Page 18 of The Mistletoe Mystery

“Oh, Molly. Thank goodness you’re here,” she says. “I’m falling behind already.”

“Not to worry. We’ll catch up in a jiffy. I’ll deal with Cheryl,” I say.

“Thank you,” says Lily, with an audible sigh of relief.

“Where is she?”

“ ‘Taking a load off.’ As usual.” Lily points to a guest room at the far end of the floor.

I make my way over to where Cheryl’s trolley is propping the door open. The moment I enter, Cheryl pops up from an easy chair and brazenly attempts to stuff her gossip magazine under the mattress of the unmade king-sized bed.

“I was just—”

“Shirking,” I say. With Cheryl, it’s best to interrupt the lamentable excuses before the offense to my ears becomes intolerable.

Cheryl has been on thin ice ever since she was caught last year handling hotel items that didn’t belong to her. While Cheryl wasn’t exactly penitent about her cleptomaniacal tendencies, I’ll admit I took pity on her and petitioned Mr. Snow to give her a second chance to prove herself worthy of a job. And she’s shown…mediocre improvement since then. But let’s just say there are times, including now, when I regret my inclination toward mercy.

“Might I ask,” I say, “how you intend to make up for leaving Lily in the lurch, cleaning rooms by herself all morning?”

As I say this, I remove the magazine Cheryl stuffed under the mattress and hand it back to her.

“I’ll finish the rest of the rooms on this floor while Lily takes a long lunch,” Cheryl says. “Fair and square, the maids all share.”

She’s quoting fromA Maid’s Guide & Handbook,a set of rules I developed to codify proper conduct amongst Regency Grand maids. I’m pleased that, for once, she’s spouting something other than stories from her gossip rags.

Just then, a familiar sound echoes through the hallway—someone singing along to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” I poke my head out the door, and Cheryl does the same. Both of us scan the hallway for the source of the sound.

“Oh look, it’s Señor Dishy,” Cheryl says.

My hackles go up instantly. “You mean Juan Manuel,” I reply.

“I mean your lover boy, the dishwasher.”

“The pastry chef,” I offer by way of correction. “He was promoted as a reward for his hard work and loyalty—something to think about.”

“Loyalty? You sure about that?”

As we both look on, Juan knocks on a guest’s door, and a female patron dressed only in a bathrobe comes slinking out to greet him.

“Am I ever excited to see you! Especially after your special delivery the other day,” she says with a wink. “Come in! I’ve got a little something for you…”

As I watch, dumbfounded, the woman grabs Juan Manuel by the arm and pulls him into her room. The next thing I know, the door slams closed behind them.

“What was it you were saying about loyalty?” Cheryl asks.

“Best get started on the bed,” I reply. “Strip it bare and put on fresh sheets.” I grab clean ones from the trolley and thrust them at Cheryl.

Normally, I’d help her make the bed, but a vertiginous sensation has overcome me, and I’m struggling to remain upright. My entire equilibrium has been thrown so off kilter I fear I may faint right in the open doorway. I peek down thehall one more time and see Juan emerge from the mystery guest’s room, the door clicking closed behind him. He folds a few fresh bills in half and stuffs them into the breast pocket of his chef’s uniform. Then he saunters down the corridor humming “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” and acting like entering a woman’s hotel room is the most quotidian thing in the world.

Cheryl throws the fresh sheets on top of the bed, then joins me again at the lookout spot. “Men,” she says, once Juan is out of sight. “Just when you think you know them, they make you question everything.”

“Best not to jump to conclusions. I’m sure there’s some logical explanation,” I say in a voice so unnatural I sound like a braying donkey.

“Oh, there’s an explanation all right,” Cheryl says. “Here.” She hands me her magazine, flipped open to an article with a headline that reads:3 Surefire Ways to Know If He’s Cheating on You.

I don’t want to read this rubbish, but my eyes have ideas of their own.

#1.Does your boyfriend disappear and reappear with no explanation?

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