Auntie Mayhem by Mary Daheim Page A

“A Ramada Inn, a Radio Shack, maybe even a Wal-Mart. We could make Little Pauncefoot into a real hot spot.”
    â€œI think I’m going to be sick,” Renie murmured.
    Again, no one but Judith seemed to hear her. Charles pounded the table with his fist. “Now, now! Enough of pipe dreams. We have guests .”
    â€œPrecisely,” Nats replied. “ American guests who can tell us what to do with this old jumble of rock and make some money instead of pouring every farthing into up-keep.”
    Despite Claire’s dismay, Charles gave a short nod. “Apt, very apt. I’ll admit, this house is a parasite. It drains away everything. Taxes. Maintenance. Staff. When you can get them.”
    Nats rolled her dark eyes. “Staff! You call that creaking old Harwood and dithering Dora staff ? They’ve been here for about a hundred years. As for Mrs. Tichborne, she’s a mean-spirited old cow. The rest come and go, like the weather. Millie used to be a hooker in Yeovil until she got too long in the tooth and fat as a hog.”
    â€œNats!” Claire was aghast. “That’s not so! Millie ran a…a boardinghouse!”
    Nats laughed, a brittle tinkling sound. “It was a whorehouse, Claire. Walter told me.”
    â€œWalter!” Claire seemed shaken. “How would he know?”
    Nats shrugged her slim shoulders. “He’s been the Ravenscroft steward for over ten years and worked as a stablehand before that. Why shouldn’t Walter know?”
    Claire lowered her head, seemingly absorbed in her soup plate. “It was a boarding house,” she whispered. “Most respectable.”
    â€œWell,” Renie said brightly, “it couldn’t have been a restaurant. I’ll vouch for that.” She assumed her middle-aged ingenue’s expression and laid her soup spoon next to her plate.
    â€œThe point is,” Nats said in her melodic, careless voice, “we’re interested in turning a profit on this place. How long do you think it would take to renovate it, or should we tear it down and start over with a condominium high-rise? I saw some terrific examples in the Hollywood Hills.” Her limpid black eyes rested on Judith.
    â€œOh, no,” Judith answered quickly. “That would be…sacrilege. This is a marvelous house. It has tremendous possibilities. Not everybody wants modern glitz. Of course you needn’t limit yourselves to a B&B. You could consider turning it into a small luxury hotel.”
    Again, Claire was looking alarmed. “Please. Not now. Auntie might be…” She shifted in her chair, staring at the door that opened onto the entry hall.
    â€œOh, stow it, Claire,” Nats said sharply. “Auntie almost never comes downstairs during the day. Or do you think she’s put a wire in the chandelier?”
    Claire looked as if she wouldn’t doubt it. “Auntie likes to know what’s going on,” she said to Judith, with her eternal air of apology. “That’s why she spends her days looking out the turret window. She can’t read much any more. She never watched the telly.”
    Alexei tipped the beer bottle to his lips. “Auntie can’t walk. Auntie can’t see. Auntie can’t eat anything but thingruel. Do tell me the point of it all,” he demanded in a querulous voice. “Why doesn’t the old buzzard get it over with and die?”
    Claire let out a little squeal; Charles muttered his disapproval. But Nats tossed her head, the short, chic raven tresses dancing. “Oh, do be honest!” She turned to first one Marchmont, then the other. “You both feel the same way. This family doesn’t mark time by counting the days until Whitsunday or Michaelmas or Harrod’s annual clearance sale. We’re all sitting around waiting for Aunt Pet to die. We live off her every whim, we jump whenever she cocks a furry white eyebrow, we couldn’t afford