“Guata Obed,”he said, his slack-tonguedgood eveningthick with a Vorarlbergisch accent. He wasn’t the caller. “I’ve got a special package for Room 26. A gift for Mr. Carver.”
Ah, aspecial package. The bachelor party must have hired a stripper.
She checked the ledger and found the alias among the guests’ bookish pseudonyms. “Which Carver? Raymond or William?”
He checked his slip. “Only says Mr. Carver. A gift from Mr. Wood.”
“Ah, you must be the dancer. While you perform, I’ll need to hold on to your phone, but you can select music from our record collection if you’d like.”
He looked confused, if not offended. “Um… there’s a misunderstanding. I’m delivering acake, nothing else,” he said.
“Apologies. My mistake,” she said, signing his slip. But honestly, who delivered pastries at this hour?
The package was cold, clammy. “Is it frozen?” she asked, inspecting it.
“It’s an ice cream cake. You’ll want to bring it to the room promptly, ma’am. Union says I can’t pass the front door.”
“Ma’am? I’m still in my twenties.”
Well, it depended which birthday she counted. Her real one was in November, but her passport claimed she’d turned thirty a week ago. The more problematic date on her identification documents was the expiration, nearly ten years past. With no chance of renewal. “Kindly address me assir,” she said.
He bowed and scurried out.
She followed him, peering out at the quiet street. Fernando was far down, alone beneath the bridge. Centuries ago, the Orient was reachable only by boat, but the canal on Tiefer Graben had since been redirected and paved over. Only the bridge remained. Tonight, as streetlamps reflected on the ice-slicked road, it appeared as if the ghost of the river had returned.
He muttered to himself like he really was practicing his audition. She’d figured it was an excuse to check out guys in line at Why Not?, the nearby gay club. Sterling wolf-whistled, then ducked back in and locked the door. With Fernando still outside, she had no clue who’d opened it. Hers was the only other key. Maybe Rita returned early? But the carpet was clean. Usually, she left a trail of stray sequins in her wake.
It didn’t matter how the door had gotten unlocked. She’d fixed it. For now, she had to get that box upstairs before it dripped everywhere. Her legs ached at the thought. If she had to climb those stairs one more time, it might kill her. Fernando would find her body sprawled between the second and third floors in a pool of melted ice cream.
It took longer than expected to handle the bachelor party, a mixture of gay and straight literature nerds who were drunkenly discussing pathos, bathos, and Premier League football. When shereturned, the lobby was quiet save for the radio, playing one of her favorites, and the clock ticking ten minutes before three. But something was off.
She paused on the last step and clutched the railing, listening. Her muscles tensed.
Maximilian broke in withA message from our sponsor. A sound beneath it scratched her ear, masked by the announcer’s warble. The haunting chime of an old telephone, distant and dulled, like a scream muffled beneath a leather-gloved hand.
— 6 —Sechs
Sterling followed the sound. After lowering the radio, she still couldn’t locate it. She checked the office, leaning her ear to each safe. It wasn’t coming from any of them. Besides, even if a phone was left on, it wouldn’t work in here. The Orient didn’t take kindly to technology. The noise stopped, only to recur a moment later.
She followed the chime into the lobby closet. The one with the oldTelefonplacard over its door. The light switch was dead, so in darkness she ran her hands along the fur coats she’d hung for Frau Thursday and Mrs. Lime, feeling the pockets for a cell phone. There was none to be found, but now her hands smelled like Mrs. Lime’s lavender perfume. The chiming continued. She slid between two coats, fur falling heavy around her as she pressed her ear to the back of the closet.
The ringing was coming from behind the wall. Where the old pay phone had been sealed in.
Sterling shivered. The ringing ceased. She waited, breath held. Behind her, the closet door slammed shut, trapping her inside. She didn’t bother to scream, no one inside the soundproofed suites wouldhear. She turned and watched, shrouded between the coats, as a shadow crossed the glowing outline of the door. The radio loudened. She crept forward, slipping an umbrella from the stand, then flung the door open, leaping towards the figure, umbrella brandished like a sword.
Fernando shrieked.
The umbrella clattered to the floor. Her shoulders sank with relief. Before Fernando could speak, she yanked him by his waist into a desperate hug, pressing her face to his chest. She’d let this night make a fool of her.
He embraced her. “What wasthatabout?”
His jacket muffled her voice. “It’s been chaos since you left. I didn’t realize it was you. I thought I was trapped in there.”
He stroked her hair. “Oh, honey, no one can get you back into the closet.”
She explained everything that had happened in a rapid-fire rant, her voice eventually slowing.
He kissed her head. “I’m here, it’s okay. Nothing can go wrong now.”
