castle by the thousands, there was an attendant in a kiosk there, collecting admission. Now there was no one. Inside the gate, the private drive forked almost at once. The left fork was for visitors who had come to ride Choo- Choo Cholly, the castle’s whimsical, brightly colored narrow-gauge steam train. From May through October, Cholly was a big attraction for day-trippers with kids. It made a couple of stops at scenic overlooks and hiking trails as it chugged its way up the mountain to the castle.
The right fork, which was for guests of the inn and deliveries, led to a private road that climbed for three miles through heavily forested grounds. Mitch’s old truck labored as it made the ascent. The road was steep, twisty and very narrow, especially with the plowed snowbanks crowding in on both sides. Finally, he came around a big bend and crested at the top, and there it was before him in the floodlights, framed by a pair of giant sycamores that flanked the end of the road like sentries. Astrid’s was eye-poppingly massive from close up-wide, vast and three stories high, not counting its trademark tower. There was a moat. For arriving and departing guests, a circular driveway passed over it on a drawbridge to the castle’s main entrance. For Choo-Choo Cholly riders, there was a miniature train station with a platform that was roofed in copper and illuminated by Victorian lamps.
Mitch eased into the guest parking lot in between a silver Mercedes wagon with Washington, D.C., plates and a rental Ford Taurus from New York. The temperature had moderated since morning, up close to 30, but when he got out he discovered the wind was absolutely howling off the river, especially up on this exposed hilltop. Mitch could see the lights of Essex directly across the river. Yet he could not make out the moon or the stars, which he found a bit peculiar. When it blew this hard it generally meant the sky was clearing. Tonight, it was not.
The moat was solidly frozen. Mitch clomped his way over it on the wooden drawbridge, half expecting to run into Errol Flynn and Basil Rathbone locked in a sword fight.
Instead he encountered a short, powerfully built young guy hunched over a snow shovel, clearing the remains of the day’s snow from the blue stone path that led to the front door. He wore a heavy wool lumberjack shirt over a hooded sweatshirt. The stocking cap he had on was pulled low over his eyes. His jeans were baggy, his boots scuffed. He wore no gloves. His hands were chapped and red, nails blackened with grease. He halted from his labors to glance up at Mitch. He had a thick reddish beard that grew up unusually close to his eye sockets. Very little skin showed, especially with that knit cap pulled so low over his eyes. Mitch thought it gave him the Lon Chaney, Jr., look, as in when the moon is full, as in Wha-oooo…
“Get your bags… you, sir?” the Wolfman asked him in a voice so faint that Mitch could barely hear him.
“I’m not an overnight guest, thanks. Just here for dinner.” Mitch realized on closer inspection that he recognized this particular lycan-thrope. “I see you at the hardware store all the time, don’t I?”
“Could be,” he replied shyly. “I’m in and out of there a lot.”
“Mitch Berger,” he said, sticking out his hand.
“Oh, sure. You’re looking after things out on Big Sister. I’m Jase Hearn,” he said, gripping Mitch’s hand. His was so rough it was like grabbing a chunk of firewood. “You’re a brave soul, man, wintering over out there,” he added, his voice growing stronger as he got more at ease.
“Or possibly just crazy,” Mitch said, grinning at him.
“They usually just hire some poor doofus to do it.”
“No need to-they have me for free.”
“Me, I keep things running here,” Jase said, leaning his weight on his shovel. “Me and my big sister, Jory. She’s head housekeeper, I’m maintenance.”
“That must keep you pretty busy,” Mitch said, his eyes taking in the hugeness of the place. “Especially this time of year.”
“She’s a beauty and a beast,” Jase admitted, scratching at his furry face. “Took twenty men five whole years to build her. She’s all native fieldstone. And, man, does she eat up the fuel. Three furnaces, two hot-water heaters, forty-eight guest rooms with forty-eight wood-burning fireplaces. Windows everywhere, on account of the views. You wouldn’t believe what it costs to heat her. Winters, they got to close down the third floor entirely. Lay off most of the staff, too. Me and Jory are the only full-timers.”
“Business is slow this time of year?”
“Dead slow, unless we get like a corporate retreat or a wedding. Tonight, we got no paying guests at all. This thing for Mrs. Geiger is huge for us. All kinds of Hollywood celebrities will be staying here. Movie studio’s picking up the whole tab. A hotshot, Spence Sibley, is already here, job-bossing the whole thing. Better him than me. I just keep the fires burning and the road clear.” Jase resumed his shoveling. “Watch out for black ice on your way back down tonight. It can be a real bitch.”
“Will do,” Mitch promised, continuing up the footpath toward the castle’s big slab of an oak front door. Hand-painted wooden signs marked the paths leading off across the courtyard to the rose garden, wisteria arbor, lily pond and greenhouse. There was also a service path that led to the caretaker’s cottage and adjoining woodshed.
Les was waiting for him with the front door opened wide. “I saw your lights,” he explained cheerily as he ushered Mitch into the cavernous three-story entry hall, where the lights from the chandeliers glowed golden on the yellow pine floors. A pianist was playing something jazzy and up-tempo in a nearby room, filling the hall with vibrant tones. “So glad you could make it.”
“Glad to be here,” said Mitch, thinking that Les really played his ruddy New England innkeeper role to the hilt. He even dressed the part in his Viyella tattersall shirt, cable-stitched sweater vest and gray flannel slacks. His head of lush silver hair was brushed so wavy and lustrous it reminded Mitch of plumage.
“Where’s our resident trooper?”
“Running late.” Mitch realized that he recognized what the pianist was playing-it was the theme song to the TV sitcom Will and Grace. He was not proud that he knew this. “She’ll be along as soon as she can.”
“Mitch, you’ll have to refresh my memory. Have you been with us before?”
“No, I haven’t,” Mitch replied, gazing up, up, up at the intricately carved, winding three-story center staircase.
“That’s solid cherry,” Les said proudly. “It was imported from a castle in Wiltshire, England, as was a lot of the woodwork and molding. The paneling and upstairs doors are native oak. Would you believe that the local gentry were in a dither about Astrid’s when it was first built? They thought it was vulgar. Now it’s Dorset’s most famous landmark, known the world over.”
There was a coatroom where Mitch deposited his hat, scarf and parka. Underneath, he wore his standard corduroy sports jacket, V-neck sweater and Oxford button-down shirt, along with baggy wide-wale cords and Mephistos. Mitch didn’t own a tie. Refused to. Just as he’d refused to rent a tuxedo for Saturday night’s big tribute bash. They could take him as he was, or not at all.
There was a glassed-in gift shop, closed now, that sold things like postcards and a wide array of Astrid’s Castle merchandise. There was a reception desk with wall-mounted racks filled with tourist brochures and maps. Doorways led off to the morning room and dining room. Also the taproom, where Mitch could hear voices and polite laughter.
Les led him through a wide doorway toward the music. “We call this room the Sunset Lounge because the windows face west. We’re famous for our sunsets up here, Mitch. You can see Long Island Sound, the boats on the river. The view’s really quite extraordinary, actually.”
Actually, the Sunset Lounge was more like a ballroom in Mitch’s estimation, with a twenty-four-foot ceiling, shimmering chandelier and a stone fireplace big enough to walk into. A fire was roaring in it. Leather sofas and armchairs were grouped there. And a radiant oil portrait of Astrid Lindstrom hung over the mantel-beautiful, pink- cheeked Astrid in an elegant silver gown, gazing over one bare ivory shoulder at the artist, her eyes bright with amusement. The one-time Zigfeld Follies girl bore more than a passing resemblance to Mary Pickford, or so the artist had portrayed her.
The elegantly dressed older gentleman at the Steinway grand piano had moved on to “They All Laughed,” a Gershwin brothers number from Shall We Dance, which was Mitch’s favorite of the Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers musicals. In this he was alone. Every other film critic on earth thought Top Hat was Fred and Ginger’s best.
“Come meet Teddy Ackerman, Mitch. Teddy is Aaron’s uncle. His brother, Paul, was Norma’s first husband.”
Teddy was in his early sixties, slender and pale to the point of wan. In fact, his complexion closely resembled the ivory of the keyboard before him. Teddy had a long, narrow face, finely chiseled features and a high forehead with receding steel-wool hair. He wore his navy-blue suit very well. He had on a burgundy tie with it and a sparkling
