The witching hour lotmw-1

by Anne Rice

  She opened her hands. “Please.”

  “Go back to being a neurosurgeon; draw an income for anything and everything you will ever need; and forget about understanding where the money comes from. Unless you want to cease being a doctor and become what we are-people who spend their lives at board meetings, and talking to investment counselors and stockbrokers and other lawyers and accountants with little ten-key adding machines, which is what you pay us to do.”

  She studied him, his dark unkempt gray hair, his droopy eyes, the large wrinkled hands now clasped on the table. Nice man. Yes, nice man. Man who isn’t a liar. None of them are liars. None of them are thieves either. Intelligently managing this money requires all their skill and earns them profits beyond the dreams of those with a taste for thievery.

  But they are all lawyers, even pretty young Pierce with the porcelain skin is a lawyer, and lawyers have a definition of truth which can be remarkably flexible and at odds with anyone else’s definition.

  Yet they have ethics. This man has his ethics; but he is profoundly conservative, and those who are profoundly conservative are not interventionists; they are not surgeons.

  They do not even think in terms of great goodness, or saving thousands, even millions of lives. They cannot guess what it would mean if this legacy, this egregious and monumental fortune, could be returned to the hands of the Scottish midwife and the Dutch doctor as they approached the sickbed, hands out to heal.

  She looked away, out towards the river. For a moment her excitement had blinded her. She wanted the warmth to die away from her face. Salvation, she whispered inside her soul. And it was not important that they understand it. What was important was that she understood it, and that they withheld nothing, and that as things were removed from their control, they were not hurt or diminished, but that they too should be saved.

  “What does it all amount to?” she asked, her eyes fixed on the river, on the long dark barge being pushed upstream by the shabby snub-nosed tug.

  Silence.

  “You’re thinking of it in the wrong way,” said Randall. “It’s all of a piece, a great web … ”

  “I can imagine. But I want to know, and you mustn’t blame me for it. How much am I worm?”

  No answer.

  “Surely you can make a guess.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t like to, because it might be entirely unrealistic if viewed from a … ”

  “Seven and one half billion,” she said. “That’s my guess.”

  Protracted silence. Vague shock. She had hit very close to it, hadn’t she? Close perhaps to an IRS figure, which had surfaced in one of these hostile and partially closed minds.

  It was Lauren who answered, Lauren whose expression had changed ever so slightly, as she drew herself up to the table and held her pencil in both hands.

  “You’re entitled to this information,” she said in a delicate, almost stereotypically feminine voice, a voice that suited her carefully groomed blond hair and pearl earrings. “You have every legal right to know what is yours. And I do not speak only for myself when I say that we will cooperate with you completely, for that we are ethically bound to do. But I must say, personally, that I find your attitude rather morally interesting. I welcome the chance to talk with you about every aspect of the legacy, down to the smallest detail. My only fear is that you’re going to tire of this game, long before all the cards are on the table. But I am more than willing to take the initiative and begin.”

  Did she realize how very patronizing this was? Rowan doubted it. But after all, the legacy had belonged to these people for over fifty years, hadn’t it? They deserved patience. Yet she could not quite give them what they deserved.

  “There really isn’t any other way for either of us to go about it,” Rowan said. “It isn’t merely morally interesting that I want to know what’s involved, it’s morally imperative that I find out.”

  The woman chose not to respond. Her delicate features remained tranquil, her small pale eyes widening slightly, her thin hands trembling only a little as they held the pencil at both ends. The others at the table were watching her, though each in his or her own fashion tried to disguise it.

  And Rowan realized; this is the brains behind the firm, this woman, Lauren. And all the time, Rowan had thought it was Ryan. Silently she acknowledged her mistake, wondering if the woman could possibly perceive what she was thinking. We have been wrong about each other …

  But one could read anything into such an impassive face and such a graceful slow manner.

  “May I ask you a question,” the woman asked, still looking directly at Rowan. “It’s a purely business question, you understand.”

  “Of course.”

  “Can you take being rich? I mean really, really rich? Can you handle it?”

  Rowan was tempted to smile. It was such a refreshing question, and again, so patronizing and so insulting. Any number of replies came to her lips. But she settled for the simplest.

  “Yes,” she said. “And I want to build hospitals.”

  Silence.

  Lauren nodded. She folded her arms on the table, her eyes taking in the entire assembly. “Well, I don’t see any problem with that,” she said calmly. “Seems like an interesting idea. And we’re here to do what you want, of course.”

  Yes, she was the brains behind the firm. And she had allowed Ryan and Randall to do the talking. But she was the one who would be the teacher and eventually the obstacle.

  No matter.

  Rowan had what she wanted. The legacy was as real as the house was real, as real as the family was real. And the dream was going to be realized. In fact, she knew: it could be done.

  “I think we can talk about the immediate problems now, don’t you?” Rowan asked. “You’ll need to make an inventory of the possessions at the house? I believe someone mentioned this. Also, Carlotta’s things. Is there anyone who wants to remove them?”

  “Yes, and regarding the house,” said Ryan. “Have you come to any decision?”

  “I want to restore it. I want to live in it. I’ll be marrying Michael Curry soon. Probably before the end of the year. We’ll make our home there.”

  It was as if a bright light had snapped on, bathing each one of them in its warmth and illumination.

  “Oh, that’s splendid,” said Ryan.

  “So glad to hear it,” said Anne Marie.

  “You don’t know what the house means to us,” said Pierce.

  “I wonder if you know,” said Lauren, “how very happy everyone will be to hear of this.”

  Only Randall was quiet, Randall with his droopy lids, and his fleshy hands, and then even he said almost sadly, “Yes, that would be very simply wonderful.”

  “But can someone come and take the old woman’s things away?” Rowan asked. “I don’t want to go in until that’s done.”

  “Absolutely,” said Ryan. “We’ll begin the inventory tomorrow. And Gerald Mayfair will call at once for Carlotta’s things.”

  “And a cleaning team, I need a professional team to scrub down a room on the third floor and to remove all the mattresses.”

  “Those jars,” said Ryan, with a look of distaste. “Those disgusting jars.”

  “I emptied all of them.”

  “Whatever was in them?” asked Pierce.

  Randall was studying her with his heavy sagging eyes half mast.

  “It was all rotted. If they can get the stench out, and take away the mattresses, we can begin the restoration. All the mattresses, I think … ”

  “Start fresh, yes. I’ll take care of it. Pierce can go up there now.”

  “No, I’ll go myself,” she said.

  “Nonsense, Rowan, let me handle it,” said Pierce. He was already on his feet. “Do you want replacements for the mattresses? They’re doubles, aren’t they, those antique beds? Let me see, there are four. I can have them delivered and installed this afternoon.”

  “That’s splendid,” said Rowan. “The maid’s room needn’t be tou
ched, and Julien’s old bed can be dismantled and stored.”

  “Got it. What else can I do for you?”

  “That’s more than enough. Michael will take care of the rest. Michael will handle the renovation himself.”

  “Yes, he is quite successful at that, isn’t he?” said Lauren quietly. Instantly she realized the slip she had made. She lowered her eyes, then looked up at Rowan, attempting to mask her slight confusion.

  They had already investigated him, hadn’t they? Had they found out about his hands?

  “We’d love to keep you awhile longer,” said Ryan quickly. “Just a few papers we have to show you, in connection with the estate, and perhaps some basic documents pertaining to the legacy … ”

  “Yes, of course, let’s get to work. I’d like nothing better.”

  “Then it’s settled. And we’ll take you to lunch afterwards. We wanted to take you to Galatoire’s, if you have no other plans.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  And so it was begun.

  It was three o’clock when she reached the house. In the full heat of the day, though the sky was still overcast. The warmth seemed collected and stagnant beneath the oaks. As she stepped out of the cab, she could see the tiny insects swarming in the pockets of shadow. But the house caught her up instantly. Here alone again. And the jars are gone, thank God, and the dolls, and very soon all that belonged to Carlotta. Gone.

  She had the keys in her hand. They had shown her the papers pertaining to the house, which had been entailed with the legacy in the year 1888 by Katherine. It was hers and hers alone. And so were all the other billions which they wouldn’t speak of aloud. All mine.

  Gerald Mayfair, a personable young man with a bland face and nondescript features, came out the front door. Quickly he explained that he was just leaving, he had only just placed the last carton of Carlotta’s personal possessions in the trunk of his car.

  The cleaning team had finished about a half hour before.

  He eyed Rowan a little nervously as she offered her hand. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, and did not resemble Ryan’s family. His features were smaller and he lacked the poise she’d observed in the others. But he seemed nice-what one would call a nice young guy.

  His speaking voice was certainly agreeable.

  Carlotta had wanted his grandmother to have her things, he explained. Of course the furniture would remain. It belonged to Rowan. It was all quite old, dating from the time that Carlotta’s grandmother, Katherine, had furnished the house.

  Rowan thanked him for taking care of things so quickly. She assured him she would be at the Requiem Mass for Carlotta.

  “Do you know if she’s been … buried?” Was that the proper word for being slipped into one of those stone drawers?

  Yes, he said, she had been interred this morning. He’d been there with his mother. They’d gotten her message to come for the things when they returned home.

  She told him how much she appreciated it, how much she wanted to meet all the family. He nodded.

  “It was nice of your two friends to come,” he said.

  “My friends? Come to what?”

  “This morning at the cemetery, Mr. Lightner and Mr. Curry.”

  “Oh, of course. I … I should have been there myself.”

  “Doesn’t matter. She didn’t want any fuss, and frankly … ”

  He stood quiet for a moment on the flagstone walk, looking up at the house, and wanting to say something, but seemingly unable to speak.

  “What is it?” Rowan asked.

  Perhaps he’d wandered up there and seen all that broken glass before the cleaning team had arrived. Surely he would have wanted to see where the “skeleton” had lain, that is, if he’d read the papers, or if the other Mayfairs had told him, which maybe they had.

  “You plan to live in it?” he asked suddenly.

  “To restore it, to bring it back to the old splendor. My husband … the man I’m going to marry. He’s an expert on old houses; he says it’s absolutely solid. He’s eager to begin.”

  Still he stood quiet in the simmering air, his face glistening slightly, and his expression full of expectation and hesitancy. Finally he said:

  “You know it has seen so many tragedies. That’s what Aunt Carlotta always said.”

  “And so did the morning paper,” she said, smiling. “But it’s seen much happiness, hasn’t it? In the old days, for decades at a stretch. I want it to see happiness again.”

  She waited patiently, and then finally, she asked:

  “What is it you really want to say to me?”

  His eyes moved over her face, and then with a little shift to his shoulders, and a sigh, he looked back up at the house.

  “I think I should tell you that Carlotta … Carlotta wanted me to burn the house after her death.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I never had any intention of doing it. I told Ryan and Lauren. I told my parents. But I thought I should tell you. She was adamant. She told me how to do it. That I was to start the fire in the attic with an oil lamp that was up there, and then move down to the second floor and start the drapes burning and finally come down to the first. She made me promise. She gave me a key.”

  He handed this key to Rowan.

  “You don’t really need it,” he said. “The front door hasn’t been locked in fifty years, but she was afraid someone might lock it. She knew she wouldn’t die till Deirdre died, and those were her instructions.”

  “When did she tell you this?”

  “Many times. The last time was a week ago, maybe less. Right before Deirdre died … when they first knew she was dying. She called me late at night and reminded me. ‘Burn it all,’ she said.”

  “She would have hurt everyone if she had done that!” Rowan whispered.

  “I know. My parents were horrified. They were afraid she’d burn it herself. But what could they do? Ryan said she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t have asked me to do it if she’d been able to do it. He told me to humor her. Tell her I’d do it so that she’d be sure of that, and not go to some other extreme.”

  “That was wise.”

  He gave a little nod, then his eyes drifted away from hers and back to the house.

  “I just wanted you to know,” he said. “I thought you should know.”

  “And what else can you tell me?”

  “What else?” He gave a little shrug. Then he looked at her, and though he meant to turn away, he didn’t. He locked in. “Be careful,” he said. “Be very careful. It’s old and it’s gloomy and it’s … it’s not perhaps what it seems.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s not a grand house at all. It’s some sort of domicile for something. It’s a trap, you might say. It’s made up of all sorts of patterns. And the patterns form a sort of trap.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m speaking off the top of my head. It’s just … well, all of us have a little talent for feeling things … ”

  “I know.”

  “And well, I guess I wanted to warn you. You don’t know anything about us.”

  “Did Carlotta say that about the patterns, about its being a trap?”

  “No, it’s only my opinion. I came here more than the others. I was the only one Carlotta would see in the last few years. She liked me. I’m not sure why. Sometimes I was only there out of curiosity, though I wanted to be loyal to her, I really did. It’s been like a cloud over my life.”

  “You’re glad it’s finished.”

  “Yes. I am. It’s dreadful to say it, but then she didn’t want to live on any longer. She said so. She was tired. She wanted to die. But one afternoon, when I was alone here, waiting for her, it came to me that it was a trap. A great big trap. I don’t really know what I mean. I’m only saying perhaps that if you feel something, don’t discount it.… ”

  “Did you ever see anything when you were here?”

  He thought for a moment, obviously picking up her meaning with no di
fficulty.

  “Maybe once,” he said. “In the hallway. But then again, I could have imagined it.”

  He fell silent. So did she. That was the end of it, and he wanted to be going.

  “It was very nice to talk to you, Rowan,” he said with a feeble smile. “Call me if you need me.”

  She went inside the gate, and watched almost furtively as his silver Mercedes, a large sedan, drove slowly away.

  Empty now. Quiet.

  She could smell pine oil. She climbed the stairs, and moved quickly from room to room. New mattresses, still wrapped in shining plastic, on all the beds. Sheets and counterpanes neatly folded and stacked to one side. Floors dusted.

  Smell of disinfectant from the third floor.

  She went upstairs, moving into the breeze from the landing window. The floor of the little chamber of the jars was scrubbed immaculate except for a dark deep staining which probably would never scrub away. Not a shard of glass to be seen in the light from the window.

  And Julien’s room, dusted, straightened, boxes stacked, the brass bed dismantled and laid against the wall beneath the windows, which had also been cleaned. Books nice and straight. The old dark sticky substance scraped away from the spot where Townsend had died.

  All else was undisturbed.

  Going back down to Carlotta’s room, she found the drawers empty, the dresser bare, the armoire with nothing left but a few wooden hangers. Camphor.

  All very still. She saw herself in the mirrored door of the armoire, and was startled. Her heart beat loudly for a moment. No one else here.

  She walked downstairs to the first floor, and back down the hallway to the kitchen. They had mopped these floors and cleaned the glass doors of the cabinets. Good smell of wax again, and pine oil, and the smell of wood. That lovely smell.

  An old black phone stood on the wooden counter in the pantry.

  She dialed the hotel.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Lying here in bed feeling lonely and sorry for myself. I went over to the cemetery this morning with Aaron. I’m exhausted. I still ache all over, like I’ve been in a fight. Where are you? You aren’t over there, are you?”