The Lady in Residence

by Allison Pittman

She ignored him. The pages were darkened around the edges but toward the center held what must have been the original hue—a light peach, with cadet-blue lines. The first three were blank, which she found puzzling, but then the workings of a detective’s mind came out in full force. Lists, addresses, names. The handwriting was neat but occasionally blurred, evidence of his left-handedness. What she would give to spend an afternoon at the library, scrolling through the archived newspapers to find the crimes and cases annotated here. She read the detective’s questions, written to himself, and his answers—some marked with stars, others obliterated with a heavy hand.

  And then—

  February 14, 1916, 22:30

  Robbery/Menger Hotel

  Ghost??? (Annie Sally White)

  Arnold Sylvan, mgr

  Dini and Quin had chosen to sit on the same side of the booth so they could peruse the notebook together, but it was soon apparent that Quin had little interest in much before this date. She was aware—extremely, acutely aware—that he was studying her as intently as she was studying Carmichael’s notes, offering a disinterested hmm between sips of coffee. But now he set down his mug and drew closer.

  “Can you imagine what was in his mind when he had to write ghost?”

  “He spelled Sallie wrong.” Dini hovered her finger over the name. She turned the page and gasped.

  “What is it?”

  “The three questions.” She pronounced it as if it were some notable historic document.

  What is your name?

  Hedda Krause

  In what city is your husband’s death certificate filed?

  Denver

  In what state were you married?

  Tennessee

  Dini marveled at it—his handwriting so prevalent and her responses neatly scripted within. And that single word. Denver. Two truths, one lie. For a moment, the heart pounding in her ears was Hedda’s. The tips of her fingers tingling as she imagined the grip of the pen; her wrist involuntarily twisting in the act of writing. How could she choose what to confess and what to conceal? And did she want him to know, want to unburden herself?

  Finally, Dini took the little notebook in both hands and brought it to her face. Careful not to touch her nose to the page, she closed her eyes and inhaled, deep enough to feel her shoulders rise with the effort. There it was, trapped in the living pores of the paper. Cigarettes. His cigarettes. His breath, his skin.

  After a few such breaths, she lowered the book and opened her eyes to find Quin’s face, closer than she remembered, looking amused.

  “You are such a nerd,” he said.

  “I know.”

  And then he was closer still, one finger along her cheek, turning her toward him. At once the pulse was her own, the man beside her alive, and he was about to kiss her. Silently she pleaded with herself—don’t freeze. Relax. Breathe. But the closer he came, the icier the chill down her neck, and when his lips touched hers—so lightly as to be fairy’s feet—her hand broke free from its grip on the notebook and splayed itself on his chest, pushing him away.

  “Don’t,” she said so softly the word was little more than a click behind her teeth.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sitting back. “I thought we—”

  “It’s just that I—” She swallowed, buying time. “I’ve never …”

  “Dini, we’re here in a booth in the middle of a bar. And even if we weren’t—I was only going to kiss you.” He sat back, away. “But I’m sorry if I misread.”

  “You didn’t misread.” He hadn’t really. “I’ve just never …” Please don’t make me say it out loud. She watched, unwavering, as understanding dawned and he finished the statement.

  “Been kissed.”

  She nodded, biting the inside of her cheek.

  “How can that be?” His question held no shock, no incredulity, but a genuine, curious tone. “Because honestly? That’s pretty much all I’ve been thinking about since the night we first talked.”

  It was the perfect thing to say and the perfect way to say it. She leaned in, resting her palm against his beard, and stayed very still. Not frozen, not locked. He touched her again too, expertly bringing her lips to meet his. She’d always been a singular person, and content to be so had anyone asked. The idea of being fitted together with someone, for any sort of physical contact to comprise itself of angles and connection, was more than she could imagine for herself. And yet, as soon as it began, this was no longer her first kiss. That designation would go to Quin’s first attempt. This, she concluded, as he drew her ever closer, would be her truest.

  Dini didn’t know how or when to end, but Quin did, and inexperienced as she was, she felt his reluctance as he pulled away.

  “I didn’t go to high school,” she said, using her mouth for some other purpose right away before following the temptation to fall into him again. “I didn’t have a high school sweetheart or—anything. I couldn’t have boyfriends. I couldn’t date.”

  “Dini, you don’t have to explain anything.”

  She plunged on. “And, understandably, my mother kept me away from—well, everybody. Because it’s not the most honorable types who go on magic road shows, you know? And then my parents died, and everything was crazy, and I was hustling for shows myself. And, I’m sorry, but dating was just not a priority.”

  “I get it.”

  “You can’t possibly get it because you are so normal. You know, except for my parents and Arya, I’ve never spent as much time—as many consecutive hours—with a person than I did with you today.”

  “It’s been a great day.”

  “Can I keep this?” She clutched the notebook close. “For a while anyway. I want to read every word in it.”

  “Of course, but I want to see one more thing.” He took the notebook and ran his thumb along the pages in the back, then held it out. “Here’s the torn page when he sent the note up to her.”

  Dini took it and saw, right above the heedless tear, a series of abandoned starts, a line drawn through them, but still highly visible.

  Dear Hedda,

  Mrs. Krause—

  I’ve just come back and I need

  Some disturbing truth has come to

  “In the end, he just invited her down to supper,” Dini said.

  “Speaking of…It’s been a good day, but it’s been a long day. I’m starving. Want to get something to eat? Here, or—choose someplace for my last San Antonio supper.”

  She didn’t want to think about that. Didn’t want to leave this moment. Technically, they wouldn’t have to; the bar served nachos and such. They could stay in this booth and eat and talk. Laugh, kiss. But at some point, the time would come for them to part. She to her little bungalow and, tomorrow, he to his home in Virginia. Each hour only prolonged the inevitable. It was best, perhaps, to cut that short. To say goodbye with the feel of his kiss still pleasantly haunting her.

  “I think,” she said, not caring to hide her reluctance, “I should just go home.”

  “That’s probably a good idea.”

  “What? Why?” His acquiescence felt like a sucker punch. Maybe part of her had been hoping that he would persuade her to stay.

  He laughed. “It was your idea.”

  “I thought you’d try a little bit to stop me.” She pouted, the kind of fake, flirty pout she would never have attempted a week ago.

  He took her hand and studied it. “Look, if I had my way, you’d never leave. I wish you could stay here with me all night. Like literally, here, in this booth. Just to be with you, talk to you. Maybe kiss you again?” So he did, smaller and sweeter than the last.

  “And then catch your plane? One of those crazy 4:00 a.m. drives to the airport? Which, by the way, I cannot drive you to the airport. I’m sure you understand that.”

  “Actually, while I was waiting here for you, I changed to a later flight. I’d stay through the weekend if I could, but Saturday is my niece’s birthday and I promised to be at the party. She’s turning eight. Apparently t
hat’s a big deal.”

  “Eight is a big deal. What’s the theme?”

  “Glitter ponies.”

  “Glitter ponies?”

  “She made it up herself. Anyway, my point is, I doubled my airfare so I can spend more time with you tomorrow. Can I see you tomorrow?”

  “Of course.” Every bit of her filled with a feeling both new and familiar—a joyful anticipation. A next time. A tomorrow. Their last, but she wouldn’t focus there. “Come to my house. Early. Or, early-ish. Until then, I am going to spend some quality time with your ancestor.” She ran her thumb across the pages, fanning them like a deck of fragile cards, and almost missed the object that floated to the table.

  “What is this?” Quin lifted it gently. Lying across his palm was a thin braid, half the width of the ribbon that marked another page. Dini looked closer, in awe of the perfection of the plaiting, tied at both ends with a bit of dark thread.

  “It’s hers.” She ran her finger, the one wearing her signature witch’s heart ring, along the length of it. Was this Hedda’s handiwork? Or Carmichael’s? There was no mention in the narrative about ever giving him such a gift, but then there had to be sweet, secret exchanges that lived on only in her heart. And his.

  Gil showed up at the table ready to refill their long-cold coffee, even though there was an entire waitstaff he could dispatch for the duty. “Seems safe to come by.” He gave Dini a wink, obviously signaling that he’d witnessed the more intimate moments of their conversation, but then took on a grave expression as Dini held out Quin’s hand.

  “Look,” she said, overcome to share the artifact with the one person who truly knew, and truly understood, her passion. “It’s hers. Hedda’s.”

  “I always knew he loved her,” Gil said, pouring. “Was a fool to leave her behind. She was never the same.”

  Dini noticed the questioning furrow on Quin’s brow. “Gil’s read the book almost as many times as I have. Right?”

  “Right. And the staff talk too. People who remember.”

  He took one last look, the treasure now laid out on top of the journal, and hovered his hand above it. “Miss Hedda. Quite the beauty in her day.”

  Dini carefully placed the plait back within the pages of the notebook and noticed Quin browsing through the photos again. “Do you ever wonder if maybe he fell in love with her because he knew he was leaving?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I never really knew him myself, but from family stories, he was…humorless. Typical, stereotypical, G-man. Exacting, high standards. Not exactly stern or mean, but not”—he held out the picture of Hedda, disheveled and lovely—“this guy. The guy who would take this picture. Or who would forgive …” He trailed the thought.

  “You mean he felt safe to give in? Because he knew their relationship couldn’t go anywhere?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But maybe this is the real Irvin Carmichael. And he just became that stringent, exacting person after …”

  “No. You saw those notes. Details. I’ll bet in the whole book you don’t find anything scratched over until you get to where he’s trying to write a note to her. He didn’t investigate her because he loved her. He investigated because that’s what he was hardwired to do.”

  “But he loved her anyway.”

  “Yes. Because it was easy to do. He could let himself. Because he knew, at some point, he was going back to Virginia.”

  “He was going to Washington.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  And then it was really clear that neither of them were talking about Hedda and Carmichael anymore.

  Chapter 18

  Excerpt from

  My Spectral Accuser: The Haunted Life of Hedda Krause

  Published by the Author Herself

  I always hated the winters in Colorado,” I said, finally speaking into the vast expanse of silence between us. Carmichael had come to sit beside me. More like perched, on the edge of my bed, his head buried in his hands. “Was there snow?”

  He looked at me, first only peeking through his fingers, and then dropping his hands to reveal an expression of disapproving curiosity. It was as if he couldn’t quite conjure a response, torn as he was between irritation and amusement.

  “I went to the county records office and saw the death certificate.”

  “God rest his soul,” I said. Because I could call on God too.

  “Then I went to the library and tracked down the newspaper carrying the obituary. You are named as his wife, Hedda.”

  “Of course I was. I wouldn’t lie about my name. I was—am—proud to have his name.”

  “I took down the address.” Here, like a reflex, he touched the pocket where I knew he carried his notebook. “And I went to your house.”

  My breath caught. I loved that house. I could picture it now, a drift of new snow on the shrubbery like icing on a cake. The walkway shoveled clean and covered with tiny rocks of salt. And inside, a roaring fire. There was a back room that faced the garden, an entire wall of windows. In the winter, when it was too cold to spend time outdoors, my husband ordered the garden swing to be brought inside so we could sit next to each other and watch the snow fall. It was the kind of indulgence a father would do for a child, and his own sons hated me for it. For other things too of course, but the swing was a particular sore spot. The scraping of our feet wore a pattern in the carpet, and we were making plans to have it replaced when he took ill. The day after the funeral, I awoke to find the carpet had been removed and the swing a pile of chopped wood in the yard.

  “I loved that house.”

  “I can see why. And I can see why you’d want to keep it.”

  “I never thought I would keep it. He told me—my late husband—before he died that I would not. But there were…things. Things I purchased with my allowance, things I picked out for my own gifts. A darling little sofa at the end of our bed—I slept on that for the final months, you know. My tea set, lamps, works of art—all things that were mine. I only ever wanted what was mine to have. Nothing more.”

  My gaze fell on my trunk in the corner of the room. My husband had bought it to carry all the gifts, the trinkets and silks and furs, he bought me during our courtship. One night is all they gave me. One night to fill it with all I could, and that is what I was allowed to take. My mind ached at the memory of it, never doubting that I would be able to return again to lay claim to the rest. I could not have imagined the lengths they would go to in their selfishness.

  “Did you see the boys, then?” My throat was dry, and the question came out more as a croak.

  He huffed a laugh. “The boys?”

  “He always called them that. Even though they were grown men. They are older than I, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Did you meet them?”

  “I saw them, but I did not make their acquaintance.”

  “Are they still fat?”

  Carmichael threw his head back and laughed in earnest. “They are.”

  “Oh, how they hated me. From the moment I stepped across the threshold. The horrible things they said. They thought I wanted to steal their father.”

  “They think you wanted to kill their father. That maybe you did something to make him sick before you turned into a nurse trying to make him better.”

  And there it was. My secret. Carmichael’s voice always reminded me of the sound that comes with a first bite into perfectly toasted bread. It always warmed me, made me want to hear one more sentence. One more word. It was no different now as he spoke my greatest fear. His tone held no condemnation, only a statement of quiet, unavoidable fact. We sat, no more than three inches between us, but a wall filled that narrow space. Impenetrable and towering. I had no experience of going to church before meeting my late husband, and even then, no experience with spoken confession. Yet my spirit took Carmichael as its confessor.

  “I loved their father.”

  “I understand
.”

  “I don’t think you do. I don’t think you could. He was the first person ever to be kind to me. I had no idea of the vastness of his wealth before I agreed to marry him. I thought he was only a good-hearted gentleman who doted on me much the same as a man would his daughter.”

  “But you were not his daughter.”

  “Of course not. Nor was I his mistress. I was his wife—in every sense—and the years I spent with him were the first of my life knowing without a doubt that I would wake up and lay my head down on the same pillow each morning and night. I never questioned if I would eat or if I would have to fight. Or run. Why”—I turned to him now and spoke to his stone-graven profile—“why would I give that up? Never mind that he held my heart’s affection. Why would an animal turn on its master?”

  His head snapped toward me at this. “Don’t call yourself that.”

  “It’s true. It fits. You wouldn’t recognize me if you knew me then.”

  “I know you now, Hedda.” In a single, swift movement, he grasped me by my upper arms and pulled me close, to where I was pressed up against him and had to tilt my head back to fully see the moss green of his eyes. “I can give you everything he did. Maybe not a mansion, yet. Or jewels, all those things you walked away from. But I give you my love. And I’ll keep you safe.”

  “Safe from the boys?”

  “Safe from the world.”

  He bent his head to kiss me, and slowly his grip softened, his fingers spreading across my back and gently laying me down upon the bed. His body covered mine and I thought—why, yes. He will cover me. If one of the boys came through the door at that moment, I would have been completely hidden beneath the breadth of this man. I could go through life with him as my shield. My protector.

  His kisses grew more ardent. I sensed a defiance in his affections, as if he were overcoming his own doubts, ready to take me before I had a chance to become something monstrous. He knew I could claim no innocence with my body—in that we were equal. But he was a good man who saw the world divided and measured by the rule of law. And this, I feared, would always be a fission between us.