I do wish people would pick up their feet when they walk. It’s most slovenly to shuffle like that. It leaves a very poor impression.
Now, now, let’s not judge others too harshly. I hear it in my head in Gran’s voice, a reminder to be gracious and forgiving. It’s a fault of mine, to be quick to judge or to want the world to function according to my laws.
We must be like bamboo. We must learn to bend and flex with the wind.
Bend and flex. Not my strong suits.
I head down the stairs and out of my building. I decide to walk all the way to work—a twenty-minute jaunt that’s pleasant enough in good weather, though today the clouds are broody and threaten rain. I breathe a sigh of relief the second I set eyes on the bustling hotel. I’m a professional half hour early for my shift, as is my way.
I greet Mr. Preston at the front doors.
“Oh Molly. Tell me you’re not working today.”
“I am. Cheryl called in sick last night.”
He shakes his head. “Naturally. Molly, are you all right? You had quite a scare yesterday, so I hear. I’m terribly sorry…about what you saw.”
My dream flashes in my head for a moment, mixed with the real vision of Mr. Black, dead in his bed. “No need to be sorry, Mr. Preston. It’s not your fault. But I’ll admit, this whole situation has been a bit…trying. I’ll keep calm and carry on.” A thought occurs to me. “Mr. Preston, did Mr. Black receive any visitors yesterday, friendly or…otherwise?”
Mr. Preston adjusts his cap. “Not that I noticed,” he says. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, no reason,” I say. “The police will investigate, I’m sure. Especially if something is amok.”
“Amok?” Mr. Preston fixes me with a serious stare. “Molly, if ever you need anything—any help at all—you just remember your ol’ friend Mr. Preston, you hear?”
I am not the kind to impose on other people. Surely Mr. Preston knows that much about me by now. His face is stern, his eyebrows knit with concern that even I can read clearly.
“Thank you, Mr. Preston,” I say. “I appreciate your kind offer. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m sure there’s extra cleaning to tackle today since there were many officers and paramedics traipsing through this hotel yesterday. I fear not all of their boots are as clean as yours.”
He tips his hat and turns his attention to some guests who are trying, unsuccessfully, to hail a cab.
“Taxi!” he calls out, then turns back to me for a moment, “Take good care, Molly. Please.”
I nod and make my way up the plush red stairs. I push through the shiny revolving doors, jostling against guests heading in and out. In the front lobby, I see Mr. Snow by the reception desk. His glasses are akimbo, and a lock of hair has escaped his gelled-back coiffure. It wags back and forth on his head like a disapproving finger.
“Molly, I’m so glad you’re here. Thank you,” he says. He holds the day’s newspaper in his hand. It’s hard not to notice the headline: WEALTHY TYCOON CHARLES BLACK TURNS UP DEAD IN THE REGENCY GRAND HOTEL.
“Have you read this?” he asks.
He passes me the paper and I scan the article. It explains how a maid found Mr. Black dead in his bed. My name, thank goodness, is not mentioned. Then it talks about the Black family and the strife between his children and his ex-wife. “Rumors have been swirling for years around the legitimacy of Black Properties & Investments, with allegations of fraudulent dealings and embezzlement being shut down by Black’s powerful team of attorneys.”
Halfway through the article, I catch the name Giselle and read more carefully. “Giselle Black, Mr. Black’s second wife, is thirty-five years his junior. She is the presumed heir to the Black fortunes, which have been the subject of family feuds in recent years. After Giselle Black’s husband was found dead, she was seen leaving the hotel wearing dark glasses, accompanied by an unknown male. According to various staff members at the hotel, the Blacks are regular guests at the Regency Grand. When asked if Mr. Black conducted business at the hotel, Mr. Alexander Snow, the hotel manager, had no comment. According to lead detective Stark, foul play has not yet been ruled out as Mr. Black’s cause of death.”
I finish reading the article and pass the paper back to Mr. Snow. I suddenly feel unsteady on my feet as the implications of that final line sink in.
“Do you see, Molly? They’re suggesting that this hotel is…is…”
“Foul,” I offer. “Unclean.”