Then it comes to me. They say television is an idle pursuit, but I maintain that I’ve learned many a lesson from Columbo.
Hidden in plain sight.
I carefully put the gun down on the glass table, then go back to my trolley. I remove Juan Manuel’s duffel bag. I head back to the bedroom, where I slide his bag under the bed. Then I return to the sitting room.
I turn my attention to my vacuum cleaner, standing steadfast and at the ready right beside me. I unzip the vacuum bag and take out the dirty filter. I grab a brand-new filter from my trolley and slip the gun inside it. I push the fresh filter into the guts of my vacuum. I zip it up. Out of sight, out of mind. I give the vacuum a shove forward and back. Not a sound does it make, my secret, silent friend.
I pick up the dirty filter and am about to toss it into my rubbish bin when a dusty clump falls out and lands with a dull thud on the carpet. I look down at my feet where the carpet is now sullied with dust and grime. In the middle of the nest of dirt, something gleams. I crouch and take the object into my hand. I wipe away the grime. Gold, thick, encrusted in diamonds and other jewels. A ring. A man’s ring. Mr. Black’s wedding ring. Right there in the palm of my hand.
The good lord gives and the good lord takes away.
I curl my fingers around it. It’s as though my prayers have been answered. “Thank you, Gran,” I say to myself.
Because it’s only then that I know just what to do.
The gun is stowed in my vacuum cleaner. The ring is carefully wrapped in a tissue and tucked in the left cup of my brassiere, right by my heart.
I clean as many other rooms as I can, as fast as I can, using my manual sweeper rather than my power vacuum. At one point, I meet Sunitha in the hallway. She startles when she sees me, which is out of the ordinary. “Oh, so sorry,” she says.
“Sunitha, is something wrong?” I ask. “Are you short on cleaning supplies?”
She grabs my arm. “You found him. Dead. You are a very nice girl. Be careful. Sometimes a place seems as clean as fresh snow, but it’s not. It’s just a trick. You understand?”
I immediately think of Cheryl cleaning sinks with her toilet rags.
“I understand completely, Sunitha. We must always keep clean.”
“No,” she hisses. “You must be more careful. The grass is green, but there are snakes in it.”
And with that, she slithers a white towel in the air, and then drops it into her dirty laundry pile. She looks at me with an expression that does not fit the repertory of any I understand. What has gotten into her? Before I can ask, she pushes her trolley away and into the next room.
I try to put the odd encounter behind me. I concentrate on finishing as soon as I can so that I can skip out to lunch a few minutes early. I’ll need every minute.
It’s time.
I push my trolley to the elevator and wait for it to arrive. Three times the doors open and guests stare out at me, not making the slightest move to allow me to enter even though there’s plenty of room. The maid goes last.
Finally, the doors open and the elevator is empty. I have it to myself all the way down to the basement. I hurry out with my trolley and almost collide with Cheryl as I turn the corner toward my locker.
“Where are you off to in such a rush? And how can you be finished with all those rooms so fast?” she asks.
“I’m efficient,” I reply. “Sorry I can’t dally. I have an errand to run over the lunch hour.”
“An errand? But you usually work straight through your lunch hour,” Cheryl says. “How will you maintain your A+ Exceptional Productivity Score if you’re running all over the place at lunchtime?”
I’m very proud of my A+ Exceptional Productivity Score. Every year, it earns me a Certificate of Excellence from Mr. Snow himself. Cheryl never completes her daily room-cleaning quota, and my excellence bridges the gap.
But as I look at Cheryl, I catch something in her expression that’s always been there, but today I can read it plainly—the curve of her upper lip, the disdain and…something else. I hear Gran’s voice in my head giving me advice about school bullies.
Don’t let them push your buttons.
At the time, I didn’t understand that the buttons weren’t literal. I understand it now. The pieces slide together in my head.
“Cheryl,” I say, “I am aware of my legal right to take a break and will do so today. And any other day that I choose. Is that acceptable, or should I run it by Mr. Snow?”
“No, no,” she replies. “It’s fine. I’d never suggest anything…illegal. Just be back by one p.m.”