chapterTHIRTY-TWO
NOVEMBER
Damien doesn’t come home all night. He’s never done that before, and I have never felt more lonely or frightened. I lie awake, jumping at every sound in the neighbourhood. Is he all right?
To distract myself, I try to read Mr. Carboni’s book, but the numbers still make little sense. What interests me is the small brass key tucked in the pocket at the back of the book. ’Tis nothing like my master keys and even less like the guest keys. Much smaller, and it has no markings on it at all. Like a key from a tired old house, even. But I cannot imagine Mr. Carboni having a house old and tired enough to fit that key.
When I cannot stay awake a moment longer, I tuck the book under the mattress and swear not to touch it ever again.
In the morning, I break my own promise. I cannot resist checking on it one more time, though nothing has changed.
When I go downstairs. Damien is not waiting for me outside. I don’t understand.
From an alley one block from the hotel, I hear his loud whisper. “Rosie!”
I peer into the darkness and spot him behind a pile of garbage, waiting for me. I make sure no one is watching, then I dash down the alley and duck beside him.
“Where have you been?” I demand, beyond relieved.
“You can’t go to work,” he tells me. There’s something about his voice I can’t place.
“But I have to.”
He pulls a rolled-up newspaper from inside his coat. “You’re done at the hotel, Rosie. Me and you both.”
The headline is about the Crash, which is still ripping the world apart. Directly beneath that is a smaller headline:MURDER AT THE DOMINION.
“Read this, Rosie.” He points at the article beneath, then he reads it out loud. “?‘The body of Mrs. Geraldine Evans, a widow and the former head chambermaid of the Dominion Hotel, was discovered in the garbage behind the hotel yesterday. She had been shot to death. As of yet, there is no known motive or suspect. Toronto’s very own “Capone,” Marco Carboni, was taken in by police for questioning; however, he was released shortly after with no charges laid. Mr. Carboni denied all charges and said there were a lot of other considerations to be made.’?”
LOVERS ON THE RUN: DID PASSION LEAD TO MURDER?
“What’s this?” I point out the offensive words, snuck in under a smaller headline.
Damien twists his mouth to the side and nods unhappily.
“… take a look at her top chambermaid, Rosie Ryan.”
“What?!”
“Shh. Keep reading.”
I feel ill.
“She’s a sneaky little thing, and she’s been gunning for her boss’s job all along. If you ask around, several people have heard them arguing. Maybe Miss Ryan was incahoots with her fiancé, Damien Walsh, who is nothing but a waiter and a thief.”
I drop my hands. “Me and Mrs. Evans never argued! We never did! And you’re no thief!”
Damien is staring at the article. His face is white as a sheet. “God preserve us, we must have ticked him off, Rosie. He’s come out swinging. Looks like me and you are the prime suspects now. Carboni has a lot of cops in his pocket. They’ll be coming after us.”
My heart is beating out of my chest. “But Mr. Carboni must have killed her. Or… or… Mr. Hargrove, do you know him? Fat old man with a different prostitute every night, always yelling at the chambermaids. When Mrs. Evans defended us, that man almost struck her. Sure, and I saw it all. What about that awful Mrs. Winsome, that woman who wears pink all the time and is as thin as the feather on her hat? Everyone in the lobby heard her yell at Mrs. Evans. ’Twas as good as a threat when she said people like Mrs. Evans get what they deserve. I was right there.”
“Don’t matter now, Rosie. It’s me and you that Carboni pointed at. He’s in charge. He always is.”
My chest is squeezing. “What do we do?”
“We’re getting outta here. The cops’ll be on our doorstep any minute. I got all my money with me. We gotta go now.”
“Now?” My heart is pounding in my throat. “I need my money as well, like Mr. Carboni’s ten dollars. Can’t we go quick? I’ll grab it from under the bed.”
