The Unknown Beloved(12)

“We need a reference, sir,” she said imperiously. “Who are you, and what is it that you do?”

“My name is Michael Malone, like I said. I am a . . . consultant.”

“And who is it you consult with, Mr. Malone?”

He hesitated. He did not know what had already been communicated and he did not want to contradict it.

“He is in policing,” Daniela said softly. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Malone?”

“Yes,” he agreed. “In a manner of speaking.” Inez Staley must have given her a backstory of some sort.

“You’re cheating, Daniela,” Zuzana snapped. “I would like to hear it from Mr. Malone, not from his garments.”

Cheating? Malone looked at the women, dumbfounded.

“And you are unmarried?” Zuzana continued her grilling.

“I am a . . . recent . . . widower.”

That seemed to mollify the old woman. Widowers were better than bachelors, apparently. Especially bachelors his age.

“Oh dear. That’s terrible. I’m so sorry about Irene,” Daniela blurted.

“Daniela,” Zuzana chided. “Don’t be so familiar.”

Daniela looked at the floor, a deep blush staining her cheeks. Apparently, his backstory had also included his deceased wife’s name, which was completely unacceptable. At the moment, he was very unhappy with Eliot Ness. Unhappy with the whole situation.

“I’m tired, ladies,” he said to the women, voice sharp. “I’ve driven a long way, and I want the room. If I have to leave now, I won’t be coming back. And I will expect to leave with the deposit in my hand.”

“The name Malone is Irish. You don’t look Irish,” Zuzana said, undeterred by his threat. But she withdrew her cane, a signal that he could pass. “You look like a Gypsy. However, I prefer Gypsies to Irishmen.”

Good God.

“Mr. Malone, please. Come this way,” Daniela urged, tugging on his arm. “I’ll show you the room.” She still carried his coat and hat, clinging to them as if she were afraid he would leave. He desperately wanted to. But he followed her through the shop and down a long corridor, leaving the old woman to stare after them.

“The room is here on the main floor,” Daniela called over her shoulder. “It’s the only bedroom that is, and it’s on the back of the house, giving you some privacy from the shop as well as proximity to the back door, just there, straight ahead, at the base of the stairs. The toilet is here.” She pointed to a door on the right side of the hallway, directly across from a room that was crowded with sewing machines, dress forms, and a table stacked with bolts of cloth.

The door to the bathroom was open, and as they paused in the doorway, he noted the massive claw-footed tub, the pedestal sink, and their combined reflection in the mirror above it, a bright bluebird next to a careworn crow.

She was staring at him again.

“Miss Kos?” he said, urging her on.

“Um . . . yes. The laundry is there”—she pointed at the final door on the right—“and we will be glad to do your wash as part of your board. I noticed you have a car as well. You can pull that into the old stable around back if you like. On the covered end. There’s room. You may also leave it in the drive or on the street if you are worried about customers boxing you in. Whatever you prefer.” She spoke quickly, nervously, as she ushered him through the last door on the left side of the hall.

The room was large, with two big windows that faced west, giving him a view of the side of the funeral home when he parted the heavy drapes. A long drive wrapped around it and curved into what looked like a ramp to the funeral home’s basement. It made sense. One did not bring the dead through the front door.

He let the curtains fall and appreciated the lack of dust on their thick folds. The room was clean. A fireplace and a desk ran along the south wall, across from an ornate wardrobe and a large bed made with a spread that matched the drapes. The floors were wood, the moldings thick, the rugs plush. Everything had aged, but it had aged well.

“My aunts—Zuzana and Lenka—and I are upstairs. You saw the stairs just beyond the door?”

He nodded.

“The kitchen and sitting room are upstairs as well, which you are welcome to use. You are also welcome to eat your meals with us—at least breakfast and supper. Or we will see that you have a tray brought down. We don’t all stop at the same time for lunch, so you will be on your own. We also have some help—Margaret—who does much of the cleaning and the cooking. If you put your laundry in the hamper just inside the door, she will do that too.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll need the room,” he warned.

“We won’t rent by the week.” Her voice got defensive, and she was still clutching his hat and his coat. “Only by the month. And we need at least a month’s notice if you want to leave. We’ll keep the deposit too. For cleaning and . . . and . . .” Her voice faded off.

She was new to this, he could tell. He stepped forward and took his things from her arms.

“That’s fine, miss. The six months is yours to keep, even if I leave next week. And I’ll give notice when I go.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she said on an exhale. “But . . . I hope you won’t leave so soon.” Her cheeks pinked again, and she took off her spectacles and tucked them into the pocket of her dress.