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“She’s in 203, Ranger. Just down the other wing,” she informed him with a smile. “Go left for your room, and go right for hers.”
“All right. Padre, you go on and see if she’s up. I’ll drop this off, and join you in a minute.”
The padre retraced his earlier steps to room 203, halfway down one hall that curved slightly, even though the exterior of the hotel suggested that it shouldn’t. But all the angles were strange inside. All the sharp corners, the straight pathways, rectangular rugs, and oversized fire doors still managed to somehow feel convex to the naked eye.
Now that he’d noticed it, it gave him a headache.
Before he knocked on the door, he listened closely. He heard nothing, but that meant nothing; so he knocked softly and waited. On the bed something stirred, and he was relieved—not that he’d expected anything else, but less than twenty-four hours in the hotel had taught him that anything was possible, especially if it was terrible.
Momentarily, the door opened.
Sister Eileen was fully dressed and behind her, the bed had been made. A small Bible lay there, open to some place in the middle. “Good morning, Father. I see your frock has dried, and you’re restored to your ordinary self.”
“I retrieved it this morning, good as new—and I’m glad to see I didn’t awaken you. When you didn’t appear at breakfast, I assumed you’d chosen to sleep, instead.”
“I wasn’t hungry,” she told him. “And all things being equal, I figured the time spent eating might be better devoted to prayer. Heaven knows we could use some guidance, right about now.”
“Guidance is good. But a mortal helping hand may also prove useful.”
“You’ve been very useful indeed, so far.”
He tried to give her a thankful grin, but it felt hollow. “I appreciate you saying so, but that isn’t what I meant. We have a visitor. He just arrived, and—” as he heard the sound of booted footsteps clomping up the stairs—“here he is, now.”
The Ranger joined them with a polite touch of his hat toward the nun, who greeted him with an enormous smile. “A Ranger!”
“Yes ma’am. A Ranger who’d apologize for getting you out of bed, but it seems the Father here has beaten me to it.”
“Oh, nonsense,” she beamed. “I’ve been up for an hour. Please, let me just close the room—and let’s exchange our pleasantries at the sitting area down the hall. I’ll ring Violetta for some tea.”
“Coffee?” tried the Ranger.
“I’ll ask for both.”
Violetta came summoned by the bell in Sister Eileen’s room, and ten minutes later the girl returned to the sitting area with a tray—then left them alone to acquaint themselves.
The sitting area was comfortably appointed and offered a place for everyone, with a view of a balcony that no one wished to visit. It was barely raining yet, but what drops did fall were hurled against the windows with the force of bullets; and the wind rose and fell, from frantic and wild to uncannily calm, moment to moment, while the sky turned brown, and lilac, and navy blue.
It gave their introductions a sinister backdrop, even as they sipped hot beverages and nibbled at the toast and muffins Violetta had added to the cart. But over coffee and over the sound of the wind outside, the Ranger began to explain himself.
Horatio Korman had not precisely been “sent” to the hotel…so much as he’d seen Sister Eileen’s plea for assistance and decided to come on his own. Officially, this was not Ranger business. But unofficially, Austin knew of his whereabouts and was watching at a distance.
“I don’t understand,” the nun frowned when he told her this.
He leaned into the floral cushioned seat, and stretched his arms to splay them atop its back. “There are only so many men to go around, and you must admit, your request was a mighty strange one. You tell us that nine people have died in the course of a month, through mysterious circumstances and no hint of a killer—at one of the finest hotels in the state. But there’s been no mention of it in the papers, save a handful of obituaries, and there have been no complaints against the hotel or its owners.”
“Ten people,” she corrected him glumly. “There was another last night.”
He appeared surprised, but not particularly stunned. “A tenth? But who? I didn’t hear anyone nattering about it downstairs in the lobby.”
The padre sighed. “No one ever natters. No one ever talks about the deaths, except for poor Sarah…and all she’ll do is cry to you about them.”
“Sarah?”
“The desk clerk,” the nun provided. “Or the manager, perhaps—for she wears many hats. She helped us last night, after poor Mrs. Fields breathed her last.”
“Where is she now?”
She looked to the padre. “I don’t know…in her quarters? Resting, I assume.”
