Also there was the superstition of the family to consider. People were standing in the corridors of Mercy Hospital and saying, “She should die in the master bedroom. She should be home.”
“They ought to take her home to First Street.” Old Grandpa Fielding had been adamant. “She will not die in this hospital. You are torturing her. To release her, you must take her home.”
Mayfair madness in high gear. Even Anne Marie was saying that she ought to be returned to the famous master bedroom. Who knew? Perhaps the spirits of the dead in the house could help her? Even Lauren said bitterly, “Take the woman home.”
The nuns might have been shocked, if anybody gave a damn, but probably not. Cecilia and Lily had said the rosary aloud in the hospital room all night. Magdalene and Liane and Guy Mayfair had prayed in the chapel with the two Mayfair nuns in the family, the little tiny nuns whose names Mona always mixed up.
Old Sister Michael Marie Mayfair-the oldest of Mayfair Sisters of Mercy-had come down and prayed over Rowan, loudly, chanting Hail Marys and Our Fathers and Glory Bes.
“If that doesn’t wake her up,” said Randall, “nothing will. Go home and get her bedroom ready.”
Beatrice had done it, with a heavy contingent of helpers-Stephanie and Spruce Mayfair, and two young black policemen-reluctant as she was to leave Aaron there.
Now, back at First Street, enshrined beneath the satin-lined half tester and covered with ancient quilts and imported coverlets, Rowan Mayfair continued to breathe, unaided. It was already six p.m. and she was not dead.
An hour ago, they had commenced intravenous feeding-fluids, lipids. “It is not life support,” said Dr. Fleming. “It is nourishment. Otherwise, we would be technically starving her to death.”
Michael apparently hadn’t argued. But then there were so many people involved. When he called, he told Mona the room was full of nurses and doctors. He confirmed that the security men were all over, and on the gallery outside the window, and down in the street. People were wondering what was happening.
But the armed guards were not such an unfamiliar sight in a city like New Orleans in this day and age. Everybody hired them for parties, get-togethers. When you went to school for a nighttime function there they were at the gates. The drugstores had guards near the register. Just the way of this banana republic, Gifford had said once.
Mona had answered, “Yeah, so brilliant. Guys at minimum wage with loaded thirty-eights.”
However crude, these measures had been relentless and effective for the family.
No further assaults had been made on Mayfair women. All the women were gathered in at various houses. There was no group smaller than six or seven. There was no group without men.
A separate fleet of detectives brought in from Dallas combed the city of Houston, fanning out from the building, asking anyone and everyone if he or she had seen this tall black-haired man. They had made drawings of him, based on Aaron’s verbal description, which had come to him through the Talamasca.
They were also searching for Dr. Samuel Larkin. They could not understand why he had left the Pontchartrain Hotel without telling anyone-until they found the message at the desk which had been called up to his room.
“Meet Rowan. Come alone.”
The message had everyone worried. It was a cinch Rowan had not called Dr. Larkin. Rowan was already on a hospital gurney in St. Martinville by the time the call had come in.
Samuel Larkin had been last seen walking fast up St. Charles Avenue, towards Jackson. “You be careful now,” a cabdriver had said, begrudgingly perhaps because the doctor wouldn’t hire the taxi. What did it matter? It had definitely been Dr. Larkin. And by the time Gerald hit the pavement, there was no sign of him in sight.
In a way, Beatrice Mayfair had been the biggest nuisance and the biggest consolation the entire time. Beatrice was the one who kept insisting on normal procedures, who kept refusing to believe that anything “horrible” had really happened, that they should send for specialists and take more tests.
Beatrice had always taken that position. She was the one who went to call on poor crazy Deirdre and take her candy, which she could not eat, and silk negligees she never wore. She was the one who came three or four times a year to visit Ancient Evelyn, even during periods when Ancient Evelyn had not talked for six months.
“Well, sweetheart, it’s just the most dreadful shame they closed the Holmes lunch counter. Do you remember all the times we went down there to lunch at D. H. Holmes, you and me and Millie and Belle?”
And there she was at the house now fussing in the bedroom, most likely. And gone back up to Amelia Street to make sure everyone had something to eat. Good thing Michael liked Beatrice. But then everybody liked her. And the most amazing thing about her constant optimism was that she was clearly going to marry Aaron Lightner, and if anybody knew something horrible had happened it was Lightner, beyond doubt.
Aaron Lightner had taken one long look at Rowan and then walked out of the room. The expression on his face had been so wrathful, so dark. He had stared at Mona for a moment, and then he had gone off fast down the corridor to find a phone he could use in private, to call Dr. Larkin, and that is when they discovered that Dr. Larkin had left the suite.
What in the world did Beatrice and Aaron talk about with each other? She would say one minute, “Well, we ought to inject her with something, you know, to give her energy!” And all but clap her hands. And he would just stand there in the dim corridor, refusing to answer the questions put to him by the others, staring fixedly at Mona, and then at nothing, and then at Mona, and then at nothing, until the others simply started talking to one another and forgot he was there.
Nobody reported a strange fragrance in the rooms in Houston. But as soon as the first package had come, containing clothing and pillow slips, Mona had smelled the fragrance.
“Yeah, that’s it, that’s the smell of this being,” she had said. Randall had raised his eyebrows. “Well, I sure as hell don’t know what that’s got to do with it.”
Mona had defeated him cold by answering simply, “Neither do I.”
Two hours later he had wandered in and said, “You ought to go home and be with Ancient Evelyn.”
“There are seventeen different women in that house now, and six different men. What makes you think I ought to go there? I don’t want to be there now. I don’t want to see my mother’s stuff, and her things and all. I don’t want to. It’s illogical to go up there. It makes no sense for the daughter of the dead woman to go up there. Which I am. Why don’t you lie down and take a nap?”
One of the agencies had called directly after, but only to report that no one, absolutely no one, had seen the mysterious man leave the Houston building. Every single reported death in the entire Houston area was being investigated. None fitted the pattern of the deceased Mayfair women. Each had its own context, precluding the involvement of the mysterious man.
The net was huge; the net was fine-spun; the net was strong.
Then at five had come the first reports from the airlines. Yes, a person with long black flowing hair, beard and mustache had taken the three o’clock flight Ash Wednesday from New Orleans to Houston. First Class aisle seat. Exceptionally tall and soft-spoken. Beautiful manner, beautiful eyes.
Had he taken a taxi from the airport-a limo? A bus? Houston’s airport was enormous. But there were hundreds of people asking questions, proceeding quietly to one potential witness after another. “If he walked, we’ll find somebody who saw him.”
“What about planes from Houston to here? Last night? Yesterday?” Checking, checking, checking.