“Mr. Preston,” I say. “Did you know Mr. Grimthorpe?”
“I’m not sure anyone knew him, least of all himself,” he replies.
“You don’t actually think someone inside this hotel could have killed him, do you?”
“A man like that? Anything’s possible.”
Just then, some guests arrive in a taxi. “Molly, be careful in there today,” Mr. Preston says. “There are things going on around here that I don’t quite understand, and until I do, you best be vigilant.”
It’s an odd thing to say in a conversation replete with oddities, but Mr. Preston has not been himself lately. He keeps insisting on meeting me for dinner, which makes me wonder if he’s all right. He’s more distracted and tired than usual, too. He’s asking the valets for help and taking breaks with greater frequency these days.
“There’s no need to worry about me, Mr. Preston,” I say. “I’ll be fine. If anything, you should worry about yourself.”
He nods and starts down the stairs. I head the other way, pushing through the revolving doors into the stunning lobby of the Regency Grand. It’s a hive of activity even though it’s not yet nine. Visitors gather in close huddles on every jewel-toned settee. The morning scents of coffee and fresh lemon polish commingle in the air.
A line of new guests waits at Reception as bellhops call back and forth, tackling the sudden surfeit of suitcases that litters the lobby. I’ve seen this before, of course, the day after the infamous Mr. Black died in our hotel. That morning, our hotel was filled to capacity. Every lookie-loo in town had suddenly checked in to be part of “the scene,” all of them asking the same question: had Mr. Black died of natural causes or was something more sinister at play in the Regency Grand? It’s no different this time. Yesterday, a world-renowned writer dropped dead on the tearoom floor, and today the lobby pulses with conspiratorial energy as guests and staff members exchange salient bits of gossip about who knows who and who knows what. It’s worrisome, all this chatter about potential suspects and possible criminals in our midst.
I take a sharp right away from the lobby and rush downstairs to the housekeeping quarters, where my freshly dry-cleaned uniform hangs in clingy plastic on my locker door—a new beginning. I quickly put it on and am fastening my Head Maid pin above my heart when something in the corner of the low-ceilinged room makes me jump.
“Lily!” I say. She’s standing stock-still in the shadows by her locker. “You frightened me half to death. My dear girl, what are you doing here today? I didn’t expect you, not after yesterday’s commotion. Why didn’t you call in sick?”
“Because I’m not sick,” she whispers. “And there’s something I have to—”
At that moment, Cheryl enters, dragging her feet in that slovenly way that makes me want to chop them off.
“There you are, my little wallflower,” Cheryl drones as she spots Lily hiding in the corner. “Aren’t you just ‘polished to perfection.’ You’ll clean the whole second floor today since Molly’s being called elsewhere.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask Cheryl.
“Oh, didn’t Mr. Snow tell you? He needs you in the Social. Something about waiters not showing up. That makes me your supervisor today, Lily. Mr. Snow’s orders.” She points to the lopsided pin fastened above her substantial bosom. “Look who’s back to being Head Maid.”
Turmoil bubbles inside me. I cannot decide whether to straighten Cheryl’s lopsided pin or simply slap her across the face. “I’m sure this is some misunderstanding,” I assure Lily. “I’ll speak to Mr. Snow about this posthaste.”
“Knock yourself out,” Cheryl mutters.
Gran used to say, There’s no point boxing with buffoons, so I unclasp my Head Maid pin and tuck it neatly into my locker. “Have a lovely day, Lily,” I say to her before walking out of the change room without another word to Cheryl.
Up the stairs I trot, feeling hotter than a boiling kettle.
I make my way to the lobby, where Mr. Snow is standing by the reception desk wearing a black velvet waistcoat and a neat paisley cravat. Beside him is Angela, her blazing red hair in a tizzy.
I head straight for them. “Am I or am I not the Head Maid at this hotel?” I ask Mr. Snow.
He sighs, then straightens his cravat. “It’s only for today, Molly. Angela’s short three servers, so we’re in quite a pickle. We need your help in the restaurant. And with you away from the guest rooms, I had to put someone in charge of the maids.”
“And you chose Cheryl?” I say. “Why didn’t you consult me about the running of my very own department? Has the world officially turned upside down? And what happened to the waiters? Did they call in sick?” I ask.
“Called in afraid is more like it,” Angela replies. “Seems they’re worried there’s a murderer on the loose right here in our hotel.”
“That’s absurd,” Mr. Snow says. “Patently ridiculous.”
“Is it?” Angela replies. “If podcasts have taught me anything, it’s that the worst things happen in the safest places.”
Mr. Snow’s lips pucker as though he’s sucking on a lemon.
“Also,” Angela says, “don’t you think it’s a bit weird that Grimthorpe’s personal secretary bolted out of here yesterday right after her boss kicked the bucket? I mean, I’m glad she’s coming back today, but still…it’s messed up.”
“How do you know Ms. Sharpe is coming back today?” Mr. Snow asks.
“Duh,” Angela says. “The banker’s box right behind you has her name on it.”
Mr. Snow adjusts his glasses, setting them more or less straight on the bridge of his nose.
“By the way, you look some fit today, Mr. Snow,” Angela says. “Doesn’t he look sharp, Molly?”
“Indeed,” I say. “Is there a high-end wedding in the hotel? Or a banquet? Mr. Snow, why are you so dressed up?”
Mr. Snow’s eyes search the lobby again, looking for what or whom, I do not know.
“Mr. Snow?” I repeat.
“What’s in the box?” Angela asks.
He looks at her with trepidation. “A few trifles,” he replies. “Odds and ends left behind after all of the commotion yesterday.” He flattens a palm over the lid of the box behind him.
“Cool. I like trifles,” says Angela as she grabs the lid and removes it in one fell swoop, causing Mr. Snow’s hand to plummet to his side. “Get a load of that, Molls!” Angela says as she peers into the box.
Inside is a very old edition of Mr. Grimthorpe’s bestselling novel The Maid in the Mansion, which, unlike the ones for sale at the event yesterday, features the original cover art—an iconic mansion door and an eye looking through the keyhole. Beside the book is Mr. Grimthorpe’s fountain pen, which I recognize from yesterday’s signing, as well as a black monogrammed Moleskine and a sealed Regency Grand envelope labeled Serena.
“The note to Serena is from me,” Mr. Snow says. “To thank her for her patronage.”
“Serena? Surely you mean Ms. Sharpe,” I say. I’m about to launch into a diatribe about the proper protocols for addressing guests, but before I can commence my lecture, Mr. Snow interrupts.
“Let me make one thing abundantly clear,” he says. “Serena is as innocent as a spring lamb.”
“No one in this hotel is that innocent,” Angela replies. “Not even you, Mr. Snow.” She picks up the novel and flips through the pages until she finds the copyright page. “Dang! It’s a first edition,” she says. “This has gotta be rare.”
“Yes. It is,” Mr. Snow concedes. “We had it in a display case out front to promote Mr. Grimthorpe’s announcement, alongside the other mementos in the box. Anyhow, Serena has asked for everything back.”