“What’s this?” I asked when he handed me the paper.
“A prescription,” he replied.
“R & R, once daily for Molly Gray,” I read. “To be administered by J. M., via a bubble bath, a foot massage, and spaghetti and meatballs for dinner—no cleanup by Ms. Molly allowed.” There was a heart after my name.
I miss him so much. If he were here, he’d know just what to do. In his absence, who can I turn to?
Just then, Angela appears in the doorway of the change room, making me jump.
“You scared me half to death!” I say. “What are you doing down here? You should be upstairs at the Social.”
“Yeah, I get that,” Angela says. “But I’m doing a little private investigating. I talked with the kitchen staff to see if the police had tested all the liquids in the pantry for poisons.”
Here she goes again, I think to myself. “Angela, why are you getting involved? Just stay out of it,” I say.
“And miss my big chance to solve a crime? No way. Anyhow, just so you know, the police tested everything in the kitchen. They didn’t find a thing out of place. But I did my own tests anyway.”
“You did what?” I ask.
“I taste-tested a drop of every liquid in the kitchen to see if it would made me sick.”
“And what did you discover?”
“That orange juice and vinegar followed by soy sauce and honey causes serious indigestion. The good news? I haven’t dropped dead yet,” Angela says.
“I can’t believe you did that, Angela. You’re taking this too far.”
“I’m not,” she replies. She pops out of the doorway, looks both ways down the empty hallway, then tiptoes back into the change room. “Look, Molly. Things are getting really weird in this hotel. The undercover agents are closing in on a suspect. I heard them say so. There are things you need to know.”
“There are things you need to know, Angela,” I say. “And the first is that I’m not an investigator, nor do I want to be mistaken for one. I told Detective Stark that I’d made a terrible mistake and had impersonated an officer of the law. I turned myself in for fraud. I did not, however, tell her whose terrible idea that was in the first place.”
Angela stares at me in disbelief, one hand on her hip. “That’s officially the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” she says.
“You sound like Detective Stark,” I reply as I open my locker and fish out my purse. “I keep trying to tell the LAMBS I’m just an ordinary maid, but they won’t listen. Because of your deceptions, they keep feeding me leads.”
“Good. That will come in handy.”
I find myself growing enervated and annoyed. I do like Angela, but sometimes, she’s the most stubborn person alive. I close my locker with a clank and head for the door.
“Wait! Molly, we have to talk,” she says. “Are you on your way home?”
“No. I’m meeting Mr. Preston.” I turn to face her. “Angela, I’m telling you this in confidence, and I don’t want you sharing it with anyone until I speak to him first, but yesterday, I caught Mr. Preston selling the rare first edition that disappeared from the box in the lobby. He was pawning it at a shop a few blocks from here. I saw him with my very own eyes.”
“Molly, who cares?” Angela replies. “It was just a book.”
“But what if it’s all related?” I ask. “What if Grimthorpe was killed to raise the price of his rare editions?”
Angela pauses. She’s fiddling with the tie on her apron as she considers the possibility. “Nah. Impossible. Mr. Preston wouldn’t hurt a fly. You shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”
“You sound like my gran. Listen, I have to go. Goodbye, Angela,” I say.
I turn and head up the stairs to the lobby without another word. Feeling shaky and unsettled, I push through the revolving doors, rush down the stairs, and head to the Olive Garden, which is less than a block away.
Once I’m there, a familiar waiter greets me with a smile, leads me to a booth, drops two menus on the table, then walks off.
Just then I spot Mr. Preston at the entrance and wave him over. I pull out my phone from my purse—5:14 p.m. At least tardiness is one thing I won’t need to berate him about.
“Molly,” he says as he slides into the banquette across from me. He’s dressed rather formally, wearing a navy pullover with a crisp shirt underneath and a tie, something he rarely wears, not even for our Sunday dinners.
“How wonderful to see you outside the confines of work,” he says once seated. “I’ve been wanting to speak to you privately for some time.” He smiles, crow’s-feet nestling into the corners of his eyes.
Even this I cannot trust—his familiar face lined with what I once thought was pure kindness. “Mr. Preston,” I say. “I’ve called you here today because you are a liar.”
His eyes grow wide in an instant. “Excuse me?” he replies.
“A liar. A dissimulator. A thief,” I say. “You’ve always told me that appearances can’t be trusted, that not all frogs turn out to be princes. Mr. Preston, it is with a heavy heart that I tell you I’ve seen you for what you are—warts and all.”
“My dear girl, I don’t know what you’re talking about. There must be some mistake.”
“There is not,” I say. “Yesterday, on my way back from the police station, I spotted you outside the pawnshop with a particular tome in your hot little hands. You sold it, the first edition of The Maid in the Mansion.”
Mr. Preston shrugs. “I don’t deny it. The price has gone up substantially, and while I can see that you may interpret that as profiteering from the writer’s death, the truth is, Molly, I’m in need of a bit of extra money. I’m getting old. That’s one of the things I’ve been wanting to talk to you about, but I was worried you’d be upset. Hauling suitcases is a young man’s job, and I’m not sure how much longer I can do it. I’m thinking about retiring. And I need a financial cushion, a little nest egg to make things work.”
“Stealing is no way to amass a Fabergé!” The words roar out of me, something I realize only after the heads of several diners pivot my way.
“Stealing?” whispers Mr. Preston as he leans across the table. “I haven’t stolen anything in my life, least of all a Fabergé.”
I study his face, looking for telltale shiftiness, which so often betrays a lie, but I find nothing.
I try a new tactic. “Once upon a time, there was a box,” I say. “Inside was a rare first-edition copy of The Maid in the Mansion, belonging to Ms. Serena Sharpe. One second it was on the reception desk. The fire alarm was pulled and—poof—the box disappeared. The next time I saw that book, it was in your hands.”
“Oh, Molly,” Mr. Preston says as he puts his elbows on the table and hides his face in his palms.
“Elbows are not meant for the table, not now, not ever,” I remind him.
Mr. Preston sighs. He does, however, remove his offending appendages from the tabletop.
The waiter saunters over. “Hey there. Are you two ready to order?” he asks.
“Chardonnay, two glasses,” Mr. Preston says.
“I will not be drinking wine,” I say. “Water for me. This is hardly a celebration.”
The waiter looks from me to Mr. Preston, expecting further explanation. When he doesn’t receive it, he slinks away.
“Molly,” Mr. Preston says. “I have a confession to make.”
Here it is, the moment when all my fears congeal into ugly reality, when all my trust in a man who has been like family to me is destroyed in an instant. But I will beat him to the punch. “So you admit it: you poisoned Mr. Grimthorpe.”
“What?! I did no such thing!” Mr. Preston replies. “How can that even cross your mind?”