Chapter 2

I am standing in Mr. Snow’s office, holding a fresh cup of tea. My hands are unsteady; my heart is racing. The floor under my feet tilts like I’m in a fun house, which I most definitely am not.

The tea is not for me. It’s for Lily Finch, who I hired three weeks ago—Lily, who is petite and quiet, with jet-black, shoulder-length hair and skittish eyes, and who at the moment trembles in Mr. Snow’s maroon leather office chair, tears streaming down her face. It takes me back, truly it does, to a time when I sat all by myself in the chair Lily sits in now, trembling as I waited for others to decide my fate.

It happened approximately four years ago. I was cleaning a penthouse suite on the fourth floor when I stumbled across a guest who I thought was sleeping deeply, but even the deepest sleepers do not give up breathing entirely. A quick check of Mr. Black’s pulse revealed that he was in fact dead—very dead—in his hotel room bed. And while from that moment on I did my utmost to deal with this most unusual “situation,” all fingers suddenly pointed at me as the murderess. Many in my midst—including the police and an alarming number of my co-workers—assumed that I had murdered Mr. Black.

I am a cleaner, not a killer. I did not murder Mr. Black—in cold blood or lukewarm, for that matter. I was wrongly accused. But, with the help of some very good eggs, I was exonerated. Still, the experience most certainly took its toll. It underscored just how hazardous a maid’s work can be. It’s not the backbreaking labor, the demanding guests, or the cleaning chemicals that present the greatest danger. It’s the assumption that maids are delinquents, murderers, and thieves: the maid is always to blame. I truly thought Mr. Black’s demise was the beginning of the end for me, but everything turned out just fine, as Gran always predicted it would.

Now, in Mr. Snow’s office, I lock eyes with Lily and when I do, I feel her fear like an electric current traveling straight into my heart. Who could blame her for being afraid? Not me. Who on earth actually thinks they’ll show up for work one day to host a world-famous author only to have him die in a room filled to capacity with adoring fans and shutter-clicking press? And what poor, hapless maid could ever imagine she’d not only serve the writer upon the moment of his death but also serve as his deathbed?

Poor Lily. Poor, poor girl.

You are not alone. You will always have me—Gran’s words echo in my head as they always do. If only Lily could hear them.

“A good cup of tea will cure all ills,” I say, passing Lily the cup I’m cradling in my hands.

She takes it, but she does not speak. This is not unusual for Lily. She has trouble using her words, but lately, she’s been much better at expressing herself, at least with me. She’s come so far since her job interview, executed by me and Mr. Snow. It went so poorly that Mr. Snow’s eyes grew two sizes behind his tortoiseshell glasses when I announced, “Lily Finch is our strongest candidate for the job.”

“But she barely spoke through the entire interview!” Mr. Snow said. “She couldn’t come up with an answer when I asked her to outline her best qualities. Molly, why in the world would you choose her?”

“May I remind you, Mr. Snow,” I said, “that overweening confidence is not the primary quality to consider when hiring a maid. You may recall that a certain former hotel employee had confidence in spades but turned out to be a very bad egg indeed. Do you not remember?”

Mr. Snow nodded oh so subtly, but the good news is I can read him much better now than I could when I first started as a maid at the Regency Grand Hotel seven and a half years ago. This little nod suggested willingness to defer the final decision about Lily to me.

“Ms. Finch is most definitely quiet,” I said. “But since when has loquaciousness been a key skill for a maid? ‘Loose lips sink ships.’ Isn’t that what you always say, Mr. Snow? Lily needs training—which I intend to provide—but I can tell she’s a worker bee. She has everything it takes to become a valued member of the hive.”

“Very well, Molly,” Mr. Snow said, though his pursed mouth suggested he was not entirely convinced.

In the few weeks that I’ve been training Lily, she’s made tremendous progress as a maid. Just the other day, when we encountered our lovely repeat guests Mr. and Mrs. Chen outside their penthouse suite, Lily actually spoke. She used her words in the presence of guests for the very first time.

“Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Chen,” she said, her soft voice like wind chimes. “It is lovely to see you. Molly and I have left your rooms in what I hope is a state of perfection.”

I smiled from ear to ear. What a joy it was to hear her after so much meaningful silence between us. Day after day, we’d worked side by side. I showed her every task—how to make a bed with crisply cut hospital corners; how to polish a faucet to a high shine; how to plump a pillow to maximum fullness—and wordlessly, she followed my lead. Her work was flawless, and I told her so.

“You have the knack, Lily,” I said more than once.

Apart from having a maid’s keen eye for details, Lily is also discreet. She moves about the hotel’s interior, cleaning and buffing, shining and detailing with stealth-like invisibility. She may be quiet—enigmatic even—but make no mistake: Lily is a gifted maid.

Now, sitting in Mr. Snow’s office chair, she places her untouched teacup on his desk and worries her hands in her lap. I feel faint as I look at her. All I can see is myself in that chair. I’ve been here before, and I don’t want to be here again.

How did it come to this?

---

—This morning was sunny and bright when I left our two-bedroom apartment at 7:00 a.m. For two reasons, it was not an ordinary morning. First, today was the day that international bestselling author J. D. Grimthorpe would be making his big announcement during a press conference at the hotel. Second, my boyfriend, Juan Manuel, whom I’ve been living with in domestic bliss for over three years and whom I’ve worked with at the hotel for even longer, has been away. He’s been gone for three whole days, visiting his family in Mexico, and I must say, absence does not grow fondness in this particular case. More accurately, it grows fungus. Ergo, I miss him terribly.

This is Juan Manuel’s first trip home in many years, a trip we’ve been diligently saving for. Oh, how I wanted to travel alongside my beloved—a trip together, a true adventure—but alas, it was not to be: Juan is in Mexico, and I’m stuck here. For the first time since my gran’s death, I’m alone in our two-bedroom apartment. Never mind. All will be well. I’m just glad Juan’s seeing his family, and especially his mother, who has missed him for many years as I miss him right now.

Even though he’ll be gone only two weeks, I cannot wait until he returns. Life is just better with Juan in it. He texted me this morning before I left for work:

Today will be amazing! IMHO, there’s nothing to worry about. Te amo.

I’ll admit that his declaration of love elicited a pleasing butterfly sensation in my belly, but his use of acronyms was as consternating as ever.

FYI,I texted back, I have no idea what you mean.

I mean I love you.

I understand that part.

In My Humble Opinion, you are incredible, and today will be spectacular,he concluded.

Though I’d desperately wanted to go to Mexico with Juan, duty called, or rather Mr. Snow called, and it instantly became clear I would not be going anywhere.

“Are you familiar with the writer J. D. Grimthorpe?” Mr. Snow asked me on the phone a few weeks ago.

“Indeed I am,” I replied, leaving it at that.

“His personal secretary just requested the Regency Grand for an exclusive VIP event during which Mr. Grimthorpe intends to make a very important announcement. And…he’s requested the Grand Tearoom.”

Mr. Snow’s breathless excitement traveled right through the phone. This news was serendipitous. When we were rocked by the scandal of Mr. Black’s murder, Mr. Snow had the brilliant idea of attracting fresh clientele by returning an old storeroom off the lobby of the hotel to its former glory as a museum-quality example of an Art Deco tearoom. The renovation was nearing completion, and the hotel needed a VIP event to launch it publicly. This was perfect! And even better, Mr. Snow wanted me and my staff to oversee the special event. I told Juan immediately.

“When opportunity knocks, answer the door,” he said. “We’ll cancel our trip and go another time.”

I couldn’t bear the thought. “Mi amor,” I said. “You go without me. We’ll go together another time.”

“Really?” he replied. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“Mind?” I said. “I insist. We can’t keep your mother waiting a minute longer.”

He wrapped me in a close embrace, then planted kisses all over my face. “One for every day I’ll be away,” he said. “And a few extras just because. You’re sure you’ll be okay without me?”

“Of course I will,” I said. “What on earth could go wrong?”

And so, Juan got on his plane a few days ago, while I stayed behind and kept myself busy with advance preparations for the Grimthorpe announcement.

This morning, I set out for the momentous occasion with a jittery spring in my step. I was excited and nervous at the same time. As I rounded the last corner downtown, the hotel came into view.

There she was, the Regency Grand, sublimely timeless amongst an urban eyesore of crass neon billboards and stout, modern office blocks. Red carpet graced the short flight of stairs to the hotel’s majestic portico. Dazzling brass railings framed the entrance leading to gleaming revolving doors. The lobby was teeming with chatty guests, luggage in tow, as well as reporters and podcasters lugging equipment through the revolving front doors in preparation for the morning’s marquee event.

Halfway up the steps on the landing in front of the portico stood Mr. Preston, the Regency Grand’s long-serving doorman, dressed in his stately cap and long greatcoat adorned with hotel crests. “Good morning, Molly,” Mr. Preston said as I met him beside his doorman’s podium. “Big day today.”

“Yes, it is,” I replied. “But we’re ready for it. Have you seen the tearoom? It’s magnificent.”

“It is,” he replied. “Listen, Molly. I was thinking that just because Juan Manuel is away, it doesn’t mean you and I can’t get together for our usual Sunday dinner. No point in both of us eating alone. Besides, there’s something I’ve been meaning to speak to you about.”

“Sunday dinner sounds nice,” I replied. “But let’s see how the week goes. It’s bound to be a busy one without Juan Manuel around, and I can’t promise I’ll be up to cooking without him.”

Mr. Preston nodded and smiled. “Understood,” he said. “I know how hard you work, and I certainly don’t want to trouble you.”

Sunday dinner with Mr. Preston has been a tradition for several years, and once a week we dine together at the cozy kitchen table in our apartment. The three of us always mark the moment with a toast to another workweek done and dusted. The meals are simple, but as we eat, we regale one another with stories of the week’s odd encounters—and let it be noted that at the Regency Grand, odd encounters are frequent occurrences. In fact, just last Sunday, I entertained Juan and Mr. Preston by describing in full Technicolor Room 404, which Lily and I had cleaned earlier that day.

“It was so filled with detritus, boxes, and file folders,” I said, “that it looked like a rat’s nest. Whoever’s occupying that room is hoarding Regency Grand shampoo. There were hundreds of miniature bottles.”

“Who needs that many to shower?” Juan Manuel asked.

“The bottles weren’t even in the shower,” I said. “They were on top of the minibar beside a bunch of snack foods and a big jar of peanut butter sitting open with a stainless-steel spoon sticking out the top.”

Mr. Preston and Juan broke out laughing and mimed a toast with bubbly in the form of miniature Regency Grand shampoo bottles.

I leave my memory and look at Mr. Preston now, standing on the red-carpeted stairs. There’s more gray in his hair, more lines in his face, but he still manages to do his job so well. I’ve always had a soft spot for this man. He’s been exceptionally kind to me through the years, and he knew my gran. Long ago, before I was even a glint in my mother’s eye, Mr. Preston and my gran were beaus—meaning: paramours, a romantic couple—but Gran’s parents forbade the union. Mr. Preston eventually married someone else and had a family. Still, Gran’s friendship with Mr. Preston endured. She was fond of him to the day she died. She was friends with his wife, Mary, too. But now that Mary is dead and Charlotte, his brilliant daughter who aided me so much after Mr. Black’s death, is far away, I wonder if Mr. Preston is lonely. Perhaps that’s the reason why our Sunday dinners are so important to him. Lately, he’s been even more doting than usual, and I don’t know why.

“If things get sticky in there today, just know that I’m here,” Mr. Preston said this morning on the red-carpeted stairs. “There isn’t much I wouldn’t do for you, Molly. You remember that.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “You’re a fine colleague, Mr. Preston.”

I said goodbye and made my way through the revolving doors of the Regency Grand leading to the glorious lobby. Even after all these years, the sight of it takes my breath away—the Italian marble floors with their tang of fresh lemon polish, the golden handrails of the grand staircase with its serpent balustrades, the plush velvet settees that over the years have absorbed countless trysts and secrets.

The lobby was positively bustling, and the reception staff, dressed in black and white like neat little penguins, directed porters and guests this way and that. In the middle of the lobby was an enormous sign in an ornate gold frame that I’d polished to perfection just yesterday, making it glimmer, sparkle, and shine:

Today

J. D. Grimthorpe

Renowned Mystery Author

VIP Press Conference, 10 a.m.

Regency Grand Tearoom

There wasn’t a moment to lose—so much to prepare. I rushed down the basement staircase into the workers’ quarters. Low, tight corridors lit with fluorescent lights led to a maze of rooms, including the laundry, the supply closets, the steamy hotel kitchen, and, of course, my personal favorite, the housekeeping quarters.

I went straight to my locker. Hanging from it in thin, clingy plastic wrap was an objet of tremendous beauty—my uniform. Oh, how I love my maid’s uniform—a crisply starched white shirt and a slim-fit black skirt made of flexible Lycra allowing for the bend-and-stretch exertions that are a regular part of the job for any hardworking maid.

Without a moment to lose, I changed, then proudly affixed my Head Maid pin above my heart. I checked myself in the full-length mirror, smoothing out a few disobedient, dark strands in my otherwise neatly coiffed bob and pinching my cheeks to bring color to my pallor. Pleased with the effect, I then noticed someone else in the mirror. Reflected behind me was my own double—Lily, the living picture of a perfectly polished maid. She was neatly uniformed, her Maid-in-Training tag was pinned just like mine, adroit and straight, right above her heart.

I turned to face her. “You’re early,” I said.

She nodded.

“You came early to help me?”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“My dear girl,” I replied. “You’re a treasure. Let’s get to work.”

Together, we headed to the doorway, but a pear-shaped figure blocked our passage. It was Cheryl, former Head Maid; Cheryl, who had no qualms about cleaning guest sinks with the same cloth she used for their toilets. She had once been my boss, but she had never been my superior. Mr. Snow demoted her after the Mr. Black debacle and promoted me into her role.

“Cheryl, why on earth are you early?” I asked.

This never happened. She was always late, armed with a panoply of excuses that sometimes induced a rage in me so profound that I wanted not only to fire her but also to set fire to her, an uncharitable thought, I admit.

“Busy day today,” Cheryl said as she rubbed her nose with the back of her hand.

My shoulders stiffened in revulsion.

“I figure you and your Wisp-in-Training could use a maid with ample years of experience.”

Lily stood stock-still and did not speak. She rarely spoke when other staff were present. Instead, she studied the well-polished tops of her shoes.

“How remarkably generous you are, Cheryl,” I said. Let the record show I did not mean it. As I’ve learned, sometimes a smile does not mean someone is happy. Sometimes a compliment is feigned. And while I praised Cheryl’s “generosity,” I was in fact employing irony, because there are few people in the world as selfishly motivated as she is.

“I have an idea,” Cheryl offered. “Lily should clean guest rooms today, and I can help you serve tea at the Grimthorpe event. I’ve given her a head start by cleaning the Chens’ suite.”

She may have cleaned their suite, but I knew she’d done so only to steal the tip left by our most generous guests, a tip meant for Lily, not for her.

“Thank you, but no thank you,” I said as I pushed through the doorway, forcing Cheryl out of my way. “And, Cheryl,” I added, turning to face her. “Wash your hands before you get back to work. Remember: sanitation is our obligation.”

I beckoned for Lily to follow me, and we left Cheryl behind.

Once we were down the corridor, one left and one right turn from Housekeeping, I asked Lily to go to the kitchen and check on preparations for the tea reception. “You’re in charge of both of Mr. Grimthorpe’s tea carts today,” I said. “Bring one to his room now. Knock thrice and leave it outside his door. Then have another cart ready for the actual event itself. Make sure the kitchen staff prepares both carts to Mr. Grimthorpe’s exact specifications,” I said.

Lily nodded, then headed to the snaking corridor that led to the steamy kitchen. Meanwhile, I rushed up the basement stairs and went straight to the Regency Grand Tearoom, stepping past the burgundy cordon that blocked off the entrance.

I stood a moment admiring the splendid sight. The high-ceilinged room featured a domed skylight that bathed everything in a shimmering glow. The walls were clad in green-and-gold Art Deco wallpaper, arches rising triumphantly to empire crown moldings. Round café tables were crisply laid with white linens I’d arranged myself, napkins pleated into rosebud folds, and floral centerpieces spotlighting elegant pink lotus blooms. Simply put, the room was a vision, a glorious return to an era of infinite possibility and grandeur.

My moment of rapture was interrupted by the sound of journalists who’d gathered at the back of the room, running cables and adjusting cameras, murmuring about J. D. Grimthorpe’s mysterious motivations for making a most rare public appearance. At the front of the room, Mr. Snow nodded repeatedly at a pretty, binder-toting young woman as she tested the microphone on the podium. Booksellers off to the side of the raised stage were laying a display table of J. D. Grimthorpe’s bestselling books, including The Maid in the Mansion, the novel that first propelled him to global bestsellerdom. On the cover of the most recent edition was a winding path of blood-red roses leading to a monolithic estate, an ominous light shining in an upper-story window. A tremor ran through me as I eyed the stack of copies. I knew so much about the man who’d written that novel.

Just then, Mr. Snow spotted me and beckoned me to the front of the room. I looped my way around the white-linened tables until I stood in front of him and the young woman.

“Molly,” Mr. Snow said. “Allow me to present Ms. Serena Sharpe, J. D. Grimthorpe’s personal secretary.”

She was wearing a bold blue dress that hugged her figure so perfectly, all eyes in the room were riveted to her. Ms. Sharpe smiled at me, a smile that did not quite reach her feline eyes. Something about her face was sphinxlike, and I could not quite read it.

“I’m Molly Gray, Head Maid,” I said by way of introduction.

“Ms. Sharpe is reviewing the final details of Mr. Grimthorpe’s appearance,” Mr. Snow explained. “I have assured her that no one without a VIP pass will gain entry to this room and that all guests will be served tea and refreshments at precisely 9:15 a.m. in anticipation of Mr. Grimthorpe’s entry at exactly 10:00 a.m.”

I was not at all surprised by Mr. Snow’s precise run-of-show because we’d spent hours reviewing every last detail the day before.

“I do appreciate you accommodating us in your new venue at short notice,” Ms. Sharpe said. “I know such requests put tremendous strain on all staff.”

Indeed they had. The builders had rushed to put the finishing touches on the tearoom’s tiled floor; the chefs and sous-chefs had quickly conjured an elegant breakfast tea menu, complete with finger sandwiches; Mr. Preston had arranged extra hotel security; and I was tasked with locating in our storerooms fifteen fine silver tea sets with matching cutlery. Long ago, I acquired quite a talent for polishing silver, so I buffed every piece myself, right down to the final spoon.

“It is a pleasure to serve,” I said to Mr. Grimthorpe’s assistant. “I hope you find our tearoom pleasing.”

“I do,” she replied. “In fact, everything’s so perfect, I think we’re ahead of schedule. If you’re interested, I can send J.D. in early to sign a few books for staff members.”

Mr. Snow’s eyebrows shot into his receding hairline. “That would be wonderful!” he exclaimed as he removed his phone from the pocket of his double-breasted suit and made a succession of rapid calls.

Within minutes, an eager group of hotel employees was lined up behind the burgundy cordon at the tearoom’s entrance. Angela, wearing her black barmaid’s apron, was midline, while Cheryl staked her claim up front. Lily shored up the rear, trailing behind various cooks, dishwashers, and maids.

“Walk them in, Molly, in an orderly fashion,” Mr. Snow said, and so I guided my fellow employees to line up in front of the book table, where an empty chair awaited the arrival of our VIP literary guest.

Ms. Serena Sharpe knocked on a hidden door in the paneling to the side of the stage. It creaked open, and Mr. Grimthorpe emerged—lean, lithe, with wild, hawkish eyes, unruly gray hair, and a measured, confident gait. He took his seat at the signing table. Ms. Sharpe handed him a black-and-gold fountain pen. The room rippled with murmurs and exploded with recording phones, everyone vying for the best photo.

“Molly, don’t forget to line up,” Mr. Snow urged. “This is your only chance to get a book signed by the master of mystery himself.”

My legs felt like tree stumps, but I urged them into motion, taking my place behind a bellhop who bobbed like an eager gopher in front of me.

I tapped his shoulder. “Did anyone tell Mr. Preston about the staff signing?” I asked.

“Of course,” he replied. “He didn’t want to come. Said he preferred to breathe fresh air rather than bow down to the author.”

“Is that really what he said?”

“Uh-huh,” the youth replied before turning his attention to the famous man at the front of the room.

Sweat gathered at my brow as the line dwindled and ecstatic employees rushed off with signed copies of J. D. Grimthorpe’s latest book tucked preciously under their arms.

“It’s your turn, Molly,” Mr. Snow said over my shoulder. “Step up.” And so I found myself standing directly in front of the writer himself.

“Your name?” Mr. Grimthorpe asked as he sized me up with raptorial eyes.

“M-M-Molly,” I managed.

“A pleasure to meet you. I am J. D. Grimthorpe,” he said, as if I didn’t already know.

He scribbled my name and his signature in my book, then passed it to me, making eye contact one more time. I waited, but recognition never dawned.

How was it possible that I remembered everything about him but he did not remember me?