The Maid(40)

Mr. Snow is looking past me into the busy lobby. It could use some attention. A child has left a sweater on one of the high-back chairs. A discarded plastic bag gusts up and then back to the marble floor as a busy porter sweeps past, wheeling a squeaky suitcase in his wake.

“It’s a strange world, Molly. Yesterday, I was worried that after recent unfortunate events, guests would cancel their reservations and our hotel would be empty. But today, the opposite has transpired. More guests are booking. Ladies groups are coming in droves for high tea just to snoop around. Our conference rooms are now booked fully for the next month. It seems everyone’s an amateur sleuth. They all believe they can waltz right into the hotel and solve the mystery of Mr. Black’s untimely demise. Look at Reception. They can barely keep up.”

He is right. The penguins behind the counter punch furiously at their screens, call out orders for valets and porters and the doorman.

“The Regency Grand has become a bit of a hot spot,” Mr. Snow says. “Thanks to Mr. Black.”

“How interesting,” I remark. “I was just thinking about how one day can be so utterly grim and the next such a blessing. In this life, you just never know what’s around the bend, be it a dead man or your next date.”

Mr. Snow coughs into his hand. I hope he’s not getting a cold. He comes closer and speaks in a whisper. “Listen, Molly. I’ll have you know the police are now finished with their investigation in the Black suite. I hope they haven’t uncovered anything unsavory.”

“If they have, I’ll just clean it up. Cheryl told me I’m to start there today. I’ll get right to it, sir.”

“What? I expressly told Cheryl to handle it herself. We are in no rush to rent out that suite again. We need to let everything die down a bit. So to speak. I don’t want to cause you any more stress than you’ve already endured.”

“That’s quite all right, Mr. Snow,” I say. “I find it more stressful knowing the suite is in disarray. I’ll feel much better when it’s back in order, all cleaned up as if nobody ever died in that bed.”

“Hush,” Mr. Snow says. “Let’s not frighten the guests.” It’s only then that I realize I’ve abandoned my inside voice.

“My apologies, Mr. Snow,” I whisper. And then loudly, for the benefit of anyone who may have been listening, “I’m going to begin cleaning now, a suite, not any suite in particular, just whichever is on my roster.”

“Yes, yes,” says Mr. Snow. “Best be off then, Molly.”

And so I depart, circumventing the many guests and heading for the Social to pick up the morning papers and, hopefully, to see Rodney.

He’s behind the bar when I get there, polishing the brass taps. I feel a warm glow the instant I set eyes upon him.

He turns. “Oh, hey,” he says, smiling a smile that I know is just for me, mine and only mine. He holds a tea towel in his hands—pure white, not a spot on it.

“I didn’t call you,” I say. “Or text you. I figured we could wait to speak in person like we are now. But I want you to know that if I didn’t follow the protocol you expected, I’d be happy to simply text you or call you at any time, day or night. Just let me know your expectations, and I’ll adjust. It won’t be a problem.”

“Whoa,” he says. “Alrighty then.” He takes the crisp, white towel and tosses it over his shoulder. “So,” he says, “did you get up to anything interesting last night?”

I come in close to the bar. This time, I’ll be sure to use my whisper voice. “You are not going to believe this,” I say.

“Try me,” he replies.

“Giselle came to see me! To my house! She was waiting outside my building when I got home. Can you believe it?”

“Huh. What a surprise,” he says, but his tone is odd, as if he isn’t very surprised at all. He picks up a bar glass and begins to polish it. Though all the glassware has been properly sterilized in the kitchen downstairs, he’s wiping out every errant spot. I appreciate his commitment to perfection. He is a wonder.

“So what did Giselle want?” he asks.

“Well,” I say, “that is a secret between friends.” I pause, look around the busy restaurant to make sure that no one is paying attention. Nobody so much as glances my way.

“Feeling gun-shy?” he says. There’s a playful smile on his face, and I do believe he may be flirting with me. The very thought catapults my heart into double syncopation.

“Funny that you say that,” I reply. Before I can think of what else to tell him, Rodney says, “We need to talk about Juan Manuel.”

Guilt suddenly overcomes me. “Oh, of course.” I’ve been concentrating so much on Rodney and the excitement of our burgeoning relationship that I’ve all but forgotten about Juan Manuel. It’s clear that Rodney is a better person than I am, always thinking of others and putting himself last instead of first. It’s a reminder of how much he has to teach me, of how much I still have to learn.

“How can I help?” I ask.

“I hear the police are gone and that the Black suite is empty. Is that right?”

“I can confirm that,” I say. “In fact, it won’t be rented out for a while. I’ll be cleaning it first thing today.”