The Mystery Guest

I am a cleaner, not a killer. I did not murder Mr. Black—in cold blood or lukewarm, for that matter. I was wrongly accused. But, with the help of some very good eggs, I was exonerated. Still, the experience most certainly took its toll. It underscored just how hazardous a maid’s work can be. It’s not the backbreaking labor, the demanding guests, or the cleaning chemicals that present the greatest danger. It’s the assumption that maids are delinquents, murderers, and thieves: the maid is always to blame. I truly thought Mr. Black’s demise was the beginning of the end for me, but everything turned out just fine, as Gran always predicted it would.

Now, in Mr. Snow’s office, I lock eyes with Lily and when I do, I feel her fear like an electric current traveling straight into my heart. Who could blame her for being afraid? Not me. Who on earth actually thinks they’ll show up for work one day to host a world-famous author only to have him die in a room filled to capacity with adoring fans and shutter-clicking press? And what poor, hapless maid could ever imagine she’d not only serve the writer upon the moment of his death but also serve as his deathbed?

Poor Lily. Poor, poor girl.

You are not alone. You will always have me—Gran’s words echo in my head as they always do. If only Lily could hear them.

“A good cup of tea will cure all ills,” I say, passing Lily the cup I’m cradling in my hands.

She takes it, but she does not speak. This is not unusual for Lily. She has trouble using her words, but lately, she’s been much better at expressing herself, at least with me. She’s come so far since her job interview, executed by me and Mr. Snow. It went so poorly that Mr. Snow’s eyes grew two sizes behind his tortoiseshell glasses when I announced, “Lily Finch is our strongest candidate for the job.”

“But she barely spoke through the entire interview!” Mr. Snow said. “She couldn’t come up with an answer when I asked her to outline her best qualities. Molly, why in the world would you choose her?”

“May I remind you, Mr. Snow,” I said, “that overweening confidence is not the primary quality to consider when hiring a maid. You may recall that a certain former hotel employee had confidence in spades but turned out to be a very bad egg indeed. Do you not remember?”

Mr. Snow nodded oh so subtly, but the good news is I can read him much better now than I could when I first started as a maid at the Regency Grand Hotel seven and a half years ago. This little nod suggested willingness to defer the final decision about Lily to me.

“Ms. Finch is most definitely quiet,” I said. “But since when has loquaciousness been a key skill for a maid? ‘Loose lips sink ships.’ Isn’t that what you always say, Mr. Snow? Lily needs training—which I intend to provide—but I can tell she’s a worker bee. She has everything it takes to become a valued member of the hive.”

“Very well, Molly,” Mr. Snow said, though his pursed mouth suggested he was not entirely convinced.

In the few weeks that I’ve been training Lily, she’s made tremendous progress as a maid. Just the other day, when we encountered our lovely repeat guests Mr. and Mrs. Chen outside their penthouse suite, Lily actually spoke. She used her words in the presence of guests for the very first time.

“Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Chen,” she said, her soft voice like wind chimes. “It is lovely to see you. Molly and I have left your rooms in what I hope is a state of perfection.”

I smiled from ear to ear. What a joy it was to hear her after so much meaningful silence between us. Day after day, we’d worked side by side. I showed her every task—how to make a bed with crisply cut hospital corners; how to polish a faucet to a high shine; how to plump a pillow to maximum fullness—and wordlessly, she followed my lead. Her work was flawless, and I told her so.

“You have the knack, Lily,” I said more than once.

Apart from having a maid’s keen eye for details, Lily is also discreet. She moves about the hotel’s interior, cleaning and buffing, shining and detailing with stealth-like invisibility. She may be quiet—enigmatic even—but make no mistake: Lily is a gifted maid.

Now, sitting in Mr. Snow’s office chair, she places her untouched teacup on his desk and worries her hands in her lap. I feel faint as I look at her. All I can see is myself in that chair. I’ve been here before, and I don’t want to be here again.

How did it come to this?

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