The Maid(24)

Mr. Preston adjusts his cap. “Not that I noticed,” he says. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason,” I say. “The police will investigate, I’m sure. Especially if something is amok.”

“Amok?” Mr. Preston fixes me with a serious stare. “Molly, if ever you need anything—any help at all—you just remember your ol’ friend Mr. Preston, you hear?”

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.

“Thank you, Mr. Preston,” I say. “I appreciate your kind offer. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m sure there’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.”

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

“Taxi!” he calls out, then turns back to me for a moment, “Take good care, Molly. Please.”

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.

“Molly, I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you,” he says. He holds the day’s newspaper in his hand. It’s hard not to notice the headline: WEALTHY TYCOON CHARLES BLACK TURNS UP DEAD IN THE REGENCY GRAND HOTEL.

“Have you read this?” 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. “Rumors have been swirling for years around the legitimacy of Black Properties & Investments, with allegations of fraudulent dealings and embezzlement being shut down by Black’s powerful team of attorneys.”

Halfway through the article, I catch the name Giselle and read more carefully. “Giselle Black, Mr. Black’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 Black’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. Black’s cause of death.”

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.

“Do you see, Molly? They’re suggesting that this hotel is…is…”

“Foul,” I offer. “Unclean.”

“Yes, exactly.”

Mr. Snow attempts to straighten his glasses, with limited success. “Molly, I must ask you, did you or have you, at any time, noticed any…questionable activities in this hotel? With the Blacks or any other guests?”

“Questionable?” I say.

“Nefarious,” he explains.

“No!” I reply. “Absolutely not. If I had, you’d have been the first to know.”

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

“Sir, may I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“The article mentions Giselle Black. Do you know: is she still staying here? In the hotel, I mean?”

Mr. Snow’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; it’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. It’s the first time I’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. “To answer your question, Giselle is still staying here at the hotel, but you’re not to pass that along. She has nowhere else to go, do you understand? And she’s distraught, as you can imagine. I’ve moved her to the second floor. Sunitha will clean her room from now on.”

I feel a nervous flutter in my stomach. “Very well,” I say. “I best be off. This hotel won’t clean itself.”

“One more thing, Molly,” Mr. Snow says. “The Black suite? It’s out of bounds today, obviously. The police are still conducting their investigation in the room. You’ll notice security tape, and a police guard posted outside the door.”

“So when should I clean that suite?”

Mr. Snow stares at me for a long time. “You’re not to clean it, Molly. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“Very well. I won’t then. Goodbye.”