Page 58 of The Mystery Guest

I don’t have much time. Gran will no doubt call for me yet again. I rush into the corridor and tiptoe down the front stairs. I grab my shoes from the vestibule, slip them on, then turn the front doorknob and sneak out the front door, closing it soundlessly behind me.

I skip down the path of roses, beyond their best bloom now, their necks heavy, petals dropping onto the cobblestones. As I walk, I search for a specimen that’s not yet faded and spent. It takes some time, but eventually I spot a dark crimson flower hidden deep in a thicket, its petals unfurling into its zenith of splendor. I reach my arm into the prickly brambles, ignoring the sting of thorns until my fingers find the stem that feeds the last resplendent rose. I pinch the stem and crack it, then pull the flower from the dense brush. There are scratches up and down my arm, red pinprick tracks, but that doesn’t matter, because what I hold in my hand is worth it—a fleeting treasure, the last specimen of this year’s crop.

I walk the rest of the path with my rose carried gingerly in both hands. When I reach the wrought-iron gate, I press the intercom button just like Gran always does. I speak into the little slats.

“Can you hear me?” I ask. “Can you see me? I am Molly, Maid-in-Training. Over and out.”

I wait for a response. Nothing. I look out at the watchtower, then push the button again.

“Whoever you are, I know you helped my gran and me. You lent us money for our rent. I think that’s very generous. I just wanted to bring you a gift,” I say. “And to tell you myself: thank you.”

A click, the sound of static.

“My dear girl, you’re most welcome,” I hear.

I look again at the watchtower. The tinted windows reveal nothing, but that doesn’t stop me from holding up my rose to the man in the tower before leaving it on the ledge by the intercom.

I bow deeply, executing my very best curtsy in his direction. Then I hurry up the path of roses and back to the mansion.

Ever since I was a small child, I’ve been told—in direct and indirect ways—that I am a failure. Not good enough. Doesn’t meet the bar. Fails to grasp what others understand with relative ease. Molly the Mutant. Roomba the Robot. Oddball Moll.

Before this very moment, I never fully believed any of these pronouncements. I railed against the assumption that my differences made me lesser than. I refused to accept it. But now, as my feet pound the sidewalk and I rush off to work, where I will have to face Mr. Preston for the first time since I mistook him for a murderer, I’m starting to believe that everything that’s always been said about me might be true. Maybe Iamlesser than. I most certainly am a fool, an A-S-S if ever there was one. How could I ever mistake Mr. Preston for a bad egg? How could I make such an awful blunder? And if I’m daft enough to do that, what other colossal errors am I capable of?

Juan Manuel called me this morning while I was finishing chew#14 of a bite of English muffin. I swallowed, then asked him, “Am I a good person? Am I a good egg?”

He was silent for a moment on the other end of the line. “Mi amor,what are you talking about? You’re more than a good egg. Molly, you’re my Fabergé.”

I gulped down my tea, then changed the subject entirely, asking Juan about his trip and his mother and his siblings, until he cheerily chirped away and forgot all about my strange questions.

Now, I arrive at the front entrance of the Regency Grand, with its elegant façade. Valets bustle about, helping guests with their luggage. Mr. Preston, in his doorman’s coat and cap, stands at his podium on the landing, a portrait of dignity and grace. He sees me pause at the bottom of the stairs. My legs won’t move. I don’t deserve the red carpet. I never have.

He rushes down the stairs and grabs my arm. “Molly, are you all right?”

“I am not all right. I have never been all right.”

“There, there,” he says, guiding me up the staircase. “One foot in front of the other. It’s the only way to get anywhere in this life.”

“Gran used to say that,” I tell him as I steady myself on his arm.

“I know,” he replies.

We stop at the landing in front of the revolving doors. “I accused you of a terrible thing. You shouldn’t forgive me, Mr. Preston. I don’t deserve your kindness.”

“We all make mistakes. It’s what we do after that matters.”

“Gran used to say that, too.”

He smiles and squeezes my arm. I never fully appreciated until now just how old he’s become in a short time, how gray his hair is, no longer tinged with black but fully sterling. Even this I have not seen clearly until now. Mr. Preston is going to retire at some point soon, which means I won’t see him every day. The very thought makes my heart heavy.

“Molly,” Mr. Preston says, “I spoke with Angela last night. She wants to talk to us. Right away.”

“You spoke with Angela?” I repeat dumbly as I wonder why on earth Mr. Preston would be in touch with her after hours.

“When you and I talked yesterday, it got me thinking. I called her because I wanted her thoughts on that missing box that was in the lobby and that rare first edition of Grimthorpe’s novel I saw in the pawnshop window. You were right about one thing, Molly—there’s something fishy about all of it. Angela didn’t have much light to shed last night, but this morning, she has a bee in her bonnet. She wants to see us in the restaurant.”

“Very well,” I say. “I have a few minutes before my shift.”

Mr. Preston tells the valets he’s taking a break, then points the way through the revolving front doors of the hotel, following close behind me.

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