Her stomach turned from a mixture of hunger and embarrassment. “Sorry, it’s been a lot.” She took a big bite of pastry and mumbled through the mouthful, sprinkling crumbs onto her robe, “I haven’t tidied up, but come in. You want tea?”
As if she ever cleaned. Or drank tea.
He revealed the bottle of bourbon behind his back. “This isn’t the time for chamomile. Now, give me a proper hug,” he said, arms wide.
He wrapped her in a bony embrace, bottle in one hand, plate in the other, massaging between her shoulder blades with the side of his thumb. Christoph’s malnourished frame meant holding him felt like hugging a bedpost. The vast difference between their body types was another reminder he was achosenuncle, not a blood relative.
Sterling was just over five feet tall, so her nose fell between his jagged lower ribs. His cologne was a familiar comfort. He’d worn the same scent forever, and it reminded Sterling of her aunt Serafina when she was happy. Christoph and Serafina were the prototype for her friendship with Fernando. They’d lingered around their apartment, drinking wine and swapping stories about the men they dated. Though Serafina dated men only in a professional capacity.
She sighed as he released her. He clawed tangles of her greasy hair, sneering with mild disgust. “I adore you, but you smell like a wet dog,” he said, examining the oily film on his long fingers.
“Woof,” she said.
He nudged her towards the bathroom. “Yes. Now, be a good doggy and go shower.” She snagged anotherKipferland left a trail of crumbs in her wake as she trudged away.
When she reappeared, scrubbed clean, Christoph was sipping bourbon from a pink-and-gold teacup and singing “Que Sera, Sera.” He’d donned her French maid apron and cleaned the kitchenette and was now perched cross-legged on her teal velvet couch reading a vintage copy ofWiener Modemagazine. He lowered it, clicking his tongue in disapproval at the bunny-ear bathrobe. He snapped his fingers, then pointed to her dressing screen, where he’d hung an outfit for her. He’d chosen a black number out of respect. He returned to his reading.
She grumbled but changed, cinching her peacock-blue corset to fit the tight waist of the ’50s-style dress. Its flouncy skirt bounced as she emerged, revealing hints of the deep turquoise petticoat beneath.
“That’s more like it,” he said, standing. He led her in a lazy waltz around the room before plopping her onto the couch, where layers of her crinoline tumbled into disarray. While she smoothed them, Christoph poured bourbon and pressed her for details. “So. Hedy. This call girl. I remember you two wereclose. How are you handling it?”
Sterling had met Hedy a decade ago, right after Serafina died, when they both went to work for Madame Weiss. They’d kindled a romance, soon snuffed out by Madame. There was more to the story, but wasn’t there always when it came to gorgeous women?
“I’m fine,” said Sterling.
“Nice try. You’re a disaster. You haven’t even put lipstick on. Now, tell me everything.”
“Where do I start?” she said, absent-mindedly splashing bourbon on her dress as details of Hedy’s death spilled out. His face shifted from a gossipy pout to sympathy as she recounted what happened.
“Oh, you poor thing. What if they arrest you?”
Her head fell into her hands. “I’ll get deported to the US, and then… who knows.”
“Well, Serafina would have told you to face it head-on. But she’s gone, so you have to take my advice. And I say be a coward.”
“What?” she said, looking up.
“Run. Get out of town,” he said, sipping bourbon from his teacup while he kept his eyes trained on her.
“It sounds like you think I’m guilty.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. The police’s opinion counts. And your story sounds far-fetched, even for this place. I heard a few tales of Serafina’s exploits as night Concierge when she worked here. But this tops them.”
“Really? She wouldn’t even tellme. Said it was company policy.”
“Oh, it was different with me. I had spousal privileges.” Not that he and Serafina had ever been more than friends.
“I can’t fly without a passport. And I don’t have the papers to get one.”
“What about traveling by train? You’ve got paramours all over Europe, why not stay with one of them? Mr. K must know a hotel outside of Austria that won’t require your name.”
“There’s no escape, not with my two friends sitting across the street,” she said, cocking her head towards the window.
Christoph walked to the deep petrol-blue curtains, teacup in hand, and peeled one aside with his pinkie. After spotting the sedan, he raised one eyebrow. “Police?”
“Maybe? Could be Weiss’s cronies. Whoever they are, they’re watching me.”
He pursed his lips. “We could get you out with a little smoke and mirrors,” he said, wiggling his fingers and drawing a circle in the air.
