She finally let go of his hand and pressed her hand against her forehead as if reading a page in her mind, then snapped her fingers. "Diluvium. Of course. How terribly lovely."

Mason groaned inwardly. He hadn't realized exactly how pretentious the title sounded until hearing it pass those well-bred lips. "Well, it was the crowd I was in at the time. Avant-garde, but still meeting for lunch at McDonald's."

The woman emitted her bone-rattling laugh, then pointed to the canvas satchel slung over his shoulder. "Are those your tools?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'm looking forward to seeing you use them," she said. "I'm Mamie Goldfeld. I insist that you call me Miss Mamie."

He glanced at Korban's portrait, then back to Miss Mamie.

"Ah, you noticed," she said.

"The eyes."

"I'm the last living relative of Ephram Korban. I run the manor, keeping it as an artists' retreat just the way he wanted. Master Korban always appreciated the creative spirit."

"Was he an artist himself?"

"A frustrated one. A dilettante. He was mostly a collector."

Mason took in more of the architectural details of the foyer. The arch over the front entrance was ten feet high, with leaded squares of glass set in a transom overhead. The foyer had a high ceiling, the white walls and trim accentuated with an oak-paneled wainscoting as high as Mason's chest. Two Ionic columns in the center of the room held a huge ceiling beam aloft.

"This is a pretty place," Mason said, because Miss Mamie clearly expected him to say something. He'd nearly said "lovely," an adjective he'd never used before. Five minutes at an expensive artists' retreat and he was already putting on airs, developing a persona. God forbid he should ever actually accomplish anything. He'd be insufferable.