I could tell the shopkeeper felt sorry for me when he handed over the agreed-upon sum. The tight lips. The smile that wasn’t a smile. I’m beginning to understand the nuances of smiles, their cornucopia of meanings. I save each smile in a dictionary that I keep alphabetized on a shelf in my mind.
“I’m sorry things didn’t turn out the way you’d hoped,” the shopkeeper said. “With your man, I’m mean.”
“With my man?” I replied. “On the contrary,” I say. “For the first time in a long time, things are going well with him. Very well indeed.”
Chapter 12
I walk briskly the entire way back to the hotel, checking the time frequently. I’m making good progress. It’s now five to one, and I’m nearly at the hotel, my time estimation almost exactly right. I’m a bit flushed from the walk, and the wad of bills over my heart is slightly damp, but no matter.
It would appear the hotel has cleared out a bit since the morning; there are fewer guests about. Mr. Preston is alone at his doorman’s podium. When he sees me approaching, he steps out from behind it, his arms oddly stiff by his sides. I wave and rush up the stairs, but Mr. Preston calls down before I reach the top.
“Molly,” he says, his voice a tense whisper. “Go home.”
I stop on the third stair. His expression is odd, as though he very much needs a washroom break.
“Mr. Preston, I can’t go home now. I’m only halfway through my shift.”
“Molly,” he calls down again. “Use the back door. Please.”
“Are you quite all right, Mr. Preston? Do you need assistance?”
It’s only then that it comes into focus—the absence of guests in the grand entrance, Mr. Preston standing too formally at the podium, his strange, whispered orders. Through the glass of the revolving doors, I can make out Mr. Snow and beside him, a looming, shadowy figure. Detective Stark.
“My dear girl,” Mr. Preston says. “Don’t go inside.”
“It’s quite all right,” I say as I march up the remaining steps. “A few more questions won’t kill me.”
I push through the doors. Before I can take more than one step into the lobby, Mr. Snow and Detective Stark block my path. There’s something about Detective Stark’s posture that I don’t like—the way her arms are bowed and her hands outstretched, as if I’m a varmint she’s determined to catch before I take flight. I see Cheryl out of the corner of my eye, standing a few trolley-lengths away, but there’s something different about her too. It’s the first time I’ve seen a genuine smile on her face—a look of anticipation and excitement.
“Excuse me,” I say to Mr. Snow and Detective Stark. “I must not dillydally. The rest of my shift begins in approximately three minutes.”
“I’m afraid it doesn’t,” says Detective Stark.
I look to Mr. Snow, but he can barely meet my eye. His glasses are cantilevered to one side. Beads of sweat have formed at his temples. “Molly, the detective is taking you back to the station for more questioning.”
“Can’t I answer questions here and then get back to work? I have a heavy workload today.”
“That won’t be possible,” says Detective Stark. “There’s an easy way and a hard way to do everything. And the easy way is best.”
It’s an interesting comment, but it’s dead wrong. In my line of work, the easy way is the lazy way, not the best way at all. But since we’re in the hotel and that technically makes the detective a guest, I will be polite and bite my tongue.
I look around the lobby again and notice that more people have begun to gather. They’re not milling about, heading to and fro the way they usually do. They’ve formed little clusters—by the reception desk, in the lounge chairs, on the marble landing by the grand staircase. They’re oddly static. And quiet. They’re all looking in one direction. Their cold eyes are looking at me.
“Well, Detective Stark,” I say. “I’ll accept the easy way.” I look at Mr. Snow and add, “But just this once.”
Detective Stark gestures for me to lead the way out the revolving doors, which I do, as she follows too closely behind me. As I pass, I take one glance back and see all eyes tracking my departure.
Mr. Preston is outside the door at the top of the stairs. “Here,” he says, taking my elbow. “Allow me to help you, Molly.”
I’m about to tell him I’m quite all right, but as I look down at the stairs, the red carpet undulates in a vertigo-inducing wave. I hold tightly to Mr. Preston’s arm. It feels warm. Comforting.
We are at the bottom of the staircase.
Detective Stark says, “Let’s go. It’s time.”
“Molly, take good care,” Mr. Preston says.
“I always do,” I reply, not entirely believing my own words.
Chapter 13
The car ride is silent. This time, I’m seated in the back of the police cruiser instead of up front. I don’t like it back here. The vinyl upholstery squeaks under me every time I make the slightest move. A bullet-proof glass barrier separates Detective Stark from me. It is smeared with grubby fingerprints and dark-brown blood stains.
Imagine you’re in a limousine, sitting in the back seat, being driven to the opera.
Gran reminds me that entrapment is only a state of mind, that there’s always a way out. I join my hands in my lap and breathe deeply. I will admire the view out the window. Yes. I will concentrate on that.
We are at the station in what feels like seconds. Once inside, Detective Stark leads me to the same white room in which I was questioned before. On our way there, I feel more eyes upon me—uniformed officers who gawk as I pass, some of them offering a nod, not to me, but to Detective Stark. I hold my head high.
“Have a seat,” the detective says. I sit down in the same seat where I sat before, and Detective Stark sits across from me. She closes the door. She doesn’t offer me coffee or even water this time, which is a shame. I could use some water, though I know if I ask for some it will arrive in a dastardly Styrofoam cup.
Shoulders back, chin up, breathe.
Detective Stark has not said a word. She’s sitting there in front of me, watching me. The camera in the corner blinks its red eye at me.
I’m the first to break the silence. “How may I be of service to you, Detective Stark?” I ask.
“How can you be of service to me? Well, Molly the Maid. You can start by telling the truth.”
“My gran used to say that the truth is subjective. But I’ve never quite believed that. I believe the truth is absolute,” I say.
“Then there’s something we agree on,” Detective Stark replies. She leans forward and puts her elbows on the scuffed white table between us. I wish she wouldn’t. I disapprove of elbows on the table. But I don’t say anything.
She is close enough that I can see tiny gold flecks in the irises of her blue eyes. “Since we’re talking about truth,” she says, “I’d like to share with you the results of Mr. Black’s toxicology report. No autopsy report yet, but we’ll have that soon enough. Mr. Black had drugs in his system, the same drug that was on his bedside table and strewn on the floor of his bedroom.”
“Giselle’s medicine,” I say.
“Medicine? Benzodiazepine, laced with some other street drugs.”
It takes me a moment to change the picture in my head from Giselle at the drugstore counter to her acquiring something illicit in a sordid back alley. Something isn’t right. It doesn’t make sense.