The heat from the fire dried the thin layer of damp on my skirt and cloak, though my feet remained numb within shoes too thin for a walk in such weather. In time, my face grew uncomfortably warm, and when I turned to enjoy the warmth on my backside, I realized I’d caught the attention of a copse of gentlemen seated nearby.
I knew my skin glowed with a radiance brought on by flame rather than youth, though at twenty-seven my youth was not totally spent, and through no conscious pains I had my figure displayed quite artfully. There is simply no other way to stand by a fire. Though decorum at the time would never allow an unmarried woman to strike up a conversation with a man—let alone a small gathering of them—in a hotel lobby, I returned their murmured salutations with the slightest nod and a “Good evening, gentlemen,” spoken with the controlled lilt I’d learned on my late husband’s arm.
I was spared any further conversation when the station’s porter approached the front desk, my luggage in tow. Even if I hadn’t recognized the porter, I would have spotted my trunk from a mile away. It had been a wedding gift, crafted to withstand the travels that marked the early days of our marriage. The distinct aquamarine leather made it stand out in any cargo hold. Its gold-embossed latch was fashioned to look like two swans facing each other, the lock peeking through the heart-shaped space formed by the curvature of their necks. Instinctively, I raised my hand to touch the outline of the key, tied with a ribbon and nestled next to my heart. Everything I owned was in that trunk, and maybe a few things where ownership was a matter of opinion. But when one is given only a few hours between a funeral and sundown to pack up a life, some details must be swept aside.
The porter was using a hand truck, as the weight of my trunk—even empty—is prohibitive. From across the lobby I could hear him banter with the desk clerk. I couldn’t make out all the words, but the porter rolled his shoulders as if injured. He would surely expect an extra tip.
I acknowledged my admirers (no other identifier would fit) and took slow, measured steps to the registration desk.
“I see you have safely transported my belongings, sir.” I added an extra bit of warmth to my voice to counteract both the cold of the night and the unsuitable number of coins in my hand.
“Feels like you have all your house and home in there.”
I initially bristled at his overfamiliarity but recovered with a small laugh. “I hope this will compensate the effort, along with the fare I paid at the station.” He looked as if to say that, no, this bit wouldn’t compensate at all, but there is no sweeter creature than a man entranced.
“Well, indeed.” He pocketed it quickly and turned to the desk clerk. “Want me to take it upstairs?”
My eyes darted from the porter to the clerk. The porter looked like every other porter I’d ever seen: brawny and gruff, with two days’ beard and a cap worn low. If I told him to be gentle with my trunk as it contained stockings made of spun glass, he would have been too inflamed at the word stockings to give any doubt to my claim.
But the front desk clerk was another animal altogether. I knew he’d been looking at me since I walked in, though his attention lacked admiration. He was tall and slight, with sleek dark hair and a thin moustache. His suit jacket fit a tad loose (I would have suggested a tailor take it in at the shoulders and maybe a nip at the back) but was of good quality. He made a show of opening the large, leather-bound registration book and running his finger down the page.
“I do not believe I see the lady’s name listed among our guests.”
I stood straighter. “How odd, given that you don’t know my name.”
He offered a smile that turned his moustache into something of a wavy line. “Forgive me. What I mean to say is that I see no reservation for a Mrs …”
“Krause,” I supplied. “Hedda Krause. I wrote last week to secure a room.”
“We have no reservation request for a Mrs. Krause. Or a Mrs. Anybody, for that matter. Furthermore …” He leaned over the desk and lowered his voice so only the porter and I could hear. “We are not in the habit of renting rooms to …”
A list of rejoinders filled my mind, but I responded with, “… to widows?”
He had the sense to look uncomfortable and muttered, “I am so sorry, Mrs. Krause. We simply have no record of a reservation.”
“Is that to say that you do not have a vacancy?”
“Don’t make me lug this back to the station,” the porter said, leaning on the gleaming desk. “Wife’s waiting supper for me at home.”
Minutes passed as the clerk fussed with papers and keys, the porter drummed his thick fingers on the gleaming desk, the gathering of gentlemen moved to the edge of their seats, and I simply took one deep breath after another, trying to keep a soft composure while I gazed around the oval expanse of the lobby. No, not simply around, but up, as the ceiling of the lobby extended two…three stories above, with classically festooned columns throughout and an intricately carved balustrade surrounding the second- and third-story balconies. (I knew none of the terminology of these details upon my arrival, of course. My education came later after an informative dinner with a man who had carried out much of the renovative work.)
At last, the clerk stood straight and set a key on the counter. “Very well then, Mrs. Krause.” A uniformed bellman discreetly emerged from some waiting wing, and the two conferred in whispers before the clerk leaned over the desk, drawing me in. “He will use the service elevator to take your trunk to this room.” He tapped a long finger on the number embossed in gold on the leather fob. “Please wait here until he returns. You’ll find it easily, top of the stairs, and then to the right.”
“I appreciate your discretion, sir.” I matched my voice to his in volume, offering a sidelong look of apology to the porter, who seemed none too pleased at having to wait for the return of his hand truck.
“Of course,” he said. “Now, as a matter of payment …” This time his unwillingness to complete a sentence worked in my favor, and I allowed him to blink a dozen times in rapid succession before it became clear that neither of us intended to adjoin the phrase.
“I am quite tired.”
“I understand. However, it is our policy to have guests planning to spend more than a single night pay their fee in advance.”
“Will you arrange to have a late supper sent up to my room? Maybe a bowl of soup and toast. Or would it better suit for me to call from my room? Is there a telephone?” It is my particular talent to hide a wall of information until the moment a man stumbles against it.
“I—I, um, I suppose I could make that arrangement for you. Now, if you will please sign the registry.”
“Wonderful.”
He placed the enormous book in front of me. My name was to go on the top of a new page, and as I set the nib of the pen to the line, I noticed the admonition at the top.
Money, Jewelry, and Valuables must be deposited in the Office Safe.
Otherwise the Proprietors will not be responsible for any loss.
The clerk (manager, I would soon learn) noticed my attention. “Do you have valuables to deposit, Mrs. Krause?”
I twisted my neck for a quick glance to the gentlemen who had abandoned any pretense of hiding their curiosity. “Yes, Mr.—”
“Sylvan.”
“Mr. Sylvan. I am in possession of quite a few valuable pieces, and while I am sure your accommodations are adequate for my own safety, I would prefer to keep them with me. Can you imagine, running down here every time I needed to choose which is best to accentuate my neckline? No, these were gifts, you see, and tokens from my late husband. I could not bear to part with them.”
Mr. Sylvan drew back and looked at me, as if taking measure of my worth. It was for this moment that I was thankful for the trim of fur at my collar and the simple but flawless pearls in my ears. He cocked an eyebrow, unconvinced.
“Surely, Mr. Sylvan, you understand that I cannot travel—unaccompanied as I am—with any such valuable display.”
“I’m
simply wondering, Mrs. Krause, how long you are planning to stay here at the Menger? We do have suites for extended stays.”
I could only imagine the expense of such a room. Fortunately, before I had a chance to respond, the bellman arrived, and I reached into my pocketbook once again, this time emerging with a full dollar bill, which I handed over with enough flourish to announce my status. The porter muttered something unsuitable for repeating and disappeared into the night. Key in hand, I turned to leave, but Mr. Sylvan repeated his question. “The length of your stay, Mrs. Krause? For my records?”
I had no answer. No, that’s not quite true. I had several, and they all swirled around the limits of money and time. Meaning I would stay until I had either depleted my funds or found a new source. And given the appreciative looks of my fellow guests, time might actually be in my favor. I offered them a single smile but allowed my eyes to reach to each in turn, and there kept my focus as I responded to Mr. Sylvan’s question.
“For your records, I will stay until I have some clear reason to leave.”
Chapter 3
As far as piecing together a living with her very specific skill set, kids’ birthday parties weren’t the worst way to go. The hours were great—rarely before noon and never past dark. The food was plentiful and indulgent. Unlike her shows at the Magician’s Agency Theater downtown, there were no drunks to deal with, and unlike the ghost tour walking scene, there was no…walking. No memorized script, no laughing at the same bad tourist joke time after time (“Guess I’ll really remember the Alamo after this.”). Sure, kids might give her a hard time, wanting to know how a trick was done, but they never shouted it out from the audience (“Watch! She hid it up her sleeve.”).
All of this, plus cake.
She was still snug under her weighted blanket at well past nine on Saturday morning when the text alert sounded on her phone. She tapped the icon, hoping for a message that the sudden cold front had canceled that day’s booking. She’d still get paid (acts of God were not part of her contract cancellation policy) and could reschedule for a time when her imagination wasn’t piqued by a stranger with a box full of Hedda Krause mystery clues.
But, no. Just a chipper note from the hostess, a woman named Jessica Vanderkamp, informing her that they were still on LIKE DONKEY KONG:), but the party had moved indoors.
Dini tapped back, THANKS FOR THE HEADS-UP, and rolled over, burrowing deep. Her stage area was a trunk that she’d had custom made from the description of Hedda’s in the first chapter of My Spectral Accuser. The only embellishment allowed to the craftsman was to mount a set of casters and an expanding handle so Dini could roll the monster easily from her Kia Soul to the stage. Otherwise, the trunk lived in the smaller of the two bedrooms in her bungalow, surrounded by the supplies of her trade: costumes, cards, silks—all neatly stored in perfect squares of Ikea shelving. Unlike most women her age, twenty-four, and relationship status, single, Dini owned her little house in King William outright. This, through no expenditure of her own. It was a property purchased by her great-grandfather and inherited generation after generation, in much the same way as Quin Carmichael described his own family home. The difference was, she could never, ever sell. Not that she didn’t have offers. The neighborhood, like much of the San Antonio downtown-adjacent area, maintained a reputation of being simultaneously hip and historic. But for all the years her three-person family spent on the road, this was always home. Maybe only for weeks or months at a time, but a place where her father kept the key in his pocket, and she didn’t have to wonder who slept in her bed the night before.
Coffee brewed while she took a shower. After, wearing sweat pants, her thick terry robe, and fleece-lined slippers, she sipped it from her favorite mug with a breakfast of peanut butter and jelly on toast. Normally, if she didn’t have a gig, she’d cook up a hearty, complicated breakfast. But this morning her appetite felt pinched, and the second piece of toast got tossed out to the squirrels.
With a second cup of coffee, she reviewed the notes in her calendar. Nothing happened in her life without getting noted in the calendar. Her own memory might be flawless, but Dini couldn’t ever be sure of anybody else’s. Her calendar was her voice: multicolored notations and Post-it notes, stickers. Sometimes neat, bullet-point lists, some illegible, slanting scribbles. She opened to the next day, Sunday, and wrote, Brunch w/Quin. She held the pen aloft for a moment before adding, Carmichael. A bit of coffee sloshed as she wrote, and she wiped it up with her thumb, smearing the ink.
The soothing voice of the Waze app guided her on and off loops and highways as she drove to the party site. Soothing might be an exaggeration. Her pulse still pounded, her eyes darted constantly from the road to the mirror to the other mirror and back. Other people might listen to their favorite music or catch a podcast, but not Dini. She could take a stage in front of thousands of people (or dozens of children) and remain smooth and cool and in total control. But she hated—hated—driving. She clutched the wheel (at 10 and 2) and took solace only in the occasional comforting glimpse at the ring she wore on the first finger of her right hand. This was part of her brand, something distinctive and attention getting and, ultimately, distracting for the audience. A flash of a ring might bring their subconscious to focus on it rather than on the sleight of hand she was performing. Today, in honor of the party, she wore a miniature snow globe with a tiny princess caught midtwirl within the swirling flakes. It had been a gift from her best friend, Arya, who would be one of the moms at today’s party, not to mention somewhat of a mother to Dini herself.
At the locked gates of the Carved Oaks community, Dini showed her ID to the real human guard and checked her pocket for business cards while he waited for the confirming text from the hostess. If even half of the guests came from this neighborhood, that could mean a slew of bookings. Waze led her past one sprawling property after another before declaring her destination on the right, where two young men—teenagers—stood next to a pyramid of pink and gold balloons. They were dressed in fairy-tale prince costumes, and the one who came to her open window could have been the model for Cinderella’s beau.
“Are you here for the celebration of Princess Isabelle’s birthday?”
“I’m the entertainment,” she said, trying not to sound dazzled.
“Very good. If you don’t mind, I will take your car and park it for you.”
Dini motioned. “I have my things—my trunk—in the back.”
“Not a problem at all, ma’am. My friend Charming will get that for you and deliver it wherever you please.” She stepped out of the car and obliged the eager prince.
To Dini’s surprise, her friend Arya opened the front door before the chimes completed their complicated tune.
“You’re here early,” Dini said after the two exchanged their traditional air kiss. This act of affection was a sacrifice on Arya’s part, as she was a hugger by nature but had long since acquiesced to Dini’s zone of touch.
“Three properties for sale in this neighborhood.” Arya, one of the most successful real estate agents in San Antonio, was never one to miss an opportunity. “I made some visits.”
“That explains why you’re wearing an eight-hundred-dollar outfit to a child’s birthday party.” Dini had been with her when she bought the blouse and shoes.
“Well”—Arya looked Dini up and down and up again—“at least I have an explanation for my outfit. You look like a punk rock Tinkerbell.”
“Exactly what I was going for,” Dini countered good-naturedly. She’d chosen a multicolored toile tutu, black leggings, Doc Martins, and her well-worn leather bomber jacket over a hot-pink turtleneck. “Now, show me to the hostess.”
Arya’s daughter Beatrice (called Bea with two syllables—Bee-yah) came barreling into the front hall and wrapped her little arms around Dini’s waist, burying her face in the tutu. Bea alone was granted such physical dispensation, and Dini patted her hair—all twisted up in a pretty princess do.
“I can’t wait for Au
ntie Dini’s magic.” Bea looked up adoringly, her cheeks dusted with glitter.
“It’s not magic,” Dini said, prompted by Arya’s familiar scowl. “Just illusions, remember? I play little tricks on your eyes. Now, go. I need to get back to the kitchen so none of the guests will see me before the show starts.”
Bea ran off, up the stairs, with a confidence that spoke of a familiarity with the house. She wasn’t merely a guest at the party, she was a friend of the birthday girl. The realization brought the usual pang, a reminder that Dini had no such memories of birthday parties or childhood friendships. The life she lived now began just eight years ago, marked by the death of her parents and, being alone in the world, given over to Arya and Bill Garner, who served as foster parents specifically for teens. She lived with them for three years, homeschooled by Arya. After earning her GED, the two of them enrolled in St. Phillips Community College, where their previous roles as guardian and child cemented into this unlikely friendship.
“There’s a few other parents here too,” Arya said, “and I’ll introduce you to Jessica. She’s a bit high-strung on any given day and is feeling some party pressure, so give her some slack, okay?” She led Dini past a pristine living room and through to an enormous family room where the furnishings had been moved to the edges of the space. It was decorated with streamers and balloons—all in the pink-and-gold theme—with the brick fireplace embellished to look like the outer wall of a castle. One end was screened off, and the young man from the front was wheeling Dini’s trunk behind it.
“I’ve never been to a kids’ party with valet parking before.”
The Lady in Residence Page 3
