The House of Seven Mabels (3 page)

The next morning Jane and Shelley put on jeans and old boots and went to look at the house, as Bitsy had instructed them to do at lunch the day before. Shelley had never worn jeans except in her house or her own backyard and was outraged at having to go out in public in them.

Jane, who practically lived in an assortment of faded and well-worn dungarees, as her grandmother had called them, said, "Get over it. We're not going to display you to the public, just a bunch of workers."

Shelley insisted they park behind the big house so no one passing on the street would see her. That was impossible. The backyard, which was enormous and hedged in by old pines, was full of construction materials, Dumpsters with chutes going down to them from windows at the back, and boxes of tools.

They had to back out and park on the street, like everyone else, where Shelley and Jane sat staring at the house. "Look at those gables."

"Shelley, I think a gable is the way to refer to the ends of a house. Those are dormers on the third floor."

"I'd rather think of them as gables. The House of Seven Mabels," she added with a laugh.

Jane liked the term. "It's time we go in, whatever you want to call it."

Shelley practically streaked from the car to the front door. Jane followed more slowly, looking closely at the house. She had driven by it innumerable times, but had only glanced at it disapprovingly. It was really a community eyesore. She was constantly expecting to come by and see it leveled to the ground.

But with a practical reason to study it, she found it interesting.

Everyone called it the old Victorian house, but that was only because of the once fancy trim, Jane decided. Not that Jane knew what made a house Victorian anyway. There were all sorts of elaborate gingerbread siding covering it, but it was only in peeling patches now. Jane could imagine that it had been an eye-stopper when it was new.

She could picture it with stark white paint, lighting up the whole neighborhood. Of course there probably wasn't a neighborhood when it was built. It was the sort of house that had probably stood in solitary splendor alone on a good ten acres.

There was a purely Southern verandah stretched across the front and presumably going around

both sides. She hadn't noticed whether it had continued around the back when they had attempted to park there. The third floor had a sloping roof and a plethora of dormer windows — which Shelley insisted were called gables.

She approached closer and walked up the four steps to the front of the house. They'd have to replace those steps. She nearly put her foot through one. Maybe narrower steps and a ramp, so it would be accessible to the disabled or wheelchair-bound.

The floor and walls of the verandah, protected from sun and rain for ages, gave a hint of the house's former glory. Jane could have closed her eyes and imagined the seven-foot expanse from the house to the elaborate but broken rails, with floors painted a shiny dark green, pristine white wicker furniture with bright cushions scattered about, and little tables where you could genteelly knock back a couple of frosty glasses of mimosas on a lazy Sunday morning in summer.

If she had the kind of money Bitsy was reputed to have, Jane would happily restore it herself and live there just for the verandah. Think what grand parties you could have on late spring evenings if you planted masses of lilac bushes at the foundation.

Shelley crept back out the front door. "Why are you dawdling out here, Jane?"

"I'm just picturing how it could look. Isn't that what we're supposed to be doing?"

"I guess so," Shelley admitted. "So what do you see doing with this mess?"

Jane described what she had in mind. "In nice weather this could be a divine spot to sit and relax."

"I don't think corporate bigwigs ever relax," Shelley said. "Relaxed bigwigs is an oxymoron."

"They couldn't resist it here," Jane said with assurance.

"We need to start measuring," Shelley said in her bossiest mode. She was fiddling with a notebook with a pencil tied to it with a gold string, and a hefty metal tape measure.

They went through what once had been a spectacular front door, curved at the top, with remnants of deep-purple-blue stained glass arched above it. Carvings of grapes climbing trellises decorated the door itself. But it was in sad shape. Someone had apparently stabbed it at some point. There were deep gashes in the wood, revealing what Jane thought was mahogany.

"We're going to have to learn all about different woods," she said. "Where will we learn that?"

"At the library?" Shelley asked. "There must be tons of books we'll need to consult before we can talk about furniture without making fools of ourselves."

They stepped inside the front door, closing it behind them. Jane closed her eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by memories of some of the old boarding schools in Europe she'd attended as a

girl when her parents were traveling all over the world. It was the smell that gripped her. Of course it was overlaid by the odor of garbage and mildew, but under that was the familiar scent of very old wood, beeswax polish, lavender water, camphor oil, and ancient leatherbound books similar to those in some of the old schools she'd attended.

"Jane, are you taking a nap or what?"

"Just smelling the house," Jane said as she opened her eyes, but didn't explain.

The front hall had suffered a great deal of damage as well. It was vast, with a pair of curving staircases ascending upstairs on both sides. They, too, had rails missing, but the treads must have been made of some impervious material, because when Jane tested out walking up a few of them, they felt sturdy. Remnants of striped wallpaper in blue and cream were in tatters. The fancy molding, egg-and-dart pattern (one of the few decorating terms Jane knew) around the room, though coated with dust and grime, seemed to be mostly intact.

"This is going to be the reception
area,"
Bitsy said, appearing from one of the many beat-up doors that opened onto the front hall. "Come along and see the rest of the house."

Bitsy was back to being the perky sort of woman she'd been when she wanted PTA volunteers to ante up money for crepe paper, colored chalk, decorated plastic cups and plates, and far too much of their free time.

They followed her around the ground floor first. Between and behind the pair of curving staircases, they passed through a door to the back half of the house and came out into what must have once been a kitchen, it seemed. Whatever kind of appliances were once there were gone, and dusty wires and stubbed-out pipes gaped out of the walls.

"It's too small, of course," Bitsy said. "I have the chef from Michelle's Bistro coming later in the week to advise us on how much space we need and how to arrange the counters."

"A woman, I assume?" Jane said blandly.

"Of course. There was a pantry off the north side, and what must have been the cook's quarters and a dank little hallway to the basement door. We're taking out the walls and using that space as part of the kitchen. Or we might go the other direction, keeping the pantry and turning the cook's quarters into rest rooms for the staff."

"Hmm," Jane said. "You'd better check codes, Bitsy. I'd guess it's a no-no to have bathrooms open directly off the food-preparation area."

"I hadn't thought of that," Bitsy said. "I wonder why Sandy didn't mention it when we discussed it."

"Maybe because I'm wrong," Jane said with a smile. "What else is on the ground floor?"

Bitsy showed them the back end of the house. What could have been a sunny breakfast room, or maybe a conservatory, was there. Lots of win-

dows, almost all broken out. There was so much dirt and leaves you could hardly see the surface, but when Jane kicked some away, she uncovered a tile floor, badly cracked. "Are you going to shore this up?" Jane asked as Bitsy and Shelley stepped into the room for a closer look.

"Shore it up?"

"Can't you feel that it's listing away from the house?"

Bitsy took a couple of steps forward. "I see what you mean. Euwww. That means either take it off or do some heavy-duty foundation work. I'll have to think about this. I'd hoped to make it a nice little spot for the staff to take their breaks."

She'd lost her perkiness.

In the center of the south end of the house was a vast dining room that must have been locked off from vandals for decades. It, too, was dusty, and the floral wallpaper was faded. Ancient heavy maroon velvet drapes hung in threadbare tatters at tall windows on the far side. Jane half expected to see Miss Havisham's moldering wedding cake somewhere nearby.

"What have you planned for this area?" Shelley asked.

"I thought I could hire it out for private parties between resident guests. Wedding receptions and such. The French doors behind the curtains used to open to the deck."

Was Bitsy referring to the verandah? Jane wondered.
A deck! Indeed,
Jane thought indignantly.

"But someone tore part of it off," Bitsy went on. "I guess to discourage trespassers and vandals."

"It's certainly better preserved than what we've seen so far," Shelley said.

Bitsy laughed. "Wait until you see the second floor. You'll appreciate this room even more. On the other side of the main hall is a matching space that's going to be all one room for corporate banquets."

She led them through the dining room and into what must have been a generous-size front parlor for guests who merely came to tea. There were more of the floor-to-ceiling doors, glassless now and patched with warped, crumbling plywood.

Jane's imagination ran away with her again. What a nice room this would be as an office. If she were doing this house over for herself, she'd cover the walls with bookshelves. Set up a desk going out into the middle of the room so she could work on her endless novel, or more likely the bill paying, and look out the front windows for inspiration.

She mentally shook herself.

Stop thinking this way,
she thought.
You're possibly going to be the hired help, not the mistress of this old mansion.

Let me take you upstairs now," Bitsy said. "Wait," Shelley said. "I want to measure every room."

"No need to," Bitsy replied. "Sandy had an architectural engineer out and there are detailed measured plans for each floor, as well as the landscaping. I just need to go pick up a copy for each of you."

"Just the same, I want to measure for myself. It'll make it more meaningful if and when we take on the job," Shelley said in her don't-cross-me voice.

"If and when?" Bitsy asked.

Shelley smiled. "We haven't seen the contract yet."

Bitsy made a half gesture as if to slap her own head. "I had them with me yesterday and completely forgot to give them to you. Come on upstairs and I'll fetch them as you leave. It's a very good contract. You'll agree, I'm sure."

Neither Jane nor Shelley replied to this remark.

She led them up the right-hand curved stairway, which appeared and felt solid all the way up. Jane wondered if this were the single stable element of the house.

When they reached the second floor, it was a total shock. There was only a tiny landing. The other side of the house was blocked off with very old plywood. They turned and looked down a narrow, dirty corridor with rows of dingy doors on both sides and an extraordinarily ugly, brown, worn cheap vinyl flooring on the hall floors.

"I
told you you'd be surprised."

"Surprised is hardly the word," Shelley snorted.

"But it's going to be lovely when we finish."

Shelley started walking along the hall, opening doors. The ones that weren't stuck shut revealed tiny rooms, some still with grubby futons on the floors, or ancient bedsteads with disgusting mattresses. The rooms were hardly six feet wide. Trash had been swept into corners, and the floors were bare. Pegs were on all the walls for hanging clothes, instead of providing closets.

"It was for druggies," Bitsy said. "And homeless people, I've been told."

"Someone set it up that way," Jane said. "The people who lived here didn't build these partitions. Who owned this wreck?"

"That's hard to answer and the reason it stood vacant so long," Bitsy said, sounding extremely socially enlightened. "It had belonged to a series of largely fake Middle Eastern holding compa-

nies. I'm told there used to
be
a pair of enormous thugs who came by every week to collect the rents. According to the Realtor who eventually acquired the right to sell it, the thugs didn't even speak English."

"Thugs with bulges in their jackets don't need to speak English," Shelley said.

"So how did somebody clear the people out?" Jane asked.

"The county zoning people relocated them. The drug dealers were taken to jail, their 'clients' were put in halfway houses, and the homeless were taken to shelters. When the thugs came back, there was nobody to collect from. The county got an offer to buy the place from someone in Romania."

Jane and Shelley exchanged a quick glance. This didn't sound good.

"I assume there's a quitclaim deed somewhere?" Shelley asked. "Does anyone know where it is and if it's valid?"

"The county register of deeds has copies," Bitsy said cheerfully. "I've seen it, and the Realtor, Sandy, and I are all satisfied it's legal."

No mention of a lawyer's opinion in that statement, Jane noted.

Shelley went on opening doors without further comment. Jane took over on the other side of the hall. In one heavily used area, the crummy vinyl had been worn clear through, and a glimpse of a once-nice floral-patterned carpet showed through. Jane wondered idly why anybody would tack

down what was probably stolen vinyl flooring over the carpet. Had one of the supposed owners considered renovating it someday? It seemed that someone had wanted to protect the carpet.
How very odd,
Jane thought.