overpass.”
“What’s happened to your farm?” Mitch asked.
“Some Canadian real estate syndicate bought it,” he replied hoarsely. “Tore the house right down. Been in my family a hundred sixty years and they level it like a paper cup. Now the land’s just sitting there waiting for something bad to happen. And Bruce Leanse’s fingerprints are all over it.”
“You can’t prove that, Jim,” Moose pointed out. From her tone, Mitch gathered that Jim had voiced his theory before.
“I know what I know,” Jim said stubbornly. “He was the one making me all of those offers. He wanted my place, and he got it.”
“What do you think he intends to do with it?” Mitch asked.
“Ask Takai,” Jim said harshly.
“She’s the Brat’s realtor?”
Jim let out a laugh. “ ‘Enabler’ is more like it. She’s as slick as owl poop, too. But I know it was her ratted me out to the law. And if the day ever comes when I can prove it… Trust me, son, blood will get shed.”
“Jim, I wish you wouldn’t talk that way,” Moose said to him crossly.
“It’s the truth, girl. Can’t help it if it ain’t pretty.”
They went back inside the house through the mudroom door. After exchanging her mud clogs for wool ones, Moose returned to the kitchen.
Jim tugged off his own muddy work boots and changed into Indian moccasins. Then he set to work washing his veiny hands in the mudroom’s work sink. “Meantime, son,” he said, a malevolent grin creasing his leathery face, “I know how to get even with Brucie.”
“How?” asked Mitch, wondering if this particular swamp Yankee had smoked a bit too much of his own medicine.
“Next spring, soon as it gets good and warm, I’ll plant me some dope plants on his place up on the hill. Deep in the woods, where he can’t find ’em. Serve that bastard right.” Jim reached for a towel to dry his hands, his expression turning serious. “Whatever you do, son, stay away from Takai. She’s pure evil.”
She was in the kitchen now, sipping a glass of wine and looking exceptionally gorgeous in an artfully unbuttoned cashmere cardigan, skintight leather miniskirt and spiked heels. Takai’s legs were long, shapely and golden. She smelled of a musky perfume that was positively intoxicating.
“It’s like I found out a long time ago,” Jim added in a low voice. “Nothing that looks like that can possibly be good for you.”
“What’s that you’re saying, Jim?” Takai demanded.
“Just saying how good you look, baby.”
“Nice to see you again, Mitch,” she said, her eyes gleaming at him. “I have this damned business meeting to go to tonight, so I won’t be able to stick around for long. I apologize in advance.”
“Absolutely no need to,” said Mitch, who was starting to feel a bit light-headed. It was that perfume of hers.
Dinner was a roasted leg of lamb studded with garlic and rosemary, mashed potatoes and sauteed greens that Moose had harvested from the garden. All of it was superb. They ate in the low-ceilinged dining room, a very old room with exposed chestnut beams and a walk-in fireplace with a beehive oven and cast-iron crane. A big fire of massive oak logs roared in the fireplace, bathing the room in warmth and golden light. A highly precious handful of landscape paintings by Hangtown’s father and grandfather adorned the walls, all of them paintings of this very farm. Hangtown sat at one end of the scarred oak dining table, his back to the fire and Sam at his feet. Mitch, the guest of honor, faced the fire.
“Used to do all of their cooking in that fireplace,” Hang-town informed Mitch as they ate. “There was a spit with a clock-jack to turn it. House belonged to a clergyman then. There mm-rr-were a whole lot of clergymen in Grandmother’s family. Distinguished theologians and scholars.” He paused to sip his wine. “Obsessive foot fetishists, one and all. Inveterate toe suckers.”
“Father!” objected Moose. “What has gotten into you tonight?”
“It’s Big Mitch,” Hangtown responded, his blue eyes twinkling devilishly. “He’s a baad influence.”
“Mitch is behaving like a perfect gentleman,” Takai sniffed, gazing at him invitingly. Her eyes promised him unimaginable erotic riches. Strictly an act. Mitch knew a performance when he saw one. “Too perfect, if you ask me.”
“Well, he cheers me up,” Hangtown declared. “Nice to have a healthy young goat around here for a change.” He pointed a wavering finger at Moose. “What’s this I hear about Colin Falconer swallowing a bottle of pills today?”
“I was there,” she affirmed somberly. “He would have died if the resident trooper hadn’t gotten to him in time. Poor Colin’s just caught in this awful school-bond snare. For his sake, I hope he resigns. He’s a good, kind man.”
“He’s a wimp,” Hangtown shot back. “Never punish yourself-punish the other guy.”
“Besides, pills are the coward’s way out,” Jim added, nodding.
“I suppose if he were a manly man he would have blown his head off,” Moose said sharply.
“What Colin needs to accept,” Takai interjected, “is that there are a lot of people in Dorset who simply won’t rest until he’s out. They want their new school. And they want a superintendent who recognizes that we need it.”
“Like hell we do, princess,” Hangtown grumbled. “Fix the old one if it needs fixing. Fit it and shut up about it.”
“A fine new school will be a credit to our community,” Takai said.
“It will kill our community,” he argued. “Our property taxes will be doubled. The old folks on fixed incomes will be driven out. The working folks will be driven out. The only people who’ll be able to afford to live in Dorset anymore are the yuppie scum with their fat six-figure incomes and their fat, snot-nosed brats!”
Takai drained her wine, patting her lips with her napkin. “Nonsense, Father. It’s a very good deal for the town. Bruce is offering to donate that land on Old Ferry Road. And Babette’s waiving her fee. She’ll design it for nothing.”
“In exchange for what?” Jim demanded. “People like them don’t do anything for nothing.”
“Bruce Leanse is a man of integrity,” she responded, tossing her head. Her glossy black hair gleamed in the firelight, as if she were lit from within. “And he’s bending over backward to do the right thing. I think he should be given credit for it, not vilified.”
Jim lit a Lucky Strike and passed the pack over to Hang-town, who did the same despite Moose’s disapproving look. “And when the dust settles,” Jim said, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, “he’ll have brung a town road, power and phone lines into what used to be nothing but farmland and old-growth forest. That school’s his damned Trojan horse, can’t you see that, girl? We’ll have sewers here before we know it. And town-house condos. And then this won’t be Dorset no more.”
“Jim, you’re a paranoid lunatic,” Takai said flatly.
“I know what I know,” Jim insisted, glowering across the table at her. “Too many places in this valley are getting gobbled up all of a sudden. Big chunks of acreage, too.”
“Not this chunk,” Hangtown roared, pounding the table with his fist. “That bastard will never get his hands on my place.”
“Look at a map sometime,” Jim said. “Connect the dots-the school site, my place, them others… You’ll see just how nuts I am.” He turned his squinty gaze on Mitch. “You’re the journalist, son. Ought to write about it. Tell the people what’s going on here.”
Mitch shot a glance over at Hangtown, whose face had immediately turned to stone, his bright-blue eyes icy and unyielding. “I’m not that kind of a journalist,” Mitch said carefully. “Besides, I’m not even sure I see a story here.”
“Then maybe you ought to try opening your eyes,” Jim growled at him.
“Leave him alone, Jim,” said Moose, rushing to Mitch’s defense.
“Well, I think we should be flattered that Bruce Leanse has taken an interest in Dorset,” Takai said, glancing at the Rolex on her slim wrist. “He believes in environmentally sensitive growth. He believes in preserving an area’s tradition. Whether you know it or not, he’s our best hope for the future.”
