Page 15 of The Maid's Secret

“It was given to me by a gardener,” I say. I explain the full story,how as a child, I worked for several weeks alongside my gran as a maid in the mansion of a famous writer, and how one object—a magnificent, bejeweled egg on the mantel in the writer’s parlor—completely enchanted me.

“Fascinating,” says Brown. “Now this writer, can we confirm this story with him?”

“That will prove difficult,” I reply.

“Why?” Beagle asks.

“Because the writer, J.D. Grimthorpe, is very dead.”

“Wait now,” says Brown as he scratches his perfect head of blond hair. “Wasn’t that the author who was poisoned in this tearoom a couple of years ago?”

“The very one,” I reply.

“The plot thickens,” says Beagle as he rubs his hands together. “So how did Grimthorpe’s egg make its way to you?”

“I had reason to visit the mansion after Grimthorpe’s death,” I explain. “And Jenkins, the gardener, whom I knew when I was a child, was cleaning out the parlor, throwing out some old things, including the egg, but knowing how much I’d loved it when I was young, he offered it to me.”

“Did you have any idea of its worth?” Brown asks as he points to the Fabergé glowing brightly on the table between us.

“No. The only person who suggested it might be valuable was J.D.’s wife, Mrs.Grimthorpe, but I never really believed her.”

“And why not?” Beagle asks.

“She had a habit of overestimating her own worth while underestimating everyone else’s,” I reply.

“We see that a lot in this biz. Don’t we, Bax?”

“That we do,” says Brown as the camera catches his strong jawline.

“When Jenkins the gardener confirmed the egg was a bit of junk, I believed him. But my gran always said beauty is in the eye of the beholder. That’s why I wanted to keep it.”

“Molly, I’m not quite sure you grasp the life change that has just occurred. Do you understand you’re now worth millions?”

I hear the words, and I comprehend them, but I cannot fathom how what Beagle said could be true. “But…I’m just a maid,” I say.

The cameras zoom in on my face and the crowd starts to laugh and coo.

“Molly, do you watch our show regularly?” Brown inquires.

“Oh, I do! I’m an avid fan. So is my husband-to-be, Juan Manuel.” I shade my eyes from the blinding lights and search for him in the crowd. “There he is, front row.”

“That handsome fellow in chef whites?” Beagle asks, sitting up on his throne.

The cameras pan to Juan, who jumps to his feet and waves his arms in the air madly. “I love you, Molly Gray!” he yells. “In sickness and in health, for richer or poorer! But I’m pretty sure we just got a whole lot richer!” Juan throws his chef’s hat in the air, and the crowd goes positively manic.

“My, my,” says Brown when the audience finally calms down. “You’ve got good taste in men, Miss Molly. I do love a man in uniform.”

“Since you’re such a fan of the show, you must have learned a thing or two about the provenance of an antiquity and how it impacts an item’s worth,” says Beagle.

“Indeed I have,” I reply. “Your show is quite educational.”

“Here’s what we know about your golden egg,” Beagle explains. “It left its homeland during the revolution in 1918, likely via Fabergé himself, but after that, the paper trail went cold…until now.”

“Do you have any idea who owned this egg before Grimthorpe?” Brown asks.

“No,” I reply.

“And I’m guessing you have no idea who owned it after Fabergé?” Beagle asks.

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