The witching hour - By Anne Rice Page 0,470

and heating, and the worst problem would be the placement of the equipment, what with the attics filled with boxes and furniture and other items. Maybe they could go directly to the roof.

Then there were the floors. Yes, he had to get an estimate on the floors right away. The floor of the parlor was still very beautifully finished, apparently from the time Stella had used it as a dance floor. But the other floors were deeply soiled and dull. Of course nobody would do any interior painting or floor finishing until the plasterers were out. They made too much dust. And the painters, he had to go see how they were coming along on the outside. They had to wait until the roofers had sealed the parapet walls at the top. But the painters had plenty of work to do sanding and preparing the window frames and the shutters. And what else? Oh, the phone system, yes, Rowan wanted something state of the art. I mean the house was so big. And then there was the cabana, and that old servants’ quarters building way at the back. He was thinking of turning a small contractor loose on that little building now, for an entire renovation.

Ah, this was fun. But why was he getting away with it? That was the question. Who was biding whose time?

He didn’t want to confess to Rowan that he couldn’t shake an underlying apprehensiveness, an underlying certainty that they were being watched. That the house itself was something alive. Maybe it was only the lingering impression of the images in the attic—of all the skirts gathered around him, of all of them earth-bound and here. He didn’t really believe in ghosts in that sense. But the place had absorbed the personalities of all the Mayfairs, hadn’t it, as old houses are supposed to do. And it seemed every time he turned that he was about to see someone or something that really wasn’t there.

What a surprise to step into the parlor and see only the sunlight and the solemn neglected furniture. The enormous mirrors, towering over the room like guardians. The old pictures lifeless and dim in their frames. For a long moment he looked at the soft portrait of Stella—a painted photograph. So sweet her smile, and her black shining marcelled hair. Out of the corners of her eyes, she looked at him, through the filth that clung to the dim glass.

“Did you want something, Mr. Mike?” the young cleaning woman asked him. He shook his head.

He turned back and looked at the empty rocker. Had it moved? This was foolish. He was inviting something to happen. He closed his notebook and went back to work.

Joseph, the decorator, was waiting for him in the dining room.

And Eugenia was here. Eugenia wanted to work. Surely there was something she could do. Nobody knew this house the way she did, she’d worked in this house for five years, she had. Eugenia had told her son this very morning that she was not too old to work, that she would work until she dropped dead.

Did Dr. Mayfair want silk for these draperies? asked the decorator. Was she sure about that? He had a score of damasks and velvets to show her that wouldn’t cost half as much.

When Michael met Rowan for lunch at Mayfair and Mayfair she was still signing. He was surprised at the ease and trust with which Ryan greeted him and began to explain things.

“It was always the custom before Antha and Deirdre to make bequests at a time such as this,” he said, “and Rowan wants to revive the custom. We’re making a list now of the Mayfairs who might accept a bequest, and Beatrice is already on the phone to anybody and everybody in the family. Please understand this isn’t as insane as it sounds. Most Mayfairs have money in the bank, and always have had. Nevertheless, there are cousins in college, and a couple in medical school, and others who are saving to buy a first home. You know—that sort of thing. I think it’s commendable of Rowan to want to revive the custom. And of course considering the size of the estate … ”

Nevertheless there was something cunning in Ryan, something calculating and watchful. And wasn’t that natural? He seemed to be testing Michael with these riffs of information. Michael only nodded, and shrugged. “Sounds great.”

By late afternoon, Michael and Rowan were back at the house conferring with the men