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Detective Stark pushes the plate with the muffin closer to me. “Eat,” she says again, an order not an invitation.
“Thank you very much,” I say as I delicately pry the muffin from the paper lining, then sever it into four neat pieces. I pop one quarter into my mouth. Raisin bran. My favorite kind of muffin—dense and nutrient-rich, with random bursts of sweetness. It’s as if Detective Stark knew my preference, though of course she didn’t. Only Columbo could have figured that out.
I swallow and take a couple of sips of the bitter coffee. “Delightful,” I say.
Detective Stark guffaws. I do believe it is a proper guffaw. No other word would suffice. She crosses her arms. This could mean she’s cold, but I doubt it. She distrusts me, and the feeling is entirely mutual.
“You realize we’ve laid charges against you,” she says. “For unlawful possession of a firearm, for possession of drugs. And for first-degree murder.”
I nearly choke on my next sip of coffee. “That’s impossible,” I say. “I have never hurt a soul in my life, never mind murdered one.”
“Look,” she says, “we believe you killed Mr. Black. Or you had something to do with it. Or you know who did. The autopsy report has come in. It’s definitive, Molly. It wasn’t a heart attack. He was asphyxiated. That’s how he died.”
I jam another chunk of muffin into my mouth and concentrate on chewing. It’s always good to chew every bite ten to twenty times. Gran used to say it aids digestion. I begin counting in my head.
“How many pillows do you leave on every bed that you make up at the hotel?” Detective Stark asks.
I know the answer, obviously, but my mouth is full. It would be impolite to reply right now.
“Four,” the detective says before I’m ready to answer. “Four pillows are on every bed. I verified it with Mr. Snow and some of the other maids. But there were only three pillows on Mr. Black’s bed when I arrived at the scene of the crime. Where did the fourth pillow go, Molly?”
Six, seven, eight chews. I swallow and am about to speak, but before I do, the detective slams both hands down on the table that divides us, which causes me to nearly jump out of my chair.
“Molly!” she barks. “I just insinuated that you murdered a man in cold blood with a pillow, and you’re sitting there, mindfully eating a muffin.”
I pause to regulate my pulse, which is racing. I’m not used to being yelled at or accused of heinous crimes. I find it most disconcerting. I sip my coffee to settle my jangling nerves. Then I speak. “I will say it in a new way, Detective. I did not kill Mr. Black. And I most certainly didn’t asphyxiate him with a pillow. And for the record, there is no possible way that I could ever possess drugs. I’ve never seen nor tried one in my life. Also, they killed my mother. And very nearly killed my gran of a broken heart.”
“You lied to us, Molly. About your connection to Giselle. She told us you often hung around the Blacks’ suite long after you were done cleaning it and that you engaged in personal conversations with her. She also said you took money from Mr. Black’s wallet.”
“What? That’s not what she meant! She meant took as in accepted. Shegavethe money to me.” I look from the detective to the camera blinking in the corner of the room. “Giselle always tipped me generously and freely. It was she who took bills from Mr. Black’s wallet, not me.”
Detective Stark’s mouth is a hard line. I straighten my pajamas and sit taller in my chair.
“After everything I’ve said, that’s the one point you want to clarify?”
The straight angles of the room begin to warp and bend. I take a deepbreath to steady myself, waiting until the table has corners instead of curves.
It’s too much information. I can’t process it all. Why can’t people just say what they mean? I gather the detective has spoken to Giselle again, but it’s impossible to believe that Giselle misrepresented me. She wouldn’t do such a thing, not to a friend.
A tremor starts in my hands and travels up my body. I reach for the Styrofoam cup and almost spill it in my haste to bring it to my lips.
I make a quick decision. “I do have one clarification to make,” I say. “It is true that Giselle confided in me and that I consider—considered—her a friend. I am sorry for not making this entirely clear to you before.”
Detective Stark nods. “Not making this entirely clear? Huh. Is there anything else you decided to ‘not make entirely clear’?”
“Yes. In fact there is. My gran always said that if you don’t have anything nice to say about someone, it’s best to say nothing at all. Which is why I said little about Mr. Black himself. I’ll have you know that Mr. Black was far from the fine VIP that everyone seems to think he was. Perhaps you should investigate his enemies. I told you before that Giselle was physically harmed by him. He was a very dangerous man.”
“Dangerous enough for you to tell Giselle that she’d be better off without him?”
“I never…” But I stop right there, because I did say this. I remember now. I believed it then, and I believe it still.
I fill my mouth with a chunk of muffin. It’s a relief to have a legitimate reason not to speak. I return to Gran’s chewing imperative. One, two, three…
“Molly, we’ve spoken with many of your coworkers. Do you know how they describe you?”
I pause my regimen to shake my head.
“They say you’re awkward. Standoffish. Meticulous. A neat freak. A weirdo. And worse.”
