Washington. I was lonely, lost, too much time on my hands. And so I took the plunge. And then one weekend Les showed up here as a guest…”
“And I never left,” he said happily, squeezing her hand. “I know a good thing when I see it.”
“Mind you, it’s a small miracle that this place has survived at all,” Norma said. “When Grandpa Moses died back in 1948, he left the castle to his dear protegee, Astrid, for as long as she lived. Which turned out to be until 1980, as it happens.”
“I didn’t realize Astrid stayed on here for so many years,” Mitch said.
“Local legend has it that she still haunts the place,” Les revealed in a low, guarded voice. “That is, if you can dismiss it as a legend. Strange noises have been heard in the night, Mitch.”
“You’ve actually heard them?”
“Oh, heck no,” Les said, winking at him. “But we hold a seance for her every Halloween. Our guests get a real kick out of it. A couple of young actresses from Yale Drama School come up for the occasion. One plays Astrid, the other summons her.”
“The sad reality is that poor Astrid became quite decrepit in her later years,” Norma said. “And the castle fell into terrible disrepair. Plumbing, wiring, everything. Herbert went to the bank, hat in hand, and restored it from top to bottom as an inn. He got Choo-Choo Cholly up and running again. He also arranged for some three thousand acres of grounds to be donated to the state in exchange for historic landmark status. If he hadn’t, well, the property taxes would totally cripple us.”
“And, hey, some years we actually break even,” Les said gamely. “Well, almost.”
“Such a far, far cry from the castle’s glory days,” Norma said nostalgically. “Grandpa Moses was quite the theatrical impresario. And Astrid, his greatest stage discovery, blossomed into the reigning society hostess of her day. There were truly remarkable weekend parties up here, Mitch. San Simeon East, Dorothy Parker famously dubbed it. The Marx Brothers stayed here. Lunt and Fontanne, Mae West, Cole Porter, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. They all had grand, giddy fun at Astrid’s. She was a great lady. After Grandpa passed away, she converted the place into a private club for his Wall Street friends. They used to motor up from the city to hunt and fish and-”
“Jesus Christ, Norma, what a load of simpering, G-rated crap!” a voice erupted from somewhere upstairs. It was an elderly woman’s voice, raspy but strong. It was Ada Geiger’s voice. Evidently, she’d been eavesdropping on Norma ‘s historical retelling. Evidently, there was not a thing wrong with her hearing. “Moses Geiger was a goddamned bootlegger and racketeer!” the ninety-four-year-old director thundered as she descended the hand- carved staircase, tall, regal and so remarkably light on her feet that she seemed to waft. “Astrid was his succulent lemon tart on the side, and she turned this underheated pile of rocks into the fanciest cathouse in New England. What is this, Norma, kiddie hour?”
“Why, no, Mother.” Norma reddened under her mother’s rebuke.
“Then tell this poor man the goddamned truth. Tell him how the entire New York Yankees team used to get laid here after a weekend series up at Fenway Park.” Ada Geiger had been famous throughout her career for her bold, savage directness. Clearly, she had not changed. “Tell him how Astrid always had to keep silk sheets around for DiMaggio because Joe D wouldn’t sleep on anything else. I swear, Norma, by the time I’m gone you’ll have turned this place into a former convent. And Moses into, well, Moses. Don’t try to cover up the truth. Revel in it. It’s your heritage, dear.”
“Yes, Mother,” Norma said, lowering her eyes.
When Ada reached the bottom of the stairs she glided slowly toward them, her aquiline nose raised high in the air. She reminded Mitch of an ancient bird of prey. An osprey, perhaps-proud, fierce and defiantly alert, her hooded eyes sharp and keen. Ada combed her pure white hair straight back. Her face was still beautiful. It wasn’t an old face. It was a lived-in face. Her hands shook slightly, but she stood strong and straight. She wore a pair of eyeglasses on a chain around her neck. No makeup or lipstick. She was dressed in a bulky black turtleneck, wool slacks and sturdy walking shoes. A tweed jacket was thrown over her shoulders like a cape.
“Besides which,” she continued, “Astrid was a great dame in her own right. Somebody ought to be getting her life story down on paper instead of trying to ‘summon’ her every year with a crystal ball and a bad Romanian accent. True story: My mother never even knew Astrid existed. Hell, I didn’t meet her myself until I was forty. But people knew how to keep secrets in those days. Not like now. Now everyone wants to share. What fun is that?” Ada turned her piercing glare on Mitch. “You must be this Mitch person. Well, speak up. Are you or aren’t you?”
“I am,” Mitch responded, a bit awestruck. “How are you, Mrs. Geiger?”
“First of all, the name’s Ada. Second of all, don’t ever ask someone my age how they are. They might actually answer you, individual organ by organ, and it will consume the entire evening’s conversation. I have health problems. They’re not very interesting problems. Now let’s leave it at that, shall we?” She took him by the arm and pulled away from Norma and Les, her grip surprisingly strong. “I’m glad you could make it, Mitch. I know you had zero to do with this freak show they’re putting on for me. Or I prefer to think you didn’t.”
“I didn’t, actually. And meeting you this way is an incredible honor for me.”
“Nonsense. It’s entirely due to your efforts that today’s young people have so much as heard of my movies. I wished to thank you.”
“I was just doing my job.”
“Hah! You say that as if most people actually do their jobs. Your lady friend is the one who draws dead people, am I right?”
“Why, yes. She’s very talented.”
“Of course she is, of course she is,” Ada said impatiently. “Where is she? I need to speak with her.”
“She’s running late,” Mitch said, wondering why the grand old director wanted to speak to Des.
Jory reappeared now to see to her. “How about a nice cup of your herbal tea, Mrs. Geiger?” she asked, raising her voice.
“You needn’t shout at me, tootsie,” Ada barked. “I’m not deaf.”
“I’m sorry. I just wondered if you’d like a cup of your Lemon Zinger.”
“I would. With a generous slice of fresh ginger…”
“And a half teaspoon of honey. I know, ma’am.”
“I can’t abide most American tea,” Ada explained to Mitch. “It tastes like monkey piss to me. I’ll make it myself, if you don’t mind,” she told Jory. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s that I, well, don’t trust you.”
“At least let me help you,” Jory offered.
“If you must, Dory,” Ada said imperiously.
“It’s Jory, ma’am,” she pointed out as the two of them started for the kitchen.
Norma let out a suffering sigh as soon as they’d disappeared through the service door. “I love the old dear, Mitch. But, as you can see, she is absolutely impossible. Not that she’s any different now than she was when I was a girl. She’s just more so.”
“I like her,” Mitch said admiringly. “She’s real.”
“Ada’s one of a kind, all right,” Les agreed. “Thank God.”
“I don’t know how I shall ever make this up to poor Jory,” Norma fretted.
“Have she and Jase worked here long?”
“Their whole lives. Their father, Gussie, was caretaker here going all the way back to Astrid’s days. He raised the two of them on his own out in the cottage. When they were old enough to work, they stayed on. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d best see to dinner-and rescue the girl.”
“Come on, let’s get you that drink,” Les said, steering Mitch toward the taproom.
The castle’s taproom was paneled, cozy and clubby, as in the Union League Club, circa 1929. There was a hand-carved hardwood bar with half a dozen stools before it. Behind it, an antique wall clock seemed to be keeping perfect time. There were tavern tables and card tables, and comfy leather armchairs parked before the fire that was crackling in the fireplace. There were Rex Brasher Audubon Society prints hanging from the walls, built-in bookcases filled with hardcover volumes of literature and history. A vintage Brunswick pool table with ornate carved legs and hand-sewn leather pockets anchored the middle of the room. An amber glass light fixture was suspended over it, casting a warm glow over the green felt. The sound of Teddy’s piano was fainter in here, but Mitch could still hear it-just as he could hear the howl of the wind through the chimney flue.
A slender, striking blonde with very long straight hair was standing over by the fire in a sleeveless black dress and stiletto heels, sipping a martini and looking rather sulky. The great Aaron Ackerman sat gloomily at the bar, both hands wrapped around a snifter of single malt Scotch, a bottle of twenty-one-year-old Balvenie parked at his
