The Maid

Chapter 10

My alarm clock rings the next morning. It’s the sound of a rooster crowing. Even all these months later, I hear Gran’s feet padding down the hallway, the gentle rap of her knuckles on my door.

Rise and shine, my girl! It’s a new day. Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle as she busies herself in the kitchen making us English Breakfast tea and crumpets with marmalade.

But no, it isn’t real. It’s only a memory. I push the button on my alarm to stop the crowing and immediately check my phone just in case Rodney texted me overnight. Messages: nil.

I put my two feet flat on the parquet floor. No matter. I will go to work today. I will see Rodney there. I will take the temperature of our relationship. I will move things forward. I will help Giselle because she’s a friend who needs me. I will know just what to do.

I stretch and get out of bed. Before doing anything else, I pull off all the sheets and the quilt to make the bed properly.

If you’re going to do something, do it right.

Very true, Gran. I start with the top sheet, snapping it crisply and replacing it on the bed. Tuck, tuck. Hospital corners. Next, I sort Gran’s quilt, smoothing it neatly, pointing the star north as always. I fluff up the pillows, placing them against the headboard at a regimented forty-five-degree angle, two plump hillocks with crochet fringe.

I go to the kitchen and prepare my own crumpets and tea. I notice the grating sound of my teeth against the crust every time I take a bite. Why is it that when Gran was alive I never heard the horrible sounds I make?

Oh, Gran. How she loved the mornings. She would hum a tune and bustle about in the kitchen. We’d sit together at our country-kitchen table for two, and like a sparrow in the sunshine she would chirp and chirp as she pecked at her breakfast.

Today, I will tackle the library at the Coldwells, Molly. Oh, Molly, I wish you could see it. One day, I’ll have to ask Mr. Coldwell if I can bring you for a visit. It’s a sumptuous room, full of dark leather and polished walnut. And so many books. And you wouldn’t believe it, but they barely go in there. I love those books like my own. And today, it’s dusting. It’s tricky, let me tell you, dusting books. You can’t just blow the dust off them like I’ve seen some maids do. That’s not cleaning, Molly. That’s merely dirt displacement….

On and on she’d chatter, preparing us both for the day.

I hear myself slurp my tea. Disgusting. I take another bite of crumpet and find I can’t eat any more. I throw out the rest, even though it’s a horrid waste. I clean my dishes and head to the bathroom for a shower. Since Gran died, I do everything a bit quicker in the morning because I want to leave the apartment as soon as possible. Mornings are too hard without her.

I’m ready. Off I go, out the front door and down the hall to Mr. Rosso’s apartment. I knock firmly. I hear him on the other side of the door. Click. It opens.

He stands with his arms crossed. “Molly,” he says. “It’s seven-thirty a.m. This better be good.”

I’m holding the money in my hand. “Mr. Rosso, here’s two hundred dollars toward the rent.”

He sighs and shakes his head. “The rent is eighteen hundred, and you know it.”

“Yes, you are correct, both about the amount that I owe and the fact that I know it. And I’ll produce the rest of the rent by the end of today. You have my word.”

More head shaking and bluster. “Molly, if it weren’t for how much I respected your grandmother…”

“End of day. You’ll see,” I say.

“End of day, or I take the next step, Molly. I evict you.”

“That won’t be necessary. May I have a receipt registering proof of payment for two hundred dollars?”

“Now? You have the nerve to ask for that right now? How ’bout I get it to you tomorrow, once you’re all paid up.”

“That’s a reasonable compromise. Thank you. Have a good day, Mr. Rosso.”

With that I turn and walk away.

I arrive at work well before nine. As usual, I walk the whole way to avoid unnecessary spending on transit. Mr. Preston is standing on the top step of the hotel entrance behind his podium. He’s on the phone. He sets the receiver down and smiles when he sees me.

It’s a busy morning at the entrance, busier than usual. There are several suitcases outside the revolving door, waiting to be carried to the storage room. Guests hurry in and out, many of them taking photos and chattering about Mr. Black this and Mr. Black that. I hear the word “murder” more than once, said in a way that makes it sound like a day at the fair or an exciting new flavor of ice cream.

“Good morning, Miss Molly,” Mr. Preston says. “Are you all right?”

“I’m quite fine,” I say.

“You got home safely last night, I hope?”

“I did. Thank you.”

Mr. Preston clears his throat. “You know, Molly. If you ever have any problems, any problems at all, remember that you can count on good ol’ Mr. Preston for help.” His forehead furrows in a curious way.

“Mr. Preston, are you worried?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. But I just want you to…keep good company. And to know that if ever you need, I’d be there for you. You just give Mr. Preston a wee nod and I’ll know. Your gran was a good woman. I was fond of her and she was so good to my dear Mary. I’m sure things aren’t easy without your gran.”

He shifts his weight from foot to foot. For a moment, he doesn’t look like Mr. Preston, the imposing doorman, but like an overgrown child.

“I appreciate your offer, Mr. Preston. But I’m quite all right.”

“Very well,” he says with a tip of his hat. Just then, a family with three children in tow and six suitcases demands his attention. He turns to them before I can say a proper goodbye.

I weave my way through the throng of guests, push past the revolving door and into the lobby. I head straight downstairs to the housekeeping quarters. My uniform hangs from my locker door, clean and shrouded in protective film. I dial the code to my lock and my locker springs open. On the upper shelf is Giselle’s timer, all that sand from an exotic, faraway place, all that golden brass shining hope in the dark. I sense a presence beside me. I turn to find Cheryl peeking around my locker door, her face severe and downturned—in other words her normal expression.

I try cheery optimism. “Good morning. I do hope you’re feeling better today and that you were able to benefit from a day of respite yesterday,” I say.

She sighs. “I doubt you really understand, Molly, what it’s like to have a condition like mine. I have bowel issues. And stress aggravates things. Stress, such as a dead man discovered in my workplace. Stress that causes gastrointestinal dysfunction.”

“I’m sorry you were unwell,” I say.

I expect her to go away then, but she doesn’t. She just stands in my way. The plastic wrap of my uniform rattles ominously as she brushes against it.

“Too bad about the Blacks,” she says.

“You mean about Mr. Black,” I say. “Yes, it’s most dreadful.”

“No. I mean too bad you won’t get their tips anymore, now that Black’s dead.” Her face reminds me of an egg—featureless and bland.

“Actually,” I say, “I believe Mrs. Black is still a guest in the hotel.”

She sniffs. “Sunitha’s looking after Giselle in her new room. I’ll oversee her work, of course.”

“Of course,” I say. It’s yet another ploy to steal tips, but it won’t last for long. Giselle will talk to Mr. Snow. She will request that I look after her again. So for now, I’ll hold my tongue.

“The police are finished in the former Black suite,” Cheryl says. “They’ve turned it upside down. Quite a mess. You’ll have to work hard to set it right. Not big tippers either, cops. I’ll look after the Chens from now on. Wouldn’t want you overworked.”

“How considerate,” I say. “Thank you, Cheryl.”

She stands there for a moment longer, looking into my locker. I see her eyeing Giselle’s timer. I want to gouge out her eyes because she’s tainting it, just by looking at it with such envy. It is mine. It’s my gift. From my friend. Mine.

“Excuse me,” I say, and slam the locker door shut.

Cheryl flinches.

“I best be off. I must get to work.”

She mutters something unintelligible as I grab my uniform and head for the change room.

Once I’m uniformed and I’ve replenished my trolley, I make my way to the main lobby. I see Mr. Snow at Reception. He looks frosted over, like a sugar-glazed doughnut melting on a hot day. He beckons me to him.

I’m careful to allow the hordes of guests to pass before me and my trolley, bowing my head to each as they pay me no mind. “After you, ma’am/sir,” over and over again. It takes me an extraordinarily long time to navigate the short distance from the elevator to the reception desk.

“Mr. Snow, my apologies. It’s very busy today,” I say when I arrive at the desk.

“Molly, it’s good to see you. Thank you again for coming to work yesterday. And today. Many employees would simply use recent events as an excuse to feign illness. To shirk their duties.”

“I would never do that, Mr. Snow. ‘Every worker bee has her place in the hive.’ You taught me that.”

“Did I?”

“You did. It was part of your speech during last year’s professional-development day. The hotel is a hive, and every worker in it is a bee. Without each and every one of us, there would be no honey.”

Mr. Snow is looking past me into the busy lobby. It could use some attention. A child has left a sweater on one of the high-back chairs. A discarded plastic bag gusts up and then back to the marble floor as a busy porter sweeps past, wheeling a squeaky suitcase in his wake.

“It’s a strange world, Molly. Yesterday, I was worried that after recent unfortunate events, guests would cancel their reservations and our hotel would be empty. But today, the opposite has transpired. More guests are booking. Ladies groups are coming in droves for high tea just to snoop around. Our conference rooms are now booked fully for the next month. It seems everyone’s an amateur sleuth. They all believe they can waltz right into the hotel and solve the mystery of Mr. Black’s untimely demise. Look at Reception. They can barely keep up.”

He is right. The penguins behind the counter punch furiously at their screens, call out orders for valets and porters and the doorman.

“The Regency Grand has become a bit of a hot spot,” Mr. Snow says. “Thanks to Mr. Black.”

“How interesting,” I remark. “I was just thinking about how one day can be so utterly grim and the next such a blessing. In this life, you just never know what’s around the bend, be it a dead man or your next date.”

Mr. Snow coughs into his hand. I hope he’s not getting a cold. He comes closer and speaks in a whisper. “Listen, Molly. I’ll have you know the police are now finished with their investigation in the Black suite. I hope they haven’t uncovered anything unsavory.”

“If they have, I’ll just clean it up. Cheryl told me I’m to start there today. I’ll get right to it, sir.”

“What? I expressly told Cheryl to handle it herself. We are in no rush to rent out that suite again. We need to let everything die down a bit. So to speak. I don’t want to cause you any more stress than you’ve already endured.”

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Snow,” I say. “I find it more stressful knowing the suite is in disarray. I’ll feel much better when it’s back in order, all cleaned up as if nobody ever died in that bed.”

“Hush,” Mr. Snow says. “Let’s not frighten the guests.” It’s only then that I realize I’ve abandoned my inside voice.

“My apologies, Mr. Snow,” I whisper. And then loudly, for the benefit of anyone who may have been listening, “I’m going to begin cleaning now, a suite, not any suite in particular, just whichever is on my roster.”

“Yes, yes,” says Mr. Snow. “Best be off then, Molly.”

And so I depart, circumventing the many guests and heading for the Social to pick up the morning papers and, hopefully, to see Rodney.

He’s behind the bar when I get there, polishing the brass taps. I feel a warm glow the instant I set eyes upon him.

He turns. “Oh, hey,” he says, smiling a smile that I know is just for me, mine and only mine. He holds a tea towel in his hands—pure white, not a spot on it.

“I didn’t call you,” I say. “Or text you. I figured we could wait to speak in person like we are now. But I want you to know that if I didn’t follow the protocol you expected, I’d be happy to simply text you or call you at any time, day or night. Just let me know your expectations, and I’ll adjust. It won’t be a problem.”

“Whoa,” he says. “Alrighty then.” He takes the crisp, white towel and tosses it over his shoulder. “So,” he says, “did you get up to anything interesting last night?”

I come in close to the bar. This time, I’ll be sure to use my whisper voice. “You are not going to believe this,” I say.

“Try me,” he replies.

“Giselle came to see me! To my house! She was waiting outside my building when I got home. Can you believe it?”

“Huh. What a surprise,” he says, but his tone is odd, as if he isn’t very surprised at all. He picks up a bar glass and begins to polish it. Though all the glassware has been properly sterilized in the kitchen downstairs, he’s wiping out every errant spot. I appreciate his commitment to perfection. He is a wonder.

“So what did Giselle want?” he asks.

“Well,” I say, “that is a secret between friends.” I pause, look around the busy restaurant to make sure that no one is paying attention. Nobody so much as glances my way.

“Feeling gun-shy?” he says. There’s a playful smile on his face, and I do believe he may be flirting with me. The very thought catapults my heart into double syncopation.

“Funny that you say that,” I reply. Before I can think of what else to tell him, Rodney says, “We need to talk about Juan Manuel.”

Guilt suddenly overcomes me. “Oh, of course.” I’ve been concentrating so much on Rodney and the excitement of our burgeoning relationship that I’ve all but forgotten about Juan Manuel. It’s clear that Rodney is a better person than I am, always thinking of others and putting himself last instead of first. It’s a reminder of how much he has to teach me, of how much I still have to learn.

“How can I help?” I ask.

“I hear the police are gone and that the Black suite is empty. Is that right?”

“I can confirm that,” I say. “In fact, it won’t be rented out for a while. I’ll be cleaning it first thing today.”

“That’s perfect,” Rodney says. He puts down a polished glass and picks up another. “I figure the safest place for Juan Manuel now is the Black suite,” he says. “The cops are gone; the room won’t be rented out again anytime soon, not for lack of guest interest, though. Have you seen this place today? Every middle-aged, mystery-watching cat lady in town is roaming the lobby hoping to catch a glimpse of Giselle, or whatever. Honestly, it’s pathetic.”

“I promise you this: no curious busybody is getting into that suite,” I say. “I’ve got a job to do, and I intend to do it. Once the suite is clean, I’ll let you know and Juan Manuel can come in.”

“Great,” Rodney says. “Can I ask you for one more thing? Juan Manuel gave me his overnight bag. Would you mind putting it in the suite? Under the bed or something? I’ll let him know it’s there.”

“Of course,” I say. “Anything for you. And Juan Manuel.”

Rodney retrieves the familiar navy-blue duffel bag from beside a beer keg and passes it to me.

“Thanks, Molly,” he says. “Man, I wish all women were awesome like you. Most are much more complicated.”

My heart, beating at double speed already, alights and soars into the air. “Rodney,” I ask, “I was wondering. Perhaps one day we can go for ice cream together? Unless you like jigsaws. Do you like jigsaws?”

“Jigsaws?”

“Yes, jigsaw puzzles.”

“Uh…if those are the choices, I’m more of an ice cream kind of guy. I’m a bit busy these days, but yeah, we’ll go out sometime. Sure.”

I pick up Juan Manuel’s bag, sling it over my shoulder, and start to walk away.

“Molly,” I hear. I turn around. “You forgot your newspapers.”

He plops a large stack on the bar, and I heave them into my arms.

“Thank you, Rodney. You’re too kind.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, winking. Then he turns his back on me to deal with a waitress and her order.

After that deliriously delicious encounter, I head upstairs. I’m practically floating on air, but as soon as I’m outside the door of the former Black suite, the gravity of memory pins me to the ground. It’s been two days since I’ve been in this suite. The door seems bigger than it used to be, more imposing. I breathe in and out, gathering the strength to enter. Then I use my keycard to buzz through, pulling my trolley in behind me. The door clicks shut.

The first thing I notice is the smell, or the lack of smell—no comingling of Giselle’s perfume with Mr. Black’s shaving lotion. As I survey the scene before me, I see that all of the drawers in every piece of furniture are open. The pillows from the couch are on the floor, zippers splayed. The living-room table has been dusted for fingerprints and left like that, prints in flagrante. The surface looks a lot like the finger paintings I was forced to do in kindergarten, even though I hated getting my fingers soiled with paint. A coil of caustic yellow caution tape lies abandoned on the floor outside the bedroom door.

I draw another deep breath and walk farther into the suite. I stand at the threshold to the bedroom. The bed has been stripped bare, no sheets, no mattress cover. I wonder if the police took the sheets away with them. This means I will be low on my bedding count and will have to justify the loss to Cheryl. The pillows have been flung akimbo, stripped of their cases, stains glaring like grotesque bull’s-eyes. There are three pillows only, not four.

I suddenly feel a bit dizzy. I hold on to the doorframe to steady myself. The safe is open, but there’s nothing in it now. All of Giselle’s and Mr. Black’s clothes have been emptied from the armoires. And Mr. Black’s shoes that were on his side of the bed are gone. The bedside tables have been dusted, too, unsightly prints thumbing up through the powder left behind. Perhaps some of them are mine.

The pills are gone, even the crushed ones on the floor have vaporized. In fact, the carpets and floors seem to be the one thing in the suite that have been properly cleaned. Perhaps the police vacuumed, sucked up the traces—the microfibers and particles of the Blacks’ private lives, all caught in the confines of a single filter.

I feel a cold shiver run through me, as though Mr. Black himself, in a ghostly vapor, were pushing me aside. Get out of my way. I remember the bruises on Giselle’s arms, Oh, it’s nothing I can’t handle. I do love him, you know. That ghastly man bowled me over every time I crossed him in the suite or in the hallways, as though I were an insect or a pest that deserved to be quashed. I see him in my mind’s eye, a vile, beady-eyed creature, smoking a vile, malodorous cigar.

I feel a pulse of anger beat at my temples. Where is Giselle supposed to go now? What is she supposed to do? I wonder as much about Giselle as about myself. Mr. Rosso issued more threats this morning. Pay the rent, or get evicted. My home, this job. They are all I have left. I feel the prick of tears that I do not need right now.

Good things come to those who work hard. Clean conscience, clean life.

Gran always comes to my rescue.

I take her advice. I hustle back to my trolley and put on my rubber gloves. I spritz disinfectant on the glass tabletops, the windows, the furniture. I wipe off all the prints, all the remains of the interlopers who have been in this room. I scour the walls next, addressing the scuffs and dings that I’m certain weren’t here before the ungainly detectives arrived. I cover the mattress in immaculate white. I make the bed, letting the crisp sheets billow down. Polished doorknobs, coffee service replenished, clean drinking glasses with paper lids to vouch for their cleanliness. I work by rote, my body moving of its own accord, so many times have I done this, so many days, rooms, guests blending together in a haze. My hands tremble as I polish the gilt mirror that faces the bed. I must focus on the present, not on the past. I wipe and wipe until a perfect image of myself shines back at me.

There is only one corner of the Blacks’ bedroom left to clean, the dark corner beside Giselle’s armoire. I take my vacuum and run over and over the carpet there. I inspect the walls closely, give both walls a thorough wipe down with disinfectant. There. Erased.

I survey my handiwork, and I see the suite restored. There’s a pleasing citrus tang in the air.

It’s time.

I have avoided the bathroom, but I can no longer. It, too, has been left in a state of disarray. The towels are missing, the tissues, even the toilet-paper rolls—all gone. There’s fingerprint dust on the mirror and around the bathroom sink. I spritz and spray, I polish and replenish. In this smaller room, which due to its function must be disinfected more aggressively, the acrid scent of bleach is so strong that my nasal passages sting. I flip the switch for the fan and hear that familiar clunking sound. I quickly turn it off.

It’s time.

I remove my rubber gloves and throw them into my rubbish bin. I grab the small step stool from my trolley and set it up under the fan. I climb onto it. The fan cover pulls down easily. I push in two clips to release it completely. I gingerly place the cover beside the sink. I get back on the step stool and reach one arm up into the dark recess of the fan, farther into the unknown, until my fingertips connect with cold metal. I pull the object down and hold it in both hands. It is smaller than I thought it would be, sleek and black but surprisingly heavy. Substantial. The grip is gritty, like sandpaper or a cat’s tongue. The barrel is smooth, with a satisfying shine. Pristine. Polished. Clean.

Giselle’s gun.

Never in my life have I held anything like this. It feels alive, though I know it’s not.

Who could blame her for having it? If I were her, had been treated the way she has by Mr. Black and others, well…it’s no wonder. I can feel it, the power in my hands that makes me immediately feel safer, invincible. And yet she didn’t use it, this weapon. She didn’t use it on her husband.

Where will she go now? What will she do? And what will I? I feel the gravity in the room change, the weight of everything pushes down on my shoulders. I place the gun on the sink, climb back up the stool, and replace the fan’s cover. Back down the steps I go, then I take the gun again and carry it into the living room. It rests so nicely in the bowl of my hands. What will I do with it? How will I get it to Giselle?

Then it comes to me. They say television is an idle pursuit, but I maintain that I’ve learned many a lesson from Columbo.

Hidden in plain sight.

I carefully put the gun down on the glass table, then go back to my trolley. I remove Juan Manuel’s duffel bag. I head back to the bedroom, where I slide his bag under the bed. Then I return to the sitting room.

I turn my attention to my vacuum cleaner, standing steadfast and at the ready right beside me. I unzip the vacuum bag and take out the dirty filter. I grab a brand-new filter from my trolley and slip the gun inside it. I push the fresh filter into the guts of my vacuum. I zip it up. Out of sight, out of mind. I give the vacuum a shove forward and back. Not a sound does it make, my secret, silent friend.

I pick up the dirty filter and am about to toss it into my rubbish bin when a dusty clump falls out and lands with a dull thud on the carpet. I look down at my feet where the carpet is now sullied with dust and grime. In the middle of the nest of dirt, something gleams. I crouch and take the object into my hand. I wipe away the grime. Gold, thick, encrusted in diamonds and other jewels. A ring. A man’s ring. Mr. Black’s wedding ring. Right there in the palm of my hand.

The good lord gives and the good lord takes away.

I curl my fingers around it. It’s as though my prayers have been answered. “Thank you, Gran,” I say to myself.

Because it’s only then that I know just what to do.

Chapter 11

The gun is stowed in my vacuum cleaner. The ring is carefully wrapped in a tissue and tucked in the left cup of my brassiere, right by my heart.

I clean as many other rooms as I can, as fast as I can, using my manual sweeper rather than my power vacuum. At one point, I meet Sunitha in the hallway. She startles when she sees me, which is out of the ordinary. “Oh, so sorry,” she says.

“Sunitha, is something wrong?” I ask. “Are you short on cleaning supplies?”

She grabs my arm. “You found him. Dead. You are a very nice girl. Be careful. Sometimes a place seems as clean as fresh snow, but it’s not. It’s just a trick. You understand?”

I immediately think of Cheryl cleaning sinks with her toilet rags.

“I understand completely, Sunitha. We must always keep clean.”

“No,” she hisses. “You must be more careful. The grass is green, but there are snakes in it.”

And with that, she slithers a white towel in the air, and then drops it into her dirty laundry pile. She looks at me with an expression that does not fit the repertory of any I understand. What has gotten into her? Before I can ask, she pushes her trolley away and into the next room.

I try to put the odd encounter behind me. I concentrate on finishing as soon as I can so that I can skip out to lunch a few minutes early. I’ll need every minute.

It’s time.

I push my trolley to the elevator and wait for it to arrive. Three times the doors open and guests stare out at me, not making the slightest move to allow me to enter even though there’s plenty of room. The maid goes last.

Finally, the doors open and the elevator is empty. I have it to myself all the way down to the basement. I hurry out with my trolley and almost collide with Cheryl as I turn the corner toward my locker.

“Where are you off to in such a rush? And how can you be finished with all those rooms so fast?” she asks.

“I’m efficient,” I reply. “Sorry I can’t dally. I have an errand to run over the lunch hour.”

“An errand? But you usually work straight through your lunch hour,” Cheryl says. “How will you maintain your A+ Exceptional Productivity Score if you’re running all over the place at lunchtime?”

I’m very proud of my A+ Exceptional Productivity Score. Every year, it earns me a Certificate of Excellence from Mr. Snow himself. Cheryl never completes her daily room-cleaning quota, and my excellence bridges the gap.

But as I look at Cheryl, I catch something in her expression that’s always been there, but today I can read it plainly—the curve of her upper lip, the disdain and…something else. I hear Gran’s voice in my head giving me advice about school bullies.

Don’t let them push your buttons.

At the time, I didn’t understand that the buttons weren’t literal. I understand it now. The pieces slide together in my head.

“Cheryl,” I say, “I am aware of my legal right to take a break and will do so today. And any other day that I choose. Is that acceptable, or should I run it by Mr. Snow?”

“No, no,” she replies. “It’s fine. I’d never suggest anything…illegal. Just be back by one p.m.”

“I will,” I say.

With that, I’m off, zooming by her. I park my trolley outside my locker, grab my wallet, then race back up to the elevator and out the bustling front doors of the hotel.

“Molly?” Mr. Preston calls after me. “Where are you going?”

“I’ll be back in an hour!”

I cross the road and walk past the coffee shop directly in front of the hotel. Then I turn onto a side street. The traffic is slower here, with fewer people on the sidewalks. My destination is about seventeen minutes away. I can feel the heat rising into my chest, my legs burning as I force them onward. But no matter. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, as Gran liked to say.

I pass a first-floor office where workers have assembled and are seated in rows, listening to a man in a suit who is gesticulating wildly in front of a podium. Charts and graphs appear on a screen behind him. I smile to myself. I know just what it’s like to be a proud employee fortunate enough to be receiving professional development. I look forward to Mr. Snow’s next professional-development day about a month from now.

I have never understood why some staff members complain about these events, as if they’re some kind of imposition, as if self-improvement and the chance to receive a free education on guest services and hotel hygiene isn’t a bonus of employment at the Regency Grand. I relish such opportunities, especially given that I was unable to pursue my dream of a post-secondary education in hotel management and hospitality. This is a bad thought, an unwelcome thought. I see Wilbur’s face flash in my mind and I have a sudden desire to punch it. But you can’t punch a thought. Or if you can, it does little to change reality.

My stomach rumbles as I walk. I have no lunch, didn’t pack one in the morning as I have so little in the cupboards and could barely eat breakfast anyway. I had hoped to find some perfectly untouched crackers and perhaps a small pot of unopened jam left on a breakfast tray outside one of the rooms, maybe even a piece of fruit that I could wash and discreetly tuck away. But alas, today’s guests have left me very little. In total, my tips are $20.45, which is certainly something, but not enough to placate an angry landlord or fill a fridge with anything but a few scant basics. Never mind.

The honey comes from the hive. The bees tend to the honey.

It’s Mr. Snow’s voice in my head this time. On the last professional-development day, he covered a most important topic: How the Hive Mentality Creates Greater Productivity. I took notes in a fresh, new journal, and I have studied the details at length. In his hour-long lecture, Mr. Snow talked about teamwork, using a most compelling analogy to do so.

“Think of this hotel as a hive,” he said as he looked out at his staff over his owl glasses. I was listening intently to his words. “And think of yourselves as bees.”

I wrote in my notebook: Think of yourself as a bee.

Mr. Snow continued. “We are a team, a unit, a family, a colony. When we adopt a hive mentality, it means we are all working toward the greater good, the greater good of the hotel. Like bees, we recognize the importance of the hotel, our hive. We must cultivate it, clean it, care for it, because we know that without it, there will be no honey. In my notebook: hotel = hive; hive = honey.

At this point, Mr. Snow’s lecture took a most surprising turn. “Now,” he said, gripping both hands on the podium in front of him, “Let us consider the hierarchy of roles within the hive and the importance of all bees, regardless of rank, working to the best of their bee-bilities. There are supervisory bees (here, he straightened his tie) and there are worker bees. There are bees that serve others directly and there are bees that serve indirectly. But no bee is more important than any other bee, do you understand?”

Mr. Snow’s hands balled into fists to highlight the importance of this last point. I was scribbling furiously, recording every word as best I could, when suddenly Mr. Snow pointed at me in the crowd.

“Take, for instance, the example of a maid. She could be any maid, anywhere. Within our hotel, she is our perfect worker bee. She toils and travails to ready each honeycomb for the arrival of honey. This is a physically demanding job. It’s exhausting and mind-numbingly repetitive, and yet, she takes pride in her work; she does it well each and every day. Her work is largely invisible. But does this make her lesser than the drones or the queen? Does this make her less significant to the hive? No! The truth is that without the worker bee, we have no hive. We cannot function without her!”

Mr. Snow pounded the podium to underline his point. I looked around and saw many eyes upon me. Sunshine and Sunitha, who were in the row in front of me, had turned and were smiling and waving at me. Cheryl, who was a few seats away, was leaning back, her eyes slits, her arms crossed. Rodney and some of the waitresses from the Social were behind me, and as I turned to look over my shoulder, they whispered to one another, laughing at some joke I’d missed.

All around, employees I knew (but most of whom had never spoken to me) were looking my way.

Mr. Snow continued. “We have much to improve upon in this organization. And I’m increasingly becoming aware that our hive does not always operate as a cohesive unit. We create honey for our guests to enjoy, but sometimes, the sweetness is skimmed off the top and isn’t shared equitably. Some of our hive is used nefariously, for personal gain rather than for the common good….”

At this, I stopped taking notes because Cheryl began dry coughing in a very distracting manner. I turned around once more and saw Rodney sinking into his chair.

Mr. Snow carried on. “I’m here to remind you that you’re all better than that, that we can strive for something more together. That our hive can be the greatest, fittest, cleanest, most luxurious hive of any bees anywhere. But it will take cohesion and cooperation. It will take a commitment to the hive mentality. I’m asking you to help the colony, for the colony. I want you to think about pristine professionalism. Polished poise. I want you to clean this place up!”

At this point, I bounded out of my chair and onto my feet. I had fully expected that the entire staff would recognize Mr. Snow’s glorious conclusion and would spontaneously burst into applause. But I was the only one on my feet. I was standing alone in a room that was pin-drop silent. I felt myself turn to stone. I knew I should probably sit, but I couldn’t. I was frozen. Stuck.

I stayed that way for a very long time. Mr. Snow remained at the podium for a minute or two. Then he straightened his glasses, grabbed his speech, and marched back to his office. Once he was gone, my coworkers shifted in their seats and started talking among themselves. I could hear the whispers all around me. Did they actually think I couldn’t?

Molly the Mutant.

Roomba the Robot.

The Formality Freak.

Eventually, the reception-desk penguins and porters, the waitresses and valets got up in their little cliques and began to drift away. I remained where I was until I was the last bee in the room.

“Molly?” I heard behind me. I felt a familiar hand on my arm. “Molly, are you quite all right?”

I turned and saw Mr. Preston standing in front of me. I searched his face for clues. Was he friend or foe? Sometimes this happens. I’ll freeze for a moment because everything I’ve ever learned is gone. Erased.

“It wasn’t about you,” he said.

“I’m sorry?” I replied.

“What Mr. Snow was saying about how this hotel might not be so squeaky clean, how some employees skim off the top. That wasn’t about you, Molly. There are things happening in this hotel, things even I don’t fully understand. But you don’t have to worry about that. Everyone knows you do your best every day.”

“But they don’t respect me. I don’t think my coworkers like me at all.”

He was holding his cap in his hand. He sighed and looked down at it. “I respect you. And I like you very much.”

As he looked at me, the warmth in his eyes radiated out. Somehow, that look unlocked me. My legs became mobile again.

“Thank you, Mr. Preston,” I said. “I think I should get back to it. The hive never rests and all that.”

I broke away from him and went straight back to work.

That was months ago. Now, I’m standing outside a storefront a few blocks away from the hotel. My legs are stuck again, just like they were that day.

I already went in the store. I showed the man behind the counter the goods; he offered me a price. I accepted. In place of what was there before, in the cup of my brassiere, resting against my heart, there is now a thick wad of bills wrapped in a tissue.

I check the time on my phone. This whole transaction, including the walk here, has taken me twenty-five minutes, which is five minutes less than my original estimation, which means I’ll arrive back at work approximately five minutes before one, when, as Cheryl so kindly reminded me, the second half of my shift begins.

My stomach twists, like the dragon that resides there just flipped its tail and sent acid sloshing everywhere. Maybe I shouldn’t have done this; maybe it was wrong.

I catch my reflection in the glass. I remember Mr. Black’s sallow, downturned face, the dark bruises he inflicted, the pain he has caused.

The monster in my belly curls into a tight ball and lies down.

What’s done is done.

A lightness descends. I fill myself with breath. I marvel at my reflection in the glass—a maid, in a crisp, white dress shirt with a starched collar. I adjust my posture. I stand tall in a way that would make Gran proud.

Beyond my reflection are the goods on offer in the shop window—a shiny saxophone in a red velvet case, some solid power tools, their cords neatly wrapped into figure eights held tight with elastic bands, a few tired, old cell phones, and some jewelry in a display case. In the middle of the case is a new addition, a ring, a man’s ring, a wedding ring, encrusted in diamonds and other jewels, gleaming, an object of obvious and rare luxury—a fine treasure.

I could tell the shopkeeper felt sorry for me when he handed over the agreed-upon sum. The tight lips. The smile that wasn’t a smile. I’m beginning to understand the nuances of smiles, their cornucopia of meanings. I save each smile in a dictionary that I keep alphabetized on a shelf in my mind.

“I’m sorry things didn’t turn out the way you’d hoped,” the shopkeeper said. “With your man, I’m mean.”

“With my man?” I replied. “On the contrary,” I say. “For the first time in a long time, things are going well with him. Very well indeed.”

Chapter 12

I walk briskly the entire way back to the hotel, checking the time frequently. I’m making good progress. It’s now five to one, and I’m nearly at the hotel, my time estimation almost exactly right. I’m a bit flushed from the walk, and the wad of bills over my heart is slightly damp, but no matter.

It would appear the hotel has cleared out a bit since the morning; there are fewer guests about. Mr. Preston is alone at his doorman’s podium. When he sees me approaching, he steps out from behind it, his arms oddly stiff by his sides. I wave and rush up the stairs, but Mr. Preston calls down before I reach the top.

“Molly,” he says, his voice a tense whisper. “Go home.”

I stop on the third stair. His expression is odd, as though he very much needs a washroom break.

“Mr. Preston, I can’t go home now. I’m only halfway through my shift.”

“Molly,” he calls down again. “Use the back door. Please.”

“Are you quite all right, Mr. Preston? Do you need assistance?”

It’s only then that it comes into focus—the absence of guests in the grand entrance, Mr. Preston standing too formally at the podium, his strange, whispered orders. Through the glass of the revolving doors, I can make out Mr. Snow and beside him, a looming, shadowy figure. Detective Stark.

“My dear girl,” Mr. Preston says. “Don’t go inside.”

“It’s quite all right,” I say as I march up the remaining steps. “A few more questions won’t kill me.”

I push through the doors. Before I can take more than one step into the lobby, Mr. Snow and Detective Stark block my path. There’s something about Detective Stark’s posture that I don’t like—the way her arms are bowed and her hands outstretched, as if I’m a varmint she’s determined to catch before I take flight. I see Cheryl out of the corner of my eye, standing a few trolley-lengths away, but there’s something different about her too. It’s the first time I’ve seen a genuine smile on her face—a look of anticipation and excitement.

“Excuse me,” I say to Mr. Snow and Detective Stark. “I must not dillydally. The rest of my shift begins in approximately three minutes.”

“I’m afraid it doesn’t,” says Detective Stark.

I look to Mr. Snow, but he can barely meet my eye. His glasses are cantilevered to one side. Beads of sweat have formed at his temples. “Molly, the detective is taking you back to the station for more questioning.”

“Can’t I answer questions here and then get back to work? I have a heavy workload today.”

“That won’t be possible,” says Detective Stark. “There’s an easy way and a hard way to do everything. And the easy way is best.”

It’s an interesting comment, but it’s dead wrong. In my line of work, the easy way is the lazy way, not the best way at all. But since we’re in the hotel and that technically makes the detective a guest, I will be polite and bite my tongue.

I look around the lobby again and notice that more people have begun to gather. They’re not milling about, heading to and fro the way they usually do. They’ve formed little clusters—by the reception desk, in the lounge chairs, on the marble landing by the grand staircase. They’re oddly static. And quiet. They’re all looking in one direction. Their cold eyes are looking at me.

“Well, Detective Stark,” I say. “I’ll accept the easy way.” I look at Mr. Snow and add, “But just this once.”

Detective Stark gestures for me to lead the way out the revolving doors, which I do, as she follows too closely behind me. As I pass, I take one glance back and see all eyes tracking my departure.

Mr. Preston is outside the door at the top of the stairs. “Here,” he says, taking my elbow. “Allow me to help you, Molly.”

I’m about to tell him I’m quite all right, but as I look down at the stairs, the red carpet undulates in a vertigo-inducing wave. I hold tightly to Mr. Preston’s arm. It feels warm. Comforting.

We are at the bottom of the staircase.

Detective Stark says, “Let’s go. It’s time.”

“Molly, take good care,” Mr. Preston says.

“I always do,” I reply, not entirely believing my own words.

Chapter 13

The car ride is silent. This time, I’m seated in the back of the police cruiser instead of up front. I don’t like it back here. The vinyl upholstery squeaks under me every time I make the slightest move. A bullet-proof glass barrier separates Detective Stark from me. It is smeared with grubby fingerprints and dark-brown blood stains.

Imagine you’re in a limousine, sitting in the back seat, being driven to the opera.

Gran reminds me that entrapment is only a state of mind, that there’s always a way out. I join my hands in my lap and breathe deeply. I will admire the view out the window. Yes. I will concentrate on that.

We are at the station in what feels like seconds. Once inside, Detective Stark leads me to the same white room in which I was questioned before. On our way there, I feel more eyes upon me—uniformed officers who gawk as I pass, some of them offering a nod, not to me, but to Detective Stark. I hold my head high.

“Have a seat,” the detective says. I sit down in the same seat where I sat before, and Detective Stark sits across from me. She closes the door. She doesn’t offer me coffee or even water this time, which is a shame. I could use some water, though I know if I ask for some it will arrive in a dastardly Styrofoam cup.

Shoulders back, chin up, breathe.

Detective Stark has not said a word. She’s sitting there in front of me, watching me. The camera in the corner blinks its red eye at me.

I’m the first to break the silence. “How may I be of service to you, Detective Stark?” I ask.

“How can you be of service to me? Well, Molly the Maid. You can start by telling the truth.”

“My gran used to say that the truth is subjective. But I’ve never quite believed that. I believe the truth is absolute,” I say.

“Then there’s something we agree on,” Detective Stark replies. She leans forward and puts her elbows on the scuffed white table between us. I wish she wouldn’t. I disapprove of elbows on the table. But I don’t say anything.

She is close enough that I can see tiny gold flecks in the irises of her blue eyes. “Since we’re talking about truth,” she says, “I’d like to share with you the results of Mr. Black’s toxicology report. No autopsy report yet, but we’ll have that soon enough. Mr. Black had drugs in his system, the same drug that was on his bedside table and strewn on the floor of his bedroom.”

“Giselle’s medicine,” I say.

“Medicine? Benzodiazepine, laced with some other street drugs.”

It takes me a moment to change the picture in my head from Giselle at the drugstore counter to her acquiring something illicit in a sordid back alley. Something isn’t right. It doesn’t make sense.

“Anyhow,” Detective Stark says, “It wasn’t the pills that killed him. He had a lot in his system, but not enough to kill him.”

“What do you believe killed him then?” I ask.

“We don’t know yet. But I assure you, we’ll get to the bottom of it,” she says. “The full autopsy report will determine if the petechial hemorrhaging was due to a cardiac arrest or if something more sinister happened.”

It comes back to me in a flash. The room starts to spin. I see Mr. Black, his skin gray and taut, the little pinprick bruises around his eyes, his body stiff and lifeless. After I made the call to the front desk, I looked up. I caught my reflection in the mirror on the wall in front of the bed.

Suddenly, I feel clammy and cold, like I’m about to faint.

Detective Stark purses her lips, bides her time. Eventually, she says, “If you know something, now’s your chance to be on the side of good. You do understand that Mr. Black was a very important man? A VIP?”

“No,” I say.

“Excuse me?” Detective Stark replies.

“I don’t believe that some people are more important than other people. We’re all very important in our own way, Detective. For instance, I’m sitting here with you—a lowly hotel maid—and yet clearly there is something very important about me. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have brought me here today.”

Detective Stark is listening carefully. She zeroes in on my every word.

“Let me ask you something,” she says. “Does it ever make you angry? Being a maid, I mean? Cleaning up after rich people? Taking care of their messes?”

I’m impressed by this line of questioning. This is not what I was expecting at all when I was escorted here.

“Yes,” I answer truthfully. “I do sometimes feel angry. Especially when guests are careless. When they forget that their actions have an impact on others, when I’m treated like I don’t matter.”

Detective Stark says nothing. Her elbows remain on the table, which continues to grate on my nerves even though it’s only officially a breach of etiquette when there’s a meal being served.

“Now let me ask you a question,” I say. “Does it ever bother you?”

“Does what ever bother me?”

“Cleaning up after rich people. Taking care of their messes,” I say.

The detective pulls back as though I’ve sprouted the head of Hydra and one hundred serpents are hissing in her face. What pleases me, though, is that her elbows are no longer on the table.

“Is that how you see this? That my job as a detective is to clean up after a man has died?”

“What I’m saying is that we’re not so different, when it comes down to it.”

“Is that so?”

“You want this mess cleaned up, and so do I. We both seek a tidy closure to this unfortunate situation. A return to normalcy.”

“What I’m seeking is the truth, Molly. About how Mr. Black died. And right now, I also want to know the truth about you. We’ve uncovered some interesting information in the last forty-eight hours. When we spoke the other day, you said you didn’t know Giselle Black particularly well. But as it turns out, that’s not true.”

I won’t give her the satisfaction of flinching. Giselle is my friend. I’ve never had a friend like her before, and I’m acutely aware of how easy it would be to lose her. I consider how to protect her and tell the truth at the same time.

“Giselle has confided in me in the past. That doesn’t mean I know her as well as I’d like. Mr. Black definitely had a temper. It was hard not to notice Giselle’s bruises. She confessed he was the cause of them.”

“You do realize we’ve been talking to other employees at the hotel, right?”

“I would have expected as much, yes. I’m sure you’ll find them very helpful to your investigation,” I say.

“They’ve told us a lot. Not only about Giselle and Mr. Black. But about you.”

I feel my stomach twist. Surely whoever spoke to Detective Stark would have been fair in their commentary, even if I’m not their cup of tea? And if the detective consulted Mr. Snow, Mr. Preston, or Rodney, she would have received a glowing report on my employee conduct and general reliability.

A thought occurs to me. Cheryl. She was “sick” yesterday—though probably not so sick that she couldn’t make her way down to this very station.

As if reading my mind, the detective says, “Molly, we’ve been talking to Cheryl, your supervisor.”

“I do hope she was helpful,” I reply, though I highly doubt she was.

“We asked Cheryl if she ever cleaned the Blacks’ suite when they stayed at the hotel. She said that for a while she did clean their suite alongside you. It was her way of maintaining quality control and keeping her maids sharp.”

The acid builds in my stomach. “It was her way of siphoning off tips that were meant for those who do the work rather than for those who stand around watching,” I say.

The detective ignores my words entirely. “Cheryl said that she observed a friendly relationship between you and Giselle, a kind of special kinship that was unusual between a guest and a maid, especially for you, since you don’t really have friends, so I’m told.”

I knew Cheryl was watching me, but I never realized just how much. I take a moment to collect my thoughts before I respond. “Giselle was grateful for my services,” I say. “That was the basis for our relationship.”

“Tell me, did you ever receive tips from Giselle? Or large sums of money?” she asks.

“She and Mr. Black tipped me well,” I answer. I won’t go into further details about the countless times Giselle placed brand-new $100 bills into the palm of my hand to thank me for keeping the suite clean. And I won’t mention her visit to my home nor the charitable monetary gift she left me last night. It’s no one’s business except mine.

“Did Giselle ever give you anything besides money?”

Kindness. Friendship. Help. Trust. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” I say.

“Nothing at all?”

Detective Stark digs in her pocket and takes out a small key. She opens a drawer in the table between us. She takes out the timer, Giselle’s timer, her golden gift to me. The detective places it on the table.

I feel a surge of heat rise to my face. “Cheryl let you into my locker. That’s my locker, it’s my personal space. That’s not right, invading someone’s privacy, touching their things without permission.”

“Those lockers are hotel property, Molly. Please remember you’re just an employee, not the owner of the hotel. Now, tell me: are you ready to confess the truth about you and Giselle?”

The truth about Giselle and me is something I barely understand. It’s as strange as a baby rhino being adopted by a tortoise. How am I supposed to explain such a thing? “I don’t know what to tell you,” I say.

“Then let me tell you something,” Detective Stark replies as her elbows reclaim the table. “You’re rapidly becoming a person of interest to us. Do you understand what that means?”

I’m detecting an air of condescension. I’ve encountered this before—people who assume that I’m a complete idiot just because I don’t grasp things that come easily to them.

“You’re becoming a VIP, Molly,” Detective Stark adds. “And not the good kind. You’ve proven that you’re capable of leaving out important details, of bending the truth to suit you. I’m going to ask you one more time: are you in contact with Giselle Black?”

I deliberate once more and find I’m able to answer this with 100 percent honesty. “I am not currently in contact with Giselle, though as I understand it, she remains a guest at the hotel.”

“Let’s hope for your sake that’s the truth. And let’s hope the autopsy report shows a natural cause of death. Until then, you’re not to leave the country or attempt to hide from us in any way. You’re not under arrest.”

“I most certainly hope not. I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“Do you have a valid passport?”

“No.”

She cocks her head to one side. “If you’re lying, I’ll find out. I can look you up, you know.”

“And when you do,” I say, “you’ll find that I do not have a passport because I’ve never left the country in my life. You’ll also find I’m a model citizen and that I have a completely clean record.”

“Don’t go anywhere, you understand?”

It’s precisely this kind of language that always trips me up. “May I go to my home? May I go to the store? To the restroom? And what about work?”

She sighs. “Yes, of course you can go home and to all the places you’d usually go. And yes, you can go to work. What I’m saying is we’ll be watching you.”

Here we go again. “Watching me do what?” I ask.

Her eyes drill into mine. “Whatever it is you’re hiding, whoever you’re trying to protect, we’ll find out. One thing I’ve learned in my business is that you can hide dirt for a while, but at some point, it all comes to the surface. Do you understand?”

“You’re asking me if I understand dirt?”

Smudges on doorknobs. Shoe prints on floors. Dust rings on tabletops. Mr. Black dead in his bed.

“Yes, Detective. I understand dirt better than most.”

Chapter 14

It is three-thirty when Detective Stark dismisses me from the white room. I walk myself out the station door. No courtesy ride home this time. I haven’t eaten since the morning, and I haven’t had so much as a cup of tea to tide me over.

My stomach roils. The dragon awakes. I have to pause a moment on the sidewalk in front of my building just to keep from fainting.

It’s my deception, not hunger, that’s having a deleterious effect on my nerves. It’s the fact that I haven’t disclosed fully about Giselle nor about what I currently have hidden over my heart. That’s what has me in such a state.

Honesty is the only policy.

I can see Gran’s face, twisted with disappointment, the day I came home from school at the age of twelve and she asked me how my day was. I told her it was ordinary, nothing to report. That, too, was a lie. The truth was, I ran away at lunchtime, which was far from ordinary. The school called Gran. I confessed to Gran why I’d run away. My classmates had formed a ring around me in the schoolyard and ordered me to roll around in the mud and eat it, kicking me while I obeyed their order. They were keenly inventive when it came to tormenting me, and this iteration was no exception.

When the ordeal was over, I went to the community library and spent hours in the bathroom washing the grime off my face and mouth, scraping the earth out from under my fingernails. I watched with satisfaction as the evidence circled down the drain. I was so certain I’d get away with it, that Gran would never find out.

But she did find out. And she had only one question for me after I confessed to being bullied. “Dear girl, why didn’t you just tell the truth right away? To your teacher? To me? To anyone?” Then she cried and embraced me with such force that I was never able to answer her question. But I had an answer. I did. I didn’t tell the truth because the truth hurt. What happened at school was bad enough, but Gran knowing about my suffering meant she experienced my pain too.

That’s the trouble with pain. It’s as contagious as a disease. It spreads from the person who first endured it to those who love them most. Truth isn’t always the highest ideal; sometimes it must be sacrificed to stop the spread of pain to those you love. Even children know this intuitively.

My stomach settles. Steadiness returns. I cross the street and enter my building. I bound up the stairs to my floor, heading straight for Mr. Rosso’s door. I extricate the wad of bills I’ve placed by my heart for safekeeping. I was aware of them the whole time I was at the police station, but far from being a nuisance, they felt protective, like a shield.

I knock loudly. I hear Mr. Rosso padding down his hallway, then the scratchy squeal of the lock twisting. My landlord’s face appears, ruddy and bulbous. I hold out the bills in my hand.

“Here is the rest of this month’s rent,” I say. “As you can see, I take after my gran. I’m a woman of my word.”

He takes the money and counts it. “It’s all there, but I appreciate your diligence,” I say.

When he’s done counting, he nods slowly. “Molly, let’s not do this every month, okay? I know your grandmother is gone, but you need to pay your rent on time. You need to get your life in order.”

“I’m well aware of that,” I say. “As for order, it is my express wish to live as ordered a life as possible. But the world is filled with random chaos that often bedevils my attempts at arrangement. May I have my receipt for full payment, please?”

He sighs. I know what this means. He’s exasperated, which does not seem fair. If someone were to place a wad of bills into my hands, rest assured I would not sigh like this. I’d be grateful beyond measure.

“I’ll fill out a receipt tonight,” he says, “and give it to you tomorrow.”

I would much prefer to have that receipt in my hand tout suite, but I defer. “That would be acceptable. Thank you,” I say. “And have a lovely evening.”

He closes his door without so much as a mannered “You too.”

I go to my own entrance and turn the key. I step across the threshold and lock the door behind me. Our home. My home. Exactly as I left it this morning. Neat. Orderly. Unnervingly quiet, despite Gran’s voice in my head.

There are times in life when we must do things we don’t want to. But do them we must.

Normally, I feel a wave of relief flow through me the instant I close the door behind me. Here, I’m safe. No expressions to interpret. No conversations to decode. No requests. No demands.

I take off my shoes, wipe them down, and place them neatly in the closet. I pat Gran’s serenity pillow on the chair by the door. I take a seat on the sofa in the living room to collect my thoughts. I am all a muddle, even here, in the peace of my own home. I know I must consider my next steps—should I call Giselle? Or maybe Rodney, for support and advice? Mr. Snow, to apologize for my absence this afternoon, for leaving my rooms without completing my daily quota?—but I find myself overwhelmed by the very thought of it all.

I feel out of sorts in a way I haven’t felt in a while, not since Wilbur and the Fabergé, not since the day Gran died.

In that too-bright station room today, Detective Stark laid blame on me, treating me like some sort of common criminal when I’m nothing of the sort. All I want is to turn my head and find Gran sitting on the sofa beside me, saying, Dear girl. Do not fret yourself into a tizzy. Life has a way of sorting itself out.

I head to the kitchen and put the kettle on. My hands are shaky. I open the fridge and find it mostly bare—just a couple of crumpets left, which I should save for tomorrow’s breakfast. I find a few biscuits in the cupboard and arrange them neatly on a plate. When the water has boiled, I make my tea, adding two sugars to compensate for the lack of milk. I mean to savor each bite of the biscuits, but instead I find myself devouring them greedily and washing them down with big gulps of tea right at the kitchen counter. My cup is empty before I even know it. Instantly, I feel the tea working. Warm energy flows through me again.

When all else fails, tidy up.

It’s a good idea. Nothing raises my spirits more than a good tidy. I wash out my teacup, dry it, and put it away. Gran’s curio cabinet in the living room could use a bit of attention. I carefully open the glass doors and remove all of her precious treasures—a menagerie of Swarovski crystal animals, each one paid for with backbreaking overtime hours at the Coldwells’ mansion. There are spoons, too, silver mostly, collected from thrift shops over the years. And the photos—Gran and me baking, Gran and me in front of a water fountain in a park, Gran and me at the Olive Garden, glasses of Chardonnay raised. And the one photo that is not of us but of my mother when she was young.

I pick it up. My hands still aren’t entirely steady. I have to concentrate as I dust and polish the glass frame. If my fingers slip, the frame will fall to the floor, the glass will shatter into hundreds of deadly shards. I get down on my knees to be closer to the ground. It’s safer this way. I’m holding the frame in both hands, studying my mother’s image. I’m surrounded by all of Gran’s lovely things.

Another memory surfaces, not a recent one, one I haven’t thought about in a long time. I was about thirteen years old when I walked through the door after school one day to find Gran kneeling on the floor much like I’m doing now. It was Thursday—dust we must—and she’d started the chore, her collection strewn about her, a polishing cloth and this photo of my mother in her hands. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I knew something wasn’t quite right. Gran was disheveled. Her hair, which was usually perfectly curled and coiffed, was in disarray. There were stains on her cheeks and her eyes were puffy.

“Gran?” I asked, before even wiping down the bottoms of my shoes. “Are you all right?”

She didn’t answer. She just stared at me with a glassy, faraway look in her eyes. Then she said, “Dear girl, I’m simply going to tell it to you as it is. Your mother. She’s dead.”

I found myself glued to the spot where I stood. I knew that my mother was out there in the world somewhere, but to me, she was as abstract a figure as the queen. To me, it was as if she’d died long ago. But to Gran, she meant so much, and this is what had me worried.

Every year as Mother’s Day drew near, Gran would begin her thrice-daily peregrinations to our mailbox. She was hoping there’d be a card from my mother. In the early years, cards appeared, signed in shaky scrawl. Gran would be so happy.

“She’s still in there somewhere, my little girl,” she’d say.

But for years on end, Mother’s Day after Mother’s Day, no cards arrived and Gran would be glum for the rest of the month. I compensated by splurging on the biggest, cheeriest card I could find, adding a “Gran” before “Mother,” filling the inside with evenly spaced x’s and o’s, and red and pink hearts that I’d color in, careful not to stray outside the lines.

When Gran told me my mother was dead, it wasn’t my own pain that I felt. It was hers.

She cried and cried and cried, which was so unlike her that it unsettled me to my core.

I hurried to her side and placed a hand on her back.

“What you need is a good cup of tea,” I said. “There’s almost nothing that a good cup of tea can’t cure.”

I rushed to the kitchen and put the kettle on, my hands shaking. I could hear Gran sobbing on the sitting-room floor. Once the water had boiled, I made two perfect cups and brought them to the living room on Gran’s silver tray.

“There we are,” I said. “Why don’t we have a wee sit on the sofa.”

But Gran wouldn’t move. The polishing cloth was balled up in one of her hands.

I stepped through the obstacle course of treasures and cleared myself a spot beside her on the floor. I put the tray down to one side, picked up both teacups, and positioned them in front of us. I put one hand on Gran’s shoulder again.

“Gran?” I said. “Will you sit up? Will you join me for tea?” My voice was trembling. I was terrified. I’d never seen Gran so weak and diminished, as fragile as a baby bird.

Gran eventually sat up. She dabbed at her eyes with the polishing cloth.

“Oh,” she said. “Tea.”

We sat like that, Gran and me, on the floor, drinking tea, surrounded by Swarovski crystal animals and silver spoons. My mother’s photo was beside us, the absent third person at our tea party.

When Gran spoke next, her voice had returned, composed and steady. “Dear girl,” she said. “I’m sorry I was so upset. But not to worry, I’m feeling much better now.” She took a small sip from her cup and smiled at me. It was not her usual smile. It traveled only halfway across her face.

A question occurred to me. “Did she ever ask about me? My mother?”

“Of course she did, dear. When she’d call out of the blue, it was often to ask about you. I’d update her, of course. For as long as she’d listen. Sometimes that wasn’t very long.”

“Because she was unwell?” I asked. This was the word Gran always used to explain why my mother had left in the first place.

“Yes, because she was terribly unwell. When she called me, it was usually from the streets. But when I stopped providing funds, she stopped calling.”

“And my father?” I asked. “What happened to him?”

“Like I’ve said before, he was not a good egg. I tried to help your mother see this. I even called old friends to help me coax her away from him, but that proved ineffective.”

Gran paused and took another sip of tea. “You must promise me, dear girl, to never get mixed up with drugs.” Her eyes filled with tears.

“I promise, Gran,” I said.

I didn’t know what else to say, so I reached out and hugged her. I could feel her holding on to me in a whole new way. It was the only time I ever felt that I was giving her a hug, rather than the other way around.

When we separated, I didn’t know what the correct etiquette was. I said, “What do you say, Gran? When all else fails, tidy up?”

She nodded. “My dear girl, you’re a treasure to me. That you are. Shall we tackle this mess together?”

And with that, Gran was back. Perhaps she was dissimulating, but as we arranged all of her trinkets, freshly cleaned and polished, and put them back in the curio cabinet, she chirped and chattered on as though it were an ordinary day.

We never spoke of my mother again after that.

Here I am now, in the same spot as I was that day, surrounded by a menagerie of mementoes. But this time, I’m dreadfully alone.

“Gran,” I say to the empty room, “I think I’m in trouble.”

I arrange the photos on top of the curio cabinet. I polish each of Gran’s treasures and stow them safely behind the glass. I stand in front of the cabinet looking at everything inside. I don’t know what to do.

You’re never alone as long as you have a friend.

I’ve been managing on my own through most of this, but perhaps it really is time to call for help.

I go to the front door where I left my phone. I pick it up and dial Rodney.

He answers after the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hello, Rodney,” I say. “I hope I haven’t caught you at an inopportune moment.”

“All good,” he says. “What’s up? I saw you leave the hotel with the cops. Everyone’s talking, saying you’re in trouble.”

“I’m sorry to report that in this particular case, the gossip may be correct.”

“What did the police want?”

“The truth,” I say. “About me. About Giselle. Mr. Black didn’t die of an overdose. Not exactly.”

“Oh, thank God for that. What did he die of?”

“They don’t know yet. But it’s clear they suspect me. And maybe Giselle too.”

“But…you didn’t tell them anything about her, did you?”

“Not much,” I say.

“And you didn’t mention Juan Manuel or any of that, right?”

“What does he have to do with anything?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. So…why are you calling me?”

“Rodney, I need help.” My voice cracks and I find it difficult to maintain my composure.

He goes quiet for a moment, then asks, “Did you…did you kill Mr. Black?”

“No! Of course not. How could you even—”

“Sorry, sorry. Forget I even said that. So how are you in trouble exactly?”

“Giselle, she had me go back into the suite because she’d left something behind. A gun. She wanted it back. And she’s my friend, so I…”

“Jesus.” There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Right.”

“Rodney?”

“Yes, I’m here,” he says. “So where’s that gun now?”

“In my vacuum cleaner. By my locker.”

“We have to get that gun,” Rodney says. I can hear the agitation in his voice. “We have to make it disappear.”

“Yes! Exactly,” I say. “Oh Rodney, I’m so sorry to involve you in all of this. And please, if the police ever talk to you, you have to tell them I’m not a bad person, that I would never hurt anyone.”

“Don’t worry, Molly. I’ll take care of everything.”

I feel raw gratitude climbing up my chest, threatening to spill out of me in blubbering tears, but I won’t let that happen in case Rodney finds it unbecoming. I want this experience to draw us closer, not break us apart. I take a deep breath and push my sentiments back down.

“Thank you, Rodney,” I say. “You’re a good friend. More than that, even. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I’ve got your back,” he says.

But there’s more. I fear that when he hears the rest, he may turn away from me forever.

“There’s another spot of…information,” I say. “Mr. Black’s wedding ring. I found it in the suite. And, well…. This is very hard for me to admit, but I’ve recently found myself in some acute financial distress. I took the ring to a pawn shop today so that I could pay my rent.”

“You…you what?”

“It’s on display in a shop window downtown.”

“I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it,” he replies. I can hear him almost laughing, as if this is the most wonderful news. Surely he doesn’t find this funny. It strikes me that laughs are just like smiles. People use them to express an array of confounding emotions.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” I say. “I never thought they’d interrogate me again. I thought my part in all of this was over. If the police find out I pawned Mr. Black’s ring, it will appear as though I killed him for financial gain. Can you see that?”

“Absolutely I can,” says Rodney. “Wow. It’s…incredible. Listen, everything’s going to turn out just fine. Leave everything to me.”

“Will you make the gun go away? And the ring? I should never have taken it. It was wrong. Will you buy it back and make sure that no one ever sees it again? I’ll pay you back someday. You have my word.”

“Like I said, Molly. Leave everything in my hands. You’re at home now?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Don’t go out tonight. Okay? Don’t go anywhere.”

“I never do. Rodney,” I say. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“That’s what friends are for, right? To help each other out of binds?”

“Right,” I say. “That’s what friends are for.”

“Rodney?” I say into the receiver. I’m about to add that I most desperately would like to be more than just a friend to him, but it’s too late. He’s hung up without saying goodbye. I’ve left him with quite a mess to tidy, and he’s not wasting a moment.

When all of this is over, I’m going to take him on an all-expenses-paid Tour of Italy. We will sit in our private booth at the Olive Garden under the warm glow of the pendant light, and we will eat mountains of salad and bread, followed by a universe of pasta and topped by a smorgasbord of sweet desserts. Somehow, when we’re done, I will pick up the bill.

I will pay for all of this. I know I will.