“Which is?”
“Further infamy. Notoriety. A place on bookshelves for centuries to come. An end to my restlessness, a return of my mirth.”
I carefully step forward into his study, pausing a safe arm’s length away from his desk and from the teetering piles of monogrammed black Moleskines.
“May I ask what your book is about?”
He leans forward. “It’s a mystery. A writer is being held captive in his home by his wife. He has two choices: kill her or kill himself.”
“Which does he choose?” I ask.
“He kills his wife. But then he has a new problem.”
“Which is?”
“He must make her body disappear or face murder charges and a new form of imprisonment, this time in a jail rather than in the relative comfort of his own home.”
I observe the spindly man sitting in front of me, with his errant hair and the eyes of a wild stallion. What if this isn’t make-believe? The thought makes my stomach curdle and churn.
“Are you planning to kill Mrs. Grimthorpe?” I ask.
He throws his head back and laughs uproariously at my question.
“Why are you laughing?” I ask.
“Because it’s absurd. I have no intentions of killing my wife. There’d be no point. She’s been as good as dead for at least twenty years, and it’s my fault. That long-suffering woman has spent her entire adult life protecting my reputation and seeing to my health and well-being. I assure you, I’ve not made any of it easy. Let’s just say there are more faithful husbands in the world, but there are few wives quite as loyal as she.”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“Never mind. The point is I need a resolution to my novel. A dénouement. A twist. Maybe two. And I need to make that imaginary body disappear.”
“Lye,” I say.
“Lie about what?” he asks.
“Not that kind of lie,” I say. “Lye as in the chemical. It burns. Use enough of it, and I suppose you could make an entire body disappear.”
He stands and paces. He stops in his tracks, his icy blue eyes drilling into mine. “How do you know this?” he asks.
“There once was a maid,” I say. “She was so unhappy with her master that she dissolved his hands in lye.”
His eyes go wide. “Who told you this?”
“I made it up, kind of. Gran told me a true story, but then I changed it just now. What do you call it when there’s truth in a story but it’s not a fact?” I ask.
His face morphs. All the hard lines soften. All the pain dissolves. For the first time ever, he looks giddy and happy and light.
“A novel,” he replies. “You call it a novel.”
Chapter 12
I’ve excused myself from my breakfast with the LAMBS and am leaving the Social when Angela stops me at the front of the restaurant.
“Molly, you were amazing!” she says. “Those ladies totally believed you were a detective, bought it hook, line, and sinker!”
“That was humiliating and deceitful,” I say. “And I’m not sure I uncovered anything of value.”
“Sometimes what sounds like nothing at first becomes the key to unlocking the mystery. You just have to know how to piece things together.”
“I’m not interested in piecing things together, Angela. I’m interested in doing my job—my job as a maid,” I say.
“Okay,” Angela replies. “Don’t bust a gasket. Go be a maid. Ignore the shite-fest going on all around you. But, Molls, be careful, okay? And if you hear or see anything suspicious, will you let me know?”
“Yes,” I say. “May I go now?”
I don’t wait for a response. I simply march my way out of the restaurant and head for the lobby, where Mr. Snow spots me and beckons me to the reception desk. “Where are you going, Molly?”
“Angela’s done with me,” I say. “And vice versa. I’m going back to my real job now if that’s all right with you.”
“Very well,” says Mr. Snow. “The maids upstairs will be happy to see you.”
I make my way to the back staircase and head to the fourth floor. My stomach is turned inside out. I know exactly why I’m so distressed. During breakfast with the LAMBS, I pretended to be something I’m not, and even though Gran has no eyes to see it, I know my behavior would not make her proud. I’m a fraud and a hypocrite, two things she never taught me to be. Why didn’t I just speak up and tell the truth? Why didn’t I insist to the LAMBS that I’m just an ordinary maid?
As I reach the fourth floor, I find Sunshine in the hallway with her trolley and an overflowing bag of laundry.
“Oh, Molly,” she says the moment she lays eyes on me. “Please tell me you’re back to work with us. We can’t keep up. New Boss Lady is in the staff lounge ‘taking a load off,’ and Lily—well, let’s just say I don’t know what’s going on with her today. We’re exhausted. Look at Sunitha.”
Sunitha appears from the guest room next door, dragging a laundry bag full of soiled sheets behind her. She’s glazed over like a frosted tea cake melting in the sun.
“The dream of clean works best as a team,” I say. “Remember?”
“The team is nonexistent right now. Molly, something’s up with Lily. I know yesterday was a shock, but she’s acting stranger than usual and won’t say what’s wrong. Plus, she keeps disappearing. When we were cleaning a room earlier, I turned around to ask for paper towels, and poof! She was gone. Just like that.”
“Where is she now?” I ask.
“Down there,” Sunshine says with a nod down the hallway.
“Thank you,” I say as I walk to the end of the corridor and find a door propped open with a trolley. Lily’s inside, standing stock-still by the window with a bottle of cleaning spray in one hand and a cloth in the other.
“Lily?” I say, and she jumps halfway out of her skin. “Are you all right?”
She stares at me in a way that does not match any expression I have ever collected in my mental catalogue of human behaviors. “Who’s the boss?” she asks, her voice a shaky whisper.
“What do you mean?” I reply.
“Is it Cheryl or you?”
“Today, Cheryl is Head Maid. Tomorrow things will return to normal. Is that acceptable?”
She shrugs.
“Lily, if ever you have a problem, you can come to me.”
“Can I?” she asks. “Is that how it works?”
“Of course that’s how it works,” I say.
“But loose lips sink ships. You said so yourself when you hired me. ‘Discretion is paramount at the Regency Grand.’ ”
“Lily, you’re the last person I would ever accuse of indiscretion,” I say. “It’s taken me weeks to get you to speak at all. Please don’t go mute on me now.”
“I’m trying. But…it’s not easy. I’m counting on this job, Molly. I got fired once before, and I can’t have it happen again.”
This is the first time she’s mentioned a previous job loss, and the news comes as quite a shock. I swallow my surprise and gently ask, “What happened?”
“I was a cashier in a grocery store before this,” Lily says.
“I remember,” I say. “You had that on your résumé.”
“But what I didn’t tell you is that when I reported a theft by another cashier, it was blamed on me, and I was fired. I figured if I told you, you’d never hire me. And now, I’m scared to say anything at all. Molly, who should I trust?”
“Me,” I say. “You’re supposed to trust me.” As I look at Lily, it’s like seeing my old self in a mirror. When I started at the hotel, I trusted no one, and there are times to this day when that unsettling feeling returns.
“Molly, one day you’re my boss, and the next day you’re not,” Lily explains. “And a man I served tea died in the tearoom.” She turns away from me to obliterate some smudgy fingerprints on the window.