The Mystery Guest (Molly the Maid, #2)

by Nita Prose

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.

as I opened my mouth to speak, Gran’s hand came down on my knee, which caused my speech to stop in my throat, though I didn’t know why at the time. I tried to work out the connection by humming the Skeleton Song about how the foot bone is connected to the leg bone and so on, but I made it through the entire song without encountering a single lyric connecting my tongue to my knee.

But words—the sting of them, the stigma—endured forever. Their words sting to this very day.

“Dying suddenly like that isn’t exactly natural.” “If it’s not natural, what is it?” I ask. “Criminal,” Angela says as she fixes me with her somber, orb-like eyes. “My gran used to say, ‘Don’t jump to conclusions, lest you trip and fall,’ ” I tell her.

“My gran used to say, ‘Keep your eyes as peeled as your bananas,’ ” Angela replies. “So that’s what I’m doing.”

“Gran, if you were rich, what would you spend your money on?” I ask between warm mouthfuls. “A private school for you, with kind and patient teachers. And a small house we could call our own, with no bills or landlord, and two easy chairs by the fireplace.” “When we’re rich, can we have tea with clotted cream every single day?” “Every single day,” she replies.

I think about the troll in the mansion. He seems not nearly as frightening as my mother’s demons or the winged fly-by-night that wooed her away. You can fight monsters you can see, or you can run away from them. But the invisible ones are inescapable.

“Gran, what happens if you die?” Her eyes grow two sizes. “My dear girl, I’m not going to die.” “That’s a lie,” I say as I plunk down my spoon in protest. “You’re right. I will die one day. But not soon. And besides, even when I’m gone, I won’t leave you. You won’t see me, but I’ll be there with you, always.” “Like a ghost?” “Yes. Like a friendly ghost haunting you for the rest of your days. And reminding you to brush your teeth when you’re done with your breakfast.” She smiles and grazes my cheek with her palm.

Make use of your time, Molly. A good mind is a terrible thing to waste. Opportunities for self-improvement are precious.”

I suddenly remember that Gran expressly forbids me from telling strangers my name. “Call me Pip,” I say, punctuating this with a wobbly curtsy. “In that case,” he replies, “I shall expect great things from you.”

“Are you a troll or a man?” I ask, my voice trembling. “How refreshing. Never have I been asked that question so directly. I’m a bit of both, I suppose,” he says. “I’m what’s known as a misanthrope.”

“You’re not a troll,” I say. “You’re a man. You’re Mr. Grimthorpe, the very important writer who should not be disturbed.” He crosses his arms and scrutinizes me. “Is that what she told you? My wife?” I nod. “Well, then,” he replies. “What an enormous privilege for you to be in the presence of such hallowed greatness.”

“Precocious,” I repeat. I know this word. I’ve been called it before. “Meaning: clever, intelligent. Ahead of one’s peers.” “Evidently,” he replies.

I search my mind for what to say and eventually an idea bubbles to the surface. “Reading helps me understand things,” I say. “And people. I also like to visit other worlds.”

“Don’t like the one you’re in?” “Not always, no.” “Hmm.” He huffs as he rests an elbow on one of the Moleskine stacks on his desk. “So the misanthrope and the child have something in common.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a disturbingly acute ability to rub salt in a wound?” “My gran says that must be done to clean it.” “Hmm. She’s said the very same thing to me,”

“Are you a child philosopher?” he asks. “A court jester? The palace fool? She who can say what others don’t dare to?” “Gran says I have wisdom beyond my years.” “The maid who knows all. There’s shine under her tarnish, too.” He hoists himself to a stand. “You’re welcome to visit me anytime, provided you don’t get underfoot.”

I have not read the novel,” I say. “I do know its plot, though. I know it too well.” A writer in a hollow, lifeless mansion kills his wife. He thinks he’s found a way to get away with it, but he’s wrong. The maid saw everything, and she exacts her revenge, killing him the same way he killed his wife, and then making his body disappear.

“One day, the truth will come out,” Beulah replies. “Why not today?” I ask. Three dagger-eyed gazes turn my way. “In my experience,” I say, “secrets have a way of punishing those who keep them.”

I have to wonder, are all three of these women smitten with the famous writer? How that’s possible is beyond me, but Gran always said, When love is blind, frogs resemble princes.

The great physicists are right—the universe is expanding, or at least mine is. The proof is in the number of new questions I have for Gran every single day.

“Never judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes,” she says. “Have you heard that one before?” “I have,” I say, “but I don’t see how it applies. Mr. Grimthorpe wears slippers, not shoes.”

Shame is the scar the demons leave behind.

I don’t know that I fully understand everything about Pip, I’m fascinated by Miss Havisham, the old and withered bride with a singular mission in life—to torment a boy with a good heart. Somehow this is more frightening than anything I’ve ever read, so why is it that I keep turning the pages?

I clutch my book to my chest. Then the strangest thing happens. “I am sorry,” Mr. Grimthorpe says. I can hardly believe my ears. Is that an apology from the mouth of an adult man? The concept is so foreign that he might as well be speaking in tongues.

“My behavior the other day was inexcusable,” he says. “I raged like an idiot. I called you a name that in retrospect refers more to myself than it does to you, for I am the true imbecile, the vain king with a title to nothing. The only explanation I can offer for my irrational lunacy is my personal ailment, one of its lingering symptoms being an unhealthy penchant for lashing out against the innocent. Please accept my apology.”

it doesn’t matter if you understand another person’s pain because their injury is real nonetheless.

“Don’t take this report card to heart, Molly. You’re not a failure. If anything is a failure, it’s the system. This is just a silly piece of paper that refuses to quantify your strengths.”

Gran used to say, Stories are a way to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. She was right. Every fairy tale teaches a lesson.

I made it expressly clear that animalistic behavior of all kinds would not be tolerated. “In other words, you are not to behave like a thieving rat or a trash panda,” I explained. I placed her on a PIP explaining that I had “Great Expectations” for her in the future.

“Well, holy shih tzu,” says Angela. “It’s just like the plot of his novel Poison & Punishment. What a kick-ass podcast this would make.”