Page 59 of The Maid's Secret

“Yeah,” he said, chuckling. “The ‘automobile.’ What do you say to next Saturday night?”

“With you?” I was hoping beyond hope he was proposing a date.

“Pick you up at eight?” he asked.

“I would be delighted,” I said as I bowed my head.

He touched one finger to my chin, tipping it up so my eyes met his.He smiled, so casual, so free. Then he put both of his hands on my bare shoulders and kissed me deeply on the mouth. After a few moments, he drew away to look at me with those icy blue eyes.

“I don’t know who’s more taken by you—me or my father,” he said, “but I think I’m the luckier one.”

“Luckier,” I said breathlessly. “Why?”

“I get to kiss you,” he replied. “He doesn’t.”

He laughed and started to leave. But then he turned to me one more time, tossed that shock of blond hair out of his eyes, and said, “See you Saturday, pretty little flower.”

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Chapter 17

Be careful what you wish for.

It’s been a week since the Fabergé disappeared right from under our noses, and Gran’s refrain has repeated in my head the entire time. For a while there, I really thought Juan and I might be liberated from all financial constraints, free for the first time in our lives from worries about rent and soaring food prices and renoviction and the leaky kitchen sink. Maybe we could buy our apartment outright from Mr.Rosso and become owners of our own home. Maybe we could afford the wedding of our dreams, surrounded by family and friends who would always remember our special day. But just as I dared to dream, the reverie became a nightmare. First, the egg disappeared. Then came the threat:Find the egg and you die.

I will admit all of this has rattled me to the core, though no one else seems as concerned as I am. And Juan—bless his heart—has tried to convince me that the note in the vacuum canister was not a credible threat and I’m not in any real peril.

The day after the heist, I had a Zoom call with Mr.Snow and theBees, who confirmed that the multimillion-dollar sale of the egg was nullified by our inability to produce the oeuvre for the buyer.

“What about insurance?” Mr.Snow shrewdly asked. “Certainly a reputable firm such as Brown& Beagle Auction House has coverage for the priceless heirloom?”

“Of course,” said Brown.

“Absolutely,” echoed Beagle.

“But the insurance policy covers the last known purchase price of the work of art in question,” Brown explained.

“Which in this case is unknown,” added Beagle. “The insurers will cough up something, but don’t expect much unless you hire a lawyer, which, on a maid’s salary seems…”

“Out of the question,” I offered.

This morning, Juan and I walked to work as usual, and when we arrived, he said, “See? At least no one’s looking for you. No one’s waiting for you. No one wants to speak with you. You’re not in any real danger, Molly.”

It was true. Not a single guest filing in or out of the hotel noted our arrival. And while the media had made the egg’s disappearance a news story for the first couple of days, in the days since, people seemed to have lost all hope it would ever be recovered. As for interest in me, while the rags-to-riches story riveted public attention, the maid’s return to rags had been met with a notable deficit in public fanfare. Even Speedy was nonplussed this morning when I asked him if any lookie-loos had inquired about me. He shrugged and uttered a typical Speedyism—“No bling, no thing. You were really bussin’ there for a minute, though.”

“Translation, please?”

“You were popular, Molls. Everyone wanted a piece of you. Some people would kill for that, you know.”

I studied Speedy’s face—his doleful eyes and the way he always looked like a puppy dog about to jump up on you.

“You’re so young, Speedy,” I said as I patted his arm. “Be careful what you wish for.”

“I am careful,” he replied, before bounding down the stairs.

Despite the wallop of bad news lately, I’ve done as Gran would have wanted and am searching for the silver linings. First,Hidden Treasureswon’t be re-airing the auction because Stark classified the footage as evidence, meaning my days as a TV celebrity are, much to my relief, over. Juan and I can now go about our lives and our jobs again if not as usual than at least without being hounded. Second, while Mr.Snow is moderately peeved that hotel reservations have dried up, the entire staff now has a chance to recover from the media circus of the last couple of weeks. Third, Detective Stark has committed to a proper investigation of the theft, which involves a wide-ranging review of possible suspects that for once does not include me. Last but far from least, beyond that dreadful note in the canister, no evidence has surfaced to suggest that anyone is actually plotting my untimely demise.

At lunch hour today, Angela accompanied me to the precinct for an update on the investigation from Detective Stark. I can’t say I was pleased to step foot in that building. My knees quivered as we made our way to the detective’s office.

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