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

At long last, after many forms and formalities, I find myself sinking into the plush leather backseat of Charlotte Preston’s luxury car. Once I left the courthouse, I was passed off to a clerk who said she knew Charlotte well and would bring me safely to her. She escorted me to a back door, where Mr. Preston and his daughter, as they had promised, were waiting for me. They whisked me away in this car. I am free, for now at least.

The dashboard of Charlotte’s car tells me it’s one p.m. I believe this vehicle is a Mercedes, but given that I’ve never owned a car myself and only ride in them on rare occasions, I’m not up on the finer brands. Mr. Preston sits in the passenger seat while Charlotte drives.

I’m tremendously grateful to be in this car rather than in court or in the filthy basement holding cell in the police station. I suppose I should focus on the bright side rather than on the unpleasantness. This day has afforded me many new experiences, and Gran used to say that new experiences open doors that lead to personal growth. I’m not sure that I’ve enjoyed the doors that have opened today, nor the experiences I’ve had, but I do hope they lead to personal growth in the long run.

“Dad, you have Molly’s phone and keys, right?”

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Preston says. “Thank you for reminding me.” He removes them from his pocket and passes them back to me.

“Thank you, Mr. Preston,” I say.

Only then does it occur to me. “May I ask where we’re going?”

“To your home, Molly,” Charlotte said. “We’re going to take you home.”

Mr. Preston turns around in the passenger seat to meet my eye. “Now, don’t you worry, Molly,” he says. “Charlotte’s going to help you out, pro bono, and we won’t stop until everything’s back to normal, tickety-boo.”

“But what about the bail?” I ask. “I don’t have anywhere near that kind of money.”

“That’s okay, Molly,” Charlotte says, never taking her eyes off the road. “I don’t actually have to pay that, only if you run away.”

“Well, I’m not about to do that,” I say, leaning into the space between the two front seats.

“Sounds like old Judge Wight figured that out fairly quickly, or so I’m told,” Charlotte says.

“How did you hear that so fast?” Mr. Preston asks.

“The clerks, the assistants, the court reporters. People talk. Treat them well and they give you the inside scoop. Most attorneys walk all over them, though.”

“The way of the world,” Mr. Preston says.

“I’m afraid so. They also said Judge Wight was in no rush to release Molly’s name to the press. Sounds to me like he knows Stark’s chasing the wrong fox.”

“I don’t know how any of this could have happened,” I say. “I’m just a maid, trying to do my job to the best of my abilities. I’m…I’m not guilty of any of these charges.”

“We know that, Molly,” Mr. Preston says.

“Sometimes life isn’t fair,” Charlotte adds. “And if there’s one thing I’ve learned over years of practice, it’s that there’s no shortage of criminals out there who will prey on a person’s difference for their personal gain.”

Mr. Preston turns around in his seat again to look at me. Deep wrinkles have emerged on his forehead.

“Life must be hard without your gran,” he says. “I know you relied on her a lot. You know, she asked me to look out for you, before she passed.”

“Did she?” I say. How I wish she were here. I look out the window through the tears that have formed in my eyes. “Thank you. For looking out for me,” I say.

“That’s quite all right,” Mr. Preston replies.

My building comes into view, and I’m fairly certain that I’ve never been happier to see it.

“Do you think it’s appropriate for me to go to work today as usual, Mr. Preston?”

Charlotte turns to her dad, then looks back to the road ahead.

“I’m afraid not, Molly. It will be expected that you take some time off,” Mr. Preston says.

“Would it not be correct to call Mr. Snow?”

“No, not in this case. It’s best right now not to contact anyone at the hotel.”

“There’s visitors’ parking at the back of my building,” I say. “I’ve never used it, as the visitors Gran and I used to receive were mostly Gran’s friends and none of them had vehicles.”

“Do you keep in touch with them?” Charlotte asks as she turns into a free spot.

“No,” I reply. “Not since Gran died.”

Once we’re parked, we get out of the car and I lead the way into the building. “This way,” I say, pointing to the stairwell.

“No elevator?” Charlotte asks.

“I’m afraid not,” I reply.

We climb silently to my floor and are walking down the hall toward my apartment when Mr. Rosso emerges from his.

“You!” he says, pointing a plump index finger at me. “You brought the police into this building! They arrested you! Molly, you’re no good, and you can’t live here anymore. I’m evicting you, you hear me?”

Before I can answer, I feel a hand on my arm. Charlotte steps past me and stands a few inches from Mr. Rosso’s face.

“You’re the slumlord—I mean landlord—I suppose?”

Mr. Rosso pouts the way he always does when I tell him I’m going to be a bit late with the rent.

“I am the landlord,” he says. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Molly’s lawyer,” Charlotte replies. “You do realize that this building is in violation of more than a few codes and bylaws, right? Cracked fire door, parking too tightly spaced. And any residential building over five stories has to have a working elevator.”

“Too expensive,” Mr. Rosso says.

“I’m sure city inspectors have heard that excuse before. Let me offer you some free legal advice. What’s your name again?”

“It’s Mr. Rosso,” I offer helpfully.

“Thank you, Molly,” Charlotte replies. “I’ll remember that.” She turns back to him. “So the free advice is: don’t think about my client, don’t talk about my client, don’t harass or threaten my client with eviction or anything else. Until you hear differently from me, she’s got a right to be here, the same as anyone else. You got it? Clear?”

Mr. Rosso’s face has turned bright red. I expect him to speak, but surprisingly, he does not. He merely nods, then backs away into his apartment, quietly closing the door behind him.

Mr. Preston smiles at Charlotte. “That’s my girl,” he says.

I fumble for my keys and unlock my apartment door.

One of the great virtues of Gran’s daily cleaning regimen is that the apartment is in a perpetually suitable state to receive unexpected visitors, not that I usually receive any. Besides the unwanted visit from police earlier today and the shocking visit from Giselle on Tuesday, this is one of the few times I’m able to reap the benefits of this advantage.

“Please come in,” I say, directing Charlotte and Mr. Preston through my front door. I don’t take the polishing cloth out of my closet because I’m still in slippers and they have spongy bottoms that can’t effectively be wiped. Instead, I grab a plastic bag from the closet and wrap my slippers in it, TBSL—To Be Sanitized Later. Mr. Preston and Charlotte elect to keep their shoes on, which is fine by me given how grateful I am to them at this particular juncture in time.

“May I take your bag?” I ask Charlotte. “The closets are small, but I’m a bit of a wizard when it comes to spatial organization.”

“Actually, I’m going to need it,” she says. “To take notes.”

“Of course,” I say, though I feel the floors tilt under me as I realize what she’s here for and what’s about to happen next. Up to now I’ve been concentrating on the new delight of having people—friendly people, helpful people—in my environs. I’ve tried to ignore the fact that very soon, I’ll have to think more deeply about all that has happened to me today and leading up to today. I’ll have to share details and recount things I don’t actually want to think about. I’ll have to explain all that has gone wrong. I’ll have to choose what to say.

No sooner have I had these thoughts than I visibly begin to shake.

“Molly,” Mr. Preston says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Would it be all right if I went into the kitchen and prepared us all a pot of tea? Charlotte will tell you, I’m very good at it, for a big old lug, anyhow.”

Charlotte strolls into the living room. “He makes a mean cuppa, my daddy does,” she says. “Leave that to him, and you can go freshen up, Molly. I’m sure you’re eager to change.”

“I most certainly am,” I say, looking down at my pajamas. “I won’t take long.”

“There’s no rush. We’ll be here when you’re ready.”

I can hear Mr. Preston clanging around in the kitchen and humming to himself while I’m out here in the hall. This is most certainly a breach of proper etiquette. The guests should be seated comfortably in the sitting room and I should be tending to them, not the other way around. And yet, the truth of the matter is, I can’t follow protocols in this very moment. I can barely think straight. My nerves are too frayed. While I stand, immobilized in my own hallway, Charlotte joins Mr. Preston in my kitchen. They chatter back and forth to each other, like two birds on a wire. It’s the most pleasing sound, like sunshine and hope, and for a moment I wonder what it is I have done to deserve the good fortune of having them both here. My legs gradually regain mobility and I walk over to the kitchen and stand in the threshold. “Thank you,” I say. “I can’t thank you enough for—”

Mr. Preston interrupts me. “Sugar bowl? I know it must be here somewhere.”

“In the cupboard beside the stove. First shelf,” I say.

“Off you go then. Leave the rest to us.”

I turn and head to the bathroom, where I shower quickly, grateful that there’s proper hot water today and relieved to scrub the sour filth of the station and court off my skin. I enter the living room a few minutes later in a white, buttoned-down blouse and dark slacks. I’m feeling quite a lot better.

Mr. Preston is seated on the sofa and Charlotte is sitting across from him on a chair she’s brought from the kitchen. He’s found Gran’s beautiful silver serving tray in the cupboard, the one we bought for a most economical sum at a thrift store so long ago. It’s so strange to see it in his large, masculine hands. The full tea service is expertly arranged on the table in front of the sofa.

“Where did you learn to serve a proper tea, Mr. Preston?”

“I wasn’t always a doorman, you know. I had to work my way up to that,” he says. “And to think, I now have a daughter who’s a lawyer.” His eyes crinkle up as he looks upon his daughter. It’s a look that reminds me so much of gran, I want to cry.

“Shall I pour you a cup?” Mr. Preston asks me. He doesn’t wait for an answer. “One lump or two?”

“It’s a two sort of day,” I say.

“Every day is a two sort of day for me,” he says. “I need all the sweetness I can get.”

Truthfully, so do I. I need the sugar because I’m feeling a tad faint again. I’ve had nothing to eat since the raisin-bran muffin in the station this morning. I don’t have enough food in my cupboards to serve three people and eating on my own would be the very pinnacle of impropriety.

“Dad, you’ve got to cut back on sugar,” Charlotte says, shaking her head. “You know it’s not good for you.”

“Ah well,” he replies. “Hard to teach an old dog new tricks and all, right, Molly?” He pats his belly and chuckles.

Charlotte puts her teacup on the table. She picks up the yellow pad of paper and a sleek gold pen she’s placed on the floor beside her chair. “So, Molly. Have a seat. Are you ready to talk? I’ll need you to tell me everything you know about the Blacks and why you think you stand accused of…well, many things.”

“Wrongly accused,” I say as I take a seat beside Mr. Preston.

“That’s a given, Molly,” Charlotte replies. “I’m sorry I didn’t make that immediately clear. My father and I wouldn’t be here if we didn’t believe that. Dad’s convinced you had nothing to do with this. He’s long suspected there’s nefarious activity taking place at that hotel.” She pauses and looks around the room. Her eyes land on Gran’s flowered curtains, her curio cabinet, and the English landscape prints on the wall. “I can see why Dad’s so sure about you, Molly. But to absolve you, we need to figure out who might actually be guilty of these crimes. We both think you’ve been played. Do you understand? You’ve been used as a pawn in Mr. Black’s murder.”

I recall the gun in my vacuum. The only people who knew about me and that gun were Giselle and Rodney. That thought alone sends a wave of sadness rushing through me. I slump over as it washes away all the gumption from my spine.

“I’m innocent,” I say. “I didn’t kill Mr. Black.” Tears prick my eyes and I drive them back. I don’t want to make a fool of myself, I really don’t.

“It’s all right,” Mr. Preston says, giving my arm a little pat. “We believe you. All you have to do is tell the truth, your truth, and Charlotte will see to the rest.”

“My truth. Yes,” I say. “I can do that. I suppose it’s time.”

I start with a full description of what I saw the day I entered the Black suite and found him dead in his bed. Charlotte furiously jots down my every word. I describe the drinks on the messy sitting-room table, Giselle’s spilled pill bottle in the bedroom, the discarded robe on the floor, the three pillows on the bed rather than four. I start to shake as the memory returns.

“I’m not sure that pillows and messiness are the details Charlotte’s after here, Molly,” Mr. Preston says. “I think she’s looking for details that might suggest foul play.”

“That’s right,” Charlotte adds. “Such as the pills. You said the pills were Giselle’s. Did you touch them? Were they labeled?”

“No, I didn’t touch them. Not that day at least. And the container wasn’t labeled. I knew they were Giselle’s because she’d often take them in my presence when I was cleaning the suite. Plus, I often saw the bottle in the bathroom. She called them her ‘benz friends’ or her ‘chill pills.’ I believe ‘benz’ is a medicine of some sort? She did not seem ill to me—well, not in the physical sense. But some illnesses are a lot like maids—omnipresent but almost imperceptible.”

Charlotte looks up from her pad. “So true,” she says. “Benz is short for benzodiazepine. It’s an anti-anxiety and depression med. Small white pills?”

“A lovely shade of robin’s-egg blue, actually.”

“Huh,” says Charlotte. “So it was a street drug, not a prescription. Dad, did you ever talk to Giselle? Ever see any odd behavior from her?”

“Odd behavior?” he says, taking a sip of tea. “Odd behavior is par for the course when you’re a hotel doorman at the Regency Grand. It was clear that she and Mr. Black were often on the outs. On the day that Mr. Black died, she left in a hurry and was crying. A week before, same thing, but that was after a visit from Victoria, Mr. Black’s daughter, and his ex-wife, the first Mrs. Black.”

“I remember that day,” I say. “Mrs. Black—the first—held the elevator door open for me, but her daughter told me to take the service elevator instead. Giselle told me Victoria disliked her. Perhaps that’s why Giselle was crying that day, Mr. Preston.”

“Tears and high drama were a rather regular occurrence for Giselle,” Mr. Preston says. “I suppose that’s not surprising when you consider the man she married. Far be it from me to wish a man ill, but I was not sad to see that man’s life come to an early end.”

“Why’s that?” Charlotte asks.

“You work a door like the Regency Grand for as long as I have, and you can read people in a single glance. He was no gentleman, not to the new Mrs. Black or to the former Mrs. Black. Mark my words, that man was a bad one.”

“A bad egg?” I ask.

“A stinking, rotten egg,” Mr. Preston confirms.

“Did he have any obvious enemies, Dad? Anyone who might have wanted him conveniently dispatched?”

“Oh, I’m sure he did. I was one of them. But there were others. First off, there were the women—the other women. When the Mrs. Blacks, new or old, were not around, there were…how should I call them…young female callers?”

“Dad, just say sex workers.”

“I would call them that if I knew for sure that’s what they were, but I never actually saw money exchange hands. Or the other part.” Mr. Preston coughs and looks at me. “Sorry, Molly. This is all quite dreadful.”

“It is,” I say. “But I can corroborate that. Giselle told me that Mr. Black was engaging in extramarital relations. With more than one woman too. It hurt Giselle. Understandably.”

“She told you that?” Charlotte asks. “Did you tell anyone else?”

“I most certainly did not,” I say. I adjust the top button of my blouse. “Discretion is our motto. Invisible customer service is our goal.”

Charlotte looks at her father.

“Mr. Snow’s edict for hotel employees,” he explains. “He’s the hotel manager and self-proclaimed Grand Vizier of hotel hospitality and hygiene. But I’m starting to wonder if his Mr. Clean act is all just a clever front.”

“Molly,” Charlotte says. “Can you tell me anything that might help me understand the drug and weapons charges against you?”

“I can shed some light, I hope. Giselle and I were more than just maid and guest. She trusted me. She shared her secrets with me. She was my friend.” I look to Mr. Preston, fearing I’m disappointing him since I crossed a guest-employee boundary. But he doesn’t look upset, just concerned.

“Giselle came to my house the day after Mr. Black died. I didn’t tell the police about that. I figured it was a private visit in my own home and therefore none of their concern. She was very upset. And she needed a favor from me. I obliged.”

“Oh dear,” says Mr. Preston.

“Dad,” Charlotte says. Then to me, “What did she ask you to do?”

“To remove the handgun she’d hidden in the suite. In the bathroom fan.”

Charlotte and Mr. Preston exchange another look, one I’m all too familiar with—they understand something that I don’t.

“But there weren’t any gunshots heard, or even reports of wounds on Mr. Black’s body,” Mr. Preston says.

“No, not according to any news feeds I’ve seen,” Charlotte replies.

“Asphyxiated,” I say. “That’s what Detective Stark said.”

Charlotte’s mouth falls open. “Good to know,” she says and scribbles something on her yellow pad. “So the gun wasn’t the murder weapon. Did you return it to Giselle?”

“I didn’t get the chance. I hid it in my vacuum cleaner, expecting to give it to her later. Then at lunch, I left the hotel.”

“That’s right,” says Mr. Preston. “I saw you rushing out the doors and was wondering where you were off to in such a hurry.”

I look down at the cup in my lap. Something niggles at my conscience; the dragon in my belly stirs. “I found Mr. Black’s wedding ring,” I say. “And I pawned it. I know that was wrong. It’s just been very hard on my own to make ends meet financially. My gran. She’d be so ashamed of me.” I can’t bear to look up at either of them. Instead, I just stare into the black hole of my teacup.

“Dear girl,” Mr. Preston says. “Your gran understood money troubles better than most. Believe me, I know that much about her and a whole lot more. It’s my understanding that she left you some savings, after she passed?”

“Gone,” I say. “Frittered away.” I can’t explain about Wilbur and the Fabergé. There’s only so much shame I can confess to at once.

“So you pawned the ring and then went back to work?” Charlotte asks.

“Yes.”

“And the police were waiting for you when you came back?”

Mr. Preston steps in. “That’s correct, Charlotte. I was there. Couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it either, though I tried.”

Charlotte shifts her weight in the chair, crosses her legs. “What about the drug charges? Do you understand how those came about?”

“There were traces of cocaine on my maid’s trolley. I have no idea how that’s even possible. I promised Gran long ago that I’d never in my life touch a drug. Now I fear I’ve broken my promise.”

“Dear girl,” Mr. Preston says. “I’m sure she didn’t mean it literally.”

“Let’s go back to the gun,” Charlotte says. “How did the police find it in your vacuum cleaner?”

And here’s where I must confess the pieces that I’ve put together myself since my arrest. “Rodney,” I say, choking on the two syllables, barely able to spit them up and eject them from my mouth.

“I was wondering when his name would pop up,” Mr. Preston says.

“When the police talked to me yesterday, I was afraid. Very afraid. I went straight home and called Rodney.”

“He’s the bartender at the Social,” Mr. Preston adds for Charlotte’s benefit. “Smarmy cretin. Write that down.”

It hurts to hear Mr. Preston say it. “I called Rodney,” I say. “I didn’t know what else to do. He’s been a loyal friend to me, maybe even a little bit more than a friend. I told him about the police questioning me, about Giselle and the gun in my vacuum cleaner, and about the ring I’d found and pawned.”

“Let me guess. Rodney said he’d be all too happy to help a nice girl like you,” says Mr. Preston.

“Something to that effect,” I say. “But Detective Stark said it was Cheryl, my supervisor, who followed me to the pawn shop. Maybe she’s the culprit in all of this? She’s definitely untrustworthy. The stories I could tell you.”

“My dear Molly,” Mr. Preston says with a sigh. “Rodney used Cheryl to tip off the police. Can you see that? He likely used the gun and the ring in your possession to divert suspicion away from himself and toward you. He may very well be connected to the cocaine found on your cart. And to the murder of Mr. Black.”

I know Gran would be displeased, but my shoulders slump even more. I can barely keep myself upright. “Do you think that perhaps Rodney and Giselle are in cahoots?” I ask.

Mr. Preston nods slowly.

“I see,” I say.

“I’m sorry, Molly. I tried to warn you about Rodney,” he says.

“You did, Mr. Preston. You can add the ‘I told you so.’ I deserve it.”

“You do not deserve it,” he replies. “We all have our blind spots.”

He stands and walks over to Gran’s curio cabinet. He looks at the photo of my mother, then puts it down. He picks up the photo of Gran and me at the Olive Garden. He smiles, then returns to his seat on the sofa.

“Dad, what exactly did you see at the hotel that made you suspicious of illegal activity? Do you think there’s actual drug-running happening at the Regency Grand?”

“No,” I say definitively before he can answer. “The Regency Grand is a clean establishment. Mr. Snow wouldn’t have it any other way. The only other issue is Juan Manuel.”

“Juan Manuel Morales, the dishwasher?” Mr. Preston asks.

“Yes,” I reply. “I certainly wouldn’t tell tales under ordinary circumstances, but these are far from ordinary circumstances.”

“Go on,” Charlotte says.

Mr. Preston leans forward, adjusting himself around the sofa’s pointier springs.

I explain everything. How Juan Manuel’s work permit expired some time ago, how he has nowhere to live, and how Rodney secretly lets him stay overnight in empty hotel rooms. I explain the overnight bags I drop off, and how I clean up after Juan Manuel and his friends every morning.

“I’ll admit,” I say, “I really don’t know how so much dust can be tracked into a room in just one night.”

Charlotte puts her pen down on her pad and addresses her father. “Wow, Dad. What a fine establishment you work at.”

“Par excellence, as they say in France,” I add.

Mr. Preston has his head in his hands and is shaking it back and forth. “I should have known,” he says. “The burn marks on Juan Manuel’s arms, the way he avoided me whenever I asked how he was doing.”

It’s only then that the jigsaw pieces connect in my mind. Rodney’s behemoth friends, the dust, the parcels and overnight bags. The traces of cocaine on my trolley.

“Oh my lord,” I say. “Juan Manuel. He’s being abused and coerced.”

“He’s being forced to cut drugs every night in the hotel,” Mr. Preston says. “And he’s not the only one being used. They’ve been using you, too, Molly.”

I try to swallow the enormous lump that has formed in my throat.

I see it all clearly, all of it. “I haven’t only been working as a maid, have I?” I ask.

“I’m afraid not,” Charlotte replies. “I’m sorry to say it, Molly, but you’ve also been working as a mule.”