Read Online The Executor by Jesse Kellerman - Free Book Online Page A

the fizz of my nylon jacket as I moved my arm to cover a cough. It occurred to me that this would be an ideal place to get some writing done.
    I climbed the porch steps and knocked. The curtains in the bay window stirred. I looked over but not in time, and twenty seconds later the front door opened on darkness.
    “Mr. Geist. Do come in.”
    I stood in the entry hall, my eyes adjusting.
    “I would offer to take your coat, but you may want to keep it. I’m afraid the house is rather cold. Before we go any further, let me get a look at you.”
    I did likewise. I put her at seventy-five, although it was still too dark to draw firm conclusions. What I could tell was that she had once been exceedingly beautiful, and that much of that beauty had lingered on into old age. Her face was heart-shaped, her eyes quick and moist. I squinted: were they green?
    “You appear decent enough,” she said. “You aren’t going to rob me, are you?”
    “I hadn’t planned on it.”
    “Then let us hope that your plans remain unchanged, eh?” She laughed. “Come.”
    Down a creaking hallway she went, trailing perfume. She was right about the temperature. New England homes tend to be suffocatingly overheated—anyone who has lived there will understand—and often I came in from the cold to start pouring sweat. Now I zipped up my coat. She paused at the noise, turned with an apologetic smile.
    “Ach. I must beg your pardon. My condition is provoked by heat. Bright light can be bothersome as well. I hope you shan’t be too uncomfortable.”
    We came to a delicately furnished room. A pair of pale pink sofas faced each other, perpendicular to the fireplace, which was accented by a hearth rug. In the middle of the room was a low glass table, atop it a half-empty china cup and saucer. The curtains were heavy enough to block out all sunlight; two brass floor lamps with chinoiserie shades provided the room’s only illumination.
    “You would like some tea, perhaps?”
    “That’d be lovely, thanks.”
    “Please sit down. I shan’t be long.”
    Watching her go, I wondered about this condition of hers. She seemed healthy enough. She walked slowly—not out of difficulty but with grace. It was the walk of someone accustomed to having others wait for her, the speed of dignity. She wore a long floral dress beneath a creamy cardigan, and from the back I saw her white hair tidily pulled into a bun, a pearl hairpin at twelve o’clock. Her sole concession to informality was a pair of slippers that slapped at her heels as she disappeared.
    I got up to poke around. Aside from the entry hall, there were two ways out: the one she’d taken, leading, presumably, to the kitchen, and another opening into a still deeper darkness. The living room bowed out toward the front of the house, creating space for a dining-room set that gleamed through the dim.
    Most striking was the lack of photographs. Who doesn’t keep a portrait of mother and father over the mantel? Spouse? Children? Friends. Yet there was nothing except a ceramic clock. Indeed, the walls were almost bare. Near the doorway to the kitchen hung Audubon’s famous lithograph of the Carolina parakeet—extinct in nature but alive in art, their greens and reds and yellows so vibrant that one could almost hear them screeching. Near the back hallway was an oil, a nighttime seascape, black sky and black ocean.
    I heard her coming.
    The sofa cushions gave up a faint breath of perfume as I sat.
    She handed me my own cup and saucer. “I don’t know your preferences, so here are lemon and sugar. Should you want milk, I can fetch some.”
    “That’s perfect, thank you.”
    “You are quite welcome.” She sat opposite me, her posture immaculate. “I hope you found me easily?”
    “Yes.”
    “And you were not inconvenienced.”
    “Not at all.”
    “Excellent. I commend you on your punctuality, a virtue in regrettably short supply. Der erste Eindruck zählt. ”
    German gets a bad rap for being