"Who's there?" a voice inquired.
"Mary Corbett. I'm here to see Elizavon Phelps. My appointment is for five-thirty."
"Come through. Be sure and park by the servant's entrance. Someone will meet you."
Servant's entrance? Elizavon sure knew how to put people in their place! The gates swung open and she hurried through. The elegant, three-story Victorian house loomed at the end of the drive. She shivered as she remembered how the inside of the house always reminded her of a mausoleum. She'd felt unwelcome during her visits as a child since Elizavon never went out of her way to put her at ease. The woman was like the marble floors, cold and hard. Mary supposed she should be impressed by this elaborate display of wealth and power, but all she could feel was pity for Elizavon's miserable existence.
She followed the drive and passed two guesthouses and snow-covered tennis courts. As she drove, she searched for the outline of the water garden. That garden was the only good memory she had of this cold, heartless place. She'd been drawn to it as a child, and spent hours watching goldfish dart back and forth underneath floating flowers. Now, all she saw was the outline of its two statues, forever entwined in a lover's embrace.
The servant's entrance loomed ahead, and she was careful to park to one side. She took a deep breath, tucked her briefcase under her arm, and started toward the house. A uniform-clad maid opened the door and waited for her scarf and coat.
Mary scanned the room. The servant's kitchen was elegant, but functional. Beautiful oak panels lined the walls and gave the room a rosy glow. In the center, a large iron square hung suspended from overhead beams, and copper-bottomed pans hung down on all four sides. A small, but expensive antique table and chairs stood on a pale green rug in the opposite corner. She turned and caught the maid staring from the doorway.
"I'm Mary Corbett. I believe my Aunt Elizavon is expecting me."
The maid raised one eyebrow and waved her forward. "Please follow me. Miss Phelps is in the drawing room."
Mary's heart thudded louder with each step she took. It was now or never. She held her briefcase tightly under one arm and slowed her pace so she could gaze at Elizavon's magnificent collection of paintings. She paused in amazement as she recognized two works by Matisse and one by Van Gogh. The maid cleared her throat and Mary reluctantly continued down the hall. Greek statues stood in niches on the walls, and Persian rugs muffled their footsteps. Underneath the rugs, black marble floors extended as far as she could see.
The maid stopped in front of two elaborately carved wooden doors and knocked.
"Come in."
Mary swallowed the lump in her throat. She vowed not to let Elizavon intimidate her. Not this time. She took a deep breath and pushed one foot in front of the other.
The room was huge. Massive, floor-to-ceiling windows covered two walls. Even though several logs burned in the large fireplace, the room was cold. She wondered if the old woman had deliberately turned off the heat to make this visit as uncomfortable as possible.
Elizavon sat erect in her chair, facing the huge fireplace. A wool afghan covered her legs, and her hands rested on top of it. No jewelry decorated her wrinkled fingers or wrists. A well-tailored dark brown suit contrasted sharply with her silver hair, and long strands of gray escaped from the French twist at the back. Her face, devoid of makeup, was pale and drawn, and her cold blue eyes glinted like two sapphires in a sea of white skin. Her lips formed the permanent frown Mary remembered from childhood.
When she spoke, her voice was as cold as ice. "I see you made it on time. Well, at least you finally came to visit me, even if it was to borrow money." She stared at Mary for a few minutes, then tapped her fingers on the arms of her chair. "Well, get on with your pitch. I don't have all day."
Surprised by the old woman's comments, Mary struggled to find her voice. She took out her proposal and handed it to her aunt. "I'm here to find out if you'd be interested in a joint-venture to create a bed and breakfast inn at an old plantation located in central Louisiana. Although most of the house is authentic, the kitchen, running water, and electricity were added during the thirties, and have been updated periodically. If you'll look at the picture, you'll see that the house has some exterior damage, but not enough to be considered major restoration."
She paused and peered at Elizavon. The old woman sat motionless in her chair, staring at the pages. So far, so good. She moistened her dry lips and continued. "I've done extensive research on the bed and breakfast industry and have interviewed several owners in the process. You have my Executive Summary. The details attached includes a copy of the appraisal on the plantation, and tourism statistics on the surrounding areas."
Elizavon looked up and arched one pencil-thin eyebrow. "Why do you think I would be interested in this?"
Mary met and returned Elizavon's ice cold stare. "Because this is a solid business proposition and should give you a good return on your investment once it opens for business."
"Humph. There's got to be more to this." Elizavon reached out and wrapped long, thin fingers around Mary's arm. "Why are you so interested in this house? There's something you're not telling me."
Was Elizavon psychic? "I do have personal reasons for wanting to buy this plantation, but I don't care to go into them."
Elizavon stood up and tossed the folder to Mary. "Very well. If you won't tell me your reasons, I'm not interested in your proposition." She walked to the door and her hand paused above a buzzer embedded in the molding. "The maid can show you the way out."
Anger fought common sense and lost. Mary straightened in her chair, narrowed her eyes, and took a steadying breath. "All right, you win. I'll tell you why I want to buy the plantation."
Elizavon returned to her chair. Mary picked the afghan up off the floor, handed it to Elizavon, and waited until she was settled. She began her story with her first encounter with Nicole Martine, then continued until she'd described her regression therapy results.
The old woman's expression never altered. When Mary finished, Elizavon rose from her chair and pressed the buzzer by the door. "Since you're my niece, I'll read your presentation, but that doesn't mean I'll give you the money. Leave the information on the table and I'll take a look at it. You'll have my decision on Friday at noon," she said. "Come by then. The maid will show you out."
Mary opened her mouth to thank her, but Elizavon vanished down the hall, and the maid appeared instantly. As she drove away, her disappointment gave way to red–hot anger. Elizavon hadn't changed. She was still the mean, spiteful shrew she'd always been. She'd been foolish to think the old woman would mellow with age. What a waste of time and energy.
Elizavon stood at the window, watching Mary's car fade into the distance. Her thin hand dropped the curtain as long-forgotten memories surfaced. She thought about the man who'd stolen not only her heart, but her innocence as well. When she'd told him about their child, he confessed that he was already married, with children of his own. A single tear rolled down her leathery cheek as she remembered the back alley abortion clinic he'd taken her to, where the butcher who masqueraded as a doctor, killed not only the child she carried, but any chance of future children. She brushed away the tears and gritted her teeth. That was the day she'd promised herself she'd never show love to another person. A promise she'd kept all her life.
She was, however, curious about the vision Mary had seen at the Voodoo ceremony. Had Mary inherited the gift of "second sight" their great-great-great grandmother had possessed? If Mary did see something from the past, surely that meant she must have inherited some part of it, if only to a lesser degree. Her lips formed a smile. Well, at least that meant she wouldn't be the only one in the family with a sixth sense.
She reached for the phone and dialed her attorney, Allan Charles. Their conversation was brief, her words few. "Allan, charter a plane for tomorrow. We're going to Louisiana."
Chapter 23
The chartered Lear Jet left late because of ice on the runway. Once they were aloft, El
izavon unbuckled her seatbelt and shoved a folder in Allan's face. "Read this," she demanded as she shuffled back to her seat.
He wondered why she'd told him to charter a jet, especially in bad weather. Must be something important. He took his time reading the material and walked back to her seat.
She arched one thin eyebrow. "Well? What do you think?"
"It's a good proposal. Whoever prepared it did their homework. My only concern is the extent of the damage. The plantation might not be worth restoring. Other than that, it's pretty solid." He withdrew several pages. "If the tourism information's correct, your market share could be substantial, provided you upgrade the house to code." He rubbed his hands together. "If nothing else, you could use it as a tax shelter, to help offset some of the money you've made this year."
Elizavon nodded. "That's what I thought." She gazed out the window. "We'll take a look at the property before I make my decision."
He watched her for a few moments. "Isn't this supposed to be a joint venture with your niece?"
Elizavon tilted her head and favored him with an icy stare. "If I buy this plantation, it will be a sole purchase. I don't want or need any business partners. Never have."
He shrugged and returned the packet of material. "It's your money."
She drew her lips into a ghost of a smile. "Yes, it is. Mary Corbett has no say in this matter because she doesn't have the money--I do." She turned and picked up her book, ignoring him.
He spent the rest of the flight in the rear of the cockpit. When Elizavon was in this kind of mood, she was best left alone. He'd been her personal attorney ever since he started his own practice, some twenty years ago. Even now, he wondered why she'd selected him over the more established law firms in Boston. It certainly wasn't for his looks. Short, bald, and fat, he knew he didn't fit the image of a handsome, dashing, virile attorney. However, what he lacked in stature, he more than made up for in cunning and knowledge. Perhaps that's what Elizavon saw in him.
He smiled as he considered the question of whether he was lucky or cursed. She was a shrewd businesswoman, but aside from that, he couldn't think of anything else to like about her. She was mean to the point of cruelty. If it wasn't for the huge retainer she paid him, he would have dumped her years ago.
At the pilot's request to buckle their seat belts, he returned to his seat. Once they landed, he helped Elizavon to the waiting limousine. They checked into the hotel and he joined her in the restaurant for dinner. As she sat across the table, she reminded him of an old spinster schoolteacher. Her cold blue eyes darted around the room and she stared disdainfully at the other patrons. She eventually turned her gaze on him.
"Call the realtor and make an appointment to see the plantation."
"Already left a message," he said. "Do you want to take the limousine?"
She sputtered. "Of course. I never ride in other people's vehicles."
Allan's lips twitched, but he managed not to laugh. He watched as she put her napkin on the table and stood up. Dinner was over. She walked off, and he signaled the waiter to settle the bill.
The next morning Francois Duchette met him in the lobby. Allan was careful not to show his surprise. Although he knew appearances could be deceptive, Francois wasn't anything like he'd expected. Allan summed him up in a few words: puny, thin, and over-dramatic. They discussed the plantation and he added arrogant to the list. He wondered if Elizavon and Francois would cross swords, and decided the man deserved whatever he got. After setting up a meeting for that afternoon, he asked for a copy of the oil and gas survey, then made up an excuse to leave.
While he waited for Elizavon, he hired a construction estimator to give them a rough estimate of what it would cost to repair the damage and bring the building up to code. Duchette's office would give the estimator a key.
Later that afternoon they picked up Francois Duchette outside his office. After giving the driver directions to the plantation, Francois chose a seat across from Elizavon. He studied her for a few moments, then leaned forward. "So, Mrs.--or is it Miss Phelps? How do you like our wonderful state of Louisiana?"
Elizavon narrowed her eyes to tiny slits. "It's Ms. Phelps, and I'm not impressed with what I've seen. The hotel is sloppy, service non-existent, and the food is either undercooked or overdone. Frankly, I don't see why anyone would even want to visit your state."
Allan decided the shocked look on Duchette's face was worth the trip. His lips twitched and he bit them to keep from laughing.
Francois recovered his composure. "But, Ms. Phelps, Louisiana's famous for our Cajun food and hospitality. I'm sorry you've had such a bad experience. You must let me make it up to you. I'll make reservations at my favorite restaurant tonight so you can sample some real Louisiana cuisine."
Elizavon lowered her chin and glared down her nose. "No, thank you, Duchette. Once I see the plantation, we'll return to Boston, where I can resume my civilized existence." She pulled out a pair of reading glasses and a copy of the appraisal. "I've had enough of your mindless prattle, Duchette. I'm here to conduct business, not make friends. Explain how you arrived at the figure of $450,000."
Allan spent the rest of the journey watching Francois squirm. By the time they arrived at the plantation he almost felt sorry for the man. Almost. Drops of sweat rolled from Francois' forehead and dark stains appeared under his arms. As soon as the car stopped, he jumped out and stood as far from Elizavon as he could.
A man in blue jeans waited on the porch, and introduced himself as Jim Dubois, of Dubois Construction. He returned the key to Francois and handed Allan several sheets of paper. Allan traded the pages for an envelope containing cash. Dubois checked the money, scribbled out a receipt and left.
Allan glanced at the calculations and whistled his surprise. The estimate for repairs was over fifty-five thousand dollars. Elizavon wasn't going to be happy.
He stepped back to get a good look at the house. It had been a beauty in its time, but neglect certainly diminished its charm. His gaze traveled along the porch to where Francois leaned negligently against a column, a cigarette dangling from his fingers.
Francois tossed his cigarette and swung one arm in a wide gesture. "The house is a real beauty, isn't she? Wait until you see the inside. Everything's authentic, except for the kitchen. That was added during the thirties, along with electricity and indoor plumbing."
Elizavon held out her arm and Allan escorted her up the steps. She glared at Francois through narrowed eyes. "Are you going to keep us waiting out in the cold, or do we get to see the interior?"
Francois' smile almost concealed his anger as he unlocked the door. "You must have time to appreciate the atmosphere of the house, Miss Phelps," he said, emphasizing the Miss. "Please, come inside."
Elizavon's eyes narrowed at the intended slight, but said nothing.
He escorted them through several rooms, chatting as they went. When they entered the kitchen, Elizavon turned and wrapped thin fingers around his arm.
"Look, Duchette. I'm aware of the value of historical buildings. I live in Boston, remember? I don't want to hear any more of your stupid comments. Wait in the car until Allan and I finish our tour."
Francois' mouth fell open. He sputtered, as if searching for a response, then turned and slammed the door behind him.
Allan turned to Elizavon and caught the merest glimmer of a smile. His eyes met hers, and her lips straightened to a grim line.
"He's an annoying toad."
They toured the upstairs and neither spoke until they returned to the drawing room. She held out her hand. "How much was the bid?"
Allan dug the pages out of his jacket. "About fifty–five thousand."
She raised both eyebrows as she glanced over the figures. "I think we can do better." She tucked the paper into her handbag. "What do you think?"
He considered his words carefully. "I think it has possibilities, but you'll need a good manager to run it profitably. And there's always the tax shelter aspect to think about." He r
emained silent, wondering why Elizavon would even consider investing in this plantation. Sure, she could use the tax write-off, but why this house? Why not take a loss on stock? There must be something she wasn't telling him. Puzzled by the entire situation, he walked slowly back to the limousine.
When Francois climbed back in the car, he took the seat furthest from Elizavon. She said nothing and he leaned forward, eyes narrowed to tiny slits. "What do you think? Are you interested?"
Elizavon sent him an icy stare. "I might be. Are the oil and mineral rights included?"
His eyes lit up and his entire demeanor changed. He leaned back, folded his fingers together, and took his time answering. "It wasn't discussed, but it could be, for an extra sum."
"You and I both know the house isn't worth $450,000," Elizavon sneered. "Even with the oil and mineral rights, the most you'll get is $300,000. There's too much damage."
Francois' eyes gleamed and he leaned forward. "Are you making an offer, Ms. Phelps?"
She nodded. "$300,000 for the house, property, and the oil and mineral rights. Your clients have two hours to make up their minds."
He wrote out a contract, which Allan reviewed and she signed. "I'll convey your offer to the Martines, but I don't think they'll be interested."
The limousine stopped and Allan opened the door. Elizavon leaned forward as Duchette got out. "Two hours. After that I withdraw my offer." She motioned for the driver to continue and turned to Allan. "Do you think they'll take it?"
Blue Moon Page 15
