“Let me guess. Rodney said he’d be all too happy to help a nice girl like you,” says Mr. Preston.
“Something to that effect,” I say. “But Detective Stark said it was Cheryl, my supervisor, who followed me to the pawn shop. Maybe she’s the culprit in all of this? She’s definitely untrustworthy. The stories I could tell you.”
“My dear Molly,” Mr. Preston says with a sigh. “Rodney used Cheryl to tip off the police. Can you see that? He likely used the gun and the ring in your possession to divert suspicion away from himself and toward you. He may very well be connected to the cocaine found on your cart. And to the murder of Mr. Black.”
I know Gran would be displeased, but my shoulders slump even more. I can barely keep myself upright. “Do you think that perhaps Rodney and Giselle are in cahoots?” I ask.
Mr. Preston nods slowly.
“I see,” I say.
“I’m sorry, Molly. I tried to warn you about Rodney,” he says.
“You did, Mr. Preston. You can add the ‘I told you so.’ I deserve it.”
“You do not deserve it,” he replies. “We all have our blind spots.”
He stands and walks over to Gran’s curio cabinet. He looks at the photo of my mother, then puts it down. He picks up the photo of Gran and me at the Olive Garden. He smiles, then returns to his seat on the sofa.
“Dad, what exactly did you see at the hotel that made you suspicious of illegal activity? Do you think there’s actual drug-running happening at the Regency Grand?”
“No,” I say definitively before he can answer. “The Regency Grand is a clean establishment. Mr. Snow wouldn’t have it any other way. The only other issue is Juan Manuel.”
“Juan Manuel Morales, the dishwasher?” Mr. Preston asks.
“Yes,” I reply. “I certainly wouldn’t tell tales under ordinary circumstances, but these are far from ordinary circumstances.”
“Go on,” Charlotte says.
Mr. Preston leans forward, adjusting himself around the sofa’s pointier springs.
I explain everything. How Juan Manuel’s work permit expired some time ago, how he has nowhere to live, and how Rodney secretly lets him stay overnight in empty hotel rooms. I explain the overnight bags I drop off, and how I clean up after Juan Manuel and his friends every morning.
“I’ll admit,” I say, “I really don’t know how so much dust can be tracked into a room in just one night.”
Charlotte puts her pen down on her pad and addresses her father. “Wow, Dad. What a fine establishment you work at.”
“Par excellence, as they say in France,” I add.
Mr. Preston has his head in his hands and is shaking it back and forth. “I should have known,” he says. “The burn marks on Juan Manuel’s arms, the way he avoided me whenever I asked how he was doing.”
It’s only then that the jigsaw pieces connect in my mind. Rodney’s behemoth friends, the dust, the parcels and overnight bags. The traces of cocaine on my trolley.
“Oh my lord,” I say. “Juan Manuel. He’s being abused and coerced.”
“He’s being forced to cut drugs every night in the hotel,” Mr. Preston says. “And he’s not the only one being used. They’ve been using you, too, Molly.”
I try to swallow the enormous lump that has formed in my throat.
I see it all clearly, all of it. “I haven’t only been working as a maid, have I?” I ask.
“I’m afraid not,” Charlotte replies. “I’m sorry to say it, Molly, but you’ve also been working as a mule.”
Charlotte is on the phone having a quiet conversation with someone from her office. Mr. Preston is using the washroom. I’m pacing the living room. I stop at the window and open it a crack in a futile attempt to get some fresh air. Attached to our exterior wall, an empty bird feeder swings in the breeze. Gran and I used to watch birds from this window. We’d admire them for hours as they gobbled bread crumbs we’d leave out. We gave each little bird a name—Sir Chirpsalot, Lady Wingdamere, and the Earl of Beak. But when Mr. Rosso complained about the noise, we stopped our feeding. The birds flew away and never returned. Oh, to be a bird.
As I stare out the window, I catch little snippets of Charlotte’s conversation—“background check on Rodney Stiles,” “firearms registry for the name Giselle Black,” “inspection records for the Regency Grand Hotel.”
Mr. Preston emerges from the washroom. “No Juan Manuel?” he asks.