The Maid: A Novel (Molly the Maid Book 1)

It’s almost the end of my shift. Playing over our first date in my mind has made the day go by quickly and has amplified my anticipation for our date tonight. It has also helped me avoid memories of yesterday. For the most part, I’ve been successful at keeping the flashbacks at bay. There was just the one instance when I remembered Mr. Black, dead in his bed, and for some reason, in my mind, suddenly, it was Rodney’s face on Mr. Black’s body, as though they were twinned, inextricably linked.

What utter rubbish. How could I imagine them connected like that, when they exist on polar opposites of so many spectrums—old versus young, dead versus alive, evil versus good? I shook my head back and forth to erase the nasty image. And just like with an Etch-a-Sketch, a good shake was all it took to wipe my mind clean.

The other intrusive thoughts I’ve had today are of Giselle. I know she’s still staying in the hotel, but I don’t know where, which room on the second floor. I do wonder how she’s doing, what with her husband dead. Is she happy about this turn of events? Or is she sad? Is she relieved to be free from him or concerned about her future? What does she stand to inherit, if anything at all? If the newspapers are right, she’s the heir apparent to the family fortune, but Mr. Black’s first wife and kids will no doubt have something to say about that. And if I’ve learned anything about the way money works, it’s that it magnetizes toward those born with it, leaving those who need it most without.

It weighs on me—what will become of Giselle.

This is the problem with friendships. Sometimes you know things you shouldn’t know; sometimes you carry other people’s secrets for them. And sometimes, that burden takes its toll.

It’s four-thirty p.m., only half an hour before I’m due to meet Rodney at the Social for our date. Our second date—progress!

I scoot down the hall with my trolley to let Sunshine know I’m done cleaning all my rooms, including the one Juan Manuel stayed in last night.

“You’re a quick one, you are, Miss Molly!” Sunshine says. “I’ve got more rooms to finish, myself.”

I say goodbye for the day, then pass by the police officer on my way to the elevator, but he barely registers my presence. I take the elevator to the basement. I peel off my maid uniform and change into my regular clothes, some jeans and a floral blouse—not quite what I would have chosen for a date with Rodney, but I’ve no more money to spend on excesses such as kitten heels and polka dots. Besides, if Rodney’s truly a good egg, he’ll judge by the yolk, not by the shell.

At five to five, I’m downstairs at the front of the Social, waiting by the Please Be Seated sign, looking around for Rodney. He sees me, comes from the back of the restaurant right to my side.

“Just in time, I see.”

“I pride myself on punctuality,” I reply.

“Let’s go to a booth at the back.”

“Privacy. Yes, that seems appropriate.”

We walk through the restaurant to the most secluded—and romantic—booth at the back.

“It’s very quiet here now,” I say, taking in the empty chairs, the two waitresses by their service station talking to each other because there’s hardly a customer in sight.

“Yeah. Wasn’t like this earlier. Lots of cops. And reporters.” He looks around the room, then at me. His bruised eye looks a bit better than it did this morning, but it’s still swollen.

“Listen, I’m really sorry about what happened to you yesterday, finding Mr. Black and all that. Plus, being taken to the cop shop. That must have been intense.”

“It was a disruptive day. Today is going much better. Especially now,” I add.

“So tell me, when you were with the cops, I hope nothing about Juan Manuel came up.”

This is a perplexing line of inquiry. “No,” I say. “That has nothing to do with Mr. Black.”

“Right. Of course it doesn’t. But you know. Cops can be nosy. I just want to make sure he’s safe.” He runs the fingers of one hand through his thick, wavy hair. “Can you tell me what happened, what you saw in that suite yesterday?” he asks. “I mean, I’m sure you’re feeling really scared, and maybe it would help to say it all out loud to, you know, a friend.”

He reaches his hand out to touch mine. It’s amazing, the human hand, how much warmth it conveys. I’ve missed physical contact, what without Gran in my life. She used to do exactly this, put her hand over mine to draw me out and get me to talk. Her hand let me know that no matter what, everything would be okay.

“Thank you,” I say to Rodney. It surprises me; it comes out of nowhere—the urge to cry. I fight it as I tell him about yesterday. “It all seemed like a normal day until I went to finish cleaning the Blacks’ room. I stepped inside and saw that the sitting room was untidy. I was only supposed to clean the bathroom, but then I went into the bedroom to see if that was a mess as well, and there he was, laid out on the bed. I thought he was napping, but…it turns out he was dead. Very dead.”

At this, Rodney takes his other hand so that he’s cradling mine in both of his. “Oh, Molly,” he says. “That’s just awful. And…did you see anything in the room? Anything out of place or suspicious?”

I tell him about the safe being open, how the money was gone, along with the deed I’d seen in Mr. Black’s breast pocket earlier in the day.

“And that’s it? Nothing else out of the ordinary?”

“Actually, yes,” I say. I tell him about Giselle’s pills spilled on the floor.

“What pills?” he asks.

“Giselle has an unmarked bottle. It was that bottle, spilled by Mr. Black’s bedside.”

“Shit. You’re kidding me.”

“I’m not.”

“And where was Giselle?”

“I don’t know. She wasn’t in the suite. In the morning, she seemed quite upset. I know she was planning a trip, because I saw her flight itinerary sticking out of her purse.” I shift in my chair, bringing my chin to rest on my hand coquettishly, like a starlet in a classic film.

“Did you tell the cops that? About the itinerary? Or the pills?”

I’m growing increasingly impatient with this line of interrogation, yet I know that patience is a virtue, a virtue that, among others, I hope he attributes to me.

“I told them about the pills,” I say. “But I didn’t want to say much else. To be honest, and I hope you’ll keep this confidential, Giselle has been more than just a guest. She’s…well, she’s become a friend to me. And I’m quite worried about her. The nature of the police questions, they were…”

“What? They were what?”

“It was almost as though they were suspicious. Of her.”

“But did Black die of natural causes or not?”

“The police were fairly certain that was the case. But not completely.”

“Did they ask anything else? About Giselle? About me?”

I feel something slither in my stomach, as though a sleeping dragon were just roused from its torpor. “Rodney,” I say, with an edge in my voice that I have trouble hiding. “Why would they ask about you?”

“That was stupid,” he says. “No idea why I said that. Forget it.”

He pulls his hands away and I immediately wish he would put them back.

“I guess I’m just worried. For Giselle. For the hotel. For all of us, really.”

It occurs to me then that I’m missing something. Every year at Christmas, Gran and I would set up a card table in the living room and work on a puzzle together as we listened to Christmas carols on the radio. The harder the puzzle, the happier we were. And I’m feeling the same sensation I felt when Gran and I were challenged by a really hard puzzle. It’s as if I’m not quite putting the pieces together properly.

Then it occurs to me. “You said you don’t know Giselle well. Is that correct?”

He sighs. I know what this means. I’ve exasperated him, even though I didn’t mean to.

“Can’t a guy be concerned for someone who seems like a nice person?” he asks. There’s a sharp clip to his consonants that reminds me of Cheryl when she’s up to something unsanitary.

I must course-correct before I put Rodney off me entirely. “I’m sorry,” I say, smiling widely and leaning forward in my chair. “You have every right to be concerned. It’s just the way you are. You care about others.”

“Exactly.” He reaches into his back pocket and takes out his phone. “Molly, take my number,” he says.

A frisson of excitement flitters through me, removing any and all slithering doubt. “You want me to have your phone number?” I’ve done it. I’ve mended fences. Our date is back on track.

“If anything happens—like the police bother you again or ask too many questions—you just let me know. I’ll be there for you.”

I take out my phone and we exchange numbers. When I write my name in his phone, I feel inclined to add an identifier. “Molly, Maid and Friend,” I type. I even add a heart emoji at the end as a declaration of amorous intent.

My hands feel jittery as I pass back his phone. I’m hoping he’ll look at my entry and see the heart, but he doesn’t.

Mr. Snow enters the restaurant then. I see him by the bar, grabbing some paperwork before leaving. Rodney is slouching in the seat opposite me. He should not be shy about remaining in the workplace after the end of his shift—Mr. Snow says that’s a sign of an A++ employee.

“Listen, I’ve gotta go,” Rodney says. “You’ll call if anything comes up?”

“I will,” I say. “I most definitely will make phone contact.”

He gets up from the booth and I follow him out the lobby and through the front doors. Mr. Preston is just outside the entrance.

I wave and he tips his hat.

“Hey, any cabs around here?” Rodney asks.

“Of course,” Mr. Preston says. He walks to the street, blows his whistle, and waves down a taxi. When it pulls over, Mr. Preston opens the back door. “In you go, Molly,” he says.

“No, no,” Rodney replies. “The cab’s for me. You’re going…somewhere else, right, Molly?”

“I’m going east,” I say.

“Right. I’m west. Have a good night!”

Rodney gets in and Mr. Preston closes the door. As the taxi pulls away, Rodney waves at me through the window.

“I’ll call you!” I yell after him.

Mr. Preston stands beside me. “Molly,” he says. “Be careful with that one.”

“With Rodney? Why?” I ask.

“Because that, dear girl, is a frog. And not all frogs turn out to be princes.”