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“Yes, miss.” Her name tag read OLGA, and I was pretty sure the accent was Norwegian. “Would you like to leave the room on this credit card?”
“I would. And you should have a package for me?”
She frowned. “I don’t see a note on the reservation. Just a moment, please. Excuse me.”
When she disappeared through a doorway, I pushed Dune away from the desk. “That case. Over there. Just be casual.”
I turned back just as Olga came around the corner.
“I’m sorry, Miss Arnold. We didn’t have anything for you.”
“Oh, let me check my e-mail and make sure I read it correctly.” I was trying to give Dune more time, but cut it short when I realized Olga was doing a thorough job of checking him out. “Never mind. I’ll look later.”
I stared at her for a couple of seconds before she startled and began flipping through a stack of papers.
“Certainly. And you’ll be staying in one of our signature Saint Ann balcony loft suites. I do hope you’ll enjoy it. It’s very romantic.” She shot a look of approval over my shoulder.
“Romantic?” Oh hell. When Dad’s assistant had made the original reservation over a month ago, she’d counted on me being in the hotel alone, and Poe popping in and out. No need for two rooms or for two beds. “Do you have anything else?”
“We’re booked for the weekend, but the suite is one of our nicest. I’m sure it will meet your expectations.” I turned to see that she was focusing on Dune, who was leaning intently toward the glass case and talking to a hotel employee, while pointing to the crystal on the top shelf.
“I’m sure it will be lovely. Where’s the elevator?” I asked with forced cheer.
Olga pointed. “Right that way.”
I gave her a smile that displayed all my teeth, then spun on one high heel and approached Dune, grabbing his arms and dragging him away from the case.
“Thanks for the info,” Dune called out over his shoulder to the bellman.
“Enjoy your stay,” the bellman said back, tipping his cap.
“I’m sure I will.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” I muttered, squeezing his elbow and steering him toward the elevator.
Dune
“You don’t have to squeeze so hard.” I stifled a yelp. “Or pinch.”
Hallie pinched me again, I guess for good measure. “Could you have been any more obvious?”
“There was a plaque with tiny, tiny print that covered the occult in Victorian times, and information on the plaçage. And some other stuff.” I gulped at the scary-angry look on her face. “I’m a reader. I was reading. It gave me a good excuse to ask the bellman questions.”
According to the plaque, the Bourbon Orleans had lived through many incarnations, starting as the home to the Orleans Ballroom in 1817. It had seen masquerades, carnival balls, and quadroon balls, and then turned into a convent and a school. In 1964, it became a hotel, with a reputation for excellent service and numerous hauntings.
From the orphan children who’d suffered through the yellow fever epidemic to a Civil War soldier to a dancer who whirled under the ballroom chandelier, there was a promising possibility of ghosts, or a terrifying rip or two.
“You didn’t need to ask questions. You were talking to an employee about the thing we are planning on stealing.”
“You said we were retrieving, not stealing.”
She pinched me again as we got on the elevator.
“You’re bossy,” I said. “Maybe a little bit mean.”
“It’s like you forgot why we were here.”
“Maybe I was a little thrown off when I overheard that we’re staying in the ‘romantic’ loft suite.” Or a lot thrown off.
