The Mystery Guest

She stares at me in a way that does not match any expression I have ever collected in my mental catalogue of human behaviors. “Who’s the boss?” she asks, her voice a shaky whisper.

“What do you mean?” I reply.

“Is it Cheryl or you?”

“Today, Cheryl is Head Maid. Tomorrow things will return to normal. Is that acceptable?”

She shrugs.

“Lily, if ever you have a problem, you can come to me.”

“Can I?” she asks. “Is that how it works?”

“Of course that’s how it works,” I say.

“But loose lips sink ships. You said so yourself when you hired me. ‘Discretion is paramount at the Regency Grand.’ ”

“Lily, you’re the last person I would ever accuse of indiscretion,” I say. “It’s taken me weeks to get you to speak at all. Please don’t go mute on me now.”

“I’m trying. But…it’s not easy. I’m counting on this job, Molly. I got fired once before, and I can’t have it happen again.”

This is the first time she’s mentioned a previous job loss, and the news comes as quite a shock. I swallow my surprise and gently ask, “What happened?”

“I was a cashier in a grocery store before this,” Lily says.

“I remember,” I say. “You had that on your résumé.”

“But what I didn’t tell you is that when I reported a theft by another cashier, it was blamed on me, and I was fired. I figured if I told you, you’d never hire me. And now, I’m scared to say anything at all. Molly, who should I trust?”

“Me,” I say. “You’re supposed to trust me.” As I look at Lily, it’s like seeing my old self in a mirror. When I started at the hotel, I trusted no one, and there are times to this day when that unsettling feeling returns.

“Molly, one day you’re my boss, and the next day you’re not,” Lily explains. “And a man I served tea died in the tearoom.” She turns away from me to obliterate some smudgy fingerprints on the window.

“Lily,” I say. “If you’re worried about a murderer in this hotel, I can tell you with complete sincerity there’s no reason to believe there is one.” My stomach does a flip-flop, because what I’m saying is not an irrefutable fact.

Lily turns and stares at me, her eyes expressionless and dull. “The maid is always to blame,” she says, then returns to cleaning without another word.

I can’t help it. I’m feeling quite exasperated by this conversation, and I sigh out loud. Honest to goodness, I am trying my best, but I don’t know how to help this girl. It occurs to me that perhaps the best way is without words, by working with her side by side.

I tackle the bed in silence, removing the dirty sheets and putting on new ones. A tidy bed calms the head, I think to myself. But it’s not working. My head is nowhere near calm, and it’s clear that Lily is in her own state of dishevelment.

I take the soiled sheets over to her trolley and am about to bag them when I notice something in her recycling bin—a folded banker’s box with the name Serena written clearly in black marker on the lid. It’s the box that disappeared during the fire alarm yesterday.

“Lily,” I say.

She turns to face me.

“Did you put this box in your trolley?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“Do you know who did?”

She shakes her head again, then stares at me with those dark, glassy eyes.

“Tell me, Lily. I implore you.”

She has only one thing to say: “Loose lips sink ships.”

—

My nerves are frayed. As I help Lily clean Room 429, I feel desperately unsettled. I know the true source of my malaise. It is not really Lily, though of course I’m concerned about her. It’s not even Mr. Grimthorpe’s death or the strange occurrences in the hotel. It’s the fact that I’ve become embroiled in a lie, and the very notion shakes me to the core of my being.

Tell a lie once and your truth becomes questionable. Gran’s voice keeps echoing in my head, and I can’t make it stop.

“Lily,” I say. “It’s lunch hour. Time for a break.”

She nods, puts down her spray bottle, and quickly leaves the room.

I suddenly know what I have to do, and there’s not a moment to lose.

I leave the room in a state of imperfection and hurry down to the lobby. I exit the hotel, making my way to the bottom of the plush, red-carpeted stairs. Mr. Preston spots me and stops me.

“Molly,” he says. “Where are you off to in such a rush?”

“An errand,” I explain. “I’ll be back later.”

“I’ve got one to run myself,” he says. “Now, Molly, about that dinner we were going to have this Sunday, I was thinking—”

“Mr. Preston,” I say, interrupting. “Can our dinner please wait until Juan Manuel returns? I’m barely managing as it is, and I just don’t think I can handle anything more right now.”

Mr. Preston’s face falls like a cake taken out of the oven too soon, but before he can say anything else, some businessmen with luggage in tow wave him down. He jumps to their service while I make my hasty retreat.