The Hot Pink Farmhouse bam-2

by David Handler

  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 woodstove 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 dreamed 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.

  It was slow, painstaking physical work-donkey work. Mitch had always heard that copper was soft, and maybe it was as metals go. But this was nothing like trying to cut and fold paper. The flashing was stiff and resistant and its fresh-cut edges were razor-sharp. If he hadn’t put on a pair of Jim’s work gloves his hands would have been cut to shreds. Still, it was work that the old master couldn’t do anymore, and Mitch could, so he dived in, inspired by the heady realization that he was actually in Wendell Frye’s studio helping the great artist create a work of art. This was something he would be able to tell his grandchildren about someday: I once built a fountain with Wendell Frye.

  “What will you write, Big Mitch?” Hangtown asked as he fiddled with his plans at the workbench, deciding which blocks went where.

  “I don’t know yet,” Mitch replied, grunting from his exertions. “I’ll write the truth, as I see it.”

  “I was with him. I was with Jim when Moose died.”

  “There’s no chance you might have drifted off for a few minutes?”

  “Even if I had, it’s a good fifteen-twenty-minute walk to those rocks from the house, and the same back. Plus he had to wait there for her, unless he knew exactly when she was coming home. Then he had to hide the gun when he was done with it-which they have not found…” Hangtown fell silent a moment, absorbed by his work. “Maybe I closed my eyes for a second. But I wasn’t asleep in front of that fire for no forty-five minutes. I know that. And I ain’t senile. And that so-called evidence of theirs means nothing-not if Jim has himself a good lawyer.”

  Mitch agreed. It wouldn’t hold up for a second in court. Soave had to know that. So why had he taken Jim away? Did he think he might be able to squeeze a confession out of Jim once he had him in custody? “Jim did have a good reason for wanting to kill Takai,” he pointed out.

  “Plenty good,” Hangtown admitted. “Only, why would he go to such elaborate lengths to do her in? Why not just go upstairs to her bedroom and slash the greedy bitch’s throat while she sleeps? Think about that. It makes no sense.”

  The old man had a valid point, Mitch acknowledged, as he finished cutting out one of the pieces with the tin snips. Already his fingers were starting to ache, and he still had hours of work ahead of him.

  Hangtown’s bomber had gone out in the ashtray at his elbow. He relit it and toked on it, coughing. It was a phlegmy, rumbling cough that sounded not at all healthy. Actually, the more Mitch looked at Wendell Frye, the mor
e he realized that the artist did not look good. His cheeks seemed more hollow than they had two days ago, and his complexion was positively gray.

  “Maybe… maybe this is my own sins catching up with me,” he said to Mitch, wheezing. “Someone getting even for the evil I’ve done.”

  Mitch sat back on his haunches, peering at Hangtown curiously. “Like who? For what?”

  “There’s a reason why I live like this, Big Mitch,” he said, his breathing growing more erratic. “Cut off from people. I’m hiding, don’t you understand?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Mitch said. “But I’d like to.”

  Hangtown paused for a swig of rye, struggling to compose himself. “I took my fists to Takai’s mother, Kiki, when I drank. Couldn’t help it. I was so angry in those days. I married her too soon, you see. Wasn’t ready. Was still grieving over Moose’s mother, Gentle Kate. But I didn’t know that then. How could I? Kate… Kate was the great love of my life. Big, strapping girl like Moose. Died when Moose was barely three. In 1972, it was.”

  Mitch went back to working the copper, wondering why Wendell Frye seemed to have such a sudden, powerful need to confess his sins. What was weighing on the old man’s conscience?

  “That was our summer of sunshine, Big Mitch,” he recalled. “We had artists staying out in the cottages then. Some stayed for weeks on end, working the farm for their keep. We had picnics every afternoon in the meadows. We drank our wine and smoked our dope and screwed our blessed brains out. I was a lion in those days, with a huge appetite for the young lovelies. Kate was a good, loving woman. But I was bad to her. Because I wanted them all-every single one of those tender young barefoot girls. And I had ’em all.” Hangtown heaved a huge, pained sigh. “Selfish and cruel, I was. Thinking only of my own pleasures. Had me a Volkswagon bus in those days. I’d meet ’em at the academy, take ’em down to the beach in my bus-no conscience, no shame, no regrets. Not a one… Until one hot morning in August, middle of a heat wave it was, a slender little sculptress with shining black hair down to her bottom came drifting through. Crazy Daisy, we called her. I never even knew her real name, and that’s the truth. She’d hitchhiked all the way from Winnipeg just to be here. She was a homeless waif, no family. Barely sixteen. But a tremendous talent, very gifted. And the prettiest little thing you ever saw in a pair of tight bell-bottoms, my friend.” Hangtown fumbled for his Luckies and lit one, his hands trembling now. “Late one night Daisy asked me to pose for her. I obliged. It was a warm, humid night. Not a leaf was stirring. Naturally, I was nude. Naturally, we were soon in each others arms, right here in this barn, on a paint-splattered drop cloth, the sweat pouring off of us. And I roared like a lion. And then