here. Now she’s president of the San Miguel Historical Society.”
“I’ll bet you’re really here for the skiing.” Mrs. Lowell poked Aletha’s arm playfully and turned back to Renata. “I think it’s time Mildred had a good cleaning up again.”
“I can get somebody over there tomorrow. Clean … Miss … Heisinger’s,” she repeated slowly as she wrote on a scratch pad. “How’s she like the Meals on Wheels?”
“She won’t say, but she’s eating again anyway. I swear she’ll outlive us all. Incredible woman.”
Aletha hurried up the street to the New Sheridan Hotel, wondering why the name “Heisinger” should sound so familiar. It kept nagging at her as she stripped sheets off beds, scrubbed down sinks and toilet bowls. She was sitting on the staircase waiting for some late risers to pack up and check out and staring at the life-size portrait on the wall where the stairs ended when it came to her. She’d seen the portrait before, but now the woman in it looked familiar.
The portrait was done in oil on a dark background that suggested either a dim red sunset all but overpowered by swiftly encroaching night or the faint fires of hell abroil behind the powers of darkness. The nude in the center foreground was about twenty pounds overweight, pearshaped, with long kinky hair flying out behind her. Her pose in midair suggested she might be running, one arm thrown up as if in panic, the other crooked so she could place the back of her hand on her brow to show deep distress. Amidst this drama her expression was surprisingly composed, if not a trifle bored. She’d shaved her underarms and pubic hair but there was a suspicious suggestion of darkness on her lower legs. A swath of gauze with tiny stars peppered all over it swirled about her loins, concealing much of nothing. And all this was enclosed in an ornate gold frame.
Aletha had dismissed it as a cornball tourist-grabber until now. Now she recognized the face as that of the woman who had been eating with Callie at the Senate when the oval had replaced the freezer and the cabinet. The woman who’d dropped her spoon and spattered her soup and … that’s when Aletha had heard the name “Heisinger.” That’s when Callie had said a Miss Heisinger had taken Aletha’s sketchbook. She left the pillowcase stuffed with dirty sheets on the stairs and raced down to the pay phone in the odd little room under the staircase that connected the lobby and the bar. She called Renata Winslow. “Is this Miss Heisinger you’re going to have cleaned tomorrow a native of Telluride?”
“Well, I don’t know if she was born here, but nobody around can remember when she didn’t live here. Doris Lowell thinks she’s over a hundred. And still staying through the winters. Can you imagine? Why are you so interested in old Mildred Heisinger?”
“Renata, I want that job tomorrow, the Heisinger job.”
Renata laughed. “You make it sound like a bank holdup. Listen, Aletha, I got a call from Norwood, little town about thirty miles from here, for a job you’ll like better—fry cook. It pays much more.”
“Please give me the Heisinger job. It’s important. Please?”
“Oh … all right. I’ll scare up somebody else for Norwood. I honestly do not understand you. Hers is the little Victorian across Pine Street from the Pick and Gad and down a lot length.”
Aletha was hoping to get back to the dirty sheets before they were discovered, when the girl in the registration cage in the lobby called to her. “Hey, if you’re still looking for a bed, there’s one in the women’s dormer tonight. Cheap by Telluride standards.”
“I’ll take it. Do you know anything about the naked lady on second?”
“There’s a naked lady on second?”
“In the painting at the end of the staircase.”
“Oh yeah. She’s supposed to be some kind of legend. I take all legends with a grain of salt and a bourbon-and-Seven myself. You can probably find out about her up at the
“I’ll bet you’re really here for the skiing.” Mrs. Lowell poked Aletha’s arm playfully and turned back to Renata. “I think it’s time Mildred had a good cleaning up again.”
“I can get somebody over there tomorrow. Clean … Miss … Heisinger’s,” she repeated slowly as she wrote on a scratch pad. “How’s she like the Meals on Wheels?”
“She won’t say, but she’s eating again anyway. I swear she’ll outlive us all. Incredible woman.”
Aletha hurried up the street to the New Sheridan Hotel, wondering why the name “Heisinger” should sound so familiar. It kept nagging at her as she stripped sheets off beds, scrubbed down sinks and toilet bowls. She was sitting on the staircase waiting for some late risers to pack up and check out and staring at the life-size portrait on the wall where the stairs ended when it came to her. She’d seen the portrait before, but now the woman in it looked familiar.
The portrait was done in oil on a dark background that suggested either a dim red sunset all but overpowered by swiftly encroaching night or the faint fires of hell abroil behind the powers of darkness. The nude in the center foreground was about twenty pounds overweight, pearshaped, with long kinky hair flying out behind her. Her pose in midair suggested she might be running, one arm thrown up as if in panic, the other crooked so she could place the back of her hand on her brow to show deep distress. Amidst this drama her expression was surprisingly composed, if not a trifle bored. She’d shaved her underarms and pubic hair but there was a suspicious suggestion of darkness on her lower legs. A swath of gauze with tiny stars peppered all over it swirled about her loins, concealing much of nothing. And all this was enclosed in an ornate gold frame.
Aletha had dismissed it as a cornball tourist-grabber until now. Now she recognized the face as that of the woman who had been eating with Callie at the Senate when the oval had replaced the freezer and the cabinet. The woman who’d dropped her spoon and spattered her soup and … that’s when Aletha had heard the name “Heisinger.” That’s when Callie had said a Miss Heisinger had taken Aletha’s sketchbook. She left the pillowcase stuffed with dirty sheets on the stairs and raced down to the pay phone in the odd little room under the staircase that connected the lobby and the bar. She called Renata Winslow. “Is this Miss Heisinger you’re going to have cleaned tomorrow a native of Telluride?”
“Well, I don’t know if she was born here, but nobody around can remember when she didn’t live here. Doris Lowell thinks she’s over a hundred. And still staying through the winters. Can you imagine? Why are you so interested in old Mildred Heisinger?”
“Renata, I want that job tomorrow, the Heisinger job.”
Renata laughed. “You make it sound like a bank holdup. Listen, Aletha, I got a call from Norwood, little town about thirty miles from here, for a job you’ll like better—fry cook. It pays much more.”
“Please give me the Heisinger job. It’s important. Please?”
“Oh … all right. I’ll scare up somebody else for Norwood. I honestly do not understand you. Hers is the little Victorian across Pine Street from the Pick and Gad and down a lot length.”
Aletha was hoping to get back to the dirty sheets before they were discovered, when the girl in the registration cage in the lobby called to her. “Hey, if you’re still looking for a bed, there’s one in the women’s dormer tonight. Cheap by Telluride standards.”
“I’ll take it. Do you know anything about the naked lady on second?”
“There’s a naked lady on second?”
“In the painting at the end of the staircase.”
“Oh yeah. She’s supposed to be some kind of legend. I take all legends with a grain of salt and a bourbon-and-Seven myself. You can probably find out about her up at the
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