The Burnt Orange Sunrise

by David Handler

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Carly. All except for the shut-up part.” Mitch scoped out the table, observing that Aaron was glowering at her, red-faced. Acky did not like to be spoken to that way. “Seven-ball, corner pocket.” It was a long rail shot, but Mitch sank it.

  By now the man from Panorama was done with his calls and charging toward Mitch with his hand held out. “Spence Sibley, Mitch,” he exclaimed. “Sorry about all of this studio business. You must think I’m ultra-rude.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “I’ve just got so many last-minute details coming together at once. The studio’s West Coast contingent jets into Teeterboro in the morning, filled to the overhead luggage rack with heavy-hitters. Plus Tve got carload upon carload of people coming out from New York. Many of these people are directors who, believe me, have egos that are roughly akin to Afghan warlords. Stars are cupcakes in comparison.” Spence Sibley was about twenty-eight, boyishly handsome and innately self-assured. He had an open, clear-eyed face, a good strong jaw, and possibly the cleanest shave Mitch had ever seen. In fact, he was clean all over. Clean blond crew cut. Clean symmetrical features. Not particularly tall, but he looked as if he were a runner or maybe a swimmer. He practically hummed with good health. He was also exceedingly polished in that way successful corporate people so often are—upon closer inspection, his open face revealed not one thing about the man inside. Spence wore a camel’s hair blazer over a burgundy cable-stitched crew neck, perfectly creased tan slacks of heavyweight twill and polished chestnut-colored ankle boots. “Mitch, may I introduce you to Hannah Lane? Hannah is Ada’s personal assistant.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Hannah,” said Mitch, thinking her name sounded familiar.

  Hannah clambered awkwardly to her feet, nearly knocking over the tavern table. “Yeah, right, back at you,” she blurted out nervously. Hannah was about the same age as Spence, tall, coltish and incredibly ill at ease. Her features were striking. She had deep-set eyes, terrific cheekbones and a long, straight nose. Her look was even more striking. Hannah resembled a saucy 1920s Parisienne with her schoolboy-length henna hair, jaunty beret and bright red lipstick. The glasses she had on were thick and round and retro. She wore a bulky turtleneck and tweed slacks, a matching tweed jacket thrown over her shoulders the same way Ada’s was. In fact, it was as if Hannah had patterned her entire style after an old photo of the great director. Mitch couldn’t help wonder if she ordinarily looked completely different. “I just love your work,” she said to Mitch effusively. “Especially your weekend pieces. You’re part of my Sunday ritual. First church, then Mitch. I always read you. Always.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “Same here, Mitch,” echoed Spence. “I’ve been reading you since I was at New Haven.”

  Mitch, a Columbia alum, had to smile at this. Somehow, Yalies never failed to shoehorn their academic pedigree into the first sixty seconds of a conversation. It was one of the few things he could count on in life.

  “Mind you, I’ll have to start reading you on the Web next month,” Spence said. “They’re moving me out to the Coast. I’ve been promoted to vice president of marketing. Still hasn’t quite sunk in, actually. The whole picking up and moving thing. I’ve never lived more than ninety minutes from New York in my whole life. But I’m plenty psyched.”

  Jory entered the taproom now with a tray arrayed with pâté, cheese and crackers.

  “How on earth did you know I was starving?” Spence asked her as he helped himself to brie.

  “Growing boys are always hungry,” she answered lightly.

  Mitch and Hannah sampled the pâté, which was excellent.

  “I’ve been up here since Tuesday, trying to pull everything together,” Spence went on, chomping on the cheese. “Kind of a nostalgia trip for me, really. When I was a kid, the whole Sibley clan used to descend on Astrid’s during leaf-peeping season—my aunts, uncles, cousins. We always had a blast.” Spence reached for more brie from Jory’s tray. “In fact, I spent some time in this area when I was in New Haven.” Again with the Yale. “A classmate of mine belonged to the Dorset Yacht Club. We used to hang out on his dad’s Bertram. Is that outrageous diner still there on Old Shore Road?”

  “McGee’s,” said Mitch, nodding. “Sure is.”

  “Great fried clams.”

  “The best,” Jory agreed, moving on to Aaron and Carly with the tray. Neither of them wanted anything. She set it down on the bar and returned to the kitchen.

  “Hannah, it must be a thrill working with Ada,” Mitch said. “How long have you and she been together?”

  “Less than a week,” she replied. “To be honest, the two of us are not exactly… What I mean is, she doesn’t even know my name yet. Won’t let me lift a finger to help her, or listen to one word of my pitch. So I’m basically just helping Spence out. I’m not complaining, the Lord knows. It’s just that I’m really desperate to make a documentary about Ada’s life. See, I-I’m a filmmaker myself.”

  Spence said, “Hannah produced and directed Coffee Klatsch, that documentary about the old-time character actresses who hang out in the coffee shop of Sportsman’s Lodge. They ran it on Bravo a few months ago.”

  “Oh, sure.” Mitch recognized her name now. “I saw it at Sundance last year. It had real heart. I loved it.”

  “I know you did,” Hannah said, her eyes puddling with tears. “I wept with joy when I read your review.”

  “And now you want to film Ada?”

  “If she’ll let me. And if I can get the financial backing. Which, as you know, is no sure thing.” Hannah cleared her throat uneasily. “Mostly, I’ve been kind of regrouping back home in D.C. for the past few months.”

  “Hannah’s name came up when the studio suggested that Ada hire an assistant,” Spence said. “We’ve actually known each other for years. We went through Panorama’s internship program together.”

  “So you put the two of them together?” Mitch asked him.

  “No, that was me, actually,” Aaron interjected from behind Spence.

  Mitch thought he noticed Carly stiffen slightly. She turned to face the fire, tossing her long golden hair.

  “Hannah approached me a few weeks ago in Washington through mutual friends,” Aaron explained. “It seems she wants nothing more than to follow the old girl around with a camera.”

  Now Carly darted out of the taproom, her high heels clacking on the entry hall’s hardwood floor.

  Aaron paid no notice to her departure. He was busy talking. And when Aaron Ackerman was talking, self-absorption took on a whole new dimension. “Quite frankly, I was impressed by the depth of Hannah’s interest, and by her passion for her subject. She seemed the ideal candidate. By the way, Mitch, it’s still your shot,” he pointed out, tapping his cue stick against the floor.

  Mitch returned to the table and immediately drained his last ball. Called the eight-ball and dropped that, too. Game over. Aaron hadn’t sunk a single shot—and Mitch had actually been going easy on him.

  “I guess this means I owe you ten dollars.” Aaron reached for his wallet.

  “I thought we agreed on five.”

  “No, it’s definitely ten.”

  “Forget it. I don’t want your money.”

  “Sure, we’re all friends here,” Les agreed from behind the bar.

  “What are you, kidding me?” Aaron demanded. “The instant Mitch gets home tonight he’ll e-mail every liberal he knows that Aaron Ackerman stiffed him on a bet. By morning, it will be all over the Internet. Mitch and his New York media cronies just love to trash me. It’s what they live for.” Aaron started to hand over a ten-dollar bill, then stopped, glancing slyly at Mitch. “Of course, we could go double or nothing.”

  Mitch smiled at him. He was going to enjoy this immensely. Really, he was. “Aaron, you talked me into it. Rack ’em up.”

  CHAPTER 4

  DES COULD FEEL THE rear end of her cruiser shimmy on the curves as she made the climb up the long private drive to the castle
. Black ice had formed on the pavement. Plus some windblown frozen rain was starting to come down, tapping against her windshield like BBs. She’d even heard rumbles of thunder. Just to play it safe, she’d checked in with the Westbrook Barracks on her two-way radio, but the National Weather Service was issuing no new watches or warnings for tonight. Their forecast called for flurries, diminishing winds and overnight lows in the teens. Nothing, in other words.

  So why does it feel like something?

  She parked near Mitch’s old truck. Grabbed her shoulder bag, got out and headed over the moat on the drawbridge, burrowed deep inside of her hooded coat, the frozen rain pelting her, the bare winter trees groaning and creaking against the wind.

  She was just about to ring the bell when the castle’s massive front door swung open and there stood her doughboy in the warm glow of the lights, wearing a big happy smile on his round face. He looked like an eight-year-old boy who’d just gotten a new bicycle for Christmas. Make that Chanukah.

  “You must be this new resident trooper I’ve been hearing so much about,” he said solemnly as he ushered her in. “Desiree Mitry, right?”

  “That’s correct, sir.” She raised her chin at him sternly. “And you are… ?”

  “Berger. Mitchell Berger. I’m in vinyl siding. You need any durable, low-cost protection for your home, I’m your man.”

  “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

  “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, Trooper Mitry, but nobody told me you were a total hottie. Would you slap my face if I tried to kiss you?”

  “Sweetness, you’d better do a whole lot more than that before this night is over,” she murmured, brushing his lips with hers. “It is getting nasty out there.”

  He immediately put her in his big teddy-bear hug, making her feel more adored and cherished than she’d ever thought possible.

  So why does he want to break up with me?

  Des had been to Astrid’s Castle before. Les and Norma often hosted meetings of the Chamber of Commerce, of which Les was currently president. Still, she could never quite get her mind around how immense it was. And she had never been here at night, when the chandeliers were all lit. It was positively grand. Someone was even playing show tunes on the piano in the Sunset Lounge.

  Les and Norma came to greet her. Les wore a welcoming smile on his face. Norma looked positively worn ragged. “Glad you could make it, Des,” he said. “How are the roads?”

  “Getting a little slick, actually.”

  “Sorry to hear that. If you have any qualms about driving home, we’ve got dozens of warm empty beds you can choose from.”

  “So good of you to join us, dear,” Norma said with a bleary-eyed smile. “May I help you off with your coat?”

  Before Des could respond, a tremendously self-important windbag started throwing himself a fit at the top of the staircase. “She is not in our room!” he shouted, clomping down the stairs toward them. He was a pear-shaped windbag possessing an exceedingly large head. “She is not in the morning room! She is not in the kitchen. She is not anywhere else!”

  Des glanced over at Mitch. “And this is… ?”

  “Norma’s son, the great Aaron Ackerman.”

  “Refresh my memory. What’s he great at?”

  “Not to worry, he’ll let you know.”

  “She must be found!” Aaron Ackerman roared. “I demand that she be found!”

  Now an imperious old white-haired lady appeared in the dining room doorway. “Aaron, stop this appalling display at once,” she hollered at him. “You’re behaving like an overwrought little thumbsucker.”

  “That would be Ada,” Mitch whispered to her.

  “Good evening, Ada.” Des reached a hand out to the old woman. “I’m Des.”

  “Of course you are.” Ada’s grip was firm and dry. “This is a genuine honor, Des. I’ve been so very anxious to meet you.”

  “You have? Why is that?”

  “Hel-lo, can I get some attention here?” Aaron cried out. “I can’t find Carly!”

  “It’s a big place, Aaron,” Les pointed out mildly.

  “And Carly’s a big girl,” Norma said. “If she wants to be found, she’ll be found.”

  “But what if she’s thrown herself off of the tower? What if she’s lying dead out there in the snow at this very minute?”

  “Do you have any reason to believe this is what’s happened?” Des asked him.

  “And who are you?” he huffed, arching an eyebrow at her.

  “I’m the resident state trooper, Mr. Ackerman.”

  “Well, good. Maybe you can do something about this. Carly is missing, and absolutely no one gives a damn.”

  “And Carly is… ?

  “My wife, of course. I demand that you find her.”

  The pianist had stopped playing. Des could hear footsteps starting toward them across the hardwood floor.

  “Mr. Ackerman, I think you need to calm down,” she advised Aaron, unsure whether she was dealing with a genuine situation or a genuine nut. Possibly she was dealing with both.

  “It’s true, Aaron, this gorgeous lady doesn’t even have her coat off yet,” the piano player said as he breezed in from the Sunset Lounge. He was an older man, tall and elegantly dressed. “And a very nice coat it is,” he observed, fingering her sleeve expertly.

  “Des, this is Aaron’s Uncle Teddy,” Mitch said. “Teddy’s in the clothing business during daylight hours.”

  “Glad to meet you, Des.” Teddy turned to his nephew and said, “What is all of this?”

  “Yes, darling, why such a fuss?” Norma asked Aaron. “Has something happened between you two?”

  “What’s happened,” Aaron answered, clenching and unclenching his fists, “is that she’s missing and needs to be found.”

  “What are you driving these days, Mr. Ackerman?”

  “A Mercedes wagon. Why is that of the slightest significance?”

  “Silver, with Washington plates?”

  “It is. I repeat, why?”

  “Because it’s still parked out there in the lot—meaning she hasn’t left the premises. Les, do you keep the unoccupied guest rooms locked?”

  “Yes, we do,” he replied, nodding.

  “Meaning she’s either in one of the common rooms or she’s outside. Mr. Ackerman, did you notice if her coat was missing from your room?”

  “I-I don’t remember.”

  “Then let’s go have a look, shall we?” Des started for the stairs.

  A lushly built redhead appeared in the dining room doorway, clad in a staff outfit of black vest and slacks. “Les, I can have Jase look around outside, if you’d like,” she said.

  “That might be a good idea,” he said to her.

  “Trooper, shouldn’t you be calling someone else?” Aaron asked Des rather pointedly as he led her up the grand curving staircase.

  “Such as who?”

  “Such as someone who deals with this sort of thing on a regular basis.”

  “Mr. Ackerman, let’s assume I know how to do my job and we’ll get along just fine, okay?” she said politely. “Only, I can’t help you unless you help me.”

  “Absolutely. Tell me how.”

  “By explaining to me why you are so freaked out.”

  They’d reached the second-floor landing. Aaron hesitated there. “Well, okay,” he allowed, lowering his voice. “But this has to be in the strictest confidence. I can’t allow some media outlet to get a hold of it.”

  “They won’t.”

  “I have your word on that?”

  “Spit it out, Mr. Ackerman.”

  “Carly overdosed on Prozac a few weeks ago when we were at our farm in Virginia. I had to rush her to the emergency room. She almost died. Now do you see?”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “I thought you might,” he blustered, starting down the second-floor hall.

  The corridor was softly lit and quaintly old-fashioned. The doors were of polished oak. The carpet had
a floral pattern, the wallpaper a water-fowl motif. Vintage photographs of yesteryear’s celebrities lined the walls. At the end of the hallway there was an outside door, the top half of it glass.

  “Where does that go?” she asked Aaron, motioning to it.

  “Up to the tower.”

  “Did you look for her there?”

  “Well, no,” he had to admit.

  Too busy huffing and puffing, Des thought as she made straight for it, digging her gloves out of her coat pocket. There were twenty-four rooms on the second floor, twelve on each side of the hall. Halfway down the hall there was a housekeeper’s closet. Also a fireproof steel door that led to the staff stairway. Next to that was an elevator for transporting wheelchair-bound guests and freight. When Des reached the end of the hall, she pushed open the outer door, or tried. She could feel the wind fighting her. She fought back and ventured out onto a snow-packed, floodlit observation deck. Wind gusts buffeted her and ice pellets smacked her in the face. The deck was surrounded by a three-foot-high stone parapet topped by an iron safety railing. A narrow iron staircase led up to the third floor, and from there on up to the castle’s trademark tower, which was lit up bright enough for the drivers way down on 1-95 to see. Des felt certain that on a balmy summer evening this would be a breezy, terrific place to be. Right now it was intensely uninviting.

  The great Aaron Ackerman remained behind in the warm, dry hallway.

  Des could make out several sets of footprints in the deep snow just outside the door. Someone had been out here since early that afternoon, when the snow had tapered off.

  “CARLY?” she Called out. “ARE YOU OUT HERE, CARLY?”

  She heard nothing in response, just the howling wind.

  There were more shoe prints on the iron stairs up to the tower. It was hard to tell how many sets since these prints had turned to partial slush in the weak afternoon sun and then iced back over. The handrail was coated with a shimmering layer of ice. She clutched it tightly as she started climbing, her boots slipping and sliding under her.

  “CARLY?”

  There was no outside door leading into the dimly lit third-floor corridor. Just a window, which was locked. She continued on, making her way up the final exposed flight of stairs to the tower, her shoulders hunched against the wind gusts.