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I heard the shower turn off, at long last, and the fan as well. And then I heard the unmistakable sound of Giselle sobbing.
She sounded very sad, so I announced that the suite was clean, took a tissue box from my trolley, and waited outside the bathroom door.
Eventually, she emerged. She was wrapped in one of the hotel’s fluffy white bathrobes. I’ve always wondered what it must be like to wear one of those robes; it must feel like being hugged by a cloud. She had a bath towel around her hair, too, in a perfect swirl, like my favorite treat—ice cream.
I held the tissue box out to her. “Need a tissue for your issue?” I asked.
She sighed. “You’re sweet,” she said. “But a tissue isn’t going to cut it.”
She walked around me and into the bedroom. I could hear her rooting around in her armoire.
“Are you quite all right?” I asked. “Can I help you in any way?”
“Not today, Molly. I don’t have the energy. Okay?”
Her voice was different, like a flat tire if it could talk, which of course it can’t except in cartoons. It was evident to me that she was most upset.
“Very well,” I said in a chipper voice. “May I clean your bathroom now?”
“No, Molly. I’m sorry. Please, not right now.”
I did not take this personally. “I’ll come back later to clean it then?”
“Good idea,” she said.
I curtsied in response to her compliment, then retrieved my trolley and buzzed myself out the door.
I set about cleaning the other rooms and suites on that floor, feeling increasingly unsettled as I did so. What was wrong with Giselle? Normally, she talked about where she was going that day, what she was doing. She solicited my opinion about whether she should wear this or that. She said pleasing things. “Molly Maid, there’s no one like you. You’re the best, and never forget it.” The warmth would rise to my face. I’d feel my chest expand a bit with every kind word.
It was also unlike Giselle to forget to tip me.
We’re all entitled to a bad day now and again,I heard Gran say in my head.But when they are all bad days, with no pleasant ones, then it’s time to reconsider things.
I moved on to Mr. and Mrs. Chen’s room a few doors down. Cheryl was just about to enter.
“I was going to take the dirty sheets downstairs for you, as a favor,” she said.
“That’s quite all right, I’ve got it,” I replied, pushing past her with my trolley. “But thank you for your kindness.” I buzzed through, allowing the door to shut abruptly on her scowling face.
On the pillow in the Chens’ bedroom was a crisp twenty-dollar bill. For me. An acknowledgment of my work, of my existence, of my need.
“That’s kindness, Cheryl,” I said out loud as I folded the twenty and tucked it into my pocket. As I cleaned, I fantasized about all the things I would do—spray bleach in her face, strangle her with a bathrobe tie, push her off the balcony—if ever I caught Cheryl red-handed, stealing tips from one of my rooms.
I hear footsteps coming down the hallway toward Mr. Snow’s office, where I remain obediently seated in one of Mr. Snow’s squeaky maroon high-backed leather chairs. I don’t know how long I’ve been here—it feels like more than one hundred and twenty minutes—and while I’ve tried my best to distract myself with thoughts and recollections, my nerves are increasingly frayed. Mr. Snow steps in. “Molly, thank you for waiting. You’ve been very patient.”
It’s only then that I realize there is someone behind him, a figure in dark blue. The figure steps forward. It’s a police officer, a female. She’s large, imposing, with broad athletic shoulders. There’s something about her eyes that I do not like. I’m used to people looking past me, around me, but this officer, she looks right at me—dare I saythroughme?—in a deeply unsettling manner. The teacup in my hand is stone cold. My hands are cold too.
“Molly, this is Detective Stark. Detective, this is Molly Gray. She’s the one who found Mr. Black.”
I’m not sure what the protocol is for greeting a detective. I’ve received training from Mr. Snow on how to greet businessmen, heads of state, and Instagram stars, but never did he mention what to do in the case ofdetectives. I must resort to my own ingenuity and my memories ofColumbo.
I stand, then realize the teacup is still in my hand. I shuffle over to Mr.Snow’s mahogany desk, where I’m about to place it down, but there is no coaster. I spot the coasters on the other side of the room on a shelf filled with sumptuous, leather-bound volumes that would be laborious to clean but also quite satisfying. I take one coaster, return to Mr. Snow’s desk, place it down, square it to the desk’s corner, and then set my rose-ornamented cup upon it, careful not to spill so much as a drop of the cold tea.
“There,” I say. Then I approach the detective and meet her discerning eye. “Detective,” I say, just as they do on television. I perform a somewhat curtsy by placing one foot behind the other and nodding my head curtly.
The detective glances at Mr. Snow then back at me.
“What an awful day for you,” the detective says. Her voice is not without warmth, I don’t think.
