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“Oh, her. She was sniffing around here yesterday. She came in asking if we were pleased with the cleaning services. I said, ‘I’ve got the best maid ever. Why wouldn’t I be pleased?’ And she stood there with thatdumb look on her face and said, ‘I’ll do a much better job for you than Molly. I’m her supervisor.’ And I’m like, ‘Nope.’ I pulled out a tenner from my purse and handed it to her. ‘Molly’s the only maid I need, thanks,’ I said. Then she left. She’s a real piece of work, that one. Gives new meaning to the term ‘resting bitch face,’ if you know what I’m saying.”
Gran taught me not to use foul language, and I rarely do. But I could not deny Giselle’s appropriate use of language in this particular instance. I started to smile despite myself.
“Molly? Molly.” It was Detective Stark.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Can you repeat the question?”
“I asked if you know Giselle Black. Did you ever have any dealings with her? Conversations? Did she ever say anything about Mr. Black that struck you as odd? Did she ever mention anything that might help our investigation?”
“Investigation?”
“As I mentioned, it’s likely that Mr. Black died of natural causes, but it’s my job to rule out other possibilities. That’s why I’m talking to you today.” The detective wipes a hand across her brow. “So, again I’ll ask: did Giselle Black ever talk to you?”
“Detective,” I say, “I’m a hotel maid. Who would want to talk to me?”
She considers this, then nods. She is entirely satisfied with my response.
“Thank you, Molly,” she says. “It’s been a tough day for you, I can see that. Let me take you home.”
And so she did.
With a turn of the key, I open the door to my apartment. I walk across the threshold and close the door behind me, sliding the dead bolt across. Home sweet home.
I look down at the pillow on Gran’s antique chair by the door. She sewed the Serenity Prayer on it in needlepoint:God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.
I take my phone from my pants pocket and place it on the chair. I unlace my shoes and wipe the bottoms with a cloth before putting them away in the closet.
“Gran, I’m home!” I call out. She’s been gone for nine months, but it still feels wrong not to call out to her. Especially today.
My evening routine is no longer the same without her. When she was alive, we spent all our free time together. In the evening, the first thing we’d do was complete that day’s cleaning task. Then we’d make dinner together—spaghetti on Wednesdays, fish every Friday, provided we could find a good deal on filets at the grocery store. Then we’d eat our meals side by side on the sofa as we watched reruns ofColumbo.
Gran lovedColumbo,and so do I. She often commented on how Peter Falk could use a woman like her to sort him out. “Look at that overcoat.It’s in extreme need of a wash and an iron.” She’d shake her head and address him on the screen as if he were real and right there in front of her. “I do wish you wouldn’t smoke cigars, dear. It’s a filthy habit.”
But despite the bad habit, we both admired the way Columbo could see through the conniving plots of the ne’er-do-wells and make sure they got their just deserts.
I don’t watchColumboanymore. Just another thing that doesn’t seem right now that Gran is dead. But I do try to keep up with our nightly cleaning routines.
Monday, floors and chores.
Tuesday, deep cleaning to give meaning.
Wednesday, bath and kitchen.
Thursday, dust we must.
Friday, wash-and-dry day.
Saturday, wild card.
Sunday, shop and chop.
Gran always drilled into me the importance of a clean and orderly home.
“A clean home, a clean body, and clean company. Do you know where that leads?”
I could not have been more than five years old when she taught me this. I looked way up at her as she spoke. “Where does it lead, Gran?”
“To a clean conscience. To a good, clean life.”
