“Well,” I say, “that is a secret between friends.” I pause, look around the busy restaurant to make sure that no one is paying attention. Nobody so much as glances my way.
“Feeling gun-shy?” he says. There’s a playful smile on his face, and I do believe he may be flirting with me. The very thought catapults my heart into double syncopation.
“Funny that you say that,” I reply. Before I can think of what else to tell him, Rodney says, “We need to talk about Juan Manuel.”
Guilt suddenly overcomes me. “Oh, of course.” I’ve been concentrating so much on Rodney and the excitement of our burgeoning relationship that I’ve all but forgotten about Juan Manuel. It’s clear that Rodney is a better person than I am, always thinking of others and putting himself last instead of first. It’s a reminder of how much he has to teach me, of how much I still have to learn.
“How can I help?” I ask.
“I hear the police are gone and that the Black suite is empty. Is that right?”
“I can confirm that,” I say. “In fact, it won’t be rented out for a while. I’ll be cleaning it first thing today.”
“That’s perfect,” Rodney says. He puts down a polished glass and picks up another. “I figure the safest place for Juan Manuel now is the Black suite,” he says. “The cops are gone; the room won’t be rented out again anytime soon, not for lack of guest interest, though. Have you seen this place today? Every middle-aged, mystery-watching cat lady in town is roaming the lobby hoping to catch a glimpse of Giselle, or whatever. Honestly, it’s pathetic.”
“I promise you this: no curious busybody is getting into that suite,” I say. “I’ve got a job to do, and I intend to do it. Once the suite is clean, I’ll let you know and Juan Manuel can come in.”
“Great,” Rodney says. “Can I ask you for one more thing? Juan Manuel gave me his overnight bag. Would you mind putting it in the suite? Under the bed or something? I’ll let him know it’s there.”
“Of course,” I say. “Anything for you. And Juan Manuel.”
Rodney retrieves the familiar navy-blue duffel bag from beside a beer keg and passes it to me.
“Thanks, Molly,” he says. “Man, I wish all women were awesome like you. Most are much more complicated.”
My heart, beating at double speed already, alights and soars into the air. “Rodney,” I ask, “I was wondering. Perhaps one day we can go for ice cream together? Unless you like jigsaws. Do you like jigsaws?”
“Jigsaws?”
“Yes, jigsaw puzzles.”
“Uh…if those are the choices, I’m more of an ice cream kind of guy. I’m a bit busy these days, but yeah, we’ll go out sometime. Sure.”
I pick up Juan Manuel’s bag, sling it over my shoulder, and start to walk away.
“Molly,” I hear. I turn around. “You forgot your newspapers.”
He plops a large stack on the bar, and I heave them into my arms.
“Thank you, Rodney. You’re too kind.”
“Oh, I know,” he says, winking. Then he turns his back on me to deal with a waitress and her order.
After that deliriously delicious encounter, I head upstairs. I’m practically floating on air, but as soon as I’m outside the door of the former Black suite, the gravity of memory pins me to the ground. It’s been two days since I’ve been in this suite. The door seems bigger than it used to be, more imposing. I breathe in and out, gathering the strength to enter. Then I use my keycard to buzz through, pulling my trolley in behind me. The door clicks shut.
The first thing I notice is the smell, or the lack of smell—no comingling of Giselle’s perfume with Mr. Black’s shaving lotion. As I survey the scene before me, I see that all of the drawers in every piece of furniture are open. The pillows from the couch are on the floor, zippers splayed. The living-room table has been dusted for fingerprints and left like that, prints in flagrante. The surface looks a lot like the finger paintings I was forced to do in kindergarten, even though I hated getting my fingers soiled with paint. A coil of caustic yellow caution tape lies abandoned on the floor outside the bedroom door.
I draw another deep breath and walk farther into the suite. I stand at the threshold to the bedroom. The bed has been stripped bare, no sheets, no mattress cover. I wonder if the police took the sheets away with them. This means I will be low on my bedding count and will have to justify the loss to Cheryl. The pillows have been flung akimbo, stripped of their cases, stains glaring like grotesque bull’s-eyes. There are three pillows only, not four.