and I am inclined to believe him.” He spoke the entire sentence in a single breath. “Now, please, Mrs. Krause, you have caused me enough embarrassment for an entire career. Just put yourself together and come downstairs. Fifteen minutes.”
I did not take issue with his final statement, being in no shape to meet or visit with anyone. My hair was ratted and loose, my skin dry, my dressing gown stained with jam and dusted with crumbs. I looked every bit a madwoman deserving to be locked away, and the survival instinct that had guided me since I was a small girl kicked in. My hair was given the most attention, brushed until it crackled, then braided and pinned. A shoddy hairstyle is the first giveaway of class; the truly destitute don’t have the time or resources for such grooming. Anyone can wash a face or put on a clean, serviceable dress, but unkempt hair will remain unkempt without the proper ministration. A few precious dollops of my face cream brought a healthy sheen to my skin, and my best day dress had been returned from the cleaners the week before.
“Oh, Hedda,” I said to my reflection, satisfied, “with three minutes to spare.”
Carmichael was waiting for me by one of the large green fronds in the lobby. He stood as I approached, and I wondered if he realized how pleased he looked to see me. Later, in one of our cozy evening chats on that very same sofa, he would confess that he preferred my look on the first night we met, because he imagined that was what I would look like first thing in the morning, and I’d turned to liquid under his words. But this morning we were still all business. I extended my hand. He took it and asked if I was feeling any better.
“What I’m feeling,” I said, “is hungry. I haven’t had breakfast this morning. Shall we talk in the dining room over some eggs?”
He gestured with his hat, and I led the way, feeling the tips of his fingers on the back of my arm, just above my elbow. Guiding me? Guarding me? Ready to grip me if I ran away?
I ordered a fried egg and two pancakes, urging Carmichael to order too as it would be Mr. Sylvan’s treat. He kept to a cup of coffee, however, and took his detestable notebook out of his coat pocket and dropped it on the table.
“I looked over every officer’s interview notes,” he said, flipping it open. “They talked to all of the guests. Nobody heard or saw anything unusual until you came down the stairs.”
“And you believe them?” I looked at him over the rim of my cup. “All?”
“Yes. Right now I’ve no reason not to.”
“But you have reason not to believe me?”
“You’re claiming to have been robbed by a ghost, Mrs. Krause.”
“No.” I extended a finger of correction. “I saw a ghost, and when I was running in fear for my life, my room was robbed.”
“A coincidence of occurrence?”
“We often taunted each other.”
“Taunted?”
“She’d scratch at my door or howl my name, and I would sometimes call to her, daring her to show her face.”
He wrote. My food arrived, and without a momentary care, I dove in and took quick, successive bites, like a farm boy brought in from the fields. Carmichael chuckled.
“Hungry?”
“I’ve not been allowed to leave my room.” It was an exaggeration but one designed to inspire pity. I learned later that it did not. “Anyway, as I said, she teases and mocks me endlessly.”
“But this is the first you’ve seen her?”
“Yes.” I shoveled a bit of pancake, remembered, and said, “No.” I took the time to chew and swallow, pondering the better or worse of my telling. But then, what could be worse? “I saw her once before in a photograph.”
“A photograph of Sallie White?”
“Of her ghost, yes. I posed for a photograph, and when the print was delivered, an apparition appeared behind me. It was her.”
“How could you tell if you’d never seen her?”
“I know. A woman knows. A woman recognizes an enemy for what she is.”
“And you think Sallie White is your enemy?”
“Not the poor woman herself, God rest her soul.” He repeated my words and made a brief sign of the cross. A good Catholic boy.
“Her ghost.”
“Yes. But you sound like you don’t believe me.”
“I’d believe you more if you showed me the photograph.” He turned a page in his notebook, preparing.
“I burned it.” I speared a mouthful of egg