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nameplate:
Master Suite, Mr. and Mrs. Marlow
. A red-velvet swag hung between gold stanchions that stood on either side of the door, marking the suite off-limits. Certainly this wouldn’t be occupied. I put the
Bugle
s right outside the door and flowed inside. It took only an instant to turn on the light, open the door, grab the papers, and shut the door.
    Matching wing chairs faced a fireplace with incised wood carving and stucco relief that included matching Grecian urns and a garland of roses. Fluted Corinthian pillars framed another portrait of Lorraine, golden hair upswept, classic features in repose. Her loveliness had a remote quality. There was an aura of stateliness and dignity. Was there a hint of sadness in her gaze? A triple-strand pearl necklace matched the ivory of an elegant off-shoulder gown. Facing each other atop the mantel were two quite perfect Staffordshire figurines of dalmatians. I remembered now that two life-size marble dalmatians sat on either side of the drive.
    A mahogany four-poster bed was on the far side of the spacious room. Lace flounces hung from the canopy and sides, curtaining the interior. The bed looked small compared to beds at the bed-and-breakfast where I’d stayed when last in Adelaide. The suite was large with a Victorian sofa, several Queen Anne–style chairs in a cream fabric with a vivid rose pattern, two mahogany chests, a dressing table, and a petit point–upholstered stool next to a harp. Whitmani ferns flourished in two blue ceramic vases. I supposed the staff kept ferns in the suite because Lorraine Marlow enjoyed ferns when she was alive.
    I turned on a Tiffany lamp on the dressing table. The shade was gorgeous, with a gold and green pattern. I admired cut-glass perfume bottles that glittered like diamonds in the light. A hairbrush and hand mirror with ornate silver handles lay next to a pair of white gloves that looked as if they had been dropped there for only a moment. A hand-painted china tray continued the rose motif with huge blooms of many hues. The tray contained a china thimble, a book of Emily Dickinson poetry, and ticket stubs.
    It was as if Lorraine Marlow had walked out of the room a short while ago and would soon return. Apparently Charles Marlow had kept his wife’s personal items in place and nothing had been disturbed since her death. I picked up a crystal perfume bottle, lifted the stopper, and sniffed. Shalimar by Guerlain . . . Not that I ever used such expensive perfume, but on a visit to New York Bobby Mac and I had dropped into an exclusive perfume shop, and the scent was unforgettable.
    I dabbed a bit behind each ear, gave a yawn, sniffed again before I stoppered the bottle. What a gala week Bobby Mac and I spent. We’d stayed at the Waldorf. I remembered the radiance of tulips when we’d walked hand in hand through Central Park. I smiled and swirled into being. On earth, I enjoy being
on
earth. The room was chilly enough that I chose a pink flannel nightgown. I put the
Bugle
s on the dressing table, looked into the mirror, and picked up the hairbrush. My curls were—
    â€œWhere did you come from?” Lorraine’s light high voice inquired politely.
    I dropped the hairbrush as though it were electrified.
    â€œI knew you were here when the light came on and in a moment my perfume bottle rose in the air. It’s a nice scent, isn’t it?” The cultivated voice was quite pleasant.
    I turned and looked toward the bed. The lace panels had been pulled back, revealing a folded-back sheet and coverlet though Lorraine wasn’t visible. Obviously she had retired for the night. I’d made myself at home without a thought for her whereabouts. My face felt hot. She was, as Wiggins said, too gentle to censure me for intruding into her boudoir and pawing over her dressing table. I reached down to retrieve the brush and placed it on the dressing table.
    â€œI don’t mean to be inquisitive but