The Burnt Orange Sunrise

by David Handler

  “CARLY?”

  The cement floor of the enclosed tower was damp but free of ice and snow. There were narrow vertical slits in the tower walls for people to peek through. Hundreds of these people had carved their initials in the mortar between the stones. Quite a few had left cigarette butts behind.

  But there was no sign of Carly.

  Aaron was waiting down there in the doorway for her with an anxious expression on his face. She gave him a thumbs-down sign as she shook the ice pellets from her coat. Then she followed him to room five, the third door from the center staircase. That door was not locked. It was a lovely room with a fireplace, ornate wooden molding, a big oak bedstead. It was also a mess. Dirty clothing was strewn all over the floor, up to and including underwear and stockings. Newspapers, books and magazines were heaped on the nightstands and dresser and desk. The bathroom was no tidier.

  Carly’s black leather II Bisonte handbag lay on the bed. So did her full-length mink.

  “Did Carly bring another coat with her besides this one?”

  “No, she did not,” Aaron replied.

  Meaning that she wasn’t out taking a stroll. Not that any sane person would in this weather. “Which of you is the smoker?” she asked, noticing the butts in the fireplace.

  “Carly is,” he sniffed. “Dreadful habit. It reeks of human weakness.”

  “Okay, it’s time for the real deal, Mr. Ackerman,” Des told him, standing there in the middle of the room with her arms crossed. “Did you two have a fight tonight?”

  “Perhaps a small misunderstanding,” he admitted, clearing his throat. “She seems to have gotten it into her head that I’m being unfaithful to her.”

  “And are you?”

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “Mr. Ackerman, you’ve made it my business. I came here this evening to enjoy a pleasant meal. Instead, you’ve got me traipsing all over the place. Now you can tell me what’s going on or you can go look for Carly yourself. The choice is yours.”

  “Point taken,” he acknowledged, running a hand over his neatly trimmed black hair. “I love my wife. I would never do anything to hurt her. And that’s the absolute truth.”

  The classic non-denial denial. Des had heard it from every cheating husband she’d ever met, including her own. “I see,” she responded. “Let’s head back down with the others, shall we?”

  They were gathered in the taproom. All of them looked up at Des with tense anticipation when she and Aaron strode in.

  “Any luck?” asked Les.

  “Not one bit,” Aaron replied, his voice cracking with strain.

  “Let’s try to relax, okay?” Des suggested, shrugging out of her coat. “There’s no cause for alarm at this point.”

  “Jase is still looking around outside for her,” the curvy redhead told Des as she took her coat from her.

  “And Jase is… ?”

  “My brother. Oh, I’m so sorry, we haven’t met. I’m Jory,” she said, smiling at Des just a bit too brightly. Jory had an artificially ingratiating manner, the kind that men never saw through and women always did.

  “Glad to know you, Jory.”

  There were two others in there whom Des didn’t know yet. He was a squeaky-clean young corporate type. She was a lanky, jittery thing all tricked out in a beret and retro tweeds.

  Mitch introduced them to her as Spence Sibley and Hannah Lane. “Spence is with the studio,” he explained. “And Hannah’s with Ada.”

  “She is?” Ada frowned at this, confused. “Since when?”

  “Des, why don’t you warm up in front of the fire?” Les said. “May I pour you something?”

  “A glass of red wine would go down pretty nicely.”

  “Coming right up,” he said, scooting around behind the bar.

  Des felt a tug at her sleeve and discovered that Ada was standing right beside her now. She could have sworn that the old filmmaker was over on the other side of the taproom not one second ago. She moved fast for someone of her years. Fast and quiet. “Perhaps you’d like to powder your nose first,” she said to Des under her breath.

  “Something wrong with my nose?”

  “I just thought you might wish to freshen up a bit,” Ada persisted quietly, her gaze positively piercing. “The ladies’ lounge is just off the dining room, second door on your right…”

  It was lavishly appointed with mirrored makeup tables and plush chairs. Des could hear the sniffling as soon as she walked in. It was coming from the farthest toilet stall. She could see the black stiletto heels under the stall door. “Carly… ?”

  “What do you want?” a voice mewled in response.

  “I want you to come out.”

  “No!”

  “Will you at least open the door?”

  Carly flung it open. She was a slender, pretty little thing in a skimpy black dress. Her blond hair was long and shiny, her eyes puffy and red from crying.

  “Now come on out of there,” Des said to her gently. “Let’s have us a talk.”

  She came along willingly enough. They sat in two of the little chairs in front of the makeup mirrors, Carly dabbing at her swollen eyes with a tissue. She wore false eyelashes, a ton of eyeliner, mascara. And not one bit of it was any the worse for wear. Forget the Internet—as far as Des was concerned, the most amazing technological breakthrough of the past twenty years was stay-on eye makeup.

  “Everyone has been looking for you, Carly. What’s going on?”

  “I’m miserable, that’s what,” she snuffled. “And I’m a fool. And I’m… I’m sorry, do I even know you?”

  “My name is Des. I’m with Mitch.”

  “Of course. You’re the state trooper, are you not?” Carly had finishing school manners and a slight Southern accent. “You don’t look like a trooper. I always picture a dull, beefy boy with a crew cut who adores things like motorcycles and hunting.”

  “I hit what I aim at. Aaron is very upset, Carly. He was afraid something had happened to you.”

  “Something has happened.” Carly let out a huge, ragged sob. “My marriage has fallen apart. That man, he… he brought his born-again whore here with him!”

  “His born-again who?”

  “Hannah,” she said angrily, her fists clenched. “Little Miss Christian Virtues. Acky’s been squiring her around D.C. for weeks. Taking her to cocktail parties, to dinners, to bed. My best friend saw them coming out of the Hay-Adams together on Christmas Eve. She wants to make a movie about Ada, you see, and it’s thanks to Aaron that she’s here this weekend. He got her this job because she, because they…” Carly broke off, tossing her long blond hair. “I am not a nut, present evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. I actually saw the two of them kissing out on the observation deck this afternoon.”

  Which would explain the footsteps Des had found there in the snow.

  “Hannah’s not even pretty, is she? This is not a pretty girl. But she’s young, and that’s all that ever counts with Acky.”

  The closer Des studied her, the more she became aware that Carly was not as young as she’d first appeared. Her figure was very good, her hair to die for. But her face had the cushioned, expressionless look that suggested collagen replacement therapy, Botox injections and possibly even surgical work. This woman was well into her forties. Aaron she’d pegged as being in his early thirties.

  “It’s the young ones who hang on his every word,” Carly added bitterly. “They laugh at his jokes, puff up his ego for him.”

  “Seemed to me he can do plenty of puffing on his own.”

  “No, no, that’s just an act. Acky’s self-esteem is actually very low. He needs constant reassurance and mothering. He’s completely helpless. And he can be so sweet and dear.” Carly sniffled, blushing slightly. “I happen to be somewhat older than he is. Thirteen years, if you must know. And I am so terrified of losing him.”

  “He mentioned something about you overdosing on pills.”

  “I was just trying to get his atten
tion.”

  “Have you tried doing anything else?”

  Carly frowned at her. Or tried. That stuff she was wearing in her forehead wouldn’t allow for much more than a faint, sub-dermal pulsation. “Such us what?”

  “Such as counseling. You two ought to consider it.”

  “I don’t recall asking for your advice,” Carly said, climbing up onto her high horse. “In fact, I’m quite certain I didn’t.”

  “You’re getting it anyway. You need help. Swallowing pills, disappearing into thin air—this is not mature adult behavior.”

  “You’re right, it’s not,” she admitted. “I don’t even know why I love him. Truly, I don’t. What I ought to do is divorce him. Find myself a man who’ll treat me like I deserve to be treated. The dean of students has always had a thing for me. Well, not me, but my legs. They’re still… what I mean is, I’m reasonably good-looking.”

  “Shut up, you’re a bombshell.”

  “I’m smart, I’m tenured. And if I wanted to descend into total blond bitchdom, I could be plenty rich, too.”

  “Descend how?”

  “By hiring myself a shark lawyer, the kind who’ll produce photos of Aaron and his whore together. Then I’d get it all. The townhouse in Georgetown. The farm in Virginia. The stocks, bonds, every last penny he’s made from his books.”

  “You two didn’t sign a pre-nup?”

  “Pre-nups are for cynics,” Carly replied, her blue eyes twinkling at Des devilishly. “I’m a romantic. Maybe the last one left on earth. Mind you, Acky resisted. He even held out for a few weeks. But in the end, he married me on my terms. He wanted me.” Carly admired herself in the mirror, her chin up, her self-confidence returning with a vengeance. “And now the bastard’s got me, for richer or poorer.”

  Des took this particular display of spunk ‘n’ sass as her own cue to get up out of her chair and say, “Ready to join the others now?”

  “God, no!” Carly flew right back into total panic. “I can’t face them after this. They all think I’m a menopausal hysteric.”

  “Are you planning to hide in here all evening?”

  “I’ll go up to bed in a little while. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

  Des stood there thinking it over. “I may have an idea. Stay put, okay?”

  “Believe me, I’m not budging.”

  Des stuck her head out the door. She could hear voices coming from the taproom, but the coast was clear. She darted up the castle’s stairs to Aaron and Carly’s room, fetched Carly’s mink and purse from the bed, and started back down with them.

  Her gallant, pudgy white knight in rumpled corduroy was planted there at the bottom of the staircase, waiting for her. “What’s going on, Master Sergeant?”

  “Just a little aiding and abetting,” she said hurriedly. “It’s a girl thing.”

  “Is Carly okay?”

  “She’s perfectly fine. Can’t say I care much for her taste in men, though.”

  “You’ll get no argument from this reporter. Anything I can do?”

  “There is, baby. Go back in the taproom with the others and play dumb.”

  “I can definitely do that.”

  “Oh, and please don’t say anything about Carly’s shoes.”

  “Her shoes? Why would I do that?”

  “No reason.” She kissed him on the cheek as she slipped by on her way back to the lounge.

  Carly was sitting right where she’d left her. Hadn’t moved a muscle.

  “Here, put this on,” Des commanded her, handing over the big fur. “You were outside having a smoke. Act completely surprised by all of the fuss.”

  “Actually, I could kill for a cigarette right now.” Carly dug a pack of Marlboros out of her purse and lit one with a gold lighter, dragging on it deeply.

  “You see? It’s not even a fib.”

  “But no one will buy it,” Carly pointed out. “The weather’s absolutely awful. And only a streetwalker would wear these heels out in the snow. Besides which, look at them—they’re completely dry.”

  “Trust me, those folks will buy whatever you sell them. And Aaron will back your play. He wants this to disappear just as much as you do. You can pull this off, Carly. Just breeze on into that taproom with your head held high. Anyone tries to smart-mouth you…”

  “I can sink my teeth into them.” Carly smiled, showing Des her teeth. They were nice and white, and looked exceedingly sharp. “It’s something I’m good at.”

  “There you go. I’ll stay here a minute before I join you. We were never in here together. Never met. Got it?”

  Carly took one more pull on her cigarette before she flicked it into the nearest sink and climbed into her big mink coat. She looked like a million bucks in it and she knew it. “Why are you being so nice to me?” she wondered, narrowing her eyes at Des suspiciously.

  “Just doing my job.”

  “Patching up my mess of a marriage is your job?”

  “I do whatever needs doing in Dorset.”

  “Well, I owe you one. And I hate owing anyone anything. You see, I’m really not a nice person.” Carly took a deep breath, steeling herself. Then she said, “Wish me luck,” and darted out of there.

  Des sat herself back down in front of the mirror. She hadn’t been there for more than ten seconds when the door flew back open and in came Ada Geiger, a goblet of red wine clutched in her thin-boned, translucent hand.

  “I believe you ordered this, my dear,” she said, gliding over toward her with it. The old woman had an uncanny way of moving, almost as if she had a cushion of air under her. Or maybe that tweed jacket she wore over her shoulders doubled as a set of wings.

  “Why, thank you,” Des said, taking the glass from her. “You knew Carly was in here this whole time. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Because it was obvious that she did not wish to be found. I respect that. I respect what another woman needs to do. Besides, my grandson is an ass. He’s cheating on her, isn’t he?”

  Des sipped her wine in discreet silence.

  “Of course he is,” Ada went on, undeterred. “They’re terribly ill-suited for each other, you know. He’s needy and selfish, and she’s a fading debutante with a post-graduate degree in bullshit. I assume they’re drawn together by their mutual weakness. That is, after all, what passes for love among most couples—unless they happen to be very lucky. Are you lucky, Des?”

  “I’ll have to get back to you on that one.”

  Ada eased herself slowly down onto the plump little chair next to Des and turned her penetrating, hooded gaze on her. “I wish to have a word with you. It’s rather important.”

  “All right.” As Des studied Ada’s face in the mirror, she found herself recalling something her granny had told her once: Everyone gets old, but a rare few grow old. Ada Geiger was one of those— someone who had seen it all, done it all and, most significantly, savored it all. There was no regret in her proud, deeply lined face. No fear. Only wisdom. “What’s it about, Ada?”

  “You, my dear. You need to be rescued.”

  Des frowned at her. “Rescued from what?”

  “I happened to take in the student show at the Dorset Academy yesterday,” she replied. “It invigorates me to see what young artists are doing. Mostly, what I saw them doing was dreck—lifeless, passionless, highly derivative. There was only one artist in the whole exhibit who genuinely moved me. I asked about this artist. I said, ‘Who draws the murder victims?’”

  Sitting there, Des could feel her pulse quicken.

  “I can’t begin to tell you how excited I was to learn that you would be Mitch’s companion this evening.”

  “Well, that’s life in a small town.”

  “Spare me your modesty, okay?” Ada shot back. “We are kindred souls, you and I. When I was your age, I did the very same thing you’re doing—except with a camera. Ever hear of an old-time tabloid photographer named Weegee?”

  “Are you kidding me? I love his work.”

  �
��I thought so,” Ada said, nodding to herself in satisfaction. “I knew him well.”

  Des gaped at her. “God, tell me about him. What was he like?”

  “A horrible, unkempt little man. He lived in cheap rooming houses, reeked of body odor and awful cigars. ‘Crime is my oyster,’ he used to say. It became mine, too, Des. I followed him around like a puppy. Drove the streets of New York City with him, night after night, listening in on police calls on his two-way radio, hightailing it to murder scenes. He kept a key to the darkroom at the New York Post, where he’d develop his pictures at two, three o’clock in the morning. Then he’d head right out to peddle them to editors around town. He tried repeatedly to get me to go to bed with him,” Ada remembered fondly. “As if he had a prayer—I was a gorgeous broad in those days. And yet, I was utterly fascinated by the man, Des, because he understood.”

  “Understood what?”

  “That we are all victims in the end. That’s why his work needs no captions. No critics to ‘explain’ it. It’s all right there in front of you. Because the very best art isn’t ‘art’ at all—it’s reality. That’s what I’ve always tried to accomplish with my own work. That’s all I’ve ever tried to do.”

  “Me, too, I think,” Des said gingerly. Unlike the other students at the academy, she was not comfortable talking about her work. It felt very raw and personal to her, and she sure didn’t know what any of it meant.

  “Which is precisely why you need to get out of that place,” Ada said to her urgently. “Des, you must stop taking classes at once.”

  “But I’m learning so much. Why would I want to stop?”

  “Because if you stay they will steal your soul from you. Don’t let them do it. Don’t let them mold you into one of them. That’s what they do, Des. That’s how the competent take their revenge against the truly gifted. It’s their sole satisfaction in life. It’s what they live for. Do you hear me?”

  Des fell silent for a moment, floored by the old woman’s ferocious intensity. “I’m sure listening…”

  “You’re already beginning to feel a bit restless there, am I right?”