The Hot Pink Farmhouse

by Unknown

  “Actually, he thinks you’re a bore. I believe his exact words were ‘officially sanctioned’ bore.”

  “Sure, when I was his age I felt the same way about Pauline Kael and Vincent Canby. I didn’t realize how good they were until I grew up.”

  “Wait, you grew up?” she said teasingly.

  “That’s pretty standard stuff for teenaged boys. So is the graffiti thing.”

  “Explain that to me, will you? Why are a bunch of middle-class white boys freakin’ like this? They live in big houses, have money in their pockets, brains, every opportunity in the world . . . Why?”

  “They want attention.”

  “From who?”

  “Girls, silly. That’s why we do everything. We pound on drum kits, slam into each other on the football field, paint dirty words on public buildings—anything so that girls will notice us. It’s always about girls. And it never stops. When we get a little older we just find more permanent ways of saying Look at me. Which explains the Bruce Leanses of the world.”

  She thought about this for a moment. “That’s totally pathetic.”

  “We’re a pathetic lot, all right. Maybe now you can begin to appreciate just how fortunate you are that you found me.”

  “Um, okay, I’m thinking I liked you better when your self-esteem was a couple of dozen notches lower, boyfriend.”

  “You have no one to blame but yourself, Master Sergeant. I’m floating on a cloud, thanks to you.”

  “Mitch, I’m floating along right next to you,” she said, suddenly serious. “And there’s nothing underneath me. If you go down, I go with you.”

  He glanced over at her, startled and pleased. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, you know that?”

  She said nothing in response, just swiveled her head and stared out her window. He couldn’t see her face. She didn’t want him to see her face.

  It was nearly three by the time they got back to his cottage. Mitch tromped straight up to bed. Des, who was still wired, set up her easel in the living room. She had some grisly crime scene photos of Moose’s charred remains that she was anxious to depict in charcoal. It was her way of dealing.

  Mitch didn’t look at the photos. He didn’t want to see them.

  She was still down there working when Quirt started meowing outside the front door, shortly before dawn. She let him in, but Mitch padded downstairs anyway, yawning and blinking, to find a dozen or more haunting portraits torn from her pad and flung all over the room.

  Everywhere he looked there was Moose Frye, or what was left of her.

  Des’s hands and face were smeared black with charcoal, her eyes bloodshot. She was so fried that she barely seemed to notice Mitch standing there. She was still inside of it. Still bothered. In spite of all of the years he had spent as a critic, Mitch had never truly understood what artists put themselves through until he met her. He had newfound respect for people who create things, thanks to Des. She was definitely rubbing off on him. Was he rubbing off on her? He wondered.

  He went in the kitchen and put coffee on and said good morning to Quirt, who was hunched over the kibble bowl with single-minded intensity. He threw on rumpled khakis and a sweatshirt and ran his fingers through his hair. He poured two cups of coffee and carried them into the living room. Handed Des one. Put a jacket around her shoulders. Took her by the hand and led her out the door, stepping over that morning’s fresh headless mouse, and on down to the beach. Des came willingly enough, and sat next to him when he patted the driftwood log where he liked to perch in the early morning with his coffee. There was a sliver of moon on this calm, frosty morning. Geese flew overhead in V-formation.

  “Look, it’s just something that we have to get through.”

  She gazed bleary-eyed out at the water, shivering. She seemed very far away from him at that moment. “What is?”

  “You know perfectly well what.” Tonight was the Deacon’s birthday dinner. Her father and Mitch were going to set eyes on each other for the first time. “It’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine. You’re my soul mate, he’s your closest living relative. I want to meet him.”

  “I’m hearing it,” she grunted. “But I’m disbelieving it.”

  “Believe it. Besides, this is not a totally new experience for me. I went through this with my own folks and Maisie. They thought she was from the planet Pluto—all because her people came over on the Mayflower.”

  “Now there’s an eerie coincidence for you—mine came over on a boat hundreds of years ago, too. The only difference is they were in chains at the time.”

  “By the time Maisie died,” Mitch plowed on, “they’d convinced themselves that she was actually half-Jewish.”

  “Then they’ll just love me. According to Bella, I’m a member of the lost tribe.”

  Mitch sipped his coffee in guarded silence. “I’m not going to let you do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Pick a fight with me so you’ll have to call off the dinner. That’s not going to happen.”

  “Doughboy, you are impossible, you know that?! You just sit there acting nice to me when all I want to do is bite and scratch and get mean. Damn, what is wrong with you?”

  “If you want to wrestle, we’ll wrestle. That’s fine by me. I not only outweigh you but I have a lower center of gravity. I’ll whup your skinny ass. I am talking pancake here—your nose down in the sand.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that we have no business being together?” she demanded. “That our lives are spiraling out of control? That we’re completely insane?”

  “Sure,” he said easily.

  “And . . . ?”

  “And then I do this . . .” He leaned over and kissed her softly on the lips. “And I know everything I need to know.”

  She let out that little whimper of hers and flung her arms around him, hugging him tightly. They kissed. They kissed some more.

  “How about we go back to the house and, like, I play ‘Stairway to Heaven’ for you on my Stratocaster?” he murmured in her ear.

  “How about if we go back to the house and, like, you don’t?”

  Des never did get any sleep that night. In fact, she barely had enough time to shower and climb into her uniform before she was due at Center School for traffic control.

  “I should buy him something today for his birthday, right?” Mitch said as she hurriedly dumped a bag of dried black-eyed peas into a pot of water to soak.

  “No, don’t. He doesn’t like gifts. That’s why I make him dinner.”

  “Well, can I at least get a bottle of wine?”

  “The Deacon never touches it.”

  “Beer?”

  “Don’t bother,” she said, kissing him good-bye. “I’ll get it.”

  After she had sped away in her cruiser Mitch parked himself in front of his computer and logged on to that morning’s New York tabloids. Moose Frye’s murder had gone directly to page one. LOVE CRAZY, screamed the Post’s banner headline. OH, TEACHER, cried the News. Mitch was not surprised. She was a nice-looking small-town New England schoolteacher. She was the daughter of one of America’s greatest living artists. And she’d been having a wild, clandestine affair with the married school superintendent—a man who was presently on medical leave because he’d recently tried to kill himself. Such juicy details were bound to surface quickly. It was impossible to keep them under wraps.

  Yes, it was page one, all right. And the editor of the Sunday magazine had already e-mailed Mitch twice that morning to put his pedal to the metal and go.

  So Mitch went.

  Not that it was exactly easy to get in. A dozen news vans were crammed this way and that at the entrance to Lord Cove’s Lane, where a stone-faced young trooper had set up a barricade to keep the press out. Mitch had to convince him to radio the trooper stationed inside the house, who had to check with Hangtown before Mitch could pass on through.

  Hangtown was at work in the barn with Jim. A radio was blasting old Johnny Cash, and the wood
stove was lit against the morning chill. Sam, the German shepherd, was curled up right next to it with one eye closed and the other on Jim’s baby-sitter, who was parked on an old car seat with a copy of Hemmings Motor News.

  The old artist had on a pair of glasses with magnifying lenses that made him look like Dr. Cyclops. He was drawing intently at his workbench, a foam-wrapped pencil clutched in his arthritic hand, an open bottle of Old Overholt rye whiskey within arm’s length. He barely seemed to notice Mitch’s arrival.

  Jim was on his knees assembling an ungainly eight-foot-high stand made of one-inch copper tubing. It had four legs and looked something like a hat rack with elbow joints. Lengths of tubing and rolls of copper flashing were heaped around him everywhere on the dirt floor. Most of the flashing was aged and paint-splattered.

  “What is this thing?” asked Mitch, crouching next to Jim.

  “The inner workings, son,” Jim replied, flipping on a pair of safety goggles. “Hold her steady for a sec, will you . . . ?” Jim reached for a portable oxyacetylene torch and ignited it. “We use a copper-compound braising rod. She melts at about two thousand degrees. You don’t want your copper to get much hotter than that or it will burn.” Almost immediately Mitch began to smell the smoldering phosphorous and copper compound as Jim started to weld the pieces of the four-legged creature together. “She may look a little unstable right now, but you got to remember that she’ll be standing in a twenty-gallon tank of water. You won’t see these here feet at all. Or the submersible pump, which’ll push the water through that center pipe all the way to the top. It dribbles back down, then gets recirculated.”

  “Okay, so this will be a fountain, right?”

  “You’re looking inside the beast, son.”

  “And what will the beast look like?”

  “You’ll have to ask the mad doctor there. Me, I’m just Igor.”

  Hangtown was still at his workbench, padded pencil in hand. What he was drawing resembled an elongated ziggurat of cubes and rectangles heaped one atop the other. “Made one of these back when I had to quit smoking, Big Mitch,” he mentioned to him, pausing to light a Lucky. He did not say hello. He acted as if Mitch had been around the house all morning. “Helped keep my mind off of things.”

  “But you didn’t quit smoking.”

  “That part didn’t work out,” Hangtown admitted freely. “But the fountain was a major success. Really quite hypnotic, if I do say so myself.”

  Sam sat up suddenly now, a low growl coming from his throat. A moment later Mitch heard what the dog had heard—cars making their way up the gravel drive toward them. They pulled up right outside the barn with a splatter of gravel. Mitch heard voices and car doors slamming. Jim’s baby-sitter got up and tromped over toward the barn door to see what was going on.

  In barged Soave and his sergeant, Tommy Salcineto, followed by Des. She looked very ill at ease. She would not make eye contact with Mitch.

  “Good morning, trooper,” Hangtown called to her, pointedly snubbing Soave. The muscle-bound little lieutenant instantly bristled. “When may I have my girl back? When may I bury her?”

  “I don’t have a date yet, Mr. Frye,” Des answered, pawing at the ground with her brogan. “They can’t release her until they’ve run all of the tests they need to run. I’m sorry.”

  Hangtown reached for his bottle of rye whiskey and took a swig, swiping at his bearded mouth with the back of his hand. “Then why have you come?”

  “Because the DNA on the cigarette butt we found up on the rocks matches Jim Bolan’s blood sample,” Soave said, turning a cold-eyed gaze on Jim. “Same goes for the shooter’s shoe print. It’s a dead-on match for your work boots, Bolan.”

  Jim sat back on his heels, a sick expression on his face. “I’ve hiked around up there a million times with Sam,” he said dejectedly. “Sometimes, I have me a smoke. That’s all there is to it. I didn’t do it, man. You’re making a mistake.”

  “What does all of this mean?” Hangtown asked.

  “It means they need a bad guy and I’m it,” Jim growled, flinging his safety goggles away in disgust.

  “It means,” Soave said forcefully, “that we’ll have to bring him in for formal questioning.”

  “For how long? When will he be back?”

  “I can’t answer that, Mr. Frye,” Soave said. “That’s entirely up to him.”

  “Well, does he need a lawyer?” Hangtown demanded, his frustration mounting. “Are you arresting him?”

  “We’re taking him in for questioning, Mr. Frye. He’ll be detained at the Major Crime Squad’s Central District headquarters in Meriden, okay?”

  “No, it is not okay!” the old man thundered. “You can’t take Jim away from me! I need Jim!”

  “Sir, I’m afraid I have no choice,” Soave insisted.

  Another car pulled up outside now. Mitch heard high heels clacking hurriedly on gravel—it was Takai, wearing a gray flannel business suit and looking quite rattled. “I—I came just as soon as Trooper Mitry phoned me, Father,” she said, rushing across the barn toward him. “I am so sorry. Are you all right?”

  “You get away from me!” Hangtown snarled at her. He was in no mood for her even in the best of times, and these were not the best of times.

  Takai backed slowly away from him, stung, her eyes shining. The old man might just as well have cuffed her across the face with his hand. Mitch felt very bad for Takai Frye at that moment.

  “Not to worry, Big Jim,” Hangtown said to his friend with forced good cheer. “We’ll have you home in no time.”

  “C’mon, Bolan, let’s move out,” Tommy Salcineto ordered him gruffly.

  Jim started out the door, head hung in defeat, his babysitter on his heels. Soave followed, with Des bringing up the rear.

  Mitch stopped her and said, “Do you think he did it?”

  “It’s possible,” she answered quietly.

  “Then again, this could all be for the benefit of those news vans out there, right?”

  “Please don’t ask me anything more, Mitch,” Des pleaded. “I’m strictly a community liaison officer.” She bit down on her lower lip, sighing. “Look, I’ll see you tonight, okay?” And then she left with the others.

  “Takai, do something for me, will you?” Hangtown said to her as they drove off.

  “Anything, Father,” she replied, brightening considerably. The woman was so starved for his love, so eager to be called upon that Mitch found it pathetic. “Just tell me what you want.”

  “Call Greta. Have her line up a top criminal lawyer for Jim. Money’s no object.”

  Takai’s eyes widened. “But he murdered Moose! How can you even think of helping him?”

  “Because he didn’t do it. Jim’s my friend. He would never do anything to hurt me.”

  “Father, the state police have evidence!”

  “The state police have nothing,” he said with total certainty. “Now will you call her or won’t you?”

  “Of course I will. Whatever you want.” Now Takai started for the door, motioning for Mitch to join her. He walked her out to the Land Rover, where she shook her head at him in weary resignation, “My God, he’s totally deluding himself.”

  “It’s pretty hard to believe that a friend could do something like that.”

  “Well, at least it’s over,” she said, yanking open a creaky door.

  “Do you really think so?” Mitch asked her.

  Takai raised an eyebrow at him curiously. “Don’t you?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Here, I have something for you . . .” She reached across the seat, offering him a prized view of her behind, and pulled out the sweater he’d lent her, neatly folded. “I wore it to bed last night. I hope you don’t mind.”

  It smelled strongly of her perfume, so strongly that he suddenly felt a bit dizzy. “Why . . . did you do that?”

  “It made me feel all safe and snuggly,” she replied, her eyes glittering at him seductively. “I even dr
eamed about you. I can’t tell you what the dream was, though. I’ll have to know you a lot better before I do that.” And with that she climbed into her dead sister’s Land Rover, started it up and sped off, waving at him over her shoulder.

  Mitch watched her disappear around the bend, wondering what kind of game she was playing with him. And why she was playing it.

  The barn seemed empty and silent now. Hangtown had shut off the radio and was slumped at the workbench smoking a big, loosely rolled joint. “They won’t let me be, Big Mitch,” he grumbled, running a misshapen hand through his mane of white hair. “They never have. They never will. To hell with all of ’em.” He took a long toke on the joint and held it out to Mitch, who shook his head. “Life ain’t for sissies, that’s for damned sure. Just gets harder and harder—until one day you can’t take it anymore. That’s when you know it’s time for your nice long dirt nap.”

  “Hangtown, if there’s anything I can do . . .”

  He immediately brightened. “As it happens, there is. You’ll have to be my hands today. There’s no one else. So grab yourself a pair of tin snips. Now’s when the fun starts.”

  Mitch stared at him with his mouth open. Hangtown’s mind had already gotten past what had just happened—compartmentalized it and shut it away so that he could focus completely on his work. Mitch had never before witnessed such intense willpower.

  “You will work with me, won’t you?” Hangtown pleaded.

  “Of course I will. But I’m still writing that article—okay if I turn on my tape recorder while we work?”

  Hangtown shrugged and said, “If it makes you happy.”

  Mitch set it on the workbench, grateful that he’d brought along extra microcassettes, while Hangtown got busy showing him what he needed from him.

  What he needed, first, was for Mitch to take the snips to those sheets of copper flashing and make him dozens and dozens of rectangles in an array of sizes ranging from as small as six by eighteen inches to as large as four times that. Next, Mitch had to turn those measured rectangles into a vast assortment of copper boxes by folding them around different blocks of wood and pounding them into shape with a rubber mallet. Once the boxes were completed, Hangtown could arrange them one atop the other around the pipe skeleton that Jim had been making and—again, with Mitch’s assistance—weld them together to form his tower.