The Lady in Residence

by Allison Pittman

  Except Quin.

  In just those seconds, she calculated every touch. The touch of their hands at Mi Tierra. The brush of his hip against hers as they walked in the crowded street. The nudge of his elbow. Now this. It bothered her mind but not her body, and she missed it immediately when he drew away to open the lobby door.

  They passed a sea of furniture positioned in front of a massive black stone fireplace and headed, by some unspoken instinct, across the threshold to the Victorian lobby. “Do you want to wait here?” He indicated a grouping of sofas around a glass-topped table. Spanning the area, a painting depicted a classic cowboy in pursuit of roping down a stray. It was the very place she’d mentioned in her playful text before she saw the name and the emojis. “Or do you just want to come up to my room? That would be easier.”

  “I—I don’t know—”

  “Look”—he held up his hands in a gesture of surrender—“I know you don’t know me well, but you can trust me. I’m a nice guy. A good guy. Not a serial killer or anything like that.”

  “Most serial killers don’t introduce themselves as serial killers.”

  He laughed. “Point. But—we can leave the door open. I know, I know—that’s what I would say here in order to get you there and—”

  “It’s fine,” she said, suddenly consumed with nothing other than seeing the prize she sought. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 9

  Excerpt from

  My Spectral Accuser: The Haunted Life of Hedda Krause

  Published by the Author Herself

  I did not immediately shred the photograph. To do so in Mr. Sylvan’s presence would have piqued his curiosity, and I was in no frame of mind to share my personal horror with him. Instead, I answered his curious gaze at my response by saying, “My goodness. We never appear to be quite ourselves in a photograph, do we?”

  Then I took the photograph and the packaging straight to my room and locked the door behind me. There was a heavy crystal bowl on my writing desk, something the staff always kept full of sweet bits of wrapped toffee. These I dumped to the table before—Zzzip—I ripped off the top of the tree. Zzzip, and my skirt was gone. I tore and tore until I held between my finger and thumb nothing but our two faces: Sallie’s and mine. Hers a blur, mine not. Despite what I’d said to Mr. Sylvan, I thought myself quite beautiful. My gown was new, purchased on a whim only days before, its neckline broad and sleeves capped. I stared at the dark hand outlined on my white skin. How could I not have felt that? How did I not sense her behind me? Had there been the slightest rustle of the tree? I closed my eyes and tried to recall some jostling of the ornaments, a whisper of blown-glass baubles brushing against each other. Now, many years later, as I commit my memories to the page, I feel it. The rough brush of her cotton uniform against my back. The cold touch of her flesh on mine. Her broken breath as she rushes through the boughs.

  Finally, I said, “Goodbye, Sallie. May the devil take your soul,” and dropped the last scrap of the photograph on the pile of shreds and set a match. The fire burned within the crystal, reducing the lot of it to curled, black ash.

  I sat at the desk and took a page of stationery, prepared to write a letter equally as fiery to J. P. Haley, Photographer, but the pen hovered above the page. What could I say? I saw his face; he was as terrified as I. Perhaps Bert would have had some words of comfort or wisdom, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him either. Tears pricked my eyes, brought on only partially by the acrid stream of smoke rising from the crystal. Now that I no longer had the image to ignite my fear, my heart had time to seize its sense of shame for being hunted by such evil. Certainly a ghost could haunt my hallway, scratch at my door, say my name. I never asked any of my fellow guests if they heard her, for fear my own sanity would come into question. I assumed that is why they never asked me either. And if, on occasion, I would overhear a delighted whisper about a moving shadow, or a sudden chill, or the unexplained swaying of a hanging lamp, I said nothing. Let them keep their ghost their way, and I, mine.

  But to see her in that photograph? Profane. Dozens of families stood in the same spot as I, their smiles frozen in the spirit of the holiday, yet they were spared the same ghoulish apparition. Or, I assumed they were spared. No, I didn’t assume. I knew. The deepest part of me lived with certain assurance that I alone shared my photo with Sallie White. Her hand touched my shoulder only. The dream I had of reconstructing the good, respectable life I enjoyed with my late husband shattered beneath her skin. Her first touch burned my flesh, but this one broke my spirit.

  At this, you might be thinking, why did I not leave? I could have packed my trunk, paid my bill, and moved myself to another establishment. The Crockett Hotel was just across the street. The Gibbs only a block away. Either would be a perfectly acceptable home, however temporary. Those of you who have enjoyed the luxuries of the Menger, however, well understand my choice. There is no equal to its elegance. It is where my late husband would have insisted we stay, had he lived long enough to realize our adventurous dreams.

  There is another reason, though, for my stubborn refusal to vacate. I may present myself as a lady of fine breeding, but I’ve never been one to back down from a fight. I was raised in streets and alleyways and courtyards of darkness. I’ve had more than one occasion to fight for my life. Rest assured, if I had been Sally White, this hotel would be haunted by the ghost of Henry Wheeler. I had two rivals for the affections of my late husband, one of whom was an heiress to a company known in every household in the nation. Yet I prevailed. Not by methods of which I am terribly proud, but if a fleshly woman with millions of dollars could not thwart my path to happiness, then neither would the remaining spirit of a long-dead maid. The quest for love compels risks.

  Thus, I took on the role of the offense in our fight.

  “How can I summon her to me?” I asked Bert this question in the dead of a bitter January night. By then we’d given up any sort of pretense that we were anything other than friends. Nights when the bar was empty, knowing the night clerk was dozing behind a magazine, I’d creep in, whereupon Bert would lock the doors, pull the shade, and join me at my table.

  “What do you mean, summon?” he asked, filling my glass with a special brandy kept under the bar just for me. “You don’t mean anything like one of those séances, do you? Witches talking to the dead? Because not only is that pure evil, but Mr. Sylvan would never allow such a thing on his property.”

  “Of course not. I mean Sallie herself. If she can be bothered to show up in…unexpected places whenever she wishes, how can I get her to come speak to me when I wish?”

  “You know you sound crazy.”

  “Ah, but you know I’m not.”

  “I did until just this minute. Now I’m not entirely sure.” He grinned at me over his cup. Coffee, straight, as he always drank. And though I could sense the levity in his comment, there was a hint of sincerity behind it. I should have told him about the photograph, I chastised myself. More, I should have shown it to him, so he would know. “You believe me, don’t you, Bert?”

  “It’s like what I told you at the beginning. You got to be careful about plantin’ ideas in a mind, because they can take root, whether they have a life to them or not. It’s like thinkin’ to yourself, I’d like to have me a little dog. A little black-and-white dog with spots. And then, next you know, you’re seein’ little black-and-white spotted dogs everywhere. Places you’ve never seen them before. But maybe they was always there—you just hadn’t brung them up to the top of your mind yet.”

  “You think Sallie is just something I have brought to the top of my mind?”

  “No.” He poured me another. “What you heard that first night was probably real enough. It’s a different story than what most tell, but …” He left the thought unfinished.

  “I have heard her since.”

  “I know you have.”

  “On multiple occasions. And in multiple…ways.” He cocked his head, inviting me to elaborate, but I did not.


  “I think,” he said, his voice as gentle as I ever heard it, “that’s maybe because you have stayed here for—well, longer than most do. Most people, they’re here a night. Maybe two or three. Then they go. So if they see or hear somethin’, they can put it out of mind because they don’t have another night comin’.”

  I steeled myself. “Are you saying I should leave?”

  “No.” He shook his head for emphasis. “No, I am not sayin’ that at all. What I do say, is that maybe just by bein’ here, in a way, you’re summoning her already. Maybe she thinks, when people leave, she’s scarin’ them off. And she just hasn’t scared you off yet.”

  I let his words sink in with the brandy. “She won’t.”

  “That’s my girl.” He offered his smile, which, along with the sentiment, managed to warm every bit of me that the drink left cold.

  That night I left the bar in a manner quite the opposite of how I left the nights before. Rather than keeping my head down, eyes focused on my feet, I kept my gaze employed in a constant sweep of the shadows, scanning left and right as I imagined a soldier on patrol might do. With every step I whispered, “Come out here, Sally White,” just under my breath, keeping my teeth gritted closed behind my lips. I kept up my challenge in the hall, hearing the blood rush in my ears, knowing she and I would be trapped in the long, narrow passage.

  I went into my room and shut my door as usual but stopped short of sliding the chain. No, I would no longer hide behind any forged protection. I would see her. At the slightest sound, I would throw it open to reveal her in whatever form she took.

  Days passed then weeks. The bills in my wallet dwindled. By my calculations, I had enough cash on hand to maintain my residence through the end of February, with rations. Toast and coffee in the mornings, dinner or supper each day, preferably at the invitation of another. I took inventory of my jewelry, recording it in two lines of value: those pieces that would bring in the most money and those pieces that would bring the most pain in parting. Most valuable by far, the ring my late husband gave me to ensure our engagement. Emerald, surrounded by diamonds. Dainty and elegant but substantial. It might fetch the highest price, but at what cost? He gave it to me one night at supper, taking his knee in front of his sons, proclaiming a love that would last to the end of our lives. This ring branded me as a woman of quality. It gave me worth and respectability. Everything else—the pearls, the lapis, the gold, the amethysts—they were baubles in comparison. Rocks set in paste. Valuable rocks, nonetheless, set in a paste that would fetch a price.

  One afternoon, in what had become a ritual of civil exchange, I asked Mr. Sylvan if he could recommend a reputable broker to whom I might sell a piece or two.

  “I hardly live the life that calls for such adornment,” I said. “Life really is simpler here in the West.”

  “Maybe California would be more exciting?”

  I smiled, refusing to take his bait. “But that really is just farther west, isn’t it? Not necessarily more exciting.”

  By the end of our conversation, he recommended a shop on Houston Street. It was a fine winter day for walking. Temperate, as they say, and I congratulated myself for not wasting precious trunk space with furs. My wool coat would more than suffice, and on a day like this one, with the afternoon sun streaming down, it proved to be too warm. At least that was the reason I gave for the trickle of sweat at the nape of my neck and the glistening of my brow when I walked into Paragon Treasures.

  Despite Mr. Sylvan’s reassurance that the store was not a typical pawn shop, it had all the vestiges of being exactly that. Small, with an attempt at elegance in its etched glass door and clean carpet runner, it was full of items that were obviously given over for cash. A line of silver teapots on one shelf, clocks of every shape and size imaginable produced a solid, soothing wall of sound. Books stuffed indiscriminately in a case were for sale—according to a faded card—at the tempting price of three for a quarter. A certain novel caught my eye, Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens, and something called Tempest and Sunshine, which looked like a story of pure escape. I wasted no time finding a third. I should have taken my books, left my quarter on the counter, and returned to pursue a quiet life of reading. Such had always been my escape, even during long evenings in luxury, reading aloud to my ailing husband in his final, quiet nights. But secondhand literature was not the nature of my errand.

  The proprietor had offered a friendly enough greeting upon my arrival and was only mildly interested that I seemed poised to leave with twenty-five cents’ worth of books. His white hair tufted around a bald pate, and he gave out an old man’s groan as he rose from his comfortable stool to serve me.

  “No other treasures I can interest you in?” His accent indicated that San Antonio was not his native home. “Nothing is better with a good book than a nice cup of tea. Mostly so on a cold winter night. And I have some lovely sets here.”

  “No, thank you.” I wondered if he would have attempted to sell me a tarnished teapot if I had been wearing my emerald ring, which I’d left at home lest I be tempted to sell it. “I would like to purchase these, but I also—” Words caught curiously in my throat. Curious, I say, because I had pawned things before. Shoes, dishes, silver spoons, and golden snuff boxes, all without a second thought as to how they came into my possession. A glance at the assembly of trinkets in the glass case in front of me gave assurance that such transactions were common here.

  The proprietor looked at my bag and then into my eyes. “Something to sell?”

  “Yes. Perhaps.”

  He took a square of black felt from behind the counter and smoothed it on the glass. “Show me.”

  I was wearing a simple ring, set with a cluster of seed pearls, which I removed easily from my left pinkie and placed on the square. Then I reached into my little bag and took out the cuff I’d worn in the Christmas photo and a brooch set with mother-of-pearl. He moved each to a corner of the cloth and looked up again.

  “Not the earrings?”

  My amethyst, given to me by my husband in a box lined with white fur. “No.” Not yet.

  “Does your husband approve of the sale of these pieces?”

  “They are my own,” I said, which, with the exception of the brooch, was true. I recognized the proprietor’s steely heart of business. Still, there was a heart, so I added, “I am a widow.”

  He touched an age-spotted hand to his chest and said, “My condolences,” before taking a well-diminished pad of paper from his breast pocket. He licked the tip of a stubby pencil and began scribbling figures, finally making a large, dark circle around a final sum.

  “This is what I can do.”

  I stared at the figure and did my own calculations. The number was ridiculously low, even my untrained eye knew that. The pieces I offered exceeded the quality of anything in his case. But it was enough to see me through spring, with careful stewardship, and my acceptance might give me leverage in future transactions.

  “Does this include a twenty-five cent deduction for my books?”

  He offered a wry smile. “Indeed. And I will even throw in a teapot if you like.”

  “I’ve no need.” What could I tell him? That I didn’t have a home, let alone a kitchen or a stove?

  “Then we are in agreement. Shall I write you a check? Or would cash be preferred?”

  “Cash, please.”

  “Then I shall return. In the meantime …” He took a small card from the front of a tabletop file and placed the pencil next to it. “If you would fill this out.”

  On the card was a place for my name and address. Underneath, a small space with the heading ITEMS SURRENDERED FOR SALE OR PAWN. I hadn’t touched the card by the time he returned.

  “Why do you need this information?”

  “For when you come back, in better times, to reclaim your property.”

  “I do not foresee better times.”

  “But you’ll be back?” He slid a white envelope across the counter even as his gaze shifted gre
edily to my ear.

  “I might. You have a wonderful selection of books.”

  “Well, then.” He spun the card around, picked up the pencil, and licked the tip again before circling the word SALE in a single, definitive stroke. “Perhaps I shall save you the trouble and fill this out on your behalf?”

  “You don’t know my name,” I said, thinking I may have met my first match.

  “Sometimes,” he said, without looking up, “that is for the best, isn’t it?”

  I opened the envelope and made quick work of thumbing through and counting the amount. “It is indeed.”

  Chapter 10

  I wasn’t expecting it to be so girly,” Quin said, standing aside to usher Dini in. “I feel like I’m hanging out in my sisters’ bedroom.”

  Dini stepped in, understanding immediately his appraisal. The walls were painted a muted shade of rose, the drapes an antique floral pattern that matched—perfectly—the cover folded at the foot of the four-poster bed. The lamp could best be described as delicate, the desk obviously better suited as a vanity than a place for a sturdy laptop and haphazard stacks of paper. The dresser was heavy and ornate, with drawer space beyond what a weekend traveler would need; the mirror above it was tarnished at the corners. How many men and women had gazed into it, dressed for whatever festivities awaited in the ballroom? It was exactly the kind of room she dreamed of having as a girl—intentional and permanent.

  She walked slowly, trailing her step along the patterned carpet. “You have a sister?”

  “Three, actually. Two older, one younger. Classic middle-ish child.”

  She’d never bothered with family dynamics before. Instead, she fixated on the idea that a man who had sisters knew how to be kind to a woman, and she instantly relaxed.

  “So, anyway,” he said, taking his bag from over his shoulder and dropping it on the floor by the desk, “Here’s what you came for.”