Page 53 of The Mystery Guest

Gran and I stick our heads out the door in anticipation of a response, but Mr. Rosso never offers one. He doesn’t so much as glance back our way.

We step into our apartment, and Gran gently clicks the door closed and locks it.

“What did he mean, Gran?” I ask. “What’s going to happen?”

“Idle threats, dear. Nothing to worry about.” She takes in a deep breath, exhales, and then claps her hands together. “Why don’t we do what we do best? Why don’t we deep-clean the apartment?”

“Deep cleaning to give life meaning,” I chime.

“Tidy up to cheer us up,” Gran answers.

“What are you waiting for? Grab a duster, Buster!” I say, as I race to the kitchen to prepare a bucket and rags for our Deep Cleaning Adventure.

We spend the entire afternoon scrubbing and dusting, polishing and wiping. Though Gran looks tired and doesn’t hum the way she usually does, I feel glorious, invigorated by the scent of zesty lemon that billows in the air, the comforting smell of home.

As dusk settles in and the day fades to black, everything in our modest apartment, from the kitchen to the washroom, from the front entrance to both of our bedrooms, is spotlessly, immaculately, perfectly clean.

Gran and I always save the best for last. We’re in the living room, clearing out her curio cabinet. We sit on the floor surrounded by Swarovski crystal animals, souvenir spoons, and framed photos. Gran holds the photo of my mother in her hands. A deep furrow reappears on her forehead as she rubs the gold frame, trying to make it shine.

There’s a strange sound—an electric sizzle. Then suddenly, the lights go out.

Silence.

“Gran?” I call out.

I can’t see anything. It’s pitch-black in the living room, where I’m sitting on the floor, but I discover my ears work even better in the dark.

What I hear next is a plaintive, distinctive sound—a mother sheep calling out to a lamb she will never see again.

I work side by side with Lily for the rest of the day in the hope that my presence might help her open up to me, but alas, my efforts fail to yield results. She utters a grand total of two sentences through the remainder of the day: “Pass me a fresh towel, please?” and “May I take a washroom break?” Whatever is bothering Lily, I know better than to pry it out of her—Good things come to those who wait.

The only spot of good news is that together, in near silence, we managed to clean more than our allotted roster of guest rooms, leaving them immaculate and pristine, as though life had never sullied them, as though all manner of filth and grime never existed. If only that were true, though. We both know it’s not. Because as much as we clean these rooms, we don’t know the guests inhabiting them, and one of those guests might be Mr. Grimthorpe’s murderer. And if the culprit wasn’t a guest, then who was it?

It is now precisely 5:00p.m., and our shift is over. “The day is done,” I tell Lily. “Thank you for your diligent, if silent, work,” I say.

She does not respond, does not even look me in the eye. She gets behind her trolley and pushes toward the elevator, heading down to the housekeeping quarters, where she will change out of her maid’s uniform and become a civilian until tomorrow.

It’s nearly time to meet Mr. Preston at the Olive Garden, and truth be told, I’ve been thinking about him all day—Mr. Preston, who for years has been a trusted friend. Mr. Preston, who comes for regular Sunday dinners with Juan and me. Mr. Preston, who I’ve long considered family. Mr. Preston, who pawned a stolen book. Mr. Preston, who appears to be—at best—a thief, and at worst…

Rats and scoundrels, fly-by-nights, and wolves in sheep’s clothing. How could Mr. Preston have any association with that lot? And yet I saw with my own eyes how he pawned that first-edition book. He walked right into the shop with it under his arm.

In the housekeeping quarters, I peel off my uniform and change into my plain clothes. Lily is already gone, and so are the other maids. I’m all by myself yet again. I look at my face in the mirror. I’m carrying luggage on it—matching black bags under my eyes. If Juan Manuel were around, he’d write something on a pad like he did the last time I worked myself to a state of exhaustion.

“What’s this?” I asked when he handed me the paper.

“A prescription,” he replied.

“R & R, once daily for Molly Gray,” I read. “To be administered by J. M., via a bubble bath, a foot massage, and spaghetti and meatballs for dinner—no cleanup by Ms. Molly allowed.” There was a heart after my name.

I miss him so much. If he were here, he’d know just what to do. In his absence, who can I turn to?

Just then, Angela appears in the doorway of the change room, making me jump.

“You scared me half to death!” I say. “What are you doing down here? You should be upstairs at the Social.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Angela says. “But I’m doing a little private investigating. I talked with the kitchen staff to see if the police had tested all the liquids in the pantry for poisons.”

Here she goes again, I think to myself. “Angela, why are you getting involved? Just stay out of it,” I say.

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