Page 24 of The Mistletoe Mystery

“What on earth has gotten into you?” I ask.

“I…I can’t quite say,” he replies.

“Well, there, there,” I reply as I pat his arm. “No need for tears over a Christmas party.”

He recovers and puts his hankie away. “I’ll see you at noon?” he asks.

“You will,” I reply as I head up the stairs and make my way through the gold revolving doors.

The hotel lobby looks even more resplendent today than it did yesterday. It’s as though elves worked through the night to add more touches of Christmas cheer. Giant silver snowflakes hang from the ceiling on invisible strings, and the tree is lit and shining bright. The area around it is cordoned off for the party, and beneath it are stacks of beautifully wrapped gifts, delivered by Secret Santas in preparation for today’s festivities.

The grand staircase has new decorations, too. Fresh garlands wind down the brass railings, and at the bottom, on the last stair, is a holiday décor piece I’ve never seen before—an enchanting evergreen archway that looks like the entrance to a magical Christmas land. Dangling from its center is a sprig of mistletoe held by a red velvet ribbon. As I take in the scene before me, I breathe deeply, the fragrances commingling in the air—pine needles and mulled cider, cinnamon and spice.

Mr. Snow is standing by the cordons, giving instructions to a valet. “Molly!” he calls out when he spots me.

I walk over as the valet trots away. “What do you think?” he asks, holding a hand up to the gloriously festive scene behind him.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Mr. Snow,” I say. “The hotel has never looked better. But why go to such lengths this year?”

“Look your best for every guest—advice straight from yourhandbook, Molly. It applies as much to our lobby as it does to our staff, don’t you agree?”

A blush rises in my cheeks. “I heartily agree, Mr. Snow. But I must get going. Much to do today before noon. See you then with bells on?”

Mr. Snow jingles his corsage. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

—

The rest of my morning is spent toiling upstairs with the other maids. We’re working hard to clean as many rooms as possible before the commencement of our holiday party, when Housekeeping will be down to a skeleton staff, as will all departments in the hotel. Remarkably, even Cheryl is pulling her weight today, for the most part.

That being said, after a couple of hours laboring under my supervision, Cheryl does her usual disappearing act, carting laundry out of the room we’re supposed to be cleaning together and never returning. By the time I’ve changed the sheets, vacuumed the floor into Zen garden lines, sanitized all glossy surfaces, and scrubbed until the washroom is spotlessly clean, there’s still no sign of her. I wheel my trolley out of the room to look for her. It doesn’t take long to spot her. She’s just down the hall, leaning on Sunitha’s trolley as Sunitha and Sunshine replenish it with supplies. I make my way over.

“I saw him with my own eyes, and so did she. Mr. Dishy was up to something fishy,” she says with a hearty guffaw.

“Cheryl,” I cut in, my voice a sharp blade. She jumps at the sound, knocking over a tower of toilet paper on the trolley, which Sunitha bends to collect before the rolls make their way farther down the hall.

“Cheryl, what were you just saying?” I ask. “Something about Juan Manuel?”

She stares at me, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish out of water.

“She was saying something so ridiculous it doesn’t bear repeating,” Sunshine offers as she dumps a handful of miniature shampoos into the tray on Sunitha’s trolley.

“It’s no secret,” says Cheryl. “Molly saw him, too.”

“I swear,” says Sunshine, “if you open that piehole of yours one more time, I’ll take one of these little shampoo bottles,pour the contents into your mouth, and scrub it clean myself.”

“You shouldn’t spread rumors,” Sunitha adds. “It’s wrong.”

They both appear ready to hop over the trolley and scratch Cheryl’s eyes out.

“Now, now,” I say. “I realize Cheryl’s affinity for spreading intracompany news often surpasses our internal memos, but in this case she’s right. Juan Manuelwasupstairs yesterday. In a guest’s room.”

“Maybe he was,” says Sunshine, “but there must be a good reason why.”

“Or Cheryl has the facts wrong,” Sunitha adds. “As usual.”

Sunshine checks her watch and sighs. “Molly, it’s noon. It’stime for the party. Can we let this go? Clean the slate? Wipe it away for another day?”

“There’s nothing I’d rather do than that,” I reply.

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