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.
