The man with the monocle smiled as I passed the desk again, white teeth on his face, that black glass lens over his eyes, "I hope you find what you are looking for, Mr. Hughes."

Yeah.

Yeah, that'd be a switch.

Like most of the rest of the hotel, the walls of my room had been hand-painted; I'd guess by an employee, since it showed the kind of rough almost-talent and actual enjoyment that you usually only saw from amatuers. Pretty sure bet that the room was some kind of practical joke or snub from the skirt at the front desk; some kind of message to let me know that she knew what I was.

The artist's theme, if you wanted to call it that, was eyes.

Blue green vines and curling lines snaked along baseboards, around the door frame, over the wainscotting, along the exposed pipes near the ceiling, and at every point where instinct said the design should include fruit, a leaf, or a tangle of abstracted vines, there was an eye. Look into the room, and the room looks into you, I guess.

I dropped my bags on the foot of the bed and glared at nothing in particular.

"Sir?" A bellboy stood in the open doorway.

I turned, shooting a cursory glance at him, than a look at the bag I'd carried in on my own, and another one back at him. "Yeah?"

"Wanted to make sure that everything was acceptable and if you needed anything else brought up." He was older than you'd expect from someone doing that kind of work, and looked familiar, but I couldn't think why.

"Don't worry about it," I said. "I'm fine."

He nodded -- almost a bow -- enough for the brim of his hat to block his face, and left, closing the door behind him.

Left me with a room full of private eyes. Hell of a day. I thought about Mrs. Evan Winter's name and room number on the register; I was getting paid to find her, but what I wanted to find was the bottom of drink or two, holding up the end of a --

A flier shot under the door with the whssk of paper on hardwood, coasting to a stop against my shoe.

 The Linseed Hotel, Last Resort 
 would like to invite you for an evening of music 
 and the art Mrs. Evan Winters.
 Room 412, Ambergris wing?.

 Complimentary drinks and nibbles,
 followed by a silent auction,
 the proceeds to be charitably accepted.

Somehow, I didn't believe someone had watched me walked into the hotel, taken stock of the wrinkles in my suit, the shine on the pants but not the shoes, and thought "art collector."

And I don't believe in coincidences. This time, I wore the gun.

The door to room 412 was open, classical music washing into the hallway, carrying the flotsam of quiet laughter and louder conversation to me. I buttoned my jacket and stepped into the doorway.

Over a dozen paintings, interspersed with mirrors, were arranged along the walls, resting upright and unframed on chairs, a divan, and the bed, all of which had been moved against the walls, making the space seem bigger, although I was fairly certain it wasn't any larger than my own room. A table sat in the center of the room, covered in the promised comestibles, bracketed by two easels that held the largest paintings, both of which looked as thought Jackson Pollock had been commissioned to depict a madwoman, and then forced to use fingerpaints.

"I want to kiss you just once, softly."

Goosebumps stormed down my back, and didn't have anything to do with the words. The woman's voice wound into me like slim fingers sliding through my hair, the timbre like the whisper-whimper of a lover as you touch her just exactly right, a hitch in her breath, a sigh at the end. Soft. Secret.

I turned in the way a suicide jumps from a bridge; slow and unstoppable. She looked like her voice, but it wasn't enough; I had to --

"I'm sorry?" I replied, forcing my voice even. "What was that?"

Her dark eyes watched me, unblinking and shining, her mouth curved in a smile, but only at the ends. "I want to kiss you," she said, slowly, clearly, and her voice reached in and squeezed my chest. "Just once, softly."

I swallowed, watching her lips, willing them to move again. To speak. "I --"

"It's the title," she said, slipping around me like a dancer, "of this painting." She stood before one of the large easels, her back to me. She wore a sheer, sequined gown that hung on her like moss from a willow. "I saw you looking at it."

It was an opening; something to keep her talking, and I leapt at it. "Yes, it's... amazing." I moved to stand alongside her, forcing my eyes onto the canvas. "I'm actually... I'd love to meet the artist."

She laughed. It sounded better than having your name whispered in the throes of passion. "Oh, we all would," she said, still facing the painting. "I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows. Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, with sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine," she recited, for no reason I could imagine. "I'm Henna."

"Ian Hughes," I said, starting to turn. "It's a --"

"E'en Hues," said a deep, reedy voice, from behind the painting at the other end of the table, followed by a wiry, bearded man stepping into view. "Uniform in aspect, regular in cast, cool in complexion, a plain dye, a pale shade, a tepid tincture, a temperate tinge, a mild tint, mono-tone," he reeled off as he walked toward us, a sharp light in his eye. "Gray," he finished. "An ill-fated name for an art aficionado, Mister Hughes."

I moved my shoulders under my jacket and let him think it was a shrug. "I'm more of a friend of the family.”

"I see," he said, peering at me like a diner selecting a lobster from the tank; comical, if it didn't make me want to get two steps further away. "Rob Goodman," he announced, offering a toothy smile and a hairy hand to shake. "Friends call me Puck. Relationship management consultant."

Who are you, really, and what were you before?

"Pleasure," I lied, forcing myself to take his hand, which he shook too hard and too long.

"Family friend, eh?" Goodman said. "Well... I think I can help you out -- I've been working with... Mrs. Winters family for ages -- you'd like to get in touch with her?"

Too good to be true, but, "I would, actually," I said. "You know how I might be able to manage that?"

"I do." He smiled, too broad. Everything with him was too much: too loud, too hard, too long, too good to be true. "Stay."

I shook my head, playing dumb. "Stay?"

His (bright, blue) eyes searched mine, and the smile somehow stretched. "Here," he said, gesturing at the room, the art, the guests; it was hard to say. "No artist can stay away from her fans for long, I assure you." He motioned behind me, and I felt movement there, turned to see Henna, holding out a small plate of food and a glass of pale wine. "Have something to eat, Mister Hughes, and stay awhile – I believe you'll find what you're looking for."

Henna smiled, picked up a wafer-thin sugar cookie from the plate she’d made me and set it between her lips, biting down with sharp, white teeth, watching me the entire time.

Enchanting.

I thought I heard Rob say something as Henna handed me the wine, but it was hard to make out with the music and conversation… and that sugar dusted smile.

Sounded like "Eat, drink, and be fairie," but I really wasn’t listening.

-- Doyce Testerman

• Blue Iron Dreams
• Nothing Left But Floor
• The Bellboy
• And A Merrie Crewe Had He?