“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.