“What do you mean by that?”
My tone was wrong, and she didn’t answer. I said more gently:
“Did you see anyone in the room, or anything out of the ordinary?”
“No. I see – I see nothing.”
“Hear anything?”
“She cried. I heard her cry. I wanted to go in and comfort her, but I was afraid.”
“No voices?”
“No voices. Only hers.”
“I’m told she ordered up a great deal of food – enough for two people.”
“Yes. I took the dirty dishes. She put them out in the hall every morning.”
“What was she doing with all that food?”
“Feeding them,” the woman said. Her eyes burned like candles in the niches of her brows. “They are hungry when they come back.”
“Who are you talking about, Mrs.–?”
“Tonia. Everybody calls me Tonia. You know, I can see, you think I am a stupid woman. But I have had transactions with the spirits of the dead. They would not let Consuela sleep or eat or talk for seven days, until I fed them. The curandero reminded me to feed them, and she was my sister again.”
She spoke in a whisper, so that the spirits would be less likely to hear her. She glanced furtively towards the window. Phoebe’s name was still there, written large on the grimy pane. In spite of the bright morning, I was almost ready to believe in Tonia’s theories.
“You believe that she was feeding the spirits of the dead?”
“I know she was.”
“How do you know it, Tonia?”
She pulled at the small gold ring in her left ear lobe. “I have ears. I heard her crying for the dead. I do not listen at doors but I could hear her from the hallway, crying.”
“What did she say?”
“She called on the murdered one to come back to her.”
“The murdered one? She used those words?”
“Yes. She spoke of murder, of death and murder and blood, and other things. I didn’t understand.”
“Try to remember.”
“I can’t. I didn’t hear much. I was afraid. When the dead come back they attach themselves to anyone who is waiting. I ran and shut myself up in the linen room.”
“When was this?”
“Six days ago, or seven.” She counted on her fingers. “Six. It was the day before the Feast of the Three Kings – a bad time to call the dead.”
“Did she say who was dead?”
“No, but the grief in her voice was very bad. Perhaps a member of the family? A son, or daughter?” Her look was sympathetic and inquiring.
I showed her Phoebe’s picture. “This is her daughter – her daughter and mine.” For some reason, it was hard to tell her the he.
“She is beautiful.” Tonia smiled. “I have one blue-eyed daughter who is almost as beautiful. Her father, who was my husband at that time, was also blue-eyed.”
I brought her back to the point. “Have you ever seen this girl?”
She studied the picture for a long time. “I think so. I can’t be sure. I think I have seen her face before now. Where would I have seen her?”
“In this room, maybe.”
“No,” she said flatly. “There was nobody in the room with your wife. She slept alone, I can tell by the bedclothes. I watch the bedclothes, see. When they try to double up in a single, I tell Mr. Fillmore.”
“You may have seen her on the street.”
“Maybe.” She handed the picture back to me. “I’m sorry I do not remember. I can only say I have seen her.”
“Recently?”
“I think so.” She wrinkled her brow in concentration; nothing came. “I’m sorry, I don’t know where. I see so many. But she is beautiful.”
I thanked her and went to the window, tearing a leaf from my notebook. The paper was too opaque to make a tracing. I made a copy instead, reproducing the slanting characters as closely as possible.
“Caray!” Tonia whispered at my shoulder. “What is that?”
“A name.”
“An evil name?”
“A good name.”
“I cannot read,” she said. “It frightens me.”
“It’s my daughter’s name, Tonia. There’s no need to be frightened.”
But she was crossing herself when I left her.
Mr. Fillmore, the manager, was in his office behind the main desk. He was one of those slightly confused middle-aged men who needed someone to remind him that his dark suit could use a pressing and that his lank hair stuck up like weeds at the back. I introduced myself as Homer Wycherly. I was stuck with the name and the tragicomic role as long as I stayed around the Champion Hotel.
The name seemed to impress Fillmore. He rose up out of his early-morning doldrums and offered me his hand and a chair. “Delighted to meet you, sir. What can I do for you?”
“I’m concerned about my wife, Catherine. She occupied Room 323 until she checked out last night. I don’t know where she is now.”
“I’m sorry.” His face fell into doleful grooves, left by the harrows of circumstance. “I hate to say this, but I believe you have reason to be concerned. Your wife is a very sad woman, Mr. Wycherly. I’ve seen a lot of them, and I never saw a sadder.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“I did, yes. I happened to be on the desk when she checked in. That was a day or two before Christmas. I remember particularly because frankly I was a little surprised that a lady like her would choose to stay at the Champion.”
“Why shouldn’t she?”
He leaned across the desk, so close I could count his pores. He had a lot of pores. “Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m proud of my little hotel, for what it is, but I’ve worked in better places, let me assure you. I recognize a lady when I see one. Their clothes, their manner of speech. And ladies like Mrs. Wycherly don’t normally stay at the Champion.”
“She may have been short of money.”
“I doubt that very much. She was well provided for, as you know.”
“How do you know it?”
“She showed me one of your alimony checks.” He was startled by his own directness, and went on in a flustered tone: “I mean, I have no wish to pry into your personal affairs, but it was a certified check for three thousand dollars. She mentioned that she got one every month.”
“I’m glad she felt free to confide in you,” I said, with a hint of the needle in my voice.
“Oh, it wasn’t that. She wanted me to cash it, and she was assuring me it was genuine. As I’m sure it was,” he added hastily, “but I had to tell her I couldn’t possibly cash it. It was New Year’s Day, the banks were closed, I had no way of raising three thousand dollars. I offered to take it for collection, but Mrs. Wycherly said she couldn’t wait.”
“What did she do with the check?”
“I guess she cashed it at the bank. At any rate, she paid her bill next day.”
“Where did the check come from? Do you remember?”
“I’m afraid not. She mentioned it was her home-town bank.” He looked at me with a trace of doubt in his boiled-onion eyes. “You should know.”
“Yes, but I was wondering how it reached her, on New Year’s Day.”
“It came by Special Delivery. She asked me to notify her when it arrived.” The doubt in his eyes became more apparent. “Please don’t misunderstand me – it wasn’t a phony check?”
“The check was well-backed,” I said stuffily.
“Of course. I knew it was.” The thought of my imaginary bank account made him emotional. “I know a lady when I see one, and I’m sure you won’t take it amiss if I offer you a piece of advice. Look to your lady, Mr. Wycherly. This can be a dangerous town for a lady going it alone with or without a purseful of money. Especially with. There are toughs and drifters galore in this town.” Fillmore permitted himself to stare directly at the bandage on my head. “Maybe you found that out for yourself. Mrs. Silvado told me you were injured.”