A Study in Charlotte (Charlotte Holmes, #1)(22)

“Exactly!” She pressed her hand against my arm. “You guys are going to homecoming, right? I ordered this dress from Paris—you know, we go there every summer, my family does—but then it didn’t fit right, and no one does alterations here. Not good ones, anyway. Charlotte has this beautiful black dress that I asked if I could borrow—Tom would totally flip out—but she said no, so I figured that she had a date.”

Holmes probably had that dress made specifically for some Norwegian gala where she beat a foreign minister at chess, stole a French-Yugoslavian treaty, and then smuggled herself into the hotel clothes hamper so that she could escape through the laundry chute. I wondered what it looked like; it had to be pretty spectacular if Lena wanted it that badly. A long dress, I imagined. Black and slinky, something a Bond girl would wear. But Lena was wrong about Holmes having a date. The only boy she’d ever consider taking was—

I cut off that line of thought. Where was she, anyway? It was past midnight.

“Yeah,” I said, craning my head to look over the crowd. “Er, no. No. I don’t think Holmes does dances. Is it okay if I step outside and look for her? I can throw out your drink if you’re finished.” Lena was beginning to look a bit sick. As I eased the cup from her hand, a thought occurred to me.

“Um, Lena?” I said. “Why did Holmes start having these poker nights? She doesn’t seem to like”—I was about to say anyone before I caught myself—“crowds. Isn’t it kind of weird for her to host them?”

“Oh,” Lena said, surprised. “You know, her parents don’t give her any spending money or anything. And Charlotte burns through a lot. I think she does a lot of online shopping, she always has packages at the front desk.” I coughed to cover my laughter. I was positive those packages contained something more sinister than designer clothes. Lena really was the perfect roommate for Holmes, I had to give her that. “Anyway, you know. She always knows when people are lying, so I guess it makes sense for her to play poker for cash. I think it’s funny.”

Tom snuck up behind Lena and put his arms around her. “Baby, you’re drunk,” he said, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek.

“Baby, stop. I gotta poker. Charlotte’s not here, and I’m making a killing. I think I’m going to get a Prada purse.”

“Better split it with me before you cash out.” Tom kissed her again, and she wrinkled her nose. “Since I’m your muse and all.”

“Her poker muse,” I said, as seriously as I could manage.

“I bet you Charlotte’s his,” Tom stage-whispered.

“Oh my gosh, that’s so cute.” Lena touched my cheek and turned back to the game, depositing her chips on the table in handfuls. When she looked away, Tom filched a few and slipped them in his pocket.

I pitched Lena’s drink in the trash and set off in search of Holmes.

Since I was already in Stevenson, I snuck up to check her room first. It wasn’t hard at all to get past the hall mother, asleep on her pillowed arms at the front desk. I quickly found Holmes’s door on the first floor: Lena had covered it in paper flowers, and there was a notecard bearing her name in curly purple script. Holmes’s name was hastily scribbled in black ink below it. The door was unlocked—Lena’s fault, I was sure—so I let myself in.

Unlike the room Tom and I shared, which could’ve won awards for its messiness, theirs was as neat and orderly as only a girls’ dorm room could be. Lena’s side was a riot of color, big pillows and bright tapestries, the shut laptop on the desk covered in stickers. She had photos of young Cary Grant pinned to her corkboard, nestled between song lyrics that she’d copied out onto sticky notes. She’d left her keys on the desk. More or less what I’d expected.

I was much more interested in Holmes’s side, but it seemed that she had scrubbed all traces of herself from her room, saving her brilliant oddness for Sciences 442. Her desk was bare and clean, except for a digital clock, and the corkboard above boasted a single bright-blue Post-it that read luv u girlie xo Lena and had curled a bit with age. (That Holmes had left it up that long was surprisingly endearing.) On the shelf above her bed, her textbooks were all in a neat line, and on the bed itself was a navy coverlet—and below that was a sleeping Charlotte Holmes, wig askew, mascara already beginning to rub off below her eyes.

I shut the door softly behind me. “Holmes,” I whispered, and before I could say it again, she sat up like a shot had gone off.

“Watson,” she croaked, and reached blindly for her clock. “I just meant to lie down for a moment.”

“It’s fine,” I said, sitting at the edge of her bed. “You’re probably still catching up on sleep. It’s not healthy to go three days without it, you’ll start hallucinating.”

“Yes, but the hallucinations are always fascinating.” She stacked her pillows behind her back. “So?” she asked, in a Why are you here voice.

“So,” I said, “how did it go? Did you learn anything? Who were you targeting?”

She heaved a sigh, pulling off her wig and stocking cap. “Watson,” she said again, “really.”

“I’m a murder suspect too,” I reminded her, “and I thought we were partners in this. You dress up in this whole ridiculous thing and then you don’t tell me how it went? Spill.”