as she watched him thoroughly enjoy his breakfast dessert, “I know we both think we have something, but I’m going to start. I don’t think Detective Carmichael ever solved this case.”
“What makes you say that?” Only, he was eating, so it sounded like Whamakshoosayzat?
“I noticed something in his notebook. He dated the top of the pages whenever he started a new investigation and then dated it at the end, near the bottom. But, he didn’t just write the date. He also cut the bottom corner off the page so he could easily find the first page of the next case. He didn’t cut the page on this one. I feel like he almost knew. I feel like I almost know, but there’s something missing—”
“There is—”
“—and something probably so obvious—”
“—it is—”
“—like right under our nose—”
“—or, like right behind your nose.”
She was about to take a bite but let her hand drop. “Behind my nose? What could possibly be behind my nose?”
He pointed with his bitten stub of a rolled tortilla. “You. You’ve had the key your whole life.”
Chapter 20
Excerpt from
My Spectral Accuser: The Haunted Life of Hedda Krause
Published by the Author Herself
Epilogue
I am known, affectionately, as the Lady in Residence. Some of the old-timers, the ones who have been around almost as long as I have, still call me by my name. Though, of all the people I knew from my first night here at the Menger Hotel, only Bert remains. Mr. Sylvan died of a gentle stroke behind his desk not long after the end of the Second World War. I witnessed it from across the lobby. He was simply writing in his ledger, looked up, sent me a rare friendly smile, and then dropped behind the counter. We had long since mended our feud—partly owing to the weekly payment I made for my room, and partly to the visitors who came to hear my story.
For my part, I had abided by my promise not to go to the press with my story. But the hotel was full of guests that night who had been questioned by Detective Carmichael. They left, taking the tale far and wide, and many brought it back. They’d whisper to Mr. Sylvan, Is the woman who was robbed by the ghost of Sallie White still here? And he would nod in my direction if I happened to be reading in the lobby or knitting by the light of the fire.
Because, Reader, as you know unless you purchased this book by pure happenstance, I never left the Menger Hotel after that night. Quite literally, for nearly the first year. I opened my bank account via written correspondence, followed by coffee in the Menger dining room with the bank president to reassure him of my existence and situation. All that time, Mr. Sylvan’s truth rang in my ears, and I feared he would toss out my things if my person passed the threshold. The next year brought the Spanish influenza, giving me more reason to embrace my reclusive status. I watched the seasons change through the brief moments of the front door’s opening to the street as guests came and went.
And I simply stayed.
The same allowance that, while I was married, afforded me every sort of luxury—new hats, new furnishings, elaborate luncheons and garden parties, and box seats at our theater—only promised to meet my needs from one month to the next, with a little saved up in case the boys ever found out and put a stop to it. Since that night—the night I chose to live alone with my clean conscience and unapologetic freedom—David Thornhill has faithfully deposited the rightful amount in my account, and some bank employee has faithfully delivered my envelope of cash for whatever incidentals I might chance upon.
There were times when I was at my loneliest, my heart its emptiest, my days long and my nights longer, that I wished I had chosen differently. There had been time. I could have caught him in the street, had I chased him. I could have sent an urgent note to the police station, asking them to contact him on my behalf. He’d told me he lived within blocks of the hotel; I could have spent a series of spring days knocking on each door until I found him. But make no mistake: the woman he left behind, the tragic victim of her choices as some might paint me, was completely and utterly whole. Something within me came to life the moment I opened