Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(76)

Her eyes darted around the room.

A dressing table was laden with new boxes of expensive cosmetics and shampoos, an electric curling iron and hair dryer—luxuries she couldn’t afford. Nearby, a large wooden steamer trunk stood open on its side, hangers slotted into place on one half, and six drawers lining the other. It looked like something a Hollywood star would own for traveling around the globe. Boxes of shoes were lined up next to it, brown and black leather peeking out from fluffs of tissue paper. Several evening gowns, glittering with beads and sequins, hung from the top of an open armoire door. Day coats, hats, handbags were spread across the bed, and sitting on a bureau, open boxes of jewelry sparkled under a slant of sunlight.

A pretty young servant stood with Astrid and her seamstress Benita, all three of them organizing the chaotic spread. It looked as if they might be planning to open a department store. Blond hair swung as Astrid turned and spotted her, eyes lighting up. “Oh, you’re up—excellent! How do you feel?”

“I’ve been better,” Aida admitted.

“Gee, I’m sorry about what happened. Bo said the wiring in those old apartments is always catching on fire.”

“Uh . . .”

“You’re lucky you got out. But on the bright side, you get all new things!” She spread her arms, showcasing her handiwork with a look of ecstasy on her face.

Aida choked. Astrid patted her on the back. “You okay, there? Need some water?” She rattled off several commands in Swedish to the maid, who scurried out of the room. “She’ll bring up some juice and breakfast. I bet you’re starving.”

“I—”

“Anyway, isn’t this all great? I’m so jealous. I told Bo I was going to set fire to my room so I could experience the thrill of a new wardrobe. But Winter said if I did, I’d be wearing a potato sack until I graduated. Anyway, come look at what we picked out. Some of it might not fit, but Benita will take care of that for you.”

“Astrid,” Aida complained, feeling mildly sick to her stomach. “I can’t possibly afford all this.”

“Don’t worry, Benita and I kept a tally,” Astrid said, scooping up a small ledger. “Winter said you insisted on paying everything back when you could. It’s all logged right here.”

Aida scanned the entries, pangs of worry accumulating with every subtotaled figure written in flowery feminine print at the bottom of each page, until she got to the latest running total: four hundred and fifty-eight dollars.

Her mouth fell open. “I could buy a car for this—my life savings was . . .” Half that. And it took her years of scrimping. “This is crazy. This is—”

Dimples appeared as Astrid grinned. “Guess that’ll teach you to take up with a Magnusson.”

“God middag.” Winter’s housekeeper breezed into the room wearing a dour day suit. “Here you go.”

Aida accepted a thick envelope. “What is this?”

“First-class tickets,” Greta said in her singsong voice. “Train leaves same day as your original ticket, late morning. Train company was sympathetic about your ticket being lost in fire. You only owe Winter the difference between ticket prices, and sleeping arrangements will be much more comfortable. Winter insisted.”

Good grief. She’d never traveled first-class. And Greta handled this? The woman probably cursed her name the entire way to the train station.

Aida was so confused—last night Winter had been shouting at her like an angry bull about going to New Orleans; now he was practically shoving her out the door. “I’m overwhelmed,” Aida admitted, gripping the train ticket.

“Ja, I can imagine,” Greta said. “But consider that all you lost were material things, easily replaced, and you now have comfortable, safe place to stay for the remainder of your time in city.”

“I suppose you’re right. Where is Winter?”

“Hunting down people who did this to you.”

Aida’s stomach twisted.

“Enough of all that, let’s get on with the fun stuff,” Astrid said brightly. “Changing screen’s in the corner.”

“Yes, by all means,” Greta said, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. “Astrid will now demonstrate what a girl with no sense and an open charge account can do.”

• • •

Winter stood in the hallway looking through the burned-out hole where Aida’s apartment door once stood. Nothing was salvageable: clothes and luggage, charred; hiding place for her savings, nothing but ashes; and the locket, now melted into her bedside table.

“That was kind of you to arrange repairs,” Velma said at his side as she looked on.

How they’d ever get rid of the acrid burnt stench was beyond him. “Both Aida and Bo are fond of the owners. Can you do anything?”

Velma surveyed the damage for a long moment, the picture of poise in an elegant chartreuse coat. The brim of her matching hat hid her eyes from him. “What did you have in mind?”

“Some sort of tracking spell?”

“To lead you to the men who did this?” She shook her head. “I’m not sure I’m that good. You’d have a better chance finding them by chasing leads.”

“The witnesses saw a truck and two men. One of them said the men were Chinese, the other said they were white. Neither could identify the truck model.”