The elevator was the old-fashioned kind; riders had to pull the grate closed manually, and the shaft wasopen to the center of the building, with the stairs wrapping around it. As we mounted the stairs, I noticed that even the interior walls of the elevator shaft were covered with the paintings.
“You’ve got to give the artist props for diligence,” I said to Hervé.
“I never knew you were a student of art history.”
“I’m not. But I spent some time in Florence, and used to hang out at the Uffizi. The art on the wall is great, of course, but it was the ceilings that really captured my interest. In English they’re referred to as ‘grotesques,’ which sounds like something bad or ugly. But I think they’re charming. Bizarre, but charming.”
One of the painted grotesques seemed to move, swimming before my eyes.
“Did you see that?” I asked Hervé.
“See what?”
“One of the paintings just seemed to move.”
“It’s the energy of this place. There’s a spirit here, no doubt about it,” said Hervé.
But it wasn’t necessarily Tristan Dupree’s spirit. In a hotel of this age, a resident ghost was practically a foregone conclusion.
“Also, violent death stirs things up,” Hervé added as we reached the second-floor landing and headed to the right.
These weren’t the long, straight hallways of modern hotels, but were narrow and twisty, snaking through the old building. As we approached room 217, more of the painted figures started to stir, their movements sinewy, lugubrious, sensual. The box under my arm thumped.
Spirits are attracted to me and often try to make contact, but I can’t understand what they’re saying. I could feel their energy, like an army of ants marching up and down my spine or puffs of cold breath on the back of my neck. But I’m a witch, not an empath, andI can’t communicate with them. It’s very frustrating and tends to make all parties concerned a little testy.
Once again, I felt a wave of gratitude for my friend’s presence. Not just as a necromancer, but as moral support. I’m not new to murder scenes, unfortunately, but confronting the loss of human life never gets easy.
“There it is,” Hervé said, nodding at the bright yellow crime scene tape crisscrossing a door just ahead. I wondered if the hotel’s management had removed the guests from the rooms along the hall; it wouldn’t be great for business to remind them this was an active crime scene. Ahomicidescene.
“Ready?” I asked Hervé.
He nodded.
I ripped the crime scene tape, used the key to turn the knob, and stepped into room 217.
The room was a shambles. Ceramic lamps had been smashed, nightstands overturned, and the sheets and blankets wadded up as though slept in. Blood was spattered on the white walls and drying in dark pools on the cream-colored carpet. Evidence tags and dark fingerprint dust revealed the forensics team had come and gone.
Nausea seized me. The room shimmered with anger and evil.
“Damn,”said Hervé, right behind me.
The box thumped again.
“What do you have in there, anyway?” Hervé asked as I carefully set the box on a chest of drawers.
“It’s a little hard to explain. But it’s possible that whatever is in here once belonged to Tristan Dupree.”
“But you don’t know what it is? Or even if it’s in there?”
“I don’t know much of anything, I’m sorry to say. That’s why I’m hoping his ghost might be able to clarify a few things.”
“And you brought the box to entice him? Clever girl.”
“Not really. I brought the box in because I don’t want someone to steal it from my car.”
“Shall we give it a go? Again—I can’t guarantee anything,” Hervé said. “This sort of thing would be better suited to your fiancé.”
“He’s unavailable at the moment.”
