I recall the gun in my vacuum. The only people who knew about me and that gun were Giselle and Rodney. That thought alone sends a wave of sadness rushing through me. I slump over as it washes away all the gumption from my spine.
“I’m innocent,” I say. “I didn’t kill Mr. Black.” Tears prick my eyes and I drive them back. I don’t want to make a fool of myself, I really don’t.
“It’s all right,” Mr. Preston says, giving my arm a little pat. “We believe you. All you have to do is tell the truth, your truth, and Charlotte will see to the rest.”
“My truth. Yes,” I say. “I can do that. I suppose it’s time.”
I start with a full description of what I saw the day I entered the Black suite and found him dead in his bed. Charlotte furiously jots down my every word. I describe the drinks on the messy sitting-room table, Giselle’s spilled pill bottle in the bedroom, the discarded robe on the floor, the three pillows on the bed rather than four. I start to shake as the memory returns.
“I’m not sure that pillows and messiness are the details Charlotte’s after here, Molly,” Mr. Preston says. “I think she’s looking for details that might suggest foul play.”
“That’s right,” Charlotte adds. “Such as the pills. You said the pills were Giselle’s. Did you touch them? Were they labeled?”
“No, I didn’t touch them. Not that day at least. And the container wasn’t labeled. I knew they were Giselle’s because she’d often take them in my presence when I was cleaning the suite. Plus, I often saw the bottle in the bathroom. She called them her ‘benz friends’ or her ‘chill pills.’ I believe ‘benz’ is a medicine of some sort? She did not seem ill to me—well, not in the physical sense. But some illnesses are a lot like maids—omnipresent but almost imperceptible.”
Charlotte looks up from her pad. “So true,” she says. “Benz is short for benzodiazepine. It’s an anti-anxiety and depression med. Small white pills?”
“A lovely shade of robin’s-egg blue, actually.”
“Huh,” says Charlotte. “So it was a street drug, not a prescription. Dad, did you ever talk to Giselle? Ever see any odd behavior from her?”
“Odd behavior?” he says, taking a sip of tea. “Odd behavior is par for the course when you’re a hotel doorman at the Regency Grand. It was clear that she and Mr. Black were often on the outs. On the day that Mr. Black died, she left in a hurry and was crying. A week before, same thing, but that was after a visit from Victoria, Mr. Black’s daughter, and his ex-wife, the first Mrs. Black.”
“I remember that day,” I say. “Mrs. Black—the first—held the elevator door open for me, but her daughter told me to take the service elevator instead. Giselle told me Victoria disliked her. Perhaps that’s why Giselle was crying that day, Mr. Preston.”
“Tears and high drama were a rather regular occurrence for Giselle,” Mr. Preston says. “I suppose that’s not surprising when you consider the man she married. Far be it from me to wish a man ill, but I was not sad to see that man’s life come to an early end.”
“Why’s that?” Charlotte asks.
“You work a door like the Regency Grand for as long as I have, and you can read people in a single glance. He was no gentleman, not to the new Mrs. Black or to the former Mrs. Black. Mark my words, that man was a bad one.”
“A bad egg?” I ask.
“A stinking, rotten egg,” Mr. Preston confirms.
“Did he have any obvious enemies, Dad? Anyone who might have wanted him conveniently dispatched?”
“Oh, I’m sure he did. I was one of them. But there were others. First off, there were the women—the other women. When the Mrs. Blacks, new or old, were not around, there were…how should I call them…young female callers?”
“Dad, just say sex workers.”
“I would call them that if I knew for sure that’s what they were, but I never actually saw money exchange hands. Or the other part.” Mr. Preston coughs and looks at me. “Sorry, Molly. This is all quite dreadful.”
“It is,” I say. “But I can corroborate that. Giselle told me that Mr. Black was engaging in extramarital relations. With more than one woman too. It hurt Giselle. Understandably.”
“She told you that?” Charlotte asks. “Did you tell anyone else?”
“I most certainly did not,” I say. I adjust the top button of my blouse. “Discretion is our motto. Invisible customer service is our goal.”
Charlotte looks at her father.
“Mr. Snow’s edict for hotel employees,” he explains. “He’s the hotel manager and self-proclaimed Grand Vizier of hotel hospitality and hygiene. But I’m starting to wonder if his Mr. Clean act is all just a clever front.”
“Molly,” Charlotte says. “Can you tell me anything that might help me understand the drug and weapons charges against you?”
“I can shed some light, I hope. Giselle and I were more than just maid and guest. She trusted me. She shared her secrets with me. She was my friend.” I look to Mr. Preston, fearing I’m disappointing him since I crossed a guest-employee boundary. But he doesn’t look upset, just concerned.
“Giselle came to my house the day after Mr. Black died. I didn’t tell the police about that. I figured it was a private visit in my own home and therefore none of their concern. She was very upset. And she needed a favor from me. I obliged.”
“Oh dear,” says Mr. Preston.
“Dad,” Charlotte says. Then to me, “What did she ask you to do?”
“To remove the handgun she’d hidden in the suite. In the bathroom fan.”
Charlotte and Mr. Preston exchange another look, one I’m all too familiar with—they understand something that I don’t.
“But there weren’t any gunshots heard, or even reports of wounds on Mr. Black’s body,” Mr. Preston says.
“No, not according to any news feeds I’ve seen,” Charlotte replies.
“Asphyxiated,” I say. “That’s what Detective Stark said.”
Charlotte’s mouth falls open. “Good to know,” she says and scribbles something on her yellow pad. “So the gun wasn’t the murder weapon. Did you return it to Giselle?”
“I didn’t get the chance. I hid it in my vacuum cleaner, expecting to give it to her later. Then at lunch, I left the hotel.”
“That’s right,” says Mr. Preston. “I saw you rushing out the doors and was wondering where you were off to in such a hurry.”
I look down at the cup in my lap. Something niggles at my conscience; the dragon in my belly stirs. “I found Mr. Black’s wedding ring,” I say. “And I pawned it. I know that was wrong. It’s just been very hard on my own to make ends meet financially. My gran. She’d be so ashamed of me.” I can’t bear to look up at either of them. Instead, I just stare into the black hole of my teacup.
“Dear girl,” Mr. Preston says. “Your gran understood money troubles better than most. Believe me, I know that much about her and a whole lot more. It’s my understanding that she left you some savings, after she passed?”
“Gone,” I say. “Frittered away.” I can’t explain about Wilbur and the Fabergé. There’s only so much shame I can confess to at once.
“So you pawned the ring and then went back to work?” Charlotte asks.