“But…you didn’t tell them anything about her, did you?”
“Not much,” I say.
“And you didn’t mention Juan Manuel or any of that, right?”
“What does he have to do with anything?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. So…why are you calling me?”
“Rodney, I need help.” My voice cracks and I find it difficult to maintain my composure.
He goes quiet for a moment, then asks, “Did you…did you kill Mr. Black?”
“No! Of course not. How could you even—”
“Sorry, sorry. Forget I even said that. So how are you in trouble exactly?”
“Giselle, she had me go back into the suite because she’d left something behind. A gun. She wanted it back. And she’s my friend, so I…”
“Jesus.” There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Right.”
“Rodney?”
“Yes, I’m here,” he says. “So where’s that gun now?”
“In my vacuum cleaner. By my locker.”
“We have to get that gun,” Rodney says. I can hear the agitation in his voice. “We have to make it disappear.”
“Yes! Exactly,” I say. “Oh Rodney, I’m so sorry to involve you in all of this. And please, if the police ever talk to you, you have to tell them I’m not a bad person, that I would never hurt anyone.”
“Don’t worry, Molly. I’ll take care of everything.”
I feel raw gratitude climbing up my chest, threatening to spill out of me in blubbering tears, but I won’t let that happen in case Rodney finds it unbecoming. I want this experience to draw us closer, not break us apart. I take a deep breath and push my sentiments back down.
“Thank you, Rodney,” I say. “You’re a good friend. More than that, even. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“I’ve got your back,” he says.
But there’s more. I fear that when he hears the rest, he may turn away from me forever.
“There’s another spot of…information,” I say. “Mr. Black’s wedding ring. I found it in the suite. And, well…. This is very hard for me to admit, but I’ve recently found myself in some acute financial distress. I took the ring to a pawn shop today so that I could pay my rent.”
“You…you what?”
“It’s on display in a shop window downtown.”
“I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it,” he replies. I can hear him almost laughing, as if this is the most wonderful news. Surely he doesn’t find this funny. It strikes me that laughs are just like smiles. People use them to express an array of confounding emotions.
“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” I say. “I never thought they’d interrogate me again. I thought my part in all of this was over. If the police find out I pawned Mr. Black’s ring, it will appear as though I killed him for financial gain. Can you see that?”
“Absolutely I can,” says Rodney. “Wow. It’s…incredible. Listen, everything’s going to turn out just fine. Leave everything to me.”
“Will you make the gun go away? And the ring? I should never have taken it. It was wrong. Will you buy it back and make sure that no one ever sees it again? I’ll pay you back someday. You have my word.”
“Like I said, Molly. Leave everything in my hands. You’re at home now?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Don’t go out tonight. Okay? Don’t go anywhere.”
“I never do. Rodney,” I say. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“That’s what friends are for, right? To help each other out of binds?”
“Right,” I say. “That’s what friends are for.”
“Rodney?” I say into the receiver. I’m about to add that I most desperately would like to be more than just a friend to him, but it’s too late. He’s hung up without saying goodbye. I’ve left him with quite a mess to tidy, and he’s not wasting a moment.
When all of this is over, I’m going to take him on an all-expenses-paid Tour of Italy. We will sit in our private booth at the Olive Garden under the warm glow of the pendant light, and we will eat mountains of salad and bread, followed by a universe of pasta and topped by a smorgasbord of sweet desserts. Somehow, when we’re done, I will pick up the bill.
I will pay for all of this. I know I will.
Thursday
Chapter 15
The next morning I’m at the hotel, and I’m late, oh so very late. No matter how hard I work, no matter how many rooms I clean, I can’t keep up. I finish one room and an obsidian door, like a great, gaping maw, opens to the next guest room just down the hall. There’s dirt everywhere—grit ground into the pile of every carpet, cracks in all the mirrors, greasy smudges on tabletops, and bloody fingerprints smeared across twisted sheets. Suddenly, I’m climbing the grand terrace staircase in the lobby, desperate to get away. My hands clutch the golden serpent balustrades, each one slippery to the touch. The beady reptilian eyes look familiar, then they blink and come to life under my fingers. With each step I take, a new serpent awakens—Cheryl, Mr. Snow, Wilbur, the tattooed behemoths, Mr. Rosso, Detective Stark, Rodney, Giselle, and finally, Mr. Black.
“No!” I scream, but then I hear knocking. I sit bolt-upright in bed, my heart pounding in my chest.
“Gran?” I call out. It comes back to me as it does every morning. I’m alone in the world.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I check my phone. It’s not quite seven in the morning, so my alarm has not yet gone off. Who in their right mind would be rapping on my door at this most inconvenient hour? Then I remember Mr. Rosso, who owes me my receipt for rent paid.
I haul myself out of bed and put my slippers on. “Coming!” I say. “Just one moment!”
I shake away the nightmare and walk down the hallway to the front door. I slide the rusty dead bolt across, then turn the lock and open the door wide.
“Mr. Rosso, while I appreciate you bringing—” But midsentence I stop cold because it’s not Mr. Rosso at the door.
An imposing young police officer is standing with his feet apart, blocking all the light. Behind him are two more officers, a middle-aged man who would fit in fine in Columbo, and Detective Stark.
“Please excuse me. I’m not properly dressed,” I say. I clutch at the collar of my pajamas, which used to be Gran’s—pink flannel with a delightful array of multicolored teapots all over them. This is no way to greet guests, even ones impolite enough to arrive unannounced at an inconvenient hour of the morning.
“Molly,” Detective Stark says, stepping in front of the young officer. “You’re under arrest for unlawful possession of a firearm, possession of drugs, and first-degree murder. You have the right to remain silent and to refuse to answer questions. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future.”
My head is spinning, the floor is tilting under my feet. Tiny teapots spin before my eyes. “Would anyone like a cup of…” But I can’t finish the question, because my vision dims.
The last thing I remember is my knees turning to marmalade and all the world fading to black.
When I come to, I’m in a holding cell, lying down on a tiny gray cot. I remember my front door, opening it, and the shock of my rights being read to me just like on TV. Was that real? I sit up slowly. I take in the small room with bars. Yes, it’s all real. I’m in a jail cell, probably in the basement of the same station I’ve visited twice before for questioning.
I take a few breaths, willing myself to remain calm. It smells dry and dusty. I’m still wearing my pajamas, which strikes me as entirely unsuitable apparel for this particular situation. The cot I’m sitting on is stained with what Gran would call “unresolvable dirt”—smeared blood and some yellow circular stains that could be many things that I don’t want to think about. This cot is an example of a perfectly serviceable item that should immediately be disposed of because there is simply no way to restore it to a state of perfection.