Page 105 of The Maid's Secret

“Over my dead body,” Juan replies.

Just then, Gran-dad drives up and we hop in his car. He’s wearing his doorman’s greatcoat and cap, his uniform out of retirement for today only, since he’s filling in for Speedy. Speedy has officially called in “sick,” but unofficially, he’ll be upstairs, manning the Black Hole.

We drive in silence to the hotel, and Juan and I say goodbye to Mr.Preston on the red-carpeted stairs.

“Everything will be okay in the end, Molly,” my gran-dad says.

“Let’s hope that’s true,” I reply.

Juan and I leave Gran-dad and make our way through the revolving doors, heading straight to the fourth floor, where Detective Stark lets us into the penthouse suite. It’s now a high-tech hub, the furnishings pushed to the walls to make room for monitors, speakers, and keyboards. Speedy is working with Stark’s surveillance team, checking the feeds as Detective Stark looks on.

Speedy looks up. “Youmaidit!” he says when he sees me. “Get it?”

Of course I did, as it was a pun.

“Madre mía,”Juan exclaims as he surveys the various cameras that let us watch what’s happening all over the hotel. “This is incredible.”

“Layer in the sound,” Detective Stark orders. One of her officers slides a switch on the console, then Speedy directs us screen by screen so we suddenly hear what’s happening in each surveillance location. There’s Mr.Preston on the red-carpeted stairs giving guests directions to a waffle house. And there’s Cheryl in the housekeepingquarters mumbling about sore feet and taking a load off. Angela and Mr.Snow are in the greenroom greeting the Bees, who are dapperly dressed as usual and who are asking for me. “She’ll be down soon,” says Angela, clear as a bell.

“Speedy,” I say, “you really are a technical wizard.”

“Big ups to po-po here. She got us all this sick equipment,” Speedy says.

“And if we catch the thief,” Stark replies, “I may forgive what you just called me.” She then turns to me. “We’re all set. Molly, Juan, Speedy, you know what to do?”

“Totes,” says Speedy.

“We’re ready,” Juan and I reply.

We ran through everything the night before—how I will be in the tearoom with the Bees and Mr.Snow, watching the auction unfold; Detective Stark will stay in the Black Hole with Speedy, overseeing the cameras and sound; Angela will be in the bedroom beside them, calling in her winning bid to a dealer in the tearoom who, thanks to Stark faking Angela’s credentials and bank balance, is convinced she’s a nouveau riche collector; Mr.Preston will man the entrance and report any suspicious intruders; and two officers have been assigned “hen duty” with Juan—protecting the egg not only when it will leave the safe in Mr.Snow’s office but when it is taken to the tearoom before the auction begins. There will also be several plainclothes police officers scattered through the hotel.

Last night, I’d insisted on no display case. “Juan will hold the egg,” I demanded. I wanted the person I trusted most in all the world to hold it in the palms of his hands. The detective agreed.

“Good luck, Molly,” says Stark now as she sees me and Juan out the penthouse door. “If anything goes wrong, we’re a text message away.”

Juan and I make our way downstairs to the front lobby, which is buzzing with expectation. The settee area is cordoned off, and within it are various dealers and art aficionados wearing Bee & Bee VIP lanyards, all of them waiting patiently to be let into the tearoom. It’scertainly not as busy as it was the last time we attempted a sale of the Fabergé, but as I look at the crowd, I suddenly feel very nervous indeed.

“We’ll get through this, Molly,” Juan says. He squeezes my hand, then we part ways.

I head to the tearoom and find my place at a table up front. Soon after, Mr.Snow enters and takes the seat beside me.

“All good upstairs and everywhere else?” I ask.

“Affirmative,” he replies.

Soon, a valet enters and escorts the guests from the lobby into the room. They take their assigned seats and get comfortable. At theback, dealers pick up phones, making contact with buyers all around the world. I spot Madame Orange, the familiar buyer, amongst them; today she is wearing a different dress but it’s as tangerine in shade as the one she wore the last time she was here. She gets on a call, talking with her “foreign buyer,” who, little does she know, has hair that matches her dress and who is just four floors above us.

“It’s starting,” Mr.Snow announces a few minutes later.

Two burly officers make their way through the tearoom entrance, hands on their holsters. Behind them comes Juan. In his steady, white-gloved hands he holds Gran’s egg, and the twinkling sight of it brings a frog to my throat. I don’t know why, but it’s like Gran herself is being carried into the room. I push the emotion down as Juan takes the stage, his eyes meeting mine.

Tall Baxley Brown and his diminutive husband, Thomas Beagle, emerge from the greenroom. They step up to the podium as a hush descends.

“Good morning, all. I’m Baxley Brown.”

“And I’m Thomas Beagle.”

“And together we represent Brown & Beagle Auction House…”

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