The Mystery Guest

I hop to my feet and help Gran to stand. I pull a tissue from the box on the kitchen table, passing it to her. Then I grab a kitchen chair and rush to the front door. I stand on it, looking through the fish-eye peephole.

I’m instantly deflated by what I see. “It’s Mr. Rosso,” I say.

“Leave him to me,” Gran replies, as she sniffs and blows her nose. Then she comes to the door as I move my kitchen chair away.

She opens the door to our landlord, with his bulbous nose and his arms crossed against his round belly.

“Good day, Mr. Rosso,” Gran says. “I trust you’re having a pleasant one.” Her singsong voice catches in her throat.

“Rent day’s only pleasant when everyone pays,” he replies.

Gran presses her hands together, then rubs them against her thighs. “Mr. Rosso,” she says. “I’m afraid we’ve encountered an unforeseen situation that has led to a delay in our rent payment.”

“Now say that again in plain English,” Mr. Rosso replies.

“We don’t have the rent money. But I’ll pay you soon.”

Mr. Rosso’s face goes from regular red to a shade somewhere between flaming beet and blood-red rose. “This building is crawling with good-for-nothing bums, but I thought you were better than them, Flora. I really did.”

“I’m terribly sorry to disappoint,” she replies. “There’s that saying about lemons and lemonade, but in this instance, I don’t even have lemons, so there’s not much I can do. Sometimes, Mr. Rosso, life interferes with a person’s best intentions.”

“Not without consequence,” Mr. Rosso replies, his nostrils flaring. “It’s the only way people like you ever learn.” He turns and shuffles down the hall.

“I’m sorry?” Gran calls after him. “Might you explain what you mean by people like us?”

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.

Chapter 16

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 5:00 p.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.