I’m at the Olive Garden eighteen minutes later, which is two minutes sooner than my ETA, mostly because I’m so nervous that I speed-walked the entire way. I’m sitting at our booth under the glow of the pendant light, only this time, it doesn’t feel like our booth at all. It will never be our booth ever again.
Rodney hasn’t arrived yet. As I wait, horrific visions loop in my mind—Mr. Black, his skin ashen and drawn, the photo of Rodney and Giselle, two slippery serpents entwined, Gran’s last few minutes of life. I don’t know why these things replay in my mind, but it’s doing nothing to quell my extreme jitters. How I’m going to get through this, I do not know. How will I act normally when the tension is already jangling the core of my being?
When I next look up, there he is, rushing into the restaurant, searching for me. His hair is tousled, the top two buttons of his shirt are open, revealing his exasperatingly smooth chest. I imagine taking the fork from my place setting and stabbing him with it, right there, where the V of his shirt frames his naked skin. But then I see his scar, and my dark desire evaporates.
“Molly,” he says as he slides into the booth across from me, “I made an excuse to take off from work for a bit, but I don’t have much time. Let’s make this quick, okay? Tell me everything.”
A waitress comes to our table. “Welcome to the Olive Garden. Can I get you started with some free salad and bread?”
“We’re here for a quick drink,” Rodney replies. “A beer for me.”
I put a finger in the air. “Actually, salad and bread would be lovely. And I’ll also take an appetizer plate and a large pepperoni pizza, please. Oh, and some water? Very, very cold. With ice.” No Chardonnay for me today—I must remain clearheaded. Also, this is not a celebration, not in any way. “Thank you,” I say to the waitress.
Rodney runs his fingers through his hair and sighs.
“Thank you for coming,” I say once the waitress is gone. “It means the world to me that you’re always there when I need you. Such a reliable friend you are.” My face feels stiff and forced as I say this, but Rodney doesn’t seem to notice.
“I’m here for you, Molly. Just tell me what happened, okay?”
“Well,” I say as I conceal my shaking hands under the table, “after the detective took me to the station, she told me Mr. Black did not die naturally. She said he was asphyxiated.”
I wait for this to sink in.
“Whoa,” Rodney says. “And you’re the obvious suspect.”
“In fact, I’m not. They’re looking for someone else.” These are the exact words Charlotte instructed me to say.
I watch him carefully. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. The waitress returns with bread, salad, and our drinks. I take a long sip of cold water and revel in Rodney’s growing discomfort. I do not touch the food at all. I’m far too nervous. Plus, it’s for later.
“Detective Stark said the persons of interest were most likely motivated by Mr. Black’s will. She thinks they maybe even discussed his will with him before they killed him. Poor Giselle. Do you know that Mr. Black didn’t leave her a thing? Not a single thing, the poor, poor woman.”
“What? The detective told you that? But that can’t be. I know for a fact it can’t be.”
“Do you? I thought you weren’t well acquainted with Giselle,” I say.
“I’m not,” he says. He appears to be sweating though it’s not unduly warm in here. “But I know people who know her well. Anyhow, this isn’t what they told me. So it’s…well, it’s a bit of a surprise.” He takes a gulp of beer and puts his elbows on the table.
“Rude,” I say.
“What?”
“Your elbows on the table. This is a restaurant. That is a dinner table. Proper etiquette requires you to keep your elbows off it.”
He shakes his head but takes his offensive appendages off the table. Victory.
“Salad? Bread?” I offer.
“No,” he replies. “Let’s just get to the point. Didn’t Mr. Black leave Giselle the villa in the Caymans? Did the detective mention that?”
“Hmm,” I say. I pick up my napkin and grip it under the table between my perspiring hands. “I don’t recall anything about a villa. I think the detective said almost everything goes to the first Mrs. Black and the children.” Another tidbit doled out as planned.
“You’re telling me the police volunteered all of this information to you for no good reason?”
“What? Of course not,” I say. “Who would tell me anything? I’m just the maid. Detective Stark left me in a room by myself, and you know how it is. People forget I’m there. Or perhaps they think I’m too daft to understand? I overheard all of this at the station.”
“And weren’t the detectives concerned about the gun in your vacuum? I mean, I’m assuming that’s why they nabbed you, right?”
“Yes,” I say. “It seems Cheryl found the gun and alerted them. Interesting that she knew where to look. For someone so lazy, it’s hard to imagine her searching a dusty vacuum bag.”
Rodney’s face changes. “You’re not suggesting I told her, are you? Molly, you know I would never—”
“I’d never suggest that about you, Rodney. You’re blameless. An innocent,” I say. “Much like me.”
He nods. “Good. I’m glad there’s no misunderstanding here.” He shakes his head the way a wet dog would when it comes out of the water. “So what did you tell the police when they asked about the gun?”
“I simply explained whose gun it was, and where I found it,” I reply. “That raised two eyebrows. Meaning I believe Detective Stark was surprised.”
“So you narced on Giselle, your friend?” he asks. His elbows make an aggravating reappearance on the table.
“I would never betray a true friend,” I say. “But there’s something dreadful I have to tell you. It’s why I called you here.” Here it comes, the moment I’ve prepared for.
“What is it already?” he asks, barely able to keep the rage out of his voice.
“Oh, Rodney. You know how nervous I get in social situations, and I must say that being interrogated by detectives caused me much consternation, as I have very little experience in such matters. Perhaps you’re more accustomed to such ordeals?”
“Molly, get to the point.”
“Right,” I say, wringing my napkin in my hands. “Once the issue of Giselle’s gun was out of the bag—I suppose that’s both literal and figurative in this case—the detective said they would sweep the former Black suite yet again.” I bring my napkin to my eyes as I try to gauge his response to this.
“Go on,” he says.
“I said, ‘Oh, you can’t do that! Juan Manuel is staying in that suite.’ And the detective asked, ‘Who’s Juan Manuel?’ And so I told them. Oh, Rodney, I probably shouldn’t have. I told them how Juan Manuel is your friend and how you’ve been helping him because he has no work permit and—”
“You mentioned me to the detective?”
“Yes,” I say. “And I told them about the overnight bags and the cleaning up after Juan Manuel and your friends, and how good and kind you’ve all been—”
“They’re his friends, not mine.”
“Well, whoever they are, they sure do drag a lot of mess into rooms. But don’t worry, I made sure to let the detective know what a good man you are, even if your friends are a little…dusty.”
He takes his head in his hands. “Oh, Molly. What have you done?”
“I told the truth,” I say. “But I realize I have caused a bit of an issue for Juan Manuel. What if he’s still in the Black suite when they check it again? I’d hate for him to get in any kind of trouble. You’d hate that, too, wouldn’t you, Rodney?”
He nods vigorously. “I would. Yeah. I mean, we’ve got to make sure he’s not in there when they check. And we’ve got to clean that room out, fast, before the police arrive. You know, so there are no traces of Juan Manuel.”
“Of course,” I say. “My thoughts exactly.” I smile at Rodney, but inside I’m pouring a full kettle of boiling water onto his dirty, lying face.
“So you’ll do it?” he asks.
“Do what?” I reply.
“Sneak in and clean the suite. Now. Before the cops get there. You’re the only one besides Chernobyl and Snow who has access. If Mr. Snow catches Juan Manuel there—or worse, if the police do—he’ll be deported.”
“But I’m not supposed to be going to work today. Mr. Snow says I’m ‘a person of interest’ to the police, so—”
“Please, Molly! This is important.” He reaches out and grabs my hand. I want to wrench mine away, but I know I must not move.
We have faith in you.
I hear it in my head, but it’s not Gran’s voice this time. It’s Mr. Preston’s. Then Charlotte’s. Then Juan Manuel’s.
I keep my hand steady under his, my gaze neutral. “You know,” I say, “I’m not allowed to enter the hotel, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enter. What if I quickly sneak into the hotel, grab the right room key, and give it to you? You can then use my trolley and clean up the room yourself! Wouldn’t that be something—you cleaning up your own mess?—I mean, Juan Manuel’s mess.”
His eyes are darting all over the place. The sheen on his forehead is condensing into droplets.
After a few moments, he says, “Okay. All right. You get me the suite key, I clean the room.”
“The suite key tout suite,” I say, but he fails to register my cleverness.
The waitress arrives at our table with the pepperoni pizza and the appetizer plate.
“Would you mind boxing that up, please?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says. “Was there something wrong with the bread and salad? You didn’t even touch them.”
“Oh no,” I say. “It’s all delightful. It’s just that we’re in a bit of a rush.”
“Of course,” she says. “I’ll box everything.” She gestures to a colleague, and the two of them take care of the food.
“He’ll have the bill, please,” I say, pointing to Rodney.
His mouth drops open, but he doesn’t say anything, not so much as a word.
Our waitress retrieves the bill from her apron and hands it to him. He pulls out a crisp, fresh $100 bill from his wallet, passes it to her, and says, “Keep the change.” He stands abruptly. “I better run, Molly. I should get back to the hotel and do this right away.”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ll take all this food home. Then I’ll text you as soon as I make it to the hotel. Oh, and Rodney?”
“What?” he asks.
“It really is a shame that you don’t like jigsaw puzzles.”
“Why?”
“Because,” I say, “I don’t think you quite know the pleasure one feels when suddenly, all the pieces come together.”
He looks at me, his lip curled. It’s so clear, the meaning of the look. I’m an idiot. A fool. And I’m too daft to even know it.
That’s the expression that’s smeared all over his vulgar, lying face.
