But just because I never went to junior high school doesn’t mean I want to start going now. He’s not my type.”
“You don’t have a type.”
“I have a type. Everybody has a type.”
“So, what is it? Because I’ve never known you to embrace anybody.”
Dini wound a slice of prosciutto around a small bit of cheese. “You won’t believe this, but I met a guy last night.”
Arya’s eyes went wide. “And you’re telling me now?”
“I haven’t had a chance. It was late, and today’s been crazy.”
“Wait one second.” She disappeared and returned with a cup of pretzels and two hunks of cake. “Now, tell.”
“Okay. Well, I know you’re going to think this is crazy, but…his name? Irvin Carmichael.” She paused for dramatic effect and was disappointed by Arya’s disapprovingly curled lip.
“Irvin?”
“Yes—but, he’s actually Irvin Carmichael the Fifth. He goes by Quin.”
“So his name is Quin.”
“Yes.” Somehow, Arya was slow to share her excitement. “As in, the fifth. Arya! He is a direct descendant.”
“Of who?”
“Irvin Carmichael.” She was tempted to shake her friend by the shoulders. “Detective Irvin Carmichael.” She waited for the light to dawn, and when it did, she felt more let down than before. Arya went from dismissive to disappointed before her very eyes.
“Ah, Dini.”
“What, Ah, Dini? Do you know how awesome this is?”
“I know I wish you spent more time with real people. Like people who are actually among the living.”
“I’m around people all the time. It’s exhausting.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Well, look here—I’m going to spend some time with this guy. And he is very much alive.”
For the first time, Arya emitted a spark of approval. “Is he cute?”
“Very.” Dini surprised herself with how quickly she answered, along with the flush she felt.
“Well, that’s a start, at least. Is he as obsessed with this whole Menger story as you are?”
“Opposite, actually. He doesn’t even know it. But he has—I don’t even know what all. We’re meeting for brunch tomorrow.” She added quickly, “It’s not a date.”
“It’s all right if it is, you know.”
“It’s not. He’s not from here, doesn’t live here. He’s only in town for the week, so …” Dini let the sentence trail away in the guise of eating a guacamole-laden chip. Arya snagged a cube of cheese, and both used the silent chewing interval to cleanse the conversation palate.
“Does that mean you’re not going to make it for the concert in the park tomorrow?” Arya asked.
“Can you promise not to try to fix me up with some random saxophone player?”
“I promise nothing.”
Chapter 4
Excerpt from
My Spectral Accuser: The Haunted Life of Hedda Krause
Published by the Author Herself
I have never had the opportunity to think of myself as a lady of leisure. In fact, for most of my life, I don’t know that I could have presented myself as a lady at all without a healthy dose of irony. If my marriage to my late husband gave me respect—a name, a home, a desk drawer full of monogrammed stationery and calling cards—then my life at the Menger gave me all of the same, with the added elements of desirability and intrigue. My friendships here were transient at best. Fellow lodgers in town for business or leisure might invite me to their table for dinner after light conversation in the lobby. I often accepted, as politeness required, and thanked them with profuse incredulity and sufficient protest when they insisted on charging my meal to their room.
I developed a thriving social life outside of the hotel, heavy with engagements and invitations. I learned of all the grumblings of the coming war while walking with an army officer through the Mexican Courtyard, his whispers no louder than the sound of the wind through the leaves. I joined a group on a walking tour of the surrounding Catholic missions—long abandoned but still holy enough to inspire a convicting reverence. Over the course of a week, a state senator escorted me to two concerts and a charity banquet before he—with great reluctance—informed me that his wife would be joining him for the remainder of his stay, and he would be removing himself to the Beverly Hotel across the street.
I’d also taken up going to the theater. Not to the shows, exactly. To buy myself a ticket remained beyond my budget. Instead, I’d don my finest evening gown (wishing each time that I’d thought to pack more than one) and take myself to the newly opened Empire Theater, timing my arrival to coincide with the show’s intermission, where I could indulge in