Chapter 9
The front door opened and the air in the hallway shifted before I saw her.
We were still standing in that same stretch of hall by the iron railing. I hadn't moved since he'd told me to put the strap back. My hands were clasped in front of my apron and I could feel the heat on my left forearm where the marks were. The blonde woman was a few feet away, her champagne dress catching the warm light, her hand on her waist like she was holding herself together. He was at my shoulder. The key to the lock cabinet was in his pocket and the glass with the dirty rim was still where I'd set it on the side table, covered with a napkin.
Then the latch clicked down in the foyer and a woman's voice called out, bright and tired from traveling. "Hello? Anyone? The car service left my bags on the sidewalk."
The man straightened. "We're in the hall, Mom."
She came around the corner and I knew her immediately from the photos in the upstairs sitting room. Late sixties, neat blonde bob, a navy travel blazer and pearls, a small rolling suitcase she pulled behind her. She took in the scene in one sweep — her son close beside me, the other woman in the slip dress flushed, me in uniform with my head down.
Her smile faded a step at a time.
"What happened here?" she asked. Her voice was even, but she stopped pulling the suitcase. "I could hear you from the entry."
The blonde woman moved first. She stepped forward slightly, putting herself between the mother and me, and her tone changed completely. Softer. Hurt.
"Thank goodness you're here," she said. "I was trying to help and your maid refused to take direction. I offered her your wine to bring to the table and she grabbed the glass right out of my hand. Just took it from me. I asked who saw how it started and she wouldn't answer. It's insubordination and I didn't know what to do."
She didn't raise her voice. She let her dangling earring catch the light as she tilted her head, like she was the one who'd been embarrassed.
I stayed still. I didn't look at the mother directly. That was house rule. My breathing was shallow and I kept my hands clasped. I felt the man's shoulder almost touching mine.
The mother looked past the blonde woman to me, then to her son. "Is that what happened?"
He didn't answer right away. He glanced down at me for a half-second, then stepped half a step forward so he was side by side with me, not behind me anymore.
"No," he said. His voice was low and careful. "She did take the glass. That's true. I asked her if she took it and she said yes, sir. Then I asked her why."
He paused and looked at his mother.
"She said the rim was dirty," he said. "I looked. It was. There's lipstick on the edge and a smudge on the side. She set it aside instead of serving it to you."
The blonde woman's mouth opened. "That's not — I wiped it. She is making an excuse for grabbing it from me. She was rude about it."
The man didn't argue with her. He reached over to the side table and lifted the corner of the napkin without picking up the glass. Underneath, the wine glass sat with the red wine still in it. On the rim, near where someone would drink, there was a faint but clear pinkish print and a cloudy fingerprint.
His mother leaned in to see. She didn't touch it. She just looked, and her eyebrows pulled together.
"I also told her to put the strap back in the lock cabinet," he went on, still to his mother. "She did. It's locked. I have the key."
At the word strap, his mother's expression changed more than at anything else. She looked sharply at the blonde woman, then at me, then at the dark paneled cabinet built into the wall near the staircase. It was closed, the small brass lock turned.
"Which strap?" she asked quietly.
The blonde woman crossed her arms, her champagne dress pulling at the cowl neck. "It was in the hall closet. I was going to — it doesn't matter. He locked it away like I'm not allowed to manage staff."
"I told you last time it stays locked unless I open it," he said to his mother, not to her. It wasn't loud. "You told me the same."
The foyer was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioning. I could hear the ticking of the watch on his left wrist. The mother stood for a long moment with her hand still on the handle of her suitcase.
She finally let go of the handle and looked at each of us in turn. First her son, then the blonde woman, then me. Her eyes stopped on my forearm for just a second where the reddish marks showed against my cuff. She didn't ask about them out loud.
"Alright," she said. Her voice was controlled, the kind of controlled that meant she was holding a decision back. "I have heard both versions. I am not deciding anything standing in a hallway."
She nodded toward the glass and then toward the cabinet.
May you like
"Show me the glass properly, and show me the lock cabinet," she said. "I want to see them myself before anyone else says another word."
No one moved right away. The blonde woman's hand tightened at her waist. The man kept his hand near his pocket where the key was. I kept my hands clasped and waited to be told what to do next.
