“Good heavens, Evelyn,” spoke a new voice with a Southern lilt. A plump woman wearing a lilac overcoat, black tights, and high-heeled boots had followed the child inside. As the girl giggled maniacally—the revolving door incident forgotten—the woman strolled over to Evelyn with a sneer of disapproval. She plucked the toddler out of Evelyn’s grasp. “Don’t give her brain damage.”
“She’s fine,” Evelyn said, ruffling the girl’s hair. “Aren’t you, Addy?”
Addy reached her pudgy arms out to Evelyn, asking to switch hands again. Her mother, however, grasped her tightly.
“I see you haven’t changed much,” the woman said, casting an obvious glance up and down Evelyn’s body. “As masculine as ever.”
“Last I checked, that wasn’t a crime, Aunt Eleanor,” Evelyn said sweetly. “Where’s Uncle Robert?”
Eleanor pursed her lips. “You know we divorced.”
“Did you?” Evelyn’s feigned surprise was obvious to me. “My, what a shame. Well, if you’ll come with me, I’ll help you get settled.”
As she herded Eleanor and Addy toward the front desk, Evelyn made eye contact with me and mimed hanging herself. I stifled a chuckle.
Evelyn’s various relatives continued to trickle in throughout the day. She managed them well enough and didn’t often ask for my assistance in accompanying them up to the fourteenth floor. That suited me fine, as my innate curiosity got the better of me the more I spied on the people around the Saint Angel Hotel. I observed, gathered intel, and began to understand the nature of the establishment.
For one thing, Janine was not so indifferent to Luis as she pretended to be. Each time he crossed through the lobby, her gaze snapped to his firm legs and tight backside, framed rather well in his workman’s pants. However, I spotted a ring on Janine’s left hand, so there was definitely a story there.
The bellhop, I noticed, could not be separated from his phone. When it did not grace his palm, it lived in the inside pocket of his uniform, against his heart. If he had a spare moment between guests, he fished out the device and hastily tapped out a message, his brow furrowed in consternation, embarrassment, anger, or some other emotion yet to be determined.
Other details came to my attention one by one. The maids, for instance, nearly went unseen. Their dark green outfits—which had no gold accents—blended in with the walls. When I finally noticed them crossing the mezzanine above to clean rooms on the second floor, it was with the jolt of realization that they’d been there all along. They probably knew everything going on in the hotel.
Around ten am, a man passed through the revolving door, nodded to the employees, and took up residence in a velvet chair in the far corner of the room. While he studied the lobby, I studied him. He was not much older than me, perhaps in his mid-thirties, with a square jaw, sharp eyes, and neatly-combed salt-and-pepper hair. He wore pressed khaki pants and a navy-blue sweater. A gold watch peeked out from beneath his sleeve. The outfit meant to look casual, but a closer glance could tell anyone with a brain the guy came from money.
The money man did not move for the better part of an hour. Once, he fetched a cup of coffee then returned to his station. He gazed casually around the hotel, taking everything in. The longer he did so, the more suspicious I became of him. Who sat around in a hotel lobby, watching?
The man’s eyes finally caught mine. When he saw me staring, he nodded and smiled. I looked away. Of course he acknowledged me. I was watching too.
But the money man dropped off my radar when the elevator opened and a mass of glittery golden feathers stepped from its depths. A walking cane, covered in small square mirrors like a disco ball, thumped against the floor. Everyone froze to watch the feathered creature stroll across the lobby, leaning heavily on the cane, and disappear into the fancy restaurant on the first floor. The only people who appeared unfazed were those who worked at the Saint Angel.
Burning curiosity got the better of me. I left my position in the lobby and headed into the restaurant. The feathers sat alone at a booth near the kitchen. Casually, I stationed myself at the bar, close enough to spy without appearing obvious. I ordered a coffee and cast a glance toward the dark booth.
The feathers, it turned out, were part of an extravagant coat. A pair of spindly hands emerged from the sleeves, and a face became visible as the coat’s owner perused the menu. He was a frail toothpick of a man, with a thin face and protruding cheekbones, though he was no older than fifty-five. Bright blue glitter decorated his eyelids, and his nails were painted the same shade. There was something uncertain about the way he handled his menu, as if his joints were made of rubber and elastic.
“Morning, Wolf.” A young server set a beverage on the feathered man’s table without asking his order. “Your usual. How was your night?”
“Oh, business as usual,” Wolf replied. “A little gambling, a little entertainment, a little cocaine. So it goes.”
I raised my eyebrows, but this seemed normal talk for Wolf. The server smiled and poured him an extra glass of water.
“So it goes,” the server repeated. “Would you like to try something new today? The pastrami sandwich seems simple, but it’s a treat.”
“Excellent.” Wolf folded his menu and handed it back. “I trust your judgement.”
The server scurried off to put in Wolf’s order. I flagged the bartender while she wiped clean glasses dry.
“Hey,” I said in a lowered voice, jerking my head toward Wolf’s booth. “Who is that guy? Is he a celebrity or something? Why is he dressed like that?”
“That’s Wolf Godfrey,” she replied. “He lives in the penthouse. Hardly ever leaves the hotel, but he tips well, so everyone loves him.”
“He lives
