Chapter 8

In my dream, I’m foraging in an enchanted forest just down the path from our gingerbread cottage.

A strange-looking sheep asks me what I’m doing. “Collecting medicines for Gran,” I reply.

“You better hurry before it’s too late,” the sheep says as it trots down the path.

When I arrive at our cottage, Gran is tucked in bed, the sheets pulled tight to her chin. “I’ve got your medicines. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“You’re too late,” Gran replies. Only then do I realize it’s not Gran in bed but Mr. Grimthorpe the troll, wrapped in a sheepskin and wearing a white bonnet on his head.

“No!” I scream. “You’re dead! Go away and never come back!”

He starts to laugh, a deep, maniacal laugh. Just as he’s about to reach his claws out to grab me, I wake up to my phone ringing on my bedside table.

I’m not a child in a nightmare but a grown woman in her own bed.

I swipe to answer the call. “Hello?” I say breathlessly.

“Molly?” Juan Manuel replies. “You sound like you’ve been running.”

“I was asleep,” I say. I feel sweaty and confused.

“I’m sorry to wake you, mi amor. I just wanted to wish you a good morning and to remind you to rise, polish, and shine.”

He’s quoting Gran. I’ve told him how she used to say this every morning as she pulled my curtains open when I was a little girl. “Rise, polish, and shine!” her voice trilled, bright and cheerful like a singing sparrow. She died before Juan Manuel could ever meet her, and yet in ways I’ll never fully comprehend, parts of her live on in him just as they live on in me. This truth adds solace to all of my days.

“How was the Grimthorpe event, Molly? Did you slay it?”

“Did I what?” I ask as I sit up taller in bed. It takes me a moment to realize he’s not referencing Mr. Grimthorpe but using one of those newfangled expressions he loves so much. “For the record,” I say, “I’ve slain no one.”

Juan responds with a laugh. “Did yesterday’s event go okay?”

I don’t want to avoid the truth, but I know if I tell him a famous writer died in the Regency Grand Tearoom, he’ll be worried sick. Knowing him, he’ll be on a plane back here before I can say Jiminy Cricket, and that would be so unfair. I can’t expect Juan to be there for me every time something goes awry. Besides, I’m perfectly capable of handling this situation myself. After all, I am a Head Maid.

“Mi amor, are you there? Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Who said things weren’t okay?” I ask. “Was someone from the hotel in touch with you?”

“No,” he replies. “They’re not allowed to contact me. Mr. Snow told the kitchen staff he expects them to figure things out for a change rather than come to me every time things go wrong.”

“Exactly right,” I say. “We all rely on you far too much. It’s high time you had a good, proper break.”

“But you do miss me, don’t you, mi amor?”

“Of course I do,” I say. “You have no idea how much.” Sadness suddenly rises in my throat, and I quickly swallow it down before it escapes. “I’d better go now. Lots of cleanup to do at the hotel.”

“I’m sure you’ll sort it out. You always do.”

We say our heartfelt goodbyes, and I hang up.

I jump out of bed, sleep and dreams forgotten. I bustle about the apartment getting ready for my day. I have no idea what it will bring, but as Gran used to say, Embrace the possibilities. You never know what might happen. I just hope that we’ll soon be able to chalk up the untimely death of Mr. Grimthorpe to natural causes and get on with doing what we do best at the Regency Grand—providing our guests with the finest customer service in a sophisticated venue that befits the modern age.

Within the hour, I’m walking briskly in the sunshine toward the hotel’s scarlet stairs. Mr. Preston, in cap and greatcoat, is standing on the carpeted landing helping some tourists with directions. He points a young couple to the next street over and they hurry down the stairs to their destination as though everything is normal, as though our hotel did not experience a seismic upheaval just the day before. As I stare at the entrance to the hotel, my knees start to shake.

“Molly!” Mr. Preston calls out the moment he spots me.

I walk up the stairs to meet him.

“My dear girl, I’ve been thinking about you all morning. What a horrendous shock you must have had yesterday. Are you all right?”

“Mr. Preston, I’m not the one who died. It stands to reason that I’m fine,” I reply, though I don’t quite believe my own words.

“Thank heavens for that,” Mr. Preston says. “I’m just glad you survived yesterday’s ordeal without getting too rattled. Good riddance to the writer, I say.”

“Good riddance?” I reply. “That’s not very charitable.”

“I reserve charity for those who deserve it,” Mr. Preston replies. “And that man did not deserve it.”

A strange tingling sensation stirs in the depths of my belly. My gran used to get feelings like this. She called them her “intuitions.”

“Mr. Preston,” I say. “Did you know Mr. Grimthorpe?”

“I’m not sure anyone knew him, least of all himself,” he replies.

“You don’t actually think someone inside this hotel could have killed him, do you?”

“A man like that? Anything’s possible.”

Just then, some guests arrive in a taxi. “Molly, be careful in there today,” Mr. Preston says. “There are things going on around here that I don’t quite understand, and until I do, you best be vigilant.”

It’s an odd thing to say in a conversation replete with oddities, but Mr. Preston has not been himself lately. He keeps insisting on meeting me for dinner, which makes me wonder if he’s all right. He’s more distracted and tired than usual, too. He’s asking the valets for help and taking breaks with greater frequency these days.

“There’s no need to worry about me, Mr. Preston,” I say. “I’ll be fine. If anything, you should worry about yourself.”

He nods and starts down the stairs. I head the other way, pushing through the revolving doors into the stunning lobby of the Regency Grand. It’s a hive of activity even though it’s not yet nine. Visitors gather in close huddles on every jewel-toned settee. The morning scents of coffee and fresh lemon polish commingle in the air.

A line of new guests waits at Reception as bellhops call back and forth, tackling the sudden surfeit of suitcases that litters the lobby. I’ve seen this before, of course, the day after the infamous Mr. Black died in our hotel. That morning, our hotel was filled to capacity. Every lookie-loo in town had suddenly checked in to be part of “the scene,” all of them asking the same question: had Mr. Black died of natural causes or was something more sinister at play in the Regency Grand? It’s no different this time. Yesterday, a world-renowned writer dropped dead on the tearoom floor, and today the lobby pulses with conspiratorial energy as guests and staff members exchange salient bits of gossip about who knows who and who knows what. It’s worrisome, all this chatter about potential suspects and possible criminals in our midst.

I take a sharp right away from the lobby and rush downstairs to the housekeeping quarters, where my freshly dry-cleaned uniform hangs in clingy plastic on my locker door—a new beginning. I quickly put it on and am fastening my Head Maid pin above my heart when something in the corner of the low-ceilinged room makes me jump.

“Lily!” I say. She’s standing stock-still in the shadows by her locker. “You frightened me half to death. My dear girl, what are you doing here today? I didn’t expect you, not after yesterday’s commotion. Why didn’t you call in sick?”

“Because I’m not sick,” she whispers. “And there’s something I have to—”

At that moment, Cheryl enters, dragging her feet in that slovenly way that makes me want to chop them off.

“There you are, my little wallflower,” Cheryl drones as she spots Lily hiding in the corner. “Aren’t you just ‘polished to perfection.’ You’ll clean the whole second floor today since Molly’s being called elsewhere.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask Cheryl.

“Oh, didn’t Mr. Snow tell you? He needs you in the Social. Something about waiters not showing up. That makes me your supervisor today, Lily. Mr. Snow’s orders.” She points to the lopsided pin fastened above her substantial bosom. “Look who’s back to being Head Maid.”

Turmoil bubbles inside me. I cannot decide whether to straighten Cheryl’s lopsided pin or simply slap her across the face. “I’m sure this is some misunderstanding,” I assure Lily. “I’ll speak to Mr. Snow about this posthaste.”

“Knock yourself out,” Cheryl mutters.

Gran used to say, There’s no point boxing with buffoons, so I unclasp my Head Maid pin and tuck it neatly into my locker. “Have a lovely day, Lily,” I say to her before walking out of the change room without another word to Cheryl.

Up the stairs I trot, feeling hotter than a boiling kettle.

I make my way to the lobby, where Mr. Snow is standing by the reception desk wearing a black velvet waistcoat and a neat paisley cravat. Beside him is Angela, her blazing red hair in a tizzy.

I head straight for them. “Am I or am I not the Head Maid at this hotel?” I ask Mr. Snow.

He sighs, then straightens his cravat. “It’s only for today, Molly. Angela’s short three servers, so we’re in quite a pickle. We need your help in the restaurant. And with you away from the guest rooms, I had to put someone in charge of the maids.”

“And you chose Cheryl?” I say. “Why didn’t you consult me about the running of my very own department? Has the world officially turned upside down? And what happened to the waiters? Did they call in sick?” I ask.

“Called in afraid is more like it,” Angela replies. “Seems they’re worried there’s a murderer on the loose right here in our hotel.”

“That’s absurd,” Mr. Snow says. “Patently ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Angela replies. “If podcasts have taught me anything, it’s that the worst things happen in the safest places.”

Mr. Snow’s lips pucker as though he’s sucking on a lemon.

“Also,” Angela says, “don’t you think it’s a bit weird that Grimthorpe’s personal secretary bolted out of here yesterday right after her boss kicked the bucket? I mean, I’m glad she’s coming back today, but still…it’s messed up.”

“How do you know Ms. Sharpe is coming back today?” Mr. Snow asks.

“Duh,” Angela says. “The banker’s box right behind you has her name on it.”

Mr. Snow adjusts his glasses, setting them more or less straight on the bridge of his nose.

“By the way, you look some fit today, Mr. Snow,” Angela says. “Doesn’t he look sharp, Molly?”

“Indeed,” I say. “Is there a high-end wedding in the hotel? Or a banquet? Mr. Snow, why are you so dressed up?”

Mr. Snow’s eyes search the lobby again, looking for what or whom, I do not know.

“Mr. Snow?” I repeat.

“What’s in the box?” Angela asks.

He looks at her with trepidation. “A few trifles,” he replies. “Odds and ends left behind after all of the commotion yesterday.” He flattens a palm over the lid of the box behind him.

“Cool. I like trifles,” says Angela as she grabs the lid and removes it in one fell swoop, causing Mr. Snow’s hand to plummet to his side. “Get a load of that, Molls!” Angela says as she peers into the box.

Inside is a very old edition of Mr. Grimthorpe’s bestselling novel The Maid in the Mansion, which, unlike the ones for sale at the event yesterday, features the original cover art—an iconic mansion door and an eye looking through the keyhole. Beside the book is Mr. Grimthorpe’s fountain pen, which I recognize from yesterday’s signing, as well as a black monogrammed Moleskine and a sealed Regency Grand envelope labeled Serena.

“The note to Serena is from me,” Mr. Snow says. “To thank her for her patronage.”

“Serena? Surely you mean Ms. Sharpe,” I say. I’m about to launch into a diatribe about the proper protocols for addressing guests, but before I can commence my lecture, Mr. Snow interrupts.

“Let me make one thing abundantly clear,” he says. “Serena is as innocent as a spring lamb.”

“No one in this hotel is that innocent,” Angela replies. “Not even you, Mr. Snow.” She picks up the novel and flips through the pages until she finds the copyright page. “Dang! It’s a first edition,” she says. “This has gotta be rare.”

“Yes. It is,” Mr. Snow concedes. “We had it in a display case out front to promote Mr. Grimthorpe’s announcement, alongside the other mementos in the box. Anyhow, Serena has asked for everything back.”

“Well, well. Speak of the devil,” Angela says.

Just then, Ms. Serena Sharpe pushes through the gold revolving doors of the Regency Grand. She is radiant, ethereal, though her outfit—a form-fitting black velvet dress—makes it clear she’s in mourning.

Ms. Sharpe looks around the lobby and spots Mr. Snow waving frantically in her direction. She makes her way over to us. Up close I can’t help but notice the fatigue—or is it sadness?—writ large in the dark circles under her enigmatic blue eyes.

“My dearest Serena,” Mr. Snow says. “How are you doing?”

“To be honest, I’m still in shock,” she says. “I can’t quite believe he’s gone.”

“That’s completely understandable,” Mr. Snow replies. “You have my deepest sympathies, and should you require emotional support during this difficult time, please know you can count on me.”

I cannot believe what happens next. Mr. Snow lays a hand on Ms. Sharpe’s bare arm. I’m about to point out that this is a violation of all hotel rules outlining appropriate guest-to-employee conduct—rules that came from Mr. Snow himself—but before I can do so, Ms. Sharpe extricates herself from his hand.

“I wanted to ask,” she says. “Do you have an update about how Mr. Grimthorpe died? Did the police reveal anything?” Her voice is shaky and unsure.

“I’m afraid not,” says Mr. Snow. “The autopsy results will take a day or two, so I’m told.”

“Actually,” I say. “Yesterday, Detective Stark was looking for you, Ms. Sharpe. She wanted to know what Mr. Grimthorpe was about to announce before he died.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” she replies. “The detective left a half dozen messages on my phone.”

“Perhaps you can ring her back,” I suggest.

Ms. Sharpe’s face turns to stone. “I’m heading to the station now, as a matter of fact,” she says stiffly.

Just then, something flits at the edge of my vision. I turn and spot Lily in the darkest corner of the lobby. She’s holding a feather duster and standing under the grand staircase between two emerald settees. Why on earth is she in the lobby when she should be upstairs cleaning guest rooms?

“Exactly how long have you worked for Mr. Grimthorpe?” Mr. Snow asks Ms. Sharpe.

“A little over a year,” she replies. “He hired me as his personal secretary after his previous secretary passed away. I have no idea what I’m going to do for work now that he’s gone.”

At exactly that moment, Cheryl enters the lobby pushing a discolored woolly mop. Why on earth is yet another maid in the lobby when she should be upstairs? Clearly, Mr. Snow is thinking the very same thing because he’s looking at Cheryl with utmost disdain. He’s opened his mouth, but before he can call out to her, a piercing sound assaults our ears. My hands spring up to cover my own. It takes a moment to realize the fire alarm has sounded. All around me, guests and employees jostle and start.

I feel a hand on my arm. It’s Angela, guiding me to the hotel entrance. Throngs of guests surround us, all of us pushing through the revolving doors. Before long, we’re standing outside on the plush scarlet staircase, where the shrieking alarm is not nearly as deafening.

A sea of humanity gathers around us.

“What’s going on?”

“What happened?”

“Is there a fire?”

In the midst of the chaos, Mr. Preston calls for calm and ushers people down the staircase toward the safety of the sidewalk.

As suddenly as the hubbub began, the alarm ends. Mr. Snow rushes through the revolving doors and calls down the stairs: “All is well! A false alarm! Please, you may reenter the Regency Grand.”

Audible sounds of relief are heard all around me.

“That was exciting,” Angela says.

“It was far from exciting,” I reply. “It was stressful and agitating.”

“Come on,” Angela says. “It’s over now. Let’s go back in.”

I follow her up the stairs and through the revolving doors. We make our way to the reception desk, where we were standing earlier.

Mr. Snow rushes over. His eyes search the lobby. “Where did she go?” he asks. “Where’s Serena?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Angela replies.

It’s then that I take in the reception desk behind us. It appears that Ms. Sharpe is not the only absentee. The banker’s box containing the rare first edition is gone.