The Maid(11)

I hear footsteps coming down the hallway toward Mr. Snow’s office, where I remain obediently seated in one of Mr. Snow’s squeaky maroon high-backed leather chairs. I don’t know how long I’ve been here—it feels like more than one hundred and twenty minutes—and while I’ve tried my best to distract myself with thoughts and recollections, my nerves are increasingly frayed. Mr. Snow steps in. “Molly, thank you for waiting. You’ve been very patient.”

It’s only then that I realize there is someone behind him, a figure in dark blue. The figure steps forward. It’s a police officer, a female. She’s large, imposing, with broad athletic shoulders. There’s something about her eyes that I do not like. I’m used to people looking past me, around me, but this officer, she looks right at me—dare I say through me?—in a deeply unsettling manner. The teacup in my hand is stone cold. My hands are cold too.

“Molly, this is Detective Stark. Detective, this is Molly Gray. She’s the one who found Mr. Black.”

I’m not sure what the protocol is for greeting a detective. I’ve received training from Mr. Snow on how to greet businessmen, heads of state, and Instagram stars, but never did he mention what to do in the case of detectives. I must resort to my own ingenuity and my memories of Columbo.

I stand, then realize the teacup is still in my hand. I shuffle over to Mr. Snow’s mahogany desk, where I’m about to place it down, but there is no coaster. I spot the coasters on the other side of the room on a shelf filled with sumptuous, leather-bound volumes that would be laborious to clean but also quite satisfying. I take one coaster, return to Mr. Snow’s desk, place it down, square it to the desk’s corner, and then set my rose-ornamented cup upon it, careful not to spill so much as a drop of the cold tea.

“There,” I say. Then I approach the detective and meet her discerning eye. “Detective,” I say, just as they do on television. I perform a somewhat curtsy by placing one foot behind the other and nodding my head curtly.

The detective glances at Mr. Snow then back at me.

“What an awful day for you,” the detective says. Her voice is not without warmth, I don’t think.

“Oh, it wasn’t all awful,” I say. “I’ve just been running through it in my mind. It was actually mostly pleasant, until approximately three o’clock.”

The detective looks at Mr. Snow again.

“Shock,” he says. “She’s in shock.”

Perhaps Mr. Snow is correct. The next thought I have suddenly seems most urgent to articulate out loud. “Mr. Snow, thank you so much for the cup of tea and the lovely shortbread biscuit. Did you bring them? Or did someone else? I truly enjoyed both. May I ask, what brand is the shortbread?”

Mr. Snow clears his throat. Then he says, “Those are made in our own kitchens, Molly. I would be happy to bring you more another time. But right now, it’s important to discuss something else. Right now, Detective Stark has a few questions for you, seeing as how you were first on the scene of Mr. Black’s…of his…”

“Death bed,” I say, helpfully.

Mr. Snow looks down at his well-polished shoes.

The detective crosses her arms. I do believe her eyes are drilling into mine in a meaningful way, yet I’m not sure what that meaning is exactly. If Gran were here, I would ask her. But she is not here. She will never be here again.

“Molly,” Mr. Snow says. “You’re not in trouble in any way. But the detective would like to talk to you as a witness. Perhaps there are details you noticed about the scene or about the day that would be helpful to the investigation.”

“The investigation,” I say. “Do you presume to know how Mr. Black died?” I ask.

Detective Stark clears her throat. “I presume nothing at this point.”

“How very sensible,” I say. “So you don’t think that Mr. Black was murdered?”

Detective Stark’s eyes open wide. “Well, it’s more likely he died of a heart attack,” she says. “There’s petechial hemorrhaging around his eyes consistent with cardiac arrest.”

“Petechial hemorrhaging?” Mr. Snow asks.

“Tiny bruises around the eyes. Happens during a heart attack, but it can also mean…other things. At this point, we don’t know anything for sure. We’ll be doing a thorough investigation to rule out foul play.”

This puts me in mind of a very funny joke that Gran used to tell: What do you call a poor rendition of Hamlet performed by chickens? Fowl play.

I smile at the recollection.

“Molly,” says Mr. Snow. “Do you realize the gravity of this situation?” His eyebrows knit together, and then I realize what I’ve done, how my smile has been misinterpreted.

“My apologies, sir,” I explain. “I was thinking of a joke.”

The detective uncrosses her arms and places both hands squarely on her hips. Again, she stares at me in that way of hers. “I’d like to bring you to the station, Molly,” she says. “To take your witness statement.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” I say. “I haven’t completed my shift and Mr. Snow counts on me to do my fair share as a maid.”

“Oh, that’s quite all right, Molly,” Mr. Snow says. “This is an exceptional circumstance, and I do insist that you help Detective Stark. We will remunerate you for your full shift, so don’t worry about that.”