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Chapter no 6

The Maid (Molly the Maid, 1)

โ€ŒIwill admit to having bad dreams last night. I dreamed that Mr. Black walked through the front door of my apartment, gray and ashen, likeโ€Œ

the living dead. I was sitting on the sofa, watchingย Columbo. I turned to him and said, โ€œNo one comes here, not since Gran died.โ€ He started laughingโ€” laughing at me. But I focused my laser gaze on him, and his limbs turned to dust, a fine charcoal particulate that spread around the room and into my lungs. I started gagging and coughing.

โ€œNo!โ€ I yelled. โ€œI didnโ€™t do this to you! It wasnโ€™t me! Get out!โ€

But it was too late. His grime was everywhere. I woke up gasping for air. Itโ€™s now sixย A.M. Itโ€™s time to rise and shine. Or just rise.

I get out of bed and make it properly, careful to position Granโ€™s quilt so that the star in the middle points due north. I go to the kitchen, where I put on Granโ€™s paisley apron and prepare tea and crumpets for one. Itโ€™s too quiet in the mornings. The scratchy grate of my knife against the toasted crumpet is an offense to my ears. I eat quickly, then shower and leave for work.

Iโ€™m locking the apartment door behind me when I hear someone clearing their throat in the hallway. Mr. Rosso.

I turn to face him. โ€œHello, Mr. Rosso. Up early this morning?โ€

Iโ€™m expecting the basic civility of a good morning, but all I get is, โ€œYour rent is overdue. When will you pay up?โ€

I put my keys in my pocket. โ€œThe rent will be paid in a few daysโ€™ time, and at that point, I will make good on every penny I owe you. You knew my gran, and you know me. We are law-abiding citizens who believe in paying our fair share. And I will do so. Soon.โ€

โ€œYouโ€™d better,โ€ he says, then shuffles back to his apartment, closing the door behind him.

I do wish people would pick up their feet when they walk. Itโ€™s most slovenly to shuffle like that. It leaves a very poor impression.

Now, now, letโ€™s not judge others too harshly.ย I hear it in my head in Granโ€™s voice, a reminder to be gracious and forgiving. Itโ€™s a fault of mine, to be quick to judge or to want the world to function according to my laws.

We must be like bamboo. We must learn to bend and flex with the wind.

Bend and flex. Not my strong suits.

I head down the stairs and out of my building. I decide to walk all the way to workโ€”a twenty-minute jaunt thatโ€™s pleasant enough in good weather, though today the clouds are broody and threaten rain. I breathe a sigh of relief the second I set eyes on the bustling hotel. Iโ€™m a professional half hour early for my shift, as is my way.

I greet Mr. Preston at the front doors.

โ€œOh Molly. Tell me youโ€™re not working today.โ€ โ€œI am. Cheryl called in sick last night.โ€

He shakes his head. โ€œNaturally. Molly, are you all right? You had quite a scare yesterday, so I hear. Iโ€™m terribly sorryโ€ฆabout what you saw.โ€

My dream flashes in my head for a moment, mixed with the real vision of Mr. Black, dead in his bed. โ€œNo need to be sorry, Mr. Preston. Itโ€™s not your fault. But Iโ€™ll admit, this whole situation has been a bitโ€ฆtrying. Iโ€™ll keep calm and carry on.โ€ A thought occurs to me. โ€œMr. Preston, did Mr. Black receive any visitors yesterday, friendly orโ€ฆotherwise?โ€

Mr. Preston adjusts his cap. โ€œNot that I noticed,โ€ he says. โ€œWhy do you ask?โ€

โ€œOh, no reason,โ€ I say. โ€œThe police will investigate, Iโ€™m sure. Especially if something is amok.โ€

โ€œAmok?โ€ Mr. Preston fixes me with a serious stare. โ€œMolly, if ever you need anythingโ€”any help at allโ€”you just remember your olโ€™ friend Mr. Preston, you hear?โ€

I am not the kind to impose on other people. Surely Mr. Preston knows that much about me by now. His face is stern, his eyebrows knit with concern that even I can read clearly.

โ€œThank you, Mr. Preston,โ€ I say. โ€œI appreciate your kind offer. Now, if you donโ€™t mind, Iโ€™m sure thereโ€™s extra cleaning to tackle today since there were many officers and paramedics traipsing through this hotel yesterday. I fear not all of their boots are as clean as yours.โ€

He tips his hat and turns his attention to some guests who are trying, unsuccessfully, to hail a cab.

โ€œTaxi!โ€ he calls out, then turns back to me for a moment, โ€œTake good care, Molly. Please.โ€

I nod and make my way up the plush red stairs. I push through the shiny revolving doors, jostling against guests heading in and out. In the front lobby, I see Mr. Snow by the reception desk. His glasses are akimbo, and a lock of hair has escaped his gelled-back coiffure. It wags back and forth on his head like a disapproving finger.

โ€œMolly, Iโ€™m so glad youโ€™re here. Thank you,โ€ he says. He holds the dayโ€™s newspaper in his hand. Itโ€™s hard not to notice the headline:ย WEALTHY TYCOON CHARLES BLACK TURNS UP DEAD IN THE REGENCY GRAND HOTEL.

โ€œHave you read this?โ€ he asks.

He passes me the paper and I scan the article. It explains how a maid found Mr. Black dead in his bed. My name, thank goodness, is not mentioned. Then it talks about the Black family and the strife between his children and his ex-wife. โ€œRumors have been swirling for years around the legitimacy of Black Properties & Investments, with allegations of fraudulent dealings and embezzlement being shut down by Blackโ€™s powerful team of attorneys.โ€

Halfway through the article, I catch the name Giselle and read more carefully. โ€œGiselle Black, Mr. Blackโ€™s second wife, is thirty-five years his junior. She is the presumed heir to the Black fortunes, which have been the subject of family feuds in recent years. After Giselle Blackโ€™s husband was found dead, she was seen leaving the hotel wearing dark glasses, accompanied by an unknown male. According to various staff members at the hotel, the Blacks are regular guests at the Regency Grand. When asked if Mr. Black conducted business at the hotel, Mr. Alexander Snow, the hotel manager, had no comment. According to lead detective Stark, foul play has not yet been ruled out as Mr. Blackโ€™s cause of death.โ€

I finish reading the article and pass the paper back to Mr. Snow. I suddenly feel unsteady on my feet as the implications of that final line sink in.

โ€œDo you see, Molly? Theyโ€™re suggesting that this hotel isโ€ฆisโ€ฆโ€ โ€œFoul,โ€ I offer. โ€œUnclean.โ€

โ€œYes, exactly.โ€

Mr. Snow attempts to straighten his glasses, with limited success. โ€œMolly, I must ask you, did you or have you, at any time, noticed anyโ€ฆ questionable activities in this hotel? With the Blacks or any other guests?โ€

โ€œQuestionable?โ€ I say. โ€œNefarious,โ€ he explains.

โ€œNo!โ€ I reply. โ€œAbsolutely not. If I had, youโ€™d have been the first to know.โ€

Mr. Snow releases a pent-up sigh. I feel sorry for him, for the burden he carriesโ€”the mighty reputation of the Regency Grand Hotel itself rests on his slight shoulders.

โ€œSir, may I ask you a question?โ€ โ€œOf course.โ€

โ€œThe article mentions Giselle Black. Do you know: is she still staying here? In the hotel, I mean?โ€

Mr. Snowโ€™s eyes dart left and right. He steps away from the reception desk and the smartly uniformed penguins manning it. He signals for me to do the same. Gaggles of guests are roaming the lobby; itโ€™s unusually busy

this morning. Many of them hold newspapers in hand, and I suspect that Mr. Black may be the topic on the tip of many tongues.

Mr. Snow gestures to an emerald settee in a shadowy corner by the grand staircase. We make our way there. Itโ€™s the first time Iโ€™ve ever sat on one of these settees. I sink into the soft velvet, no springs to circumvent, unlike our sofa at home. Mr. Snow perches beside me and speaks in a whisper. โ€œTo answer your question, Giselle is still staying here at the hotel, but youโ€™re not to pass that along. She has nowhere else to go, do you understand? And sheโ€™s distraught, as you can imagine. Iโ€™ve moved her to the second floor. Sunitha will clean her room from now on.โ€

I feel a nervous flutter in my stomach. โ€œVery well,โ€ I say. โ€œI best be off.

This hotel wonโ€™t clean itself.โ€

โ€œOne more thing, Molly,โ€ Mr. Snow says. โ€œThe Black suite? Itโ€™s out of bounds today, obviously. The police are still conducting their investigation in the room. Youโ€™ll notice security tape, and a police guard posted outside the door.โ€

โ€œSo when should I clean that suite?โ€

Mr. Snow stares at me for a long time. โ€œYouโ€™re not to clean it, Molly.

Thatโ€™s what Iโ€™m trying to tell you.โ€ โ€œVery well. I wonโ€™t then. Goodbye.โ€

And with that, I stand, turn on my heel, and head down the marble stairs to my basement locker in the housekeeping quarters.

Iโ€™m greeted by my trusty uniform, crisp and clean, encased in plastic wrap, hung on my locker door. Itโ€™s as though yesterdayโ€™s upheavals never happened, as though every day conveniently erases the one that came before. I quickly change, leaving my own clothes in my locker. Then I grab my maidโ€™s trolleyโ€”which is, miracle of miracles, fully stocked and replenished (no doubt owing to Sunshine or Sunitha, and certainly not to Cheryl).

I head through the labyrinth of too-bright hallways until I make it to the kitchen, where Juan Manuel is scraping the remnants of breakfasts into a large garbage can and putting plates into the industrial dishwasher. Iโ€™ve

never been in a sauna, but I imagine it must feel like thisโ€”minus the offensive odor of a medley of breakfast foods.

As soon as Juan Manuel sees me, he puts down the spray nozzle and eyes me with concern.

โ€œDios te bendiga,โ€ย he says, crossing himself. โ€œI am glad to see you. Are you okay? Iโ€™ve been worried about you, Miss Molly.โ€

Itโ€™s becoming upsetting that everyone is making such a fuss about me today. Iโ€™m not the one who died.

โ€œIโ€™m quite fine, thank you, Juan Manuel,โ€ I say.

โ€œBut you found him,โ€ he whispers, eyes wide. โ€œDead.โ€ โ€œI did.โ€

โ€œI canโ€™t believe heโ€™s really gone. I wonder what it means,โ€ he says. โ€œIt means heโ€™s dead,โ€ I say.

โ€œWhat Iโ€™m saying is, what will it mean for the hotel?โ€ He takes a few steps closer to me, so close heโ€™s only half a trolleyโ€™s width away.

โ€œMolly,โ€ he whispers. โ€œThat man. Mr. Black? He was powerful. Too powerful. Who will be the boss now?โ€

โ€œThe boss is Mr. Snow,โ€ I say.

He looks at me strangely. โ€œIs he? Is he really?โ€

โ€œYes,โ€ I reply with utmost confidence. โ€œMr. Snow is most definitely the boss of this hotel. Now, can we stop discussing this? I really need to get to work. Today, Iโ€™ll make some new arrangements for tonight. Iโ€™ve just heard that the fourth floor is under surveillance. The police are still up there. I need you to stay in Room 202 tonight, okay? Second floor, not the fourth. To avoid the police.โ€

โ€œOkay. Donโ€™t worry. Iโ€™ll stay clear.โ€

โ€œAnd Juan Manuel, I shouldnโ€™t be telling you this, but Giselle Black is staying somewhere on the same floor. On the second. So be careful. There may be investigators, even on her floor. You have to keep a low profile until this investigation is over. Understood?โ€

I hand him a keycard for Room 202. โ€œYes, Molly. Understood. You need to keep a low profile, too, okay? I worry about you.โ€

โ€œThereโ€™s nothing to worry about,โ€ I say. โ€œI best be off.โ€ Then I exit the kitchen and wheel my trolley to the service elevator. I step in, the air instantly fresher and cooler, and I ride up to the lobby, where Iโ€™ll retrieve my daily stack of papers from the Social.

Even from afar, I can spot Rodney behind the bar. When he sees me, he rushes out to greet me.

โ€œMolly! Youโ€™re here.โ€ He puts his hands on my shoulders. I feel them like electricity, warming me to my core. โ€œAre you all right?โ€

โ€œEveryone keeps asking me that. Iโ€™m all right,โ€ I say. โ€œPerhaps a hug would not be too much to ask of you?โ€

โ€œOf course!โ€ he says. โ€œYouโ€™re actually just the person I wanted to see today.โ€ He folds me into his chest. I rest my head on his shoulder and take in the scent of him.

Itโ€™s been so long since Iโ€™ve been hugged that I donโ€™t know what Iโ€™m supposed to do with my arms. I opt to wrap them around his back and rest them on his shoulder blades, which are even stronger than I would have imagined.

He pulls away before Iโ€™m ready. Itโ€™s only then that I notice his right eye. Itโ€™s swollen and purple, as though heโ€™s been punched. โ€œWhat happened to you?โ€ I ask.

โ€œOh, it was stupid. I was helping Juan Manuel with a bag in his room, and Iโ€ฆI ran into the door. Ask him. Heโ€™ll tell you.โ€

โ€œYou should ice that. It looks sore.โ€

โ€œEnough about me, I want to hear howย youโ€™reย doing.โ€ He looks around the bar as he says this. Groups of middle-aged women eat breakfast together, teaspoons tinkling against ceramic, laughter echoing as they while away the morning hours before their theater matinees. A few families are filling up on stacks of pancakes before a day full of museums and sightseeing. And two lone-wolf business travelers peck at continental breakfasts, their eyes glued to their phones or the newspapers splayed in front of them. Who is Rodney looking for? Surely itโ€™s none of these guests. But if not them, who?

โ€œListen,โ€ Rodney says in a hush. โ€œI heard you found Mr. Black yesterday and that they took you to the cop shop to ask you questions. I canโ€™t talk now, but why donโ€™t you come by after your shift? We can grab a quiet booth and you can tell me everything. Every last detail, okay?โ€ He reaches for my hand and squeezes it in his. His eyes are deep pools of blue. He is concerned. Concerned for me. For a moment, I wonder if heโ€™s going to kiss me, but then I realize how daft that isโ€”kissing a fellow employee in the middle of the bar and grill. Of course he wouldnโ€™t do that. But itโ€™s a pity nonetheless.

โ€œIt would be lovely to meet you later,โ€ I say, aiming for coy nonchalance. โ€œSo fiveย P.M.? Sharp? Is this a date?โ€

โ€œUh, yeah. Okay.โ€

โ€œIโ€™ll see you then,โ€ I say, and start to walk away.

โ€œDonโ€™t forget your newspapers,โ€ he says. He grabs a stack from the floor and plops them on the bar.

โ€œOh, silly me.โ€ I struggle with the full stack as I carry them to my trolley. Heโ€™s now distracted behind the bar, pouring a coffee for a customer. I try to make eye contact with him one last time, but to no avail.

Thatโ€™s fine. Weโ€™ll have plenty of time for eye contact tonight.

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