Chapter 14

I did not sleep well. I tossed and turned all night. I reached out for Juan Manuel, found him absent, missing, only an empty space left behind on the mattress. I thought of calling him in the middle of the night, telling him everything that’s happened over the last couple of days, but at such a distance, he can’t do a thing to help me. And what was I supposed to say to him? Juan, I failed to inform you that a man dropped dead in the hotel tearoom two days ago. His death has since been deemed a murder, and it’s entirely possible the killer is on the loose in our hotel.Oh, and one more thing—our very good friend, Mr. Preston? He’s a thief. And now I’m starting to wonder if he might be something worse than that.

No wonder I didn’t sleep a wink.

I cannot erase the unthinkable thoughts from my mind. What if Mr. Preston, my dear friend and colleague, a man whom I’ve considered the purest personification of a good egg, is a thief? And if he’s capable of stealing, what else could he do?

It’s ridiculous. Absurd. I hear Gran admonish me in my head—Only fools jump to conclusions.

She’s right. And yet there’s no refuting what I saw at that pawn-shop—Mr. Preston, selling a rare first-edition copy of J. D. Grimthorpe’s The Maid in the Mansion the day after the author died and the value of said book skyrocketed. Is it possible that Mr. Grimthorpe was murdered out of pure and simple greed? And is it possible that Mr. Preston could have something to do with it? That’s the improbable, inconceivable notion that has me turned inside out.

I tear the blankets off me, jab my hot feet into my slippers, and stomp into the kitchen. It’s five in the morning, far too early to get up, but I can’t lie awake any longer. I grab a bucket from under the sink and fill it with water. I root around in the drawer for a reliable cleaning cloth, then I march into the living room and set my supplies down beside Gran’s curio cabinet.

I turn the TV on as a distraction, but sure enough, the news channel is replaying yesterday’s press conference in which Detective Stark declared Mr. Grimthorpe’s death a murder. I watch as reporters pelt Stark with questions.

“Detective, do you have any leads?”

“We’re following every lead we have,” Stark replies.

“Detective, is the murderer a guest or a hotel employee?”

“If I knew that, would I be here?” she replies.

“Detective, you said his tea was poisoned with antifreeze. Do you know how that could have happened?”

“We’re working on that,” she says. “We’re tracking an important piece of evidence.”

“Detective, do you have a message for the killer?”

Stark pauses. It’s as though she’s looking right through the TV at me. “You can hide the truth for a while, but it won’t stay buried forever. Just remember that,” she says, before walking away from the scrum.

I turn off the TV.

I pick up my cloth and carefully open the glass doors of Gran’s curio cabinet. Deep cleaning gives life meaning. Just grab a duster, Buster.

Yes, Gran,I think to myself as I remove her precious treasures—a secondhand menagerie of Swarovski crystal animals, her pride and joy, and her souvenir spoons from far-flung places she never got to see with her own eyes.

I furiously polish each trinket, then turn to the framed photos on top of the cabinet. There’s a new photo of me and my dear Juan Manuel with matching ice cream mustaches. There are older photos, too, of Gran and me. But it’s the photo of my mother when she was young that I study with care. Dark hair like mine and a porcelain complexion, bright apple cheeks, not wan and hollowed out like that strange young woman who stole the rent on the first day of the month so long ago. As a child, I had no idea who she was. I realized only when I was much older that Maggie—the stranger at the door that day—was my mother, and that one of the reasons she’d come was to see me. How I failed to put two and two together at the time, I do not know. Why is it always like that? Why do I understand everything too late?

Now, I put all of Gran’s treasures back in the cabinet. I shower, then scrub the washroom until my fingers pucker into dried prunes. I eat a crumpet at the worn kitchen table, chewing every bite exactly twenty times. Then I leave the apartment and head to work, anxiety powering me like a jet engine.

Now that everyone knows Mr. Grimthorpe was poisoned, this workday at the Regency Grand will be the furthest thing from normal. I have no idea what to expect.

When I arrive, Mr. Preston is standing at the doorman’s podium, directing the throngs of guests on the plush red landing. I elbow my way through the crowd until I’m standing right in front of him.

“Molly,” he says. “Have you heard? About how Mr. Grimthorpe died?”

“Yes,” I say. “And I’m most distressed. Who do you suppose might be capable of such a thing?”

“A lot of people. That man wasn’t what he seemed.”

I search Mr. Preston’s face, which is grim and tense, his lips concealed in his mouth. “What about you, Mr. Preston? Are you what you seem?”

“Molly, are you all right?” he asks as he places a hand on my arm. “Are you feeling faint?”

I pull away. “We need to talk,” I say. “But not here. Not now.”

“My dear, I’ve been saying so for some time.”

“Olive Garden. Five-fifteen p.m.,” I say. “I expect you to arrive on time.”

“Naturally. Molly, are you sure you’re well?”

I can’t believe he’s asking this again. “You should ask yourself that question, not me,” I reply.

Mr. Preston stares at me as though trying to place someone wholly unfamiliar.

“Good day,” I say, and then I stomp up the red stairs and push through the revolving doors of the elegant Regency Grand.

The lobby is even busier than it was yesterday, filled with wide-eyed guests and onlookers whispering to one another in little cliques, but given the number of people about, it’s far too quiet, a funereal hush in the air. And no wonder.

I spot Mr. Snow at the reception desk. He’s murmuring instructions to a concierge who looks piqued and jittery and strained. I walk over to Mr. Snow as he finishes his conversation. The concierge hurries away. Mr. Snow turns his owl eyes to me. “Molly, I can’t believe it,” he says. “A man was poisoned. Here. In our hotel. How is this even possible?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Snow,” I reply. “We’ve spent the last few years buffing our tarnished reputation, but we’re now besmirched in a new and most grievous manner. I wonder—will the stain ever come out?”

“It doesn’t bear thinking about, Molly. The police are pointing fingers, asking questions.”

I look around the lobby and spot several men in black clothes standing by themselves, earpieces in their ears. “Who are they?” I ask. “They don’t look like guests.”

“They’re undercover officers,” Mr. Snow replies. “And they’re everywhere, watching our every move. Rather than close the hotel, Detective Stark demanded we remain operational and attempt to ‘act normal.’ She and her special agents are convinced this is the best way to flush out the killer.”

“Wouldn’t the killer have fled by now?”

“Apparently, the manner of death suggests the murderer might stick around. Detective Stark mentioned something about trophies and ‘the pathology of the poisoned cup.’ It seems for some killers, hiding in plain sight is part of the thrill.”

A tremor runs through me, and as I glance about the lobby, I see everything and everyone veiled in suspicion.

Mr. Snow gazes past the lobby, through the glass revolving doors where Mr. Preston directs foot traffic from his podium on the stairs. “Hard to imagine,” Mr. Snow says, “but the detectives are convinced the killer is…” He pauses.

“Spit it out, Mr. Snow. A worker? One of us?” I ask.

Mr. Snow nods gravely.

An invisible vise clenches around my heart, and for a moment I wonder how I’m supposed to carry on. Chin up, Buttercup.

“I’d better go,” I say. “This hotel isn’t going to clean itself.” What I don’t say is that a criminal layer of grime lurks in every hidden nook and cranny of this hotel, but we cannot clean what we cannot see.

“Be vigilant, Molly,” Mr. Snow says.

“I always am,” I reply.

I leave him and am heading toward the elevators when I hear a familiar “Yoo-hoo!” at my back. I turn to see two LAMBS sitting on an emerald settee by the grand staircase. Gladys, the curly-haired president, is waving her little red flag at me while Beulah intently picks cat hair off that same awful sweater of hers. They’re the last people I wish to talk to right now, but as Mr. Snow often reminds staff members, “You’re at the behest of every guest.”

“Ladies,” I say as I approach. “I hope you’re well.”

“Well?” says Gladys. “How could we possibly be well? J. D. Grimthorpe has been murdered in cold blood.”

“We’re in deep mourning,” Beulah adds as she wraps her arms around herself.

“Do you know if the Social will open at the regular time for breakfast today?” Gladys asks.

“It will,” I reply. “At the Regency Grand, we pride ourselves on predictability and timely service.”

“Good,” says Beulah. “I could use something in my stomach to settle it.”

While I don’t always have the most reliable read on human emotions, I can’t help but notice the incongruity here. Both women appear more afraid of missing breakfast than they are of a potential murderer on the loose. And why have they stuck around when there’s quite literally a zero percent chance of them meeting the very man they came here to see? It suddenly strikes me that the third member of their usual trio, the little one with the pink highlights, is separated from the flock.

“Where’s the other number-one fan you two are always with?” I ask. “Ms. Birdy. Has she flown home?”

“Home? Are you kidding? And miss the action?” Beulah says. “She’s wandering the hotel, collecting clues. She’s pitching theories and motives to your people.”

“My people?” I say.

“Yes. The secret agents, the men in black who’re all over the hotel today. We know they’re working with you,” Gladys says. She points to one of the men with earpieces littering the lobby at intervals.

“They are not working with me,” I reply. “I am just a maid. That’s it. That’s all.”

“Of course. We understand,” Gladys says. “Nod, nod. Wink, wink. We won’t say a word. But we do have something important to tell you—as a maid, of course.”

“If it’s truly as a maid, then I will listen. What is it?” I ask.

“It’s about Birdy,” Gladys says.

Beulah scratches at her fur-covered sweater, then says, “As you probably noticed, Birdy and I don’t always get along. We share a love for all things Grimthorpe, but let’s just say the love ends there. For many years, there’s been a professional rivalry between us.”

“A professional jealousy is what I’d call it,” says Gladys.

“You see, I’m something that Birdy is not—only I am Mr. Grimthorpe’s biographer.”

“Unofficial biographer,” Gladys adds.

“One thing I’ve learned over the years is never to underestimate a tiny woman. Birdy may be small, but she’s strong, wily, and…”

“She has a history with poison,” Gladys says.

The two women exchange a look.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Two years ago, during our biannual symposium on The Genius of J. D. Grimthorpe, an esteemed academic from a local university was in attendance. After Birdy’s rather long-winded lecture about crime and punishment in J.D.’s mysteries, this academic raised her hand and said she’d never understood why his work was so popular. She called his writing rigid.”

“ ‘Constipated’ was the exact word she used,” Beulah says. “Birdy was apoplectic.”

“On the second day of the symposium, when the academic returned for our Crime & Crumpets Salon, Birdy served her a special brownie she’d baked herself,” Gladys says.

“Brown as my favorite sweater, and laced with laxatives,” Beulah adds. “Let’s just say that academic never attended one of our symposiums ever again.”

“Typical Birdy,” says Gladys, shaking her curly head. “The punishment befits the crime.”

The two ladies nod in unison.

“When that detective on the news said Mr. Grimthorpe was poisoned, we both had the same thought: Birdy,” Beulah says.

Gladys leans toward me. “If Birdy could poison a brownie, what else might she be capable of?”

“But why would she poison her idol?” I ask.

“Because she’s angry,” Beulah offers. “With him and with me. Killing J.D. punishes us both.” Beulah leans into me conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “Lately, I’d been getting closer to Mr. Grimthorpe, uncovering research Birdy knows nothing about. He and I had discussed me becoming his official biographer. She was not happy about that. She’s always wanted to be more than his number-one fan. Let’s just say she was green with envy when I told her I beat her to the punch.”

“And as mentioned,” Gladys adds, “Birdy has always had a penchant for Poison & Punishment—the novel, I mean.”

“It’s her favorite book by J. D. Grimthorpe because the villain gets what’s coming to him via a tainted drink. I doubt that’s a coincidence,” says Beulah.

“Beulah and I discussed all of this last night,” Gladys adds, “and while it’s hard to imagine Birdy stooping to such a low, we decided it would be prudent to mention her backstory to someone official. You know, just in case.”

“I’m not official,” I say. “Unless you mean in my capacity as Head Maid.”

“Of course,” Gladys says loudly. “We understand.”

Beulah grabs my arm. “You’ll investigate this, right?” she whispers.

“I’ll do no such thing,” I say. “Speak to the authorities. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must be off. Hotel rooms don’t clean themselves.”

“Especially Beulah’s,” Gladys says. “Her hotel room looks like a pack rat moved in.”

“It’s not that bad,” Beulah replies as she brushes the shoulders of her sweater, sending a raft of fresh cat fur into the air.

I turn on my heel and leave without so much as another word. It must be said: I’m relieved the moment I’m out of their sight. Everything about these women sets my teeth on edge.

I rush downstairs to the housekeeping quarters, where I change into my uniform, placing my Head Maid pin in its proper position, right above my heart. Lily has already arrived. Her shoes are lined up neatly in front of her locker.

Once uniformed, I check myself one last time in the mirror, then head to the second floor. The elevator doors open, and I spot Lily’s trolley at the end of the hall, but when I look the other way, Cheryl is exiting a room, her fleshy hand full of small bills.

No. Not again. It’s the second time in less than twenty-four hours that I’ve caught a thief red-handed, in flagrante delicto.Cheryl is up to her old tricks. She’s filching tips from rooms she doesn’t even clean, tips meant for Lily and me.

“Cheryl!” I say, or rather shout, because I’m hot as a steaming kettle. I march down the hallway and stop in front of her. “How dare you?” I say. “Stealing tips from other maids. You’ll recall that it’s expressly forbidden to interfere with remuneration intended for other staff members. Do you realize that’s cause for dismissal?”

“Whoa, Molly!” Cheryl says, her hands raised. “No need to get so worked up. As I told Lily earlier, I thought it would be a good idea for all of us maids to pool our tips and then divide them evenly. You know, like you always say—‘fair and square, the maids all share’?”

“That statement refers to the workload,” I say. “You have misconstrued my meaning.”

Lily’s head pops out of a room. The dark circles under her eyes are so pronounced she resembles a raccoon.

“You tell her, Lily,” Cheryl says. “We agreed to pool tips, right?”

Lily is about to say something, but the words catch in her mouth. “I…guess?” she manages, then she shakes her head and goes quiet.

This does a grand total of nothing to placate me. Rather, it makes me want to submerge Cheryl’s greedy paws in a bucketful of concentrated lye, but instead I force a smile and say, “I am Head Maid. It is up to me to decide how tips are doled out amongst maids. And for the record, I’ve had enough of dirty thieves for one day.”

“Dirty thieves?” Cheryl repeats, punctuating this with a snort. “That’s a very nasty name you just called me. Who’s breaking her own rule book now? I wonder what Mr. Snow would have to say if I decided to report you, Molly? I’ve gotta go,” Cheryl says. “Be sure to shout out if either of you see an axe-wielding murderer behind a hotel room door. Or better yet, don’t shout. Just. Stay. Quiet,” she says as she eyes Lily. Then she clomps off down the hallway.

Once she’s gone, Lily emerges from the room she was cleaning and stands in front me, her eyes downturned and watery.

“Did you really agree to pool tips with her?” I ask.

Lily’s not talking. She’s not even moving.

“Will there ever be an end to this silent treatment?” I ask. “I know this place is upside down right now and it’s quite frightening, but everything will right itself. Things will be okay in the end.”

Lily’s face remains impassive—a mask of worry and concern. “This hotel?” she whispers. “It’s dirtier than I ever realized. I don’t know what to do.”

“There’s only one thing to do in the presence of dirt, Lily. And that’s clean it.”

Lily stares at me for a moment, then she slips behind her trolley and disappears down the hall.