“It was so filled with detritus, boxes, and file folders,” I said, “that it looked like a rat’s nest. Whoever’s occupying that room is hoarding Regency Grand shampoo. There were hundreds of miniature bottles.”
“Who needs that many to shower?” Juan Manuel asked.
“The bottles weren’t even in the shower,” I said. “They were on top of the minibar beside a bunch of snack foods and a big jar of peanut butter sitting open with a stainless-steel spoon sticking out the top.”
Mr. Preston and Juan broke out laughing and mimed a toast with bubbly in the form of miniature Regency Grand shampoo bottles.
I leave my memory and look at Mr. Preston now, standing on the red-carpeted stairs. There’s more gray in his hair, more lines in his face, but he still manages to do his job so well. I’ve always had a soft spot for this man. He’s been exceptionally kind to me through the years, and he knew my gran. Long ago, before I was even a glint in my mother’s eye, Mr. Preston and my gran were beaus—meaning: paramours, a romantic couple—but Gran’s parents forbade the union. Mr. Preston eventually married someone else and had a family. Still, Gran’s friendship with Mr. Preston endured. She was fond of him to the day she died. She was friends with his wife, Mary, too. But now that Mary is dead and Charlotte, his brilliant daughter who aided me so much after Mr. Black’s death, is far away, I wonder if Mr. Preston is lonely. Perhaps that’s the reason why our Sunday dinners are so important to him. Lately, he’s been even more doting than usual, and I don’t know why.
“If things get sticky in there today, just know that I’m here,” Mr. Preston said this morning on the red-carpeted stairs. “There isn’t much I wouldn’t do for you, Molly. You remember that.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “You’re a fine colleague, Mr. Preston.”
I said goodbye and made my way through the revolving doors of the Regency Grand leading to the glorious lobby. Even after all these years, the sight of it takes my breath away—the Italian marble floors with their tang of fresh lemon polish, the golden handrails of the grand staircase with its serpent balustrades, the plush velvet settees that over the years have absorbed countless trysts and secrets.
The lobby was positively bustling, and the reception staff, dressed in black and white like neat little penguins, directed porters and guests this way and that. In the middle of the lobby was an enormous sign in an ornate gold frame that I’d polished to perfection just yesterday, making it glimmer, sparkle, and shine:
Today
J. D. Grimthorpe
Renowned Mystery Author
VIP Press Conference, 10 a.m.
Regency Grand Tearoom
There wasn’t a moment to lose—so much to prepare. I rushed down the basement staircase into the workers’ quarters. Low, tight corridors lit with fluorescent lights led to a maze of rooms, including the laundry, the supply closets, the steamy hotel kitchen, and, of course, my personal favorite, the housekeeping quarters.
I went straight to my locker. Hanging from it in thin, clingy plastic wrap was an objet of tremendous beauty—my uniform. Oh, how I love my maid’s uniform—a crisply starched white shirt and a slim-fit black skirt made of flexible Lycra allowing for the bend-and-stretch exertions that are a regular part of the job for any hardworking maid.
Without a moment to lose, I changed, then proudly affixed my Head Maid pin above my heart. I checked myself in the full-length mirror, smoothing out a few disobedient, dark strands in my otherwise neatly coiffed bob and pinching my cheeks to bring color to my pallor. Pleased with the effect, I then noticed someone else in the mirror. Reflected behind me was my own double—Lily, the living picture of a perfectly polished maid. She was neatly uniformed, her Maid-in-Training tag was pinned just like mine, adroit and straight, right above her heart.
I turned to face her. “You’re early,” I said.
She nodded.
“You came early to help me?”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“My dear girl,” I replied. “You’re a treasure. Let’s get to work.”
Together, we headed to the doorway, but a pear-shaped figure blocked our passage. It was Cheryl, former Head Maid; Cheryl, who had no qualms about cleaning guest sinks with the same cloth she used for their toilets. She had once been my boss, but she had never been my superior. Mr. Snow demoted her after the Mr. Black debacle and promoted me into her role.
“Cheryl, why on earth are you early?” I asked.
This never happened. She was always late, armed with a panoply of excuses that sometimes induced a rage in me so profound that I wanted not only to fire her but also to set fire to her, an uncharitable thought, I admit.
“Busy day today,” Cheryl said as she rubbed her nose with the back of her hand.
My shoulders stiffened in revulsion.
“I figure you and your Wisp-in-Training could use a maid with ample years of experience.”
Lily stood stock-still and did not speak. She rarely spoke when other staff were present. Instead, she studied the well-polished tops of her shoes.
“How remarkably generous you are, Cheryl,” I said. Let the record show I did not mean it. As I’ve learned, sometimes a smile does not mean someone is happy. Sometimes a compliment is feigned. And while I praised Cheryl’s “generosity,” I was in fact employing irony, because there are few people in the world as selfishly motivated as she is.
“I have an idea,” Cheryl offered. “Lily should clean guest rooms today, and I can help you serve tea at the Grimthorpe event. I’ve given her a head start by cleaning the Chens’ suite.”
She may have cleaned their suite, but I knew she’d done so only to steal the tip left by our most generous guests, a tip meant for Lily, not for her.
“Thank you, but no thank you,” I said as I pushed through the doorway, forcing Cheryl out of my way. “And, Cheryl,” I added, turning to face her. “Wash your hands before you get back to work. Remember: sanitation is our obligation.”
I beckoned for Lily to follow me, and we left Cheryl behind.
Once we were down the corridor, one left and one right turn from Housekeeping, I asked Lily to go to the kitchen and check on preparations for the tea reception. “You’re in charge of both of Mr. Grimthorpe’s tea carts today,” I said. “Bring one to his room now. Knock thrice and leave it outside his door. Then have another cart ready for the actual event itself. Make sure the kitchen staff prepares both carts to Mr. Grimthorpe’s exact specifications,” I said.
Lily nodded, then headed to the snaking corridor that led to the steamy kitchen. Meanwhile, I rushed up the basement stairs and went straight to the Regency Grand Tearoom, stepping past the burgundy cordon that blocked off the entrance.
I stood a moment admiring the splendid sight. The high-ceilinged room featured a domed skylight that bathed everything in a shimmering glow. The walls were clad in green-and-gold Art Deco wallpaper, arches rising triumphantly to empire crown moldings. Round café tables were crisply laid with white linens I’d arranged myself, napkins pleated into rosebud folds, and floral centerpieces spotlighting elegant pink lotus blooms. Simply put, the room was a vision, a glorious return to an era of infinite possibility and grandeur.
My moment of rapture was interrupted by the sound of journalists who’d gathered at the back of the room, running cables and adjusting cameras, murmuring about J. D. Grimthorpe’s mysterious motivations for making a most rare public appearance. At the front of the room, Mr. Snow nodded repeatedly at a pretty, binder-toting young woman as she tested the microphone on the podium. Booksellers off to the side of the raised stage were laying a display table of J. D. Grimthorpe’s bestselling books, including The Maid in the Mansion, the novel that first propelled him to global bestsellerdom. On the cover of the most recent edition was a winding path of blood-red roses leading to a monolithic estate, an ominous light shining in an upper-story window. A tremor ran through me as I eyed the stack of copies. I knew so much about the man who’d written that novel.