“I dunno. I thought you were kind of cool in high school.” They leaned in, then, secret-like. “Could you really speak to the dead?”
“No,” I lied. “I just solved a murder. It was luck.”
“Still kinda rad.”
“And weird.”
“Weren’t we all? Anyway, you can have my favorite room—we call it the Violet Suite.”
I looked at the key, and the key chain that hung from it—a wooden violet. “Let me guess, there’s purple in the room?”
“Not as much as I’d like,” they replied indignantly. “Breakfast is in the morning from seven thirty until ten. I’ll be here all night, and John will be here in the morning—remember him? He was a few years younger than us. Scruffy guy, but he’s got a heart of gold once you get to know him.”
“Oh, right—you two got married.”
They wiggled their ring finger. It was a black band made out of meteorite. Of course they’d be cool like that. “Alas, off the market.”
“Well, congrats.”
They smiled. “Thanks! If you need anything, we’re the two you talk to.”
“Whatever happened to Mrs. Riviera?”
Dana gave a sad smile. “Oh, she passed a few years ago. Gave the whole damn inn to me.”
“Damn indeed,” I replied, startled. “Well—belated congrats again. The place looks great.”
“Didn’t think I’d stick around here for the rest of my life but . . .” They shrugged modestly, and sat back on their barstool again, absently opening their book to their bookmarked page. I caught a peek of the book—The Kiss at the Midnight Matinee. “Sometimes life takes you unexpected places. Let me know if you need anything, okay, hon?”
“Absolutely. Thank you.” I put the keys into my coat pocket, and rolled my suitcase over to the stairs. They weren’t as steep as the steps to my walk-up apartment, thank god, so I made it up to the second floor with my thighs of steel and rolled my suitcase down to the end of the hall. Each door had a cute little flower on it, carved into a plank of wood with an artistic hand, and they were all plants that could kill you. Oleander. Bloodroot. Foxglove. Iris. Marigold. Hemlock. The flower on the door at the end—the Violet Suite—was wolfsbane. I opened the door and, having not forgotten the crows perched on the roof, hesitantly peeked my head inside.
“Hello . . . ?” I whispered.
The room was dark, with only the golden glow from the streetlight on the sidewalk shining in through the window. There was no movement. No ghostly apparitions.
Coast was clear.
I flicked on the light beside the door and rolled my suitcase inside. The room was bigger than the one I paid for with blood and tears every month in Hoboken, New Jersey. There was a full bed big enough to fit me and all my baggage, a dresser, a floor-length mirror, and even a closet. There was a coffeepot on top of the dresser, and a boutique assortment of teas and instant coffees, as well as a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. The bathroom was beautiful, too, with a claw-foot tub and a large vanity. I was definitely going to take advantage of that. Traveling made me sore, and the stress from today had cramped my neck badly, and my orthopedic pillow was five hundred miles away. Dana was right, though; there wasn’t enough purple in a room they called the Violet Suite.
As I began to unpack my carry-on luggage, putting my underwear in the top drawer and hanging my black funeral dress in the closet, I honestly forgot about the crows on the roof. My hands were busy, and my head was—for the first time all day—mercifully blank.
And then I heard a noise.
I quickly grabbed my razor for defense—what could a razor do?—and rounded the bathroom doorway slowly.