sensed that the innkeeper was purposely trying to keep busy so he wouldn’t have to think about how totally blown to bits his life was. This was something that Mitch could relate to. When he’d lost Maisie, his own method had been to sit in his apartment watching tapes of old Jimmy Cagney movies and eating Krispy Kreme doughnuts. In fact, if his editor, Lacy Nickerson, hadn’t shooed him off to Dorset to write a weekend-getaway travel piece,
the chances were good that Mitch would still be sitting there watching old Cagney movies, all 495 pounds of him.

“Not that I’m what you would call an ace fire builder,” Les confessed as they started toward the dining hall. “Jase is our resident wizard. That kid can start a fire by rubbing two wet sticks together. But I guess Des still has him in isolation. What’s the point of that, anyway?”

“What she said. She doesn’t want witnesses comparing notes.”

“Why not?” Teddy asked.

“I’m sure she has a good reason. Believe me, she knows what she’s doing.”

“I’m so glad to hear that,” Teddy said. “I may not have much in the way of a life, but I’m still not ready to give it up. Not yet.”

Their breakfast serving platters had not fared very well in the drafty dining hall. The oatmeal had thickened into a mucilaginous glop that looked far more like mortar than it did something to eat. The scrambled eggs resembled what might be left behind after the explosion of someone’s rubber ducky.

“Ordinarily, I’d just zap all of this in the microwave,” Les said rather helplessly.

“No problem, I’m the king of the stove-top reheaters,” Mitch assured him, snatching up the egg-and-bacon platters. The oatmeal seemed beyond all hope. He left that. “Besides, you’ve got enough on your mind right now.”

“I’ll just make do with some bread and jam, methinks,” said Teddy, slathering apricot preserves on a hunk of day-old French bread. He started toward the entry hall, chewing on it.

“Wait, where are you going?” Mitch asked him.

“The piano. I’ve got to play.”

“No, no, we’re supposed to stick together.”

“You’d better join us in the kitchen, Teddy,” Les said.

“I’m playing the piano,” Teddy insisted. “You’ll know where I am—you’ll be able to hear me. Hell,
Des
will be able to hear me all the way upstairs. So what the hell difference does it make?”

“Fine, go ahead,” Mitch said, because there was no stopping him. Teddy’s need to play was too urgent.

He and Les headed into the kitchen, where Les sat at the big trestle table with his shoulders slumped, staring at nothing. Mitch wiped the cold grease out of the bacon skillet with a paper towel, added butter and a little milk to the egg pan. Then he fired up the two burners under them with a kitchen match. While he waited for the pans to heat back up, he chomped on some of the French bread, which was rapidly taking on the character of biscotti.

In the Sunset Lounge, Teddy launched into a slow, heartfelt rendition of “More than You Know,” the same song he’d been playing earlier that morning. Mitch felt quite certain that he would never, ever hear that song again without thinking of being stranded up here at Astrid’s Castle in the middle of this ice storm with those two dead women.

“That was
their
song,” Les mentioned to him quietly.

“Whose?” asked Mitch, gazing out the kitchen windows at the snow. It was coming down so hard he could barely see across the courtyard.

“Teddy and Norma. They loved each other for years and years. They thought I didn’t know. But you always know, Mitch. Love can’t hide.”

The pans were getting good and hot now. Mitch laid the cold cooked bacon strips back in, then went to work on the eggs, stirring them into the sizzling butter and milk. “Yet she married you, Les,” he pointed out.

“That’s right, she did. And we were happy together. Or as happy as any married couple can ever really be, which is not very.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because the love goes away, that’s why. If you’re lucky, you can maintain a degree of affection. Not wake up every morning hating each other’s guts. But the love can’t last. Never has, never will. That’s a myth.”

“I don’t know that I agree, Les. It doesn’t stay the same, I’ll grant
you that. But it can grow.” Not that Mitch had ever put this theory to the test. Maisie had died on him before their second anniversary. Maybe her endearing little eccentricities and foibles would have grown to annoy him. Maybe his endless hours in a screening room would have driven her into the arms of some alpha go-getter with wavy blond hair and a functioning set of social skills. Maybe Les was right, and they would have ended up hating each other.

But Mitch refused to believe this.

The bacon was sizzling and the eggs were hot again. Mitch found plates and forks and served them heaping portions. They dived in like starved field hands. It all tasted remarkably like school cafeteria chow, but Mitch was in no mood to be fussy. “If two people end up unhappy,” he said, munching, “it simply means they didn’t belong with each other in the first place.”

“You’re still a young man, Mitch,” Les responded as he ate. “Listen to someone who has a few years on you: The longer any couple stays together, the worse it gets. You let each other down too many times, shatter each other’s dreams. Believe me, I’ve seen it happen. My first wife, Hildy, dumped me less than three years after we got out of college. That’s how long it took her to realize I wasn’t going to become the next Stephen Sondheim, just the next Lester Josephson. As for my second wife, Janice, that was my doing.”

“What happened?” Mitch asked as Teddy continued to serenade them from the Sunset Lounge.

“Nothing, really. I just woke up one morning and realized that all she and I had to look forward to in life was growing old and sick and scared together. I couldn’t deal with it, so I fled. Left her to raise our little boy, Tyler, on her own. Tyler’s in his junior year of high school now. Hates my guts even more than Janice does. Never so much as speaks to me. Down the road, when he has kids of his own, he’ll never let them meet me. And when I’m lying on my deathbed in some hospital somewhere, tubes sticking out of my nose, he won’t come to me. I know this. And I can’t blame him. Hell, I abandoned the poor little bastard. But I couldn’t help myself, Mitch. You see, I have this crazy idea that I’m supposed to be happy. Spent too
damned many years in advertising, I guess. Writing TV commercials about impossibly happy people leading impossibly happy lives—all thanks to that brand of miracle fabric softener or toilet bowl cleaner they’re using. If you do that long enough, Mitch, you start to believe in it. Hell, you
have
to believe in it if you want to be good at your job. The downside is that you can’t help measuring your own life against the one that you’re creating. You start expecting your own forty-two-year-old housewife with her forty-two-year-old butt to look like a twenty-year-old fashion model, because, damn it, that’s who plays forty-two-year-old housewives in TV commercials. Everything’s enhanced, prettified,
fake
. Mind you, on Madison Avenue, we don’t call
fake.
We call it
aspirational
.”