My pulse is pounding. I can’t keep my mind focused. This doesn’t reflect well on my character and I must make amends.
“I should not have pawned that ring,” I say. “I applied the wrong rule in my head, ‘the finders-keepers rule,’ when I should have applied the ‘do unto others’ rule. I regret that choice, but it doesn’t make me a thief.”
“You’ve stolen other things,” she says.
“I have not,” I say, punctuating my disdain with crossed arms, a postural signal of indignance.
“Mr. Snow has seen you stealing food from discarded trays. And small pots of jam.”
I feel the floor of my stomach drop out from under me the way it does when the elevator at the hotel is about to go on the fritz. I’m not sure what’s more humiliating—that Mr. Snow saw me do this or that he never said a word to me about it.
“He is telling the truth,” I admit. “I have liberated discarded food, food that would have ended up in the trash bin anyway. This is ‘waste not, want not.’ It is not theft.”
“It’s all a matter of degrees, Molly. One of your colleagues, a fellow maid, said she worries that you can’t spot danger.”
“Sunitha,” I say. “For the record, she’s an excellent maid.”
“It’s not her record that’s on the line here.”
“Did you speak with Mr. Preston?” I ask. “He will vouch for me.”
“We did speak to the doorman, actually. He said you were ‘blameless’—interesting choice of words—and that we should dig for dirt elsewhere. He mentioned Black’s family members, as well as some strange characters coming and going at night. But it was like he was going out of his way to protect you, Molly. He knows something isn’t right in the state of Denmark.”
“What does Denmark have to do with any of this?” I ask.
Detective Stark sighs loudly. “Bloody hell. It’s going to be a long day.”
“And Juan Manuel, the dishwasher?” I ask. “Did you talk to him?”
“Why would we talk to a dishwasher, Molly? Who is he, anyhow?”
A son to a mother, a provider to a family, another invisible worker bee in the hive. But I decide not to press further. The last thing I want is for him to be in trouble. Instead, I name the one person who I’m certain would vouch for my reliability. “Have you spoken with Rodney, the bartender at the Social?”
“As a matter of fact, I have. He said he thought you were—quote unquote—‘more than capable of murder.’？”
All of the energy that has kept my spine upright dissipates in an instant. I slump over and look down at my hands in my lap. A maid’s hands. Working hands. Chaffed and dry, despite all the lotion I put on them, the nails cut cleanly short, calluses on the palms. The hands of a much older woman than I actually am. Who would want these hands and the body attached to them? How could I ever think that Rodney would?
If I look up at Detective Stark now, I know the tears will spill from my eyes, so I concentrate on the cheery little teapots on my pajamas—vibrant pink, baby blue, and daffodil yellow.
When the detective speaks, her voice is softer than before. “Your fingerprints were all over the Blacks’ suite.”
“Of course they were,” I say. “I cleaned that suite every day.”
“And did you also clean Mr. Black’s neck? Because traces of your cleaning solution were found there too.”
“Because I checked his pulse before calling for help!”
“You had various plans for killing him, Molly, so why in the end did you choose asphyxiation rather than the gun? Did you really think you wouldn’t get caught?”
I will not look up. I will not.
“We found the weapon in your vacuum cleaner.”
I feel my insides twisting, the dragon slashing and gnashing. “What were you doing meddling with my vacuum cleaner?”
“What were you doing hiding a gun in it, Molly?”
My pulse is pounding. The only other person who knew about both the ring and the gun was Rodney. I can’t do it. I can’t assemble the pieces in my mind.
“We tested your housekeeping cart,” Detective Stark says. “And it tested positive for traces of cocaine. We know you’re not the kingpin here, Molly. You’re simply not smart enough for that. We believe that Giselle introduced you to Mr. Black, and that she groomed you to work for her husband. We believe you and Mr. Black were well acquainted, and that you were helping him hide the lucrative drug operation he was running through the hotel. Something must have gone wrong between the two of you. Maybe you got angry with him and you retaliated by taking his life. Or maybe you were helping Giselle get out of a bad situation. Either way, you were involved.