The Lady in Residence - Allison Pittman Page 0,56

and took a deep breath before shoving it into my mouth.

Carmichael sighed, knowingly. “Of course you did.”

“You don’t believe me?” It had become a refrain in our conversation.

He was sitting in the chair opposite me and committed his first break in etiquette by propping his elbows on the table, doing so with enough force to make the cups jump in their saucers. I, however, remained perfectly calm. At least a dozen men have treated me with violence, and I could see in his eyes that he didn’t have a heart to hurt me. Later he asked, “A dozen?” And when I nodded yes, he took me in his arms and said he’d find and kill them all if I only gave him their names. I laughed against his sleeve because, of course, I couldn’t name them. I’d been a child.

Now, though, he stared me down and said through gritted teeth, “I don’t believe you saw a bloody ghost.”

Bloody. “You don’t believe there was a ghost? Or you don’t believe I saw a ghost?”

“Both.”

“Then what is your theory, Detective?”

“Mr. Sylvan said you are always”—he flipped through his notebook and found the page—“spotty with your payment. He says he never knows from one week to the next if he is going to get even a dollar from you.”

“That’s not true. I—”

“Says you ingratiate yourself with other guests, getting them to buy you supper or invite you to join their party. Says you spend a good bit of time with our friend Bert in the bar.”

“Bert has been a friend to me when no one else has.”

“Mr. Sylvan says you have a lot of friends.”

Oh, how I hated the way he said the word, dragging it through every bit of mud and filth I’d worked so hard to rid from my skirts.

“Mr. Sylvan hates me.”

“That doesn’t make him a liar.”

“And what makes me a liar?”

Instead of answering, he ran the pages of his notebook across his thumb before opening it to rest on the page where I’d answered his questions.

I set down my fork, finally sated.

“You want my theory?” he said. “I think you ran out of money, then chose a night when this place was packed with people and ran screaming from your room, saying you were robbed.”

“I wasn’t robbed when I went screaming from my room.” I matched the timbre of my voice to his in near-perfect mimicry. “I was robbed after I ran from my room.”

“So you say.”

“So I say.”

“How do we know you didn’t hide your money and your jewels to make it look like a robbery?”

“Did your uniformed elves or hotel staff find anything when they were putting my room to right?” I thought of the single amethyst earring I had stashed in my pocket. Had it been overlooked? Or left to taunt me?

“They did not. But then, there’s a chance such a fortune never existed at all.”

At this, I laughed aloud, taking no measures to temper my outburst into something ladylike and demure. “I wear—rather, wore—my jewels every day. Every evening. Scarcely did a day go by that I didn’t receive a comment on one of my pieces, which I admit I found odd, given that it is quite rude to speak of one’s wealth in such an open, curious manner.”

“Did you have any record of an appraisal for their value?”

This question riled me, and I felt the survival instinct of my premarriage days kicking in. “Are you suggesting my jewels were fake?”

“I’m not suggesting anything.”

“I have proof.” How rewarding it was to see him sit back in surprise. “A few weeks ago, I took some of my pieces to a—”

“Pawn shop?”

“Dealer in fine jewelry. At least, that is how he was described to me by Mr. Sylvan.” I dripped the man’s name with contempt before describing in detail the items sold, and—with disgust—the price paid. “I will go with you right now to him.”

“What day was this?”

I furrowed my brow, thinking, and he produced a little calendar from within the pages of his notebook. The card was embossed with vines and roses in the corners, with six months of the year printed on each side.

“Well,” I said, holding it first close then far away, attempting to focus on the tiny boxes, “isn’t this nice? A little something from your wife to help you remember your anniversary?” I kept my eyes trained on the calendar to give the illusion that I didn’t care how he would answer.

“I’m not married.”

“Sweetheart, then?” I zeroed in on February. “Is there

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