The Maid(25)

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

I’m greeted by my trusty uniform, crisp and clean, encased in plastic wrap, hung on my locker door. It’s as though yesterday’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 maid’s trolley—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. I’ve never been in a sauna, but I imagine it must feel like this—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.

“Dios te bendiga,” he says, crossing himself. “I am glad to see you. Are you okay? I’ve been worried about you, Miss Molly.”

It’s becoming upsetting that everyone is making such a fuss about me today. I’m not the one who died.

“I’m quite fine, thank you, Juan Manuel,” I say.

“But you found him,” he whispers, eyes wide. “Dead.”

“I did.”

“I can’t believe he’s really gone. I wonder what it means,” he says.

“It means he’s dead,” I say.

“What I’m saying is, what will it mean for the hotel?” He takes a few steps closer to me, so close he’s only half a trolley’s width away.

“Molly,” he whispers. “That man. Mr. Black? He was powerful. Too powerful. Who will be the boss now?”

“The boss is Mr. Snow,” I say.

He looks at me strangely. “Is he? Is he really?”

“Yes,” I reply with utmost confidence. “Mr. Snow is most definitely the boss of this hotel. Now, can we stop discussing this? I really need to get to work. Today, I’ll make some new arrangements for tonight. I’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.”

“Okay. Don’t worry. I’ll stay clear.”

“And Juan Manuel, I shouldn’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?”

I hand him a keycard for Room 202. “Yes, Molly. Understood. You need to keep a low profile, too, okay? I worry about you.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” I say. “I best be off.” 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 I’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.

“Molly! You’re here.” He puts his hands on my shoulders. I feel them like electricity, warming me to my core. “Are you all right?”

“Everyone keeps asking me that. I’m all right,” I say. “Perhaps a hug would not be too much to ask of you?”

“Of course!” he says. “You’re actually just the person I wanted to see today.” He folds me into his chest. I rest my head on his shoulder and take in the scent of him.

It’s been so long since I’ve been hugged that I don’t know what I’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 I’m ready. It’s only then that I notice his right eye. It’s swollen and purple, as though he’s been punched. “What happened to you?” I ask.

“Oh, it was stupid. I was helping Juan Manuel with a bag in his room, and I…I ran into the door. Ask him. He’ll tell you.”

“You should ice that. It looks sore.”

“Enough about me, I want to hear how you’re doing.” 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 it’s none of these guests. But if not them, who?

“Listen,” Rodney says in a hush. “I heard you found Mr. Black yesterday and that they took you to the cop shop to ask you questions. I can’t talk now, but why don’t you come by after your shift? We can grab a quiet booth and you can tell me everything. Every last detail, okay?” 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 he’s going to kiss me, but then I realize how daft that is—kissing a fellow employee in the middle of the bar and grill. Of course he wouldn’t do that. But it’s a pity nonetheless.