Part 2 (2/2)

She'd signed the register but left the rest of the card blank. Her signature was quite small and oddly fractured, the name broken into fragments, like something smashed with a hammer, a script so different from any other I'd ever seen that when Henry Mason had looked up, shocked and amazed, asked his question, Could it be Dora?, my mind had instantly given an answer I could not bring myself to say, Yes.

”I offered to take her bag,” Preston said, ”but she didn't want that. Looked real skittish. Like she thought I might do something to her.”

”Do what?”

”Maybe touch her in the wrong way, you know.

Skittish like that.”

I wondered if that thought had actually occurred to Preston. His wife, Mabel, had been dying for weeks by then, and terrible odors were said to come from the room where she lay. Maybe the sight of a young woman, fresh, beautiful, perhaps even vulnerable, had summoned something from its dank cave, Dora once again the object of a grim, relentless need.

”Anyway, I kept my distance after that.” Preston added. ”Didn't say another word. Just gave her the key. She went up to Room Seventeen, and that was that.”

I glanced toward the stairs. A woman was making her way up them. She was dressed in a dark blue coat, drab and inelegant. The hotel's red plastic key holder dangled from her left hand.

I turned back to Preston. ”Did Dora come down again that evening?”

”Not that I noticed,” Preston replied. ”But Claire Pendergast might be able to help you. She was making up the rooms back then. And she's nosy. It's one of the reasons I let her go. Couldn't keep her mouth shut about the guests, you know. She works at the shoe factory now.” He hit the plunger of a small chromed bell and Sammy Hokenberry stepped up. He was wearing a navy blue jacket, military style, with frayed gold epaulets. It was at least a size too big for him, so that Sammy looked like a battlefield scavenger, the jacket something he'd stripped off the corpse of a braver man.

Preston handed him a package wrapped in plain brown paper. ”Take this to Mr. Stimson.”

Sammy took the package and sailed across the lobby to where Mr. Stimson sat playing checkers with himself, twisting the board around with each new move.

”And n.o.body came to visit her that night?” I asked Preston.

He shook his head. ”n.o.body could have gotten in without me knowing it.”

”How about later? Did anyone ever come around asking for her?”

”Just Ruth Potter. With that note she left. About the job she was offering. Someone to take care of Ed Dillard. You know about that, I guess.”

I nodded, saw Dora's fingers open the note, imagined what Ruth had written inside: Elderly gentleman needs housekeeper. 210 Maple Lane.

”Yes,” I said.

”Don't know anything else about her,” Preston said.

”Did she get any mail while she was here?”

”Never noticed any. She just came and went, you know.” He shrugged. ”I wish I had more to offer you, Cal.”

I thanked him and walked out of the hotel, swung to the right and made my way to the bay. The sidewalk was slippery with snow, people grabbing anything they could find to steady themselves, the old ones locked in a dreadful fear of falling, children laughing heedlessly at the same icy peril. A cold front was sweeping down from Canada, bringing with it a blinding wall of white. Everything seemed to be waiting for it. The bay lay flat, like someone under fire. The seabirds hunkered down in their stone aeries. At the far end of the pier an old gull preened itself silently, raking its long beak across raised wings, while just below my feet cold water swirled at the wooden pylons with little gulping sounds, desperate and gasping, like a drowning child.

I thought of all the times Billy and I had raced along this pier, then saw him lying faceup on the floor, the roses he'd brought her scattered all around him, their petals sticky with his blood. A wave of loathing swept over me, deep and pure, carried on her name, the way it had fallen, soft and needful, from my brother's lips, Dora.

If the love he'd dreamed of came to me now, I thought, it would hit like water on a granite slab.

The great timbers of the north woods rose all around me as I drove along Bluefish Road. Several miles outside town, I pa.s.sed the Hooverville that had sprung up near the rail lines and now spread almost to the road. It was a shantytown of clapboard structures, unsteady lean-tos plugged with cardboard and newspaper, roofs slapped together using sc.r.a.ps of rusty tin and jagged strips of discarded asphalt s.h.i.+ngles. A thick smoke hung over it, dense and acrid, as if blown in from some vast pit that smoldered eternally at the heart of things. Lean, hungry men shambled beneath the smoke or gathered beside large metal drums, feeding slats into a crackling fire. They had the baffled look of the dispossessed, like people after a storm, shocked that such destruction could have swept down upon them so abruptly, taken them unawares, left them with nothing.

I imagined Dora crouched among them, pa.s.sing as a man, with soot on her face and dust in her hair, careful to keep herself apart, give no sense of her true ident.i.ty, a figure fixed forever in a web of grim deceit.

The shoe factory sat on a muddy lot sc.r.a.ped out of the surrounding hillside. A rutted gravel road curved into a parking lot where a few cars huddled together, rusty and dilapidated, like old mules in a broken-down corral. I recognized Claire Pendergast's Ford from two years before, when I'd prosecuted her on a bad-check charge. She'd made rest.i.tution and apologized to all concerned, but I'd always expected her to do it again. Claire was like a lot of the people who'd recently drifted down to Port Alma from the hills, not so much malicious as simply unable to think things through.

She didn't seem apprehensive when I spotted her on the factory floor and motioned her over to me. She asked a fellow worker to take her place stamping shoe soles out of wide red sheets of rubber, then led me to the room where the workers took their breaks. It had whitewashed cinder-block walls and a cold cement floor. A few tables with spindly legs and wooden tops carved with initials were scattered here and there. In one corner, a battered tin coffeepot rested on a black potbellied stove, a broken wicker basket on an unpainted stool beside it. A hand-lettered sign had been taped to the wall above the basket: We trust you. Coffee 5 Cents. No pictures adorned the walls except for a photograph of the factory hung in a plastic frame, its original workers, grinning young men in flannel pants and checkered s.h.i.+rts, grinning girls in floral dresses. The date said October 17, 1922.

”The Polasky sisters are still working here.” Claire pointed to two of the girls in the photograph, both with bobbed hair, smiling brightly at the camera, relieved to be employed. ”Can you imagine that? Stuck in this crummy place for fifteen years.”

”I'm trying to find Dora March,” I said.

She dropped a nickel into the wicker basket and poured a cup of coffee. Black. ”I guess Mr. Forbes mentioned me.” She took the coffee and led me to a table in the corner. ”So, what'd he have to say?”

”That you might remember Dora better than he did.”

She sipped her coffee. Steam rose from it and fogged the bottom third of her gla.s.ses. ”That's possible,” she said. She yanked a pack of cigarettes from her blouse, thumped one out, seized it with her lips, then offered the pack to me.

I shook my head.

”You don't say much, do you?” Claire asked. ”Tall, silent type, I guess.” She took a long draw and eased back in her chair. ”Well, that's probably better. The ones that talk don't end up saying much.”

She was probably in her early forties but looked older. Her hair was brown with curling wisps of gray, her skin as parched and dry as the tobacco in her cigarette. Bony shoulders poked from her dress like sticks in a pillowcase.

”When I went into her room, I noticed it right away,” she began. ”At first I thought Preston must have given me the wrong room number, that no one had been in this one. Then I noticed that the chair was pulled up to the window. I always put the chair at the other side of the room. So I knew that whoever had stayed in the room that night had brought it over to the window.” She brushed a wrinkle from her dress, leaving two equally unsightly ones untouched. ”That was the only thing she did, far as I could tell. Just move that one chair. Didn't use the bed at all. The bedspread was just like I'd left it the day before. Tucked under the way I tuck it. So I knew the bed hadn't been slept in and made up by whoever took the room. It just plain hadn't been slept in. Pretty strange, don't you think?”

”Did you see anything in the room?” I asked. ”Mail. A newspaper.”

Claire used her little finger to sc.r.a.pe a speck of tobacco from the corner of her mouth. ”It's been over a year, Mr. Chase. Even if I'd seen something like that, I would have forgotten it by now.”

”Anything at all.”

She worked her mind a few seconds. I pictured it as a stamping machine, unoiled and poorly maintained, the cogs grinding slowly, producing very little.

”Fact is,” she said finally, shaking her head. ”Fact is, in that job, if you don't find something disgusting in a room, you don't much notice what you find.”

”Did you ever talk to her?”

”Twice, I think it was,” Claire answered. She took a hard drag on the cigarette. A patchy burst of smoke once more exploded from her lips. I could tell her mind had caught the groove, was now spinning more smoothly. ”She come down the stairs and over to the desk. She says, 'Should I pay now?' You know, like a person who'd never stayed in a hotel before, didn't know how the bill was paid, or when. I told her there was two ways to do it. Weekly or daily. A little was knocked off on the weekly, but you had to pay it in advance. I think she took the weekly, but I can't be sure.”

”And the second time?”

”The second time was a day or two later,” Claire replied. ”Preston wanted me to get some fresh eggs over at Madison's. On the way, I pa.s.sed the park and there she was, sitting on a bench. She had gla.s.ses on, reading the paper. She took them off when she saw me coming over to her.”

I imagined Dora facing Main Street, the granite Revolutionary War Monument to her left, the old band sh.e.l.l to her right, her coat wrapped tightly around her. A copy of the Sentinel rested in her lap, two hands placed on top, her fingers delicately wrapped around a pair of gold-rimmed gla.s.ses.

It struck me that had my brother glimpsed Dora in such a pose, he would have felt an instant allure. Even seen briefly, Dora would have made an impression on him.

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