She sniffed. Fernando took the hint and swiped his nose. He lowered his gargantuan round plum-colored glasses, winked, then sauntered into the office. “I know, I know. I’m late again. What did I miss, doll?”
Sterling didn’t answer. She tapped her fingers on the desk. Her index and middle nails were trimmed shorter than the rest, so the motion made atap, tap, click, clicksound she enjoyed. The women she dated appreciated her manicure too. For different reasons.
Her lovers marveled at her skilled touch, never failing to compliment her soft hands. Had they stopped moaning for a moment and looked closer, perhaps they’d have noticed the delicate ovals of smooth skin on Sterling’s fingertips. Where her prints had been carefully burned away.
The radiator hissed. Fernando clasped his hands as if begging forgiveness from both the Concierge and the Orient. “I’m sorry, I was practicing for my audition.”
He was always pursuing some new career while neglecting the one that paid him. When they’d first met, she was a college freshman, soon to be a dropout, and he was a postgrad working in a pharmaceutical research lab. He was promptly fired for sampling the goods. Fernando was only a few years her senior, but started university at sixteen. Like any former gifted child, he never missed a chance to mention his past as a prodigy.
In the decade-plus since they’d met, his attempted vocations included poet, therapist, even acrobat. Acting was this season’s dream job. He carried a bilingual Spanish and English copy ofThe Merchant of Venicein his breast pocket, with the reverence of a soldier carrying a bible over his heart.
“You’re auditioning to play a dead body at a dinner theater. How did that take two hours? Were you sleeping?”
“It’s called method acting.”
“Oida,” she said, turning to hide her smile.
Oidawas the most important word in the Viennese-German dialect. It meant everything fromHey, dude!toFor fuck’s saketoSweetheart, I only said your sister was sexy because she reminds me of you, you need to let it go!
“You missed the handover,” said Sterling, pursing her lips.
He leaned on the desk, resting his chin atop his interlaced fingers. “Tell meeverything.”
Fernando was being extra camp tonight, but it wouldn’t win her over. Okay, it might, but she wouldn’t admit it yet. First, she made him climb the stairs to deliver those towels to Room 21. Less punishing for him, as he was in perfect shape.
After he returned, they reviewed handover notes from the afternoon Concierge, Gregor. The opera was boring, so they’d had a rush during intermission. At midnight, she’d turned away two influencers who refused to respect the photography ban. Internet celebrities were stubborn pests. Their numbers enlarged daily as their cameras shrank.
“One girl actually asked for our Wi-Fi code,” said Sterling, chuckling. “Also, Mr. K vetoed the overnight maid they interviewed. So we’ll be alone another week.”
“That’s what he saidlastweek,” whined Fernando.
Mr. K, handsome proprietor of the Hotel Orient and the Eden Bar, was as infamous as the establishments he owned. His muscular physique made him easy to look at, but his exacting standards made him difficult to work for. The maids were the best in Europe. It was tough to find someone worthy of the position.
“I know,Schatzi. But we’ll survive. By the way, housekeeping needs you to mix more stain remover,” she said.
“The perc or the TCA?”
She shrugged. “Um, whatever they used on the chaise in the Mona Lisa Suite? Formula seven or eight?”
“That’s Fernando’s Formula Ocho for Befouled Soft Furnishings. It uses perchloroethylene,” he said, lowering his lashes with faux humility like he did every time he showed off his vocabulary. “I can prepare more, but I’ll have to wait for my paramour’s shift at the lab to procure the ingredients.”
His Shakespeare phase only encouraged him.
“The elevator took the night off, so you’ll have to help Rita climb the stairs when she gets back,” she said.
Rita L’Amour was the Hotel’s longest-term permanent resident and Mr. K’s oldest employee. She’d worked for his father before him and still sang jazz at the Eden Bar five nights a week, well into her eighties.
Sterling cleared her throat and laid down her notes. A mischievous gleam lit her eyes. “Okay. Last thing. You won’t believe this”—she stopped when the hairs on her neck stood up—“but it has to wait.”
She sensed it was one in the morning without checking the clock, and reached for her keys, which rattled as she strutted from office to entryway, arriving a second before the bell chimed. Sterling set her internal clock by this guest’s schedule, a woman with the alias Frau Thursday.
— 3 —Drei
Sterling swept the velvet curtain aside and unlocked the door. A jarring chill clawed around it as snowflakes fluttered into the lobby.
Light from the stained-glass awning wove a halo around Frau Thursday’s silver curls. She wore the typical uniform of the elderly Viennese elite: brown fur coat, brown fur hat, brown leather gloves, and a tasteful display of white diamonds. She’d brought two dates.
The gentlemen who flanked her wore matching long black coats over pinstripe suits, their eyes shaded by fedoras. Mr. Left and Mr. Right. Frau Thursday had begun her weekly visits decades ago. Since then, the men’s pseudonyms never changed, but their faces sometimes did. Though they were always handsome, and Mr. Right always guarded her mysterious brown leather briefcase.
