Page 7 of The Maid's Secret

“He claims he’s got Napoleon’s toilet paper in there.”

“I’m sorry?” Mr.Preston exclaimed.

“He swears the fine French lace in that jar was used to wipe the emperor’s royal arse. He tried to sell it to me!”

“For how much?” I asked.

“You’re missing the point,” Angela replied. “There’s only one authentic thing in that jar.”

“What?” I asked.

“The shite, Molly,” Angela answered.

“How do you know the lace wasn’t Napoleon’s?” I countered. “You’re not a world-renowned antiquities appraiser.”

“She’s right,” said my gran-dad. “With Brown and Beagle, you never know what might have value.”

“You’re as bonkers as they are,” Angela said, pointing a thumb at the throng of Bee-lievers gathered behind her.

“See you in the tearoom?” I said.

“Wouldn’t miss it for all the junk in the world,” Angela replied.

“I’ll stay here to help Angela,” said Mr.Preston.

“Much appreciated,” Angela replied. “Later, Molly.”

I took my leave and trundled down the long corridor leading to the tearoom. The space was as I left it the night before, each of the forty round tables crisply laid with white linens, a napkin folded into a graceful crane for each place setting, and every bit of Regency Grand silver polished to perfection. What was different was the stage at the front of the room, where the film crew was taping down electrical cords and setting up a display table between three high-backed thrones—on one side, two thrones for the hit show’s famous hosts and on the other, a third for the guest.

Mr.Snow stood in front of the stage as the lights beat down on him. He was conversing with a man in a rumpled T-shirt who was carrying a clipboard and wearing a baseball cap with a badge on it that saidIRONICin big, yellow letters. Mr.Snow, dressed in an elegant three-piece suit, nodded as he listened to instructions.

He spotted me and waved me over. “Thank goodness you’re here, Molly. The TV crew arrived far earlier than expected, and as I think you’ll find, they’re terrifically eager to begin.”

“But it’s only eighta.m. Filming starts at ten,” I said. “We’ve got staff appraisals first.”

“Actually, we’ve already begun filming,” the man in the ironic baseball cap said. “The best shots are happy accidents.”

“In my experience, accidents are rarely happy,” I replied.

“Molly, this is Steve,” said Mr.Snow, “the showrunner forHidden Treasures.”

“Honored to meet you,” I replied, offering a circumspect curtsy. I fully expected Steve to tip his ball cap, or better yet remove it completely, but I was afforded no such courtesy.

“What do you do here?” Steve asked.

“Head Maid and Special Events Manager, at your service,” I replied.“Normally, you would not have to ask such a question because I’d be properly attired in my maid uniform, with my name tag pinned adroitly above my heart for ease of identification. But alas, no one was expecting your crewquite so earlythis morning.”

“Right,” said Steve. “So, can we get the audience and staff in here, split? We’re ready to shoot.”

“Wait, you’re filming staff appraisals?” I asked.

“Like I said, we film everything,” said Steve. “All participants need to sign the appearance waiver. You wanna meet the Bees, you gotta sign on the dotted line,” he said as he tapped the stack of waivers on his clipboard.

From the look on Mr.Snow’s face, I could see he was as surprised as I was by this news. “Very well,” he said with a sniff. “Molly, alert the staff downstairs, and I’ll tell Angela.”

Steve nodded and left us. I dialed Juan immediately.

“This is Juan, the love of your life,” he answered. “How can I be of assistance?”

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