by Unknown
Something about the way the older woman’s eyes were gleaming at her now was giving Des a prickling sensation on the back of her neck. Or was that just her imagination? Greta Patterson was a married woman, after all. Albeit to a man at least twenty years her junior. What kind of a marriage did she and Colin have? Des didn’t know. All she knew was that when you really got to know the private lives of people, especially the wealthy upstanding bluebloods in Dorset, one truth always won out:
No one was who they appeared to be. Everyone was hiding something.
So what was Greta Patterson hiding?
The Leanses lived on a twenty-acre mountaintop high above Lord’s Cove from which they could see all the way down the Connecticut River to Long Island Sound. In days of yore, a fortified castle would have been built there.
Bruce and Babette Leanse had erected a post-modern jumble of cubes, rhomboids and scalene triangles that seemed to be tumbling right down the hillside, rather like a large child’s toy made of rough-cut timbers, granite and glass. Gazing at it through her windshield in the late-afternoon sunlight, Des initially thought that it was a total folly. But the more she looked, the more she liked its spareness, and the way it didn’t impose itself on the mountain so much as become a part of it.
She left her cruiser in the driveway next to a Chevy Blazer with Ohio plates. It was a vehicle she recognized. She’d seen it in the parking lot of the inn for a number of days. She rang the front bell.
“Trooper, glad you could make it!” exclaimed Bruce Leanse as he came charging out the door with his hand stuck out, all five feet six of him. “I’ve really been wanting to meet you. Babette’s still on the phone with the school board’s attorney about Colin. Poor guy.”
He closed the heavy oak door behind him and walked Des around the house and then across a meadow of knee-high wildflowers and native grasses. The sun was low, the trees casting long shadows across the meadow. Overhead, there were thin wisps of white clouds. A turkey vulture wafted on an air current, searching for prey.
“I’m hearing such good things about you from everyone,” Bruce said, glancing at her as they walked. He had a faint, knowing smile on his lips that Des didn’t care for. It bordered on a smirk. “In a lot of ways, I feel we’re so alike.”
“Really? How so?” asked Des, who could not summon up one single thing they had in common.
“I’m an outsider, too,” he responded earnestly. “And I feel like I’m constantly being watched and judged by the entrenched old guard, same as you are. Me, I wouldn’t have it any other way. How about you?”
“Me, I can’t have it any other way,” Des responded coolly.
He let out a delighted whoop of laughter. “Well said.”
Bruce Leanse may have been short but he was movie-star handsome, and he knew it. He had sparkling blue eyes, a rock-solid jaw, long, thin nose and lots of white teeth. His hair, which was flecked with gray, was short and spiky. He carried himself erect, the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled back to reveal powerful, hairy forearms. He wore a fisherman’s vest over his flannel shirt, jeans and work boots. Des had read a lot about him over the years. His life was one long-running tabloid story. He was a billionaire’s son, a Rhodes scholar out of Princeton whose prowess on the downhill ski slopes had landed him a spot on the U.S. Olympic team. He was also someone who was not above crowing about his latest conquest. That was why the tabloids had taken to calling him the Brat. By the time he took control of the family real estate empire, he had climbed Everest, sailed solo around the world, hosted his own daredevil show on MTV, launched a magazine, a restaurant and a brewery, run for mayor of New York and dated a string of towering, glamorous supermodels. Lately, his private life had quieted down. And now here he was in Dorset.
Across the meadow, beyond a stand of cedars, Des could hear an occasional metallic plink, followed by shouts of husky male encouragement. “This is a very interesting place you have here,” she observed, as they made their way past a wall of solar panels.
“God, don’t let Babette hear you say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because she designed it, and in the world of architecture interesting is synonymous with bad. People call something interesting when they truly hate it.”
“Well, I meant that I liked it.”
“Thank you,” he said, gratefully lapping up her praise. He struck her as rather needy. People who craved attention generally were. “We wanted it to blend in with the landscape, unlike those gargantuan trophy palaces that everyone else seems to want these days.”
“But you do build those, too, don’t you?”
“That doesn’t mean I like them,” Bruce said defensively. “I’m in business. If you don’t give people what they want, then you don’t stay in business. This is a universal truth,” he pointed out, as if this were a pearl of wisdom she might wish to jot down in her diary. “If someone is sinking two million into a house, then they want what they want, not what you think they should want. We wanted to be as green as humanly possible. We use less than a third of the energy of a normal house here. We installed geothermal heating and cooling, solar panels, waterless composting toilets. The lumber is native or reprocessed. I try to be eco-friendly, believe me. I’m someone who’s active in the Sierra Club. And if you ask me, the suburb is the worst thing that happened to this country in the twentieth century. That probably sounds odd to you coming from a developer, but I believe it.”
Des said nothing to that. The man was carrying on both sides of the argument all by himself. Hell, it was an argument with himself.
“But I also think it’s foolhardy to believe that the future can be stopped,” he went on as they made their way across the meadow, the pings growing steadily louder. “There are twice as many people living in the U.S. right now as there were when the baby boomers were born. We have to put them somewhere, don’t we? Unlike a lot of people, I don’t believe in standing on the sidelines complaining. Wherever we’ve worked—Seattle, San Francisco, Denver, Boston—we’ve devised revolutionary, low-impact development for the future. I believe in the future. I believe in cities that live in harmony with mass transit. And I believe in villages. That’s why we’ve put down roots in Dorset. What we have here is a rare and endangered thing—a genuine community. And we have to fight to hold on to that.”
Des nodded, thinking just how baffled the old-timers must be by this high-profile human dynamo with his deep pockets and his bulldozers.
“You’re probably thinking that I’m nothing more than a kinder, gentler asshole. But I believe in what we’re doing. I’m excited. Is there anything wrong with that?”
Des shrugged her shoulders, wondering why Bruce Leanse felt he needed to justify himself to her. Was he just naturally defensive about his chosen, politically incorrect career? Or was this an advanced case of Soul Man Syndrome—a liberal who was desperate for a black person’s approval?
“Do you rock-climb, trooper?”
“Uh, no, I never have.”
“Oh, you’ve absolutely got to. It’s outrageous. A total high. Greatest physical rush there is.” Bruce paused, grinning at her wolfishly. “Aside from you-know-what . . .”
Ah, so that was it—the Brat wanted him some of her form.
“Tell you what—I’ll take you out some Saturday morning and we’ll—”
“I’m afraid my sked’s pretty crowded right now.”
“Sure, sure. How about a run? Do you run? God, you must. Nobody’s got a butt like yours without doing roadwork.”
Des came to a stop and said, “Okay, I have to tell you that I’m not real comfortable with the direction this conversation is taking, Mr. Leanse.”
“I’m just looking for a workout partner,” he gulped, retreating hastily. “That’s all I meant. I’m not looking for trouble. Really, I’m not.”
“Good. Neither am I.”
The breeze coming off of the river was getting chillier. The weatherman had predicted the first frost of the season that night. De
s resumed walking, shivering slightly. Beyond the cedars there was a mown stretch of lawn where a baseball diamond had been marked off, complete with bases, a pitcher’s mound and a batting cage. On the mound a pitching machine was disgorging fastballs. And at the plate, little Ben Leanse, her DARE essay winner, was flailing away at them with an aluminum bat that seemed as big as he was. With the oversized batting helmet that was planted on his huge head, the little fellow looked like one of those bobble-headed dolls they sold at ballparks.
A muscular, sunburned man in a short-sleeved polo shirt stood behind the cage with his big arms crossed watching him swing. . . .Ping. . . . As Ben feebly fouled off one pitch. . . . Ping. . . . As he popped up another behind first base, barely getting around on it. . . . Ping. . . . Des recognized this man at once—it was her third-floor mattress king from the Frederick House. A video camera was set up next to him on a tripod, filming the boy.
“Step into it, Big Ben!” he called out encouragingly. “Atta boy! Good job!”
“We’ve hired a batting tutor to help Ben up his game a notch,” Bruce explained. “He’s desperate to make the Little League team next spring.” Bruce clapped his hands together and called out, “Way to go, guy!”
“I stink, Dad,” Ben gurgled at him glumly. He had on a fleece jersey with the words DOUGHTY’S ALL-STARS emblazoned across his chest. “I totally suck.”
“No way—you’re making real progress.” Bruce seemed ill at ease around his boy, his manner forced. “Am I right, Dirk?”
At first, Dirk had nothing but a cold glare for Bruce Leanse. Des immediately wondered what that was about. Then Dirk ran a big hand over his weathered face and said, “We’re doing real good. Just got to strengthen those wrists of yours over the winter, Big Ben. Right now, they’re like cooked spaghetti.”
“Okay, Coach,” the little boy responded solemnly.
“I’ll go see if I can hurry Babette along,” Bruce said to Des. Clearly, the Brat was not anxious to stick around. In fact, he couldn’t hurry back to the house fast enough.
Des stayed put. “Nice to see you again, Ben,” she said to him warmly.
“Hello, trooper. Coach Doughty, this is Trooper Mitry.”
“Make it Dirk,” he said to her. “Pleased to meet you. Let’s take some more cuts, Ben.”
Des joined him behind the cage as the boy flailed away at more mechanical pitches . . . Plink . . . Des guessed that Dirk was in his early thirties. He was a solid six feet tall with broad, hulking shoulders and a massive chest. He held himself with the physical ease of an athlete in prime condition . . . Plink . . . Still, she noticed, his eyes had a defeated, beaten-down cast to them.
“We’re both at the Frederick House, if I’m not mistaken,” she said to him.
“That’s right.” His eyes stayed on the boy at the plate. “The Leanses have been nice enough to put me up there while I’m working with Ben. I’m all over the Northeast right now. Just spent two weeks in Nashua, New Hampshire. Soon as it turns a little colder, I’ll follow the sun down to Florida for the baseball camps. . . . Move those hips, Big Ben! Pull ’em through the strike zone!. . . . Actually, I grew up around here. I’m headquartered in Toledo, Ohio now. Married a Toledo girl.” And yet, he wore no wedding ring. Some people didn’t like to wear rings. Still, it made her wonder. “Ever been there?”
“No, I haven’t,” she said.
“It’s not a bad place. Not as nice as Dorset, but not bad. And, hey, I’m still getting paid to do what I love.”
“Dirk played in the show!” Ben exclaimed proudly.
“I’m impressed,” Des said.
Dirk grimaced slightly. “All I had was a cup of coffee with the Detroit Tigers. But around here, that makes me a hometown hero. . . . Less top hand, Ben!. . . . I still hold all the hitting records at Dorset High and American Legion Post 103. Fun to be back, actually. It gives me a chance to catch up with old friends.”
And possibly hump one of them night after night, Des reflected. It sounded as if Dirk was on the road a lot. If there was one thing she’d learned from her experience with Brandon, it was this: Men who spend a lot of time away from home do not wish to be home.
“The Tigers paid me a seven-figure signing bonus right out of high school,” Dirk recalled in a tight, controlled voice. “I was going to be their catcher of the future. I was the complete package. I could hit for average. Hit for power. Had a gun for an arm. Ran the hundred in ten flat.” . . . Plink . . . “Well, the bonus disappeared right away—my first wife cleaned me out but good.”
“And the dream?” Des asked. “What happened to the dream?”
He showed her the two ugly surgical scars on the inside of his right elbow. “My first winter home from rookie ball I was in a car that hit a patch of black ice and rolled into a ditch. Couldn’t throw a baseball for two years. And that was just the beginning. I had two procedures on my right knee, another on my left. Spent half of my career on the disabled list and the other half on the waiver wire.” . . . Plink . . .“I also had me a bit of a nightlife problem. No longer. I’ve been clean and sober for four years . . . Good one, Ben! Now you’re in the zone!” He fell silent, breathing slowly in and out. “I finished up with a hundred twenty-seven Major League at bats, trooper. My lifetime average is two forty-four, with four dingers. You can look it up. I also played two seasons in Japan for the Yokohama Bay Stars before the Tigers took me back and shipped me down to Toledo. Spent three more seasons there until they released me. That’s when I knew it was over. Knew it in my heart. But what the hell, I chased the dream for twelve years. And now I’m actually doing some good. I had a high school girl down in Vero Beach last winter who was real close to getting herself a college softball scholarship. Working with me for two weeks put her over the top. That’s a satisfying feeling, helping a kid who can’t afford college earn herself a four-year ride.”
Maybe so, Des reflected, but clearly he felt cheated by what had happened to him. It wasn’t in the words he spoke. Dirk Doughty was saying all of the right things. It was in the way he bit off his words. It was in those defeated eyes of his.
“Mostly, I get kids like Ben,” he confessed. “Their parents are looking for an esteem booster. What the hell, I don’t mind. It’s what I know . . . Okay, Ben! Let’s call it a day!”
“Right, Coach!” The boy promptly laid down his bat and got busy gathering up the balls he’d popped feebly around the diamond, stretching out the belly of his fleece jersey to form a crude sack for them.
“Some of these yuppie parents can really get in my face,” Dirk said, watching him. “They put so much pressure on their kids to succeed that they turn something that’s supposed to be fun into something utterly joyless.”
“Are the Leanses like that?”
Dirk considered this a moment. “Actually, I have to hand it to them—they’re okay. Plenty involved in their own lives. And Ben’s a real nice kid. Super-bright. He’ll end up being a brilliant scientist or something.”
Babette came tromping briskly across the grass toward them now, clutching a cell phone tightly in one hand. “Trooper Mitry, so sorry to keep you waiting. How is our ballplayer doing, Dirk?”
“Doing good,” Dirk responded pleasantly as Ben dumped a shirtload of baseballs into a duffel bag. “C’mon, guy, let’s hit the kitchen for a protein shake.” They headed off toward the house together, Dirk placing a big arm protectively around the boy’s narrow shoulders.
Babette watched them go. There was a fixed brightness to her eyes, an intense sureness that Des found alarming. “We don’t harbor any illusions about Ben’s athletic ability,” she said. “We know he’ll never be another Mike McGuire.”
“I think you mean Mark McGuire,” Des said, observing once again just how imposing this woman seemed in spite of her height. Attila the Hen indeed.
“But he needs to be good at something so he’ll be able to play with the other boys,” she went on. “His teacher, Miss Frye, is in complete accord. It was she who recommended D
irk. There’s a bench out on the rocks overlooking the river. Shall we sit there?”
The bench was sheltered by a rustic gazebo of rough, bark-covered posts and beams. They strolled across the field to it and sat, Babette pulling the shawl collar of her sweater up tighter around her neck. The breeze was really picking up. A sailboat was making impressive speed as it knifed its way toward the old iron bridge up at East Haddam.
“Needless to say,” Babette commented, “the athletic facilities at Center School are as deplorable as everything else is. My God, every time I walk in that place and see those kids wearing their coats in class, I want to cry. This is Connecticut, not Kosovo! My friends in the city keep asking me why we don’t just pull Ben out of there and put him in a private school.”
“And how do you answer them?”
“I believe in our public schools,” she replied firmly. “If people like us abandon them we will create a society of haves and have-nots. That’s just not acceptable. But neither is Center School—over the summer, a state building inspector found over two hundred safety-and fire-code violations. I know the old guard in town thinks it can be fixed. Well, it can’t. I’m telling you it can’t, okay? I’m an architect. I know buildings.”
Des nodded, well aware that this was the lady bragging on herself some. Because if architects really did know buildings, then there would be no need for engineers.
“Plus we need more classrooms,” she went on. “There are new homes going up all over town. More people. People with kids. Where are we going to put them? We must build this new school.”
“The support of the school superintendent wouldn’t hurt, I imagine.”
Babette shifted uncomfortably on the bench, her face tightening. “Look, I am very sorry about what happened this morning. I don’t enjoy seeing anyone suffering. But this is simply another illustration of why it’s time for Colin to go.” She hesitated, her tongue flicking across her lower lip. “As to why I was there to see him . . . It’s an extremely delicate matter. I can only share this with you in the strictest professional confidence. Because if word were to leak out . . .”
