The Lady in Residence

by Allison Pittman

  Carmichael sensed my cooling passion and disengaged our kiss, rolling off and propping himself up on one arm beside me. “I’m sorry, my darling. I shouldn’t have intruded on you like this. And I didn’t mean—” He sat up and inched over to the side, leaving a wide berth for me to straighten my dress and move myself to the safety beside my desk.

  “Does this mean that you believe me?”

  “This means that I love you.”

  “But when I tell you that I had nothing to do with my husband’s death, other than to be his nurse until the end—”

  “Meaning you gave him his medication?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “According to the doctor’s instructions? Precisely?”

  I closed my eyes, remembering, and said, “He was in so much pain.” There was nothing to be done, and from the moment I’d met him, he’d given me everything I ever wanted. Everything I asked for. How could I not do the same? I said none of this to Carmichael, though. I kept every drop to myself, to my thoughts. I opened my eyes again and poured forth truth. “I bathed him and fed him and”—I brought the back of my wrist to my mouth to stanch the memory—“cleaned him when he was too ashamed to allow anyone else. Those ungrateful buffoons wouldn’t come near him.” I pointed, as if they were lurking outside the door. “That was me, knowing full well I’d be turned out of the house he was dying in. Knowing my name wasn’t in the will. So when you say that you love me, are you saying too that you believe me?”

  While I was speaking, he took a cigarette from his pocket and rolled it nervously between his fingers. Now he stood and crossed the room in a single step to deposit it in the waste bin. He went to his knee, just like he had that night by the dying fire in the lobby, and took my hands in his. “What I’m saying, is that it doesn’t matter. Who you were, and what you might have done before the night I laid eyes on you—I don’t care. We can put it behind us. Come with me. Marry me tomorrow. Heck, it’s after midnight. Marry me today. There’s no impediment. We don’t ever have to think about any of this again.”

  “You could marry me thinking I might be a murderess?”

  “There’s no evidence to say you are.”

  Nothing but the suspicions of two ungrateful, spoiled men. But Carmichael hadn’t gone on a quest to investigate the peaceful, unavoidable death of my husband. He’d gone in search of my credibility. To that, there was no evidence other than my word.

  I attempted to pull my hand away. “You could marry me thinking I’m a fraud?”

  “I’ve told you before, it’s a battle between my head and my heart. And tonight I’m telling you that you consume both. Whatever suspicions I might have—they’ve lost their power over me.”

  “Maybe so, but they would always hold a certain power over me.” I stepped back and, as he loosened his grip, pulled my desk chair beneath me and sat on it, bringing our faces to perfect alignment, neither looking up nor down at the other. “I have no reason to doubt my innocence. I harbor no guilt. I am as sure of my late husband’s promises as I am of his illness. I know I did nothing to hasten his death. I know I stole nothing from that house. I know I sold my own jewels in good faith, and I know a phantom drove me from my room so that all I had left could be taken. But even now, my darling—” I touched his face, glancing away. “You can’t hold my eyes. I can’t hold your trust completely, even in this moment. Don’t you see? There would always be a part of you that wasn’t ever truly, completely mine. I would always wonder if you were…wondering.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “Ah, but that’s not the point. I would. You are a good man, Detective Carmichael. You deserve a good woman.”

  He was still kneeling but now appeared coiled, his jaw clenched, his lips hardly moving as he spoke. “You are a good woman.”

  “You need one who won’t require so much convincing.”

  I opened his hand and turned his palm up, spying the two errant freckles on its heel and kissing them.

  “Come with me,” he said, my head still bowed.

  “No.” I brushed my lips against his pulse and stood. He followed in a fluid motion, our fingers still entwined.

  “I won’t ask again.”

  “I know.”

  We stood, the weight of my decision suspended between us for what seemed an eternity before he bent to me and placed a kiss so gentle against my lips, I found no purchase to pull it deeper. Without another word, another touch, another breath, he was gone. The moment was so silent—not even the creak of a footfall or the finality of a closed door. I looked down through the slatted vent and saw the cuff of his pants and the sturdiness of his shoes as he stood, facing away. And then I watched his step. Of all the frightful things that happened on the other side of that door, this was by far the cruelest. I crumpled to the floor, my head resting on the mattress where I’d allowed myself to dream of a life with him. Long days and cozy nights, reading books and sharing stories, curled together on a different bed. Waking to the first frosty morning of fall, dozing in each other’s arms on a Sunday afternoon. Our day together multiplied a thousand times over, endless in beauty and passion.

  What had I done?

  Heedless of my loose hair, my belted robe, my bare feet, I threw the door open and ran down the hall, down the stairs, my cries for him caught in my throat. This time no ghost of a dead woman chased me. Rather, I was running from the restless spirit I would become without him. I didn’t so much run as hurl myself, guided by the instinct of following a path I could travel in my sleep. The night clerk was nothing more than a blur of a scathing look as my steps slapped against the polished floor.

  I ran up to the front door and was about to open it to the night when the memory of Mr. Sylvan’s voice came back. “Step out, and the doors will be locked to you forever.” I stopped, balanced as if on a precipice, my toes on the strip meant to keep out the cold. Could I run barefoot into the street? I pressed my face against the glass, looking for his unmistakable silhouette in the darkness. Not to the left, nor to the right. I could run, yes. And hope for one more chance to see his face break into relief with new tears sprung in his eyes. Or I could wait for his resolve to soften, for him to plumb the depths of his heart and find no charge to hold against me.

  My breath steamed against the glass, and when I lifted my sleeve to wipe it away, I was startled by a shimmering reflection behind me.

  I spun. “Bert!”

  He stood, a solitary, immobile figure steps away from the bar in the lobby. I held out my hand, beckoning him to me, ready to send him out into the street to find Carmichael and fetch him back, but something about the grim set to his face stopped me. Taking careful, measured steps, I approached him.

  “That detective went out through the bar,” Bert said when I was in earshot.

  Through the bar? Of course. I’d turned the wrong way and lost him.

  “He told me to give you this.”

  That’s when I noticed the envelope in his hand. With a steadiness that surprised myself, I reached for it, saying, “Thank you.”

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Krause?” He asked as if he didn’t know—didn’t always know—the exact state of my mind and spirit.

  “I will be, Bert,” I said, laying a hand on his sleeve. “I always am.”

  Feet weighed with consequence, I climbed the steps, taking them as if a woman condemned. Once on my floor, I could not bring myself to go back into that room, not while the scent of him still lingered, not when I could imagine the dent and the warmth of him on my bed. Instead, I sat on one of the cushioned settees along the second-floor balcony. There was enough light to see my name typewritten on the envelope. My name and nothing more. Turning it over, I could see that it had been opened—partially, at least—and easily gave way for me to do so completely. Inside was a single, folded sheet with a letterhead so familiar I felt the punch of it in my core. Johnston and Thornhill Associates. The law firm that represented all of my late husband’s business activity, as well as his death, burial
, and final testament.

  They’re coming for me, I thought, before allowing my eyes to access the salutation. Carmichael told them where I am. No wonder I’d felt such weight at my last ascent. I was a woman condemned. This letter would be my invitation to the gallows. No doubt there were officers on their way to claim me.

  My eyes grew so dense with tears that I could hardly focus on the words, so I allowed time for them to empty, then brought the paper close, focusing on my name—Dear Mrs. Krause.

  I cannot, at this writing, reproduce the words in their exactness. I am not a trained legal mind, and the vocabulary escapes me. The letter itself became worn, read to shreds, though I kept it until the Denver newspaper (to which I treated myself a Sunday subscription) carried the obituaries of the boys, rendering it no longer necessary to defend myself should the need arise. In short, Mr. David Thornhill, Esq., wrote to inform me that unknown to those boys, my husband had provided for me in a will separate to the one connected to his estate. The terms here provided for my keep—the same allowance as he provided during our time together. No more, no less, to be paid to me on a monthly basis—as the account would allow—spanning from the day of his death to the day of my own. In my haste to escape the boys’ accusations, I had no opportunity to be contacted, and until the day of Detective Irvin Carmichael’s visit, my whereabouts were unknown. I was to rest assured of two promises: the sons had no claim or knowledge of this circumstance, that the back payments due to me had—as of the date on the letter—been wired to an account in my name at a prominent San Antonio bank, and I need only present this letter to activate the account and begin to withdraw funds as needed.

  How to describe my feeling upon reading this? I have known the experience of drowning, my head plunged and held under with a villain’s hand on my neck, and I knew the triumph of gathering my strength and throwing him off, rising again to sweet, life-giving breath. I have known what it is to fall, pushed into a street, the feeling of hooves and wheels across my skirts, but my life spared. Sometimes, in a way to prove to my husband how literally he had saved my life, I would tell him these stories from the safe warmth of our bed. He would listen and pat me and tell me that I was his greatest, sweetest joy. And that I would never have to fear for my life again.

  I brought the letter to my mouth and kissed it, whispering my gratitude aloud. Whispering his name to echo softly in the vastness of this space that spanned three floors below the sky. The envelope fell from my lap, and as it did something else slipped from it. Even in the dim light, I recognized the distinctive shade of a paper torn from Carmichael’s notebook. A new tremble came to my hands as I gingerly picked it up. The sheet had been carelessly ripped away, the note hastily written.

  Please know I had no intentions of withholding this, no matter your choice. I wanted us to choose each other for the sake of love alone. ∼∼I. C.

  I folded Carmichael’s note into the letter and tucked both into the envelope. It was frightfully cold, and I had a warm bed waiting. I passed the stairs on my way and wondered for a moment if I should sneak down to inform Bert that all was well. All was settled. But there would be another time. I knew this as surely as I knew that I had finally found the home I searched all my life for, and I would share it only with those spirits who would come to visit in my dreams.

  Chapter 19

  It had been decided that Dini would take a Lyft home from the Menger, and Quin would deliver her car in the morning when he came over for breakfast and a final visit. Downtown was choked with the kind of traffic that always happens with a Spurs game, and while the normally fifteen-minute drive took nearly an hour, at least she could experience it in the back seat of a late-model sedan rather than white-knuckled behind the wheel of her Kia Soul.

  She used the time to read through her battered copy of My Spectral Accuser, which Quin had returned to her with all the solemnity of exchanged custody. Illuminating the pages with her cell phone light as darkness fell, she read about the burning of the Christmas picture, knowing a copy of the picture was waiting for her at home. She read between the lines of Hedda and Carmichael’s day together, filling them in with the photos of that day. She read and reread that final night, following her desperate chase, clinging to irrational hope that maybe she’d read it wrong all these years. Maybe Detective Carmichael would come back this time. Carry Hedda away into the winter night.

  Once home (after a hefty tip to her driver, who remained blessedly silent for the entire ride), she put on a pot of tea and went straight back to her bedroom, stepping out of the high heels and peeling off the black dress en route. She washed her face and stared at her reflection as the water dripped down. She was a different girl than the one who’d stood here in the midmorning, expertly fanning her eyeliner. Her lips were full, soft, and naturally pink—and they’d been kissed.

  Moments later, dressed in a Hamilton T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, she sat with her tea and a stack of buttered toast, Carmichael’s notebook open before her. “What do you know?” she asked aloud, waiting for a miracle moment when a breeze would blow in and magically open the notebook to the right page, revealing all. But of course there was no breeze, and no miracle answer. His notebook didn’t address anything beyond Hedda’s account. Chewing, she brushed the crumbs off her hands and turned to the last page. The lawyer’s name in Denver, his address, and a monetary amount. Underlined, and smeared—a victim of the detective’s left hand. The next page was torn out, as she knew it would be. Not carelessly ripped like the page where he’d scribbled an invitation to dinner, but perfectly, as if he’d been biding his time.

  Her phone vibrated with a text from Quin.

  Q: You MAKE IT HOME OK?

  D: YES. SORRY…SHOULD HAVE TEXTED YOU.

  Q: Do I NEED TO BRING ANYTHING TOMORROW?

  D: JUST MY CAR…SAFE AND SOUND.

  Q: DON’T WORRY. SHE’S IN GOOD HANDS.

  D: 9:30 TOO EARLY?

  Q: PERFECT. SEE YOU THEN.

  Q: GOOD NIGHT, DINI.

  Something about the last text, maybe the full minute that elapsed before he sent it, stirred a bit of excitement within her. She giggled, then clamped her hand over her mouth as if hiding it from—what? Her teapot? She read it over and over again, marveling at the punctuation. She pictured his thumb hovering over the keys and then, unbidden, heard the words in his voice. He’d said them as they waited on the curb for her Lyft, and she felt the breath of them on her cheek right before he’d placed a kiss on the corner of her mouth.

  D: GOOD NIGHT, QUIN.

  For fun she added a GIF of a bunny snuggling down into bed. Immediately she wished she could take it back. It was the same GIF she sent to Arya all the time, but somehow, sending it to the man who had kissed her (and kissed her and kissed her), a new, suggestive angle took hold.

  Then Quin replied with a GIF of two animated kittens sharing a sweet kitten kiss, and Dini giggled again, all of her fears of unleashing the sultry bunny forgotten.

  She was about to put the phone away and take her dishes to the sink when Arya’s face came on the screen. Dini took the call, settling back with her final piece of toast and tepid tea. After the usual rundown about Arya’s day—drama with Bea’s school butterfly project, Bill’s inability to appreciate a good take-out dinner—her friend stopped midsentence and said, “Wait a minute. What’s up with you?”

  Dini wiped the corner of her mouth with her shirt sleeve. “What do you mean, What’s up?”

  “You look different.”

  “I know.” She raked her fingers through her curls. “But it’s not as bad as it looks in this light. Really, more of a lavender—”

  “I’m not talking about your hair.” Arya took on a look of extreme concentration and moved her face closer to her camera, filling Dini’s screen with an exaggerated view of her friend’s nose.

  “Stop,” Dini said, moving herself out of range.

  “You just giggled.”

  “I did not.”

  She had.


  “It’s that nerd. Something happened with him.” She was back to a safe distance, but the angle of her head demanded details.

  “He went with me to a show.” Dini tried—but failed—to control the invisible wires tugging at her lips as she spoke. Nothing escaped scrutiny on FaceTime.

  “You two looked pretty cozy on Instagram.”

  “You saw that?”

  “I did.”

  Dini felt an involuntary smile at the memory. “We spent a really nice day together.”

  “And?”

  “And”—the smile quivered—“he’s leaving tomorrow. So that’s that. A nice day, a nice kiss, and tomorrow is goodbye.”

  “He kissed you?” Arya’s big brown eyes glistened. “Aw, boo—your first kiss.”

  The two laughed and swiped ridiculous tears from their cheeks. This was a moment Dini would have shared with her mother—or maybe a sister if she’d had one. Arya was both. “I feel like I’m sixteen, making such a big deal out of it.”

  “That’s okay. You were busy doing other things when you were sixteen. I kissed plenty of boys back in my youth. You’re not missing out on anything.” A long sigh and then, “You like this guy, don’t you?”

  “I don’t really know how fair it is for me to say that, because I’ve never really dated, right? But yeah, I do.”

  “First love is a powerful thing.”

  “Who said anything about love?”

  “Girl, your face is saying it all over.”

  Dini woke up a little before seven, immediately alert in anticipation. Her alarm wasn’t set to go off for another thirty minutes, but the buzzing of her phone made her realize she hadn’t woken naturally. She’d been summoned by her phone’s vibration, and she reached for it, unplugging the charging cable in one fluid motion. A text from Quin. Actually, five texts from Quin.

  Q: ARE YOU AWAKE YET?

  Q: TEXT ME WHEN YOU’RE AWAKE.

  Q: I THOUGHT OF SOMETHING, BUT I DON’T WANT TO TEXT IT.

  Q: SERIOUSLY, I WOKE up WITH THIS THOUGHT.