“Who wants to dust, and who wants to polish?” Cinda asked.
Gretta and Lucas didn’t even look up at her.
Instead, they both looked at their phones. Gretta turned over on the bed so that she was lying with her hair fanned out around her. “Why don’t they just hire their own cleaners?” she wondered aloud. “Why bother with contracting us?”
“New hotels do it all the time,” Lucas said. “It saves time with staffing when they move into a new city. Think about it—they have to hire so many people in such a short amount of time. It can help to use contract laborers like us”
Gretta sighed. “Well, Mom sure is over the moon about it.”
“Of course she is,” Lucas said. “They told her that if this weekend goes well, they’ll hire Lonnie’s Little Helpers for the next six months—and who knows what could happen after that? I think we could be in for years, and maybe even expand right along with them. This could be a huge break for us.”
“I’ll start in the bathrooms,” Cinda said. She motioned to the feather duster. “That means one of you has to dust.”
Again, they ignored her. “Mom really needs this,” Gretta said.
“We all do,” Lucas said.
“Earth to Lucas and Gretta!” Cinda hollered, placing her hands on her hips. “Are you listening to me at all? I can’t do all of the work myself, you know. We have twenty-five rooms to clean before two pm. That gives us...” she looked down at her wristwatch and did some mental math quickly. “Just under fifteen minutes per room, and that’s without a lunch break. We’re wasting time. And Gretta, you really shouldn’t lie on the bed like that. You’re going to leave hair on it.”
“I will not; stop bossing me around,” Gretta whined as she sat up. “We are working, anyways. We’re talking about the business side of things.” She flounced over to the duster, picked it up, and threw it at her brother who was still lounging in the armchair and typing on his phone. It hit him in the shoulder.
“Start dusting, Lucas,” Gretta said. “I’m going to go get a bottle of water. It is so dry in here. Ugh! My throat feels like sandpaper!”
“You might as well get a whole case, because we’re supposed to—” Cinda called out after her stepsister. The door closed before she could finish her sentence. “... Leave two on each nightstand,” she said to the closed door.
I can’t let them get to me, Cinda reminded herself. I just have to put my head down and work, without getting caught up in their drama. I can get these rooms spruced up by myself in fifteen minutes each, if I focus.
For the next four hours, she did just that.
Though Lucas moved the duster around half-heartedly between phone calls, and Gretta managed to put mints on each pillow between gushing about the celebrity heads that might rest on them one day, Cinda did most of the work.
She was used to it.
By twelve, her shoulders ached and she was starving. They were slightly ahead of schedule, so it was decided that a half-hour lunch break was in order.
She ate a power bar and orange juice that she picked up from a nearby market quickly, while staring at the circling swans on the pond and soaking up a few moments of much-needed sunshine. Then, with twenty minutes of her break to spare, she hurried back into the hotel.
If I get a look at the residential units of the hotel now, I can think about my article while I clean, she thought, as she summoned the elevator.
On the third floor, she looked for signs that would point her to the long-term condos that she’d heard were somewhere in that vicinity.
She saw plenty of hotel rooms and a sign pointing toward conference rooms, but nothing to indicate the residential units were near. The floor had a vacant feeling that made her uneasy, just as the empty newspaper office had the night before.
Where are the residential units? she wondered as she started down the hall. Maybe it’s best they don’t have signs—a private residence should be private, anyways.
She passed the first in a short row of three conference rooms.
A nagging sense that she was running out of time made her duck into one of them. Her lunch break was quickly running out. I might as well look around one of these conference rooms and then get back to cleaning, she thought, as she pulled out a small notebook and pen.
The meeting space was expansive. A massive boardroom table in the middle of the room was surrounded with black leather chairs. A large aquarium on one side of the room contained beautiful blue water and bright, swimming fish. The counter that stretched along one of the wood-paneled walls contained a sink and was lined with glasses and water bottles. A chandelier that matched the ones in the lobby provided an extra dash of luxury. On the whole, the interior design elements of the space were entirely congruent with what she’d seen of the rest of the building.
Cinda walked to the table, placed her pad down, and started jotting down notes. She wanted her article about the residential units to contain some information about the hotel in general, so she figured that descriptors of the decor would be useful. The room was silent, which made her feel uncomfortable as she wrote.
She felt the urge to finish her work as quickly as possible and get out of the vacant third floor and back to the first floor of the hotel, where more activity and hustle and bustle was taking place. But before she could leave the room, the sound of voices caught her attention.
They were muffled, and came from the door that separated the conference room she was in from the one next door.
Who else is up here? Cinda wondered as she walked toward the door. A clock on one of the walls informed her that she only had seven minutes of her lunch break left. Maybe whoever was next door could tell her where to find the residential units. She placed her hand on the doorknob, but stopped short before turning. I shouldn’t just barge in there, she thought. They could be in a private meeting. It would be rude to interrupt.
Before she backed away from the door, she heard a woman speak. “It feels so wrong. He’s a nice guy.” She had a Southern accent, and her voice was soft and young sounding.
Cinda’s attention was captured. What felt wrong? She couldn't help but stand still and listen.
“It won’t hurt him, Serena,” a second woman said. Her voice sounded more mature; it was raspy, as though the speaker was a heavy smoker. “Put it into his cider and then make sure it goes down the hatch. All of it. Otherwise, it won’t work.”
There was silence. Then, the first woman, Serena, spoke in her soft voice. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Smack! “What do you mean, you don’t know? We’ve talked this over again and again, Serena. This is the only way.”
Cinda furrowed her brow. That “smack” sounded like flesh on flesh. What was it?
Her heart started to beat faster, and she gripped the door handle and began to turn.
“Hello?” she said as she tried the handle. It seemed to be stuck. “Is everyone alright in there?” she called out while she fumbled with the lock on the door handle. She finally managed to twist the lock in such a way that the door opened, but by the time she stepped into the adjacent conference room, it was empty. The door that led out into the hallway was drifting closed, as if the women she’d heard talking only seconds ago had just departed through it.
Cinda hurried across the room and stepped out into a hallway just in time to see a stairwell door closing, just down the hallway.
What was that all about? she wondered, as she watched the stairwell door click closed.
Part of her wanted to go to the stairwell and try to see who was there, but she realized at the same time that it was not her place to go chasing hotel guests down. That would definitely be overstepping the bounds of her cleaning-staff duties.
Besides, her lunch break was drawing to a close, and the rooms that remained on her checklist weren’t going to clean themselves.
When she returned to the first floor, she made her way to the cleaning closet where the cart was stored. Gretta and Lucas were not b
ack from lunch yet, but that didn’t surprise Cinda. The two often took extended breaks while Cinda worked on her own.
It was almost better to work without their constant chatter, anyways. Though each room took slightly longer, it wasn’t a significant difference, and the peace of mind was worth it.
With that on her mind, she pushed her cart to the next room on her list: room 207.
It was fifteen minutes later by the time Gretta and Lucas found her, and Cinda was almost done cleaning the room.
“Oh, you’re finishing up in here already?” Gretta asked, with a smirk on her lips. “We had a nice meal at the restaurant that ran a bit late.”
“That place is pricey!” Lucas said, as he flopped down onto a chair. “Good thing my sister, Miss Moneybags over here, covered the bill. Since when do you carry around cash like that?”
Gretta ignored him. “Anyways, yeah, lunch went longer than expected,” she said to Cinda. “We tried to wrap it up by 12:30, but...” her voice trailed off, and she tossed a to-go container on the table that Cinda had just finished polishing. “The service was kind of slow. Plus, we ended up chatting with Mom in the lobby for a few minutes, too. I brought you some french fries.”
Lucas said, as he also placed a to-go container on the table, “You won’t believe what she told us.”
“What’s that?” Cinda asked, as she lifted up the greasy white box of fries and placed a paper towel under it so it wouldn’t leave a mark.
“There’s a big grand opening party tonight that’s super exclusive, and Mom scored invites for us.”
Cinda smiled. A party! That sounded fun. She’s seen a poster advertising the grand opening party down in the lobby, and it displayed the catering menu and a local band that she’d always wanted to see perform.
Her smile faded as Lucas continued. “Gretta and I are going to go and do some networking. It will be good for the business. We’ll brush shoulders with the higher-ups and get this six-month contract nailed down.”
“We might even meet some other hotel owners that want to hire Lonnie’s Little Helpers,” Gretta said, as she reached for her to-go container and flipped open the lid. She pulled a limp, greasy fry from the stack, stuck it in her mouth, and started chewing as she continued. “Personally, I’m hoping to meet the guy that’s trying out for the title of Prince.”
Cinda finished dusting the big screen television and placed the feather duster back on the cart. As she picked up a spray bottle, she said “What do you mean, title of Prince?”
Gretta munched another fry and spoke at the same time. “It’s a big branding thing they’re doing. Trixie Trent—you know, the PR lady?—was telling me all about it.”
“We met her at the restaurant,” Lucas explained, as he reached over Gretta’s shoulder and stole a fry.
Gretta tried to slap his hand away, but it was too late. Lucas shoveled the fry into his mouth.
“She’s a really smart lady,” Gretta said.
“Really knows what she's doing,” Lucas said.
“She says that businesses are built around people,” Gretta said. “The Palace hotel needs to have a face.”
“So she got the owner of this place—you know, Whistler Weston—to run a contest,” Lucas said. He reached for another fry, but this time Gretta successfully managed to deter him.
“A contest?” Cinda asked.
“Yeah,” Lucas said. “A contest to choose the person—oops, no. How did Trixie put it?”
“A brand ambassador,” Gretta said.
“That’s right. They’re running a contest to choose the brand ambassador who will become the face of this company,” Lucas said. “The contest has been narrowed down to three top picks, and they’re all models. Maybe we should do the same for Lonnie’s Little Helpers when we make it big. I’ll talk to some of my business school buddies about it, see what they think. But there’s no way we’re going to pay for housing, like this place is doing.”
“Oh yeah,” Gretta said. “The winner gets to live here! In one of those residential units on the third floor. Can you imagine living in a place as plush as this year-round?”
Cinda moved to the bathroom and began wiping a fine film of dust from the mirror while only half-listening to Gretta and Lucas’s idle chatter out in the main bedroom.
“The guy in the running for Prince is so handsome!” Gretta gushed. “I saw him in the lobby... and he looked right at me!”
“He’s not going to win,” Lucas said. “The pretty model girl Serena is going to walk away with the title of Princess of The Palace. I heard she was Miss Georgia a couple years back—she’s got the looks, for sure. The guests get to vote tonight at the party, and she’s going to be crowned royalty. I can almost guarantee it.”
“Oh, what, do you have a crystal ball that you can gaze into to predict the future?” Gretta said.
“Give me a fry,” Lucas said.
“No! Have your own fries.”
“I didn’t get fries. I got onion rings.”
“That’s your own fault. Hey! Get your greasy fingers out of my fries!”
There was the sound of a scuffle, and Cinda groaned as she heard Gretta say, “Great! You spilled them all over the place. Now neither of us get to have fries.”
“Oh, stop whining,” Lucas snapped. “You whine so much. We can just go get another order.”
Cinda felt her cheeks flush.
I can’t let them get to me, she thought to herself as she forced her trembling hand to steady itself. It’s not worth it. I just need to put my head down and clean. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Stop!” Gretta shrieked. “When you walk on them you just smoosh them into the carpet!”
“Have a conniption fit, why don’t you?” Lucas said. “I’ll clean it up when I get back.”
Cinda shook her head. She knew her lazy stepbrother would do no such thing.
“You can stay here and cry over spilled fries,” he said, “but I’m going back to the Bar and Grille to get an order of fries. And a beer.”
“I wonder if they have Bloody Marys,” Gretta said. “I’ll come with you. Wait up.”
Cinda heard the door slam closed.
She had half a mind to go after the two, but she also knew that would only make her blood pressure rise up higher than it already was.
“It’s not worth it,” she muttered to herself. “Trying to get those two to work is like herding cats.”
She exited the bathroom and surveyed the spilled-fries scene.
There was only one that was smeared into the carpet. She searched the cart of cleaning supplies and found a bristle brush on the cleaning cart that might do the trick. As she worked to clean the cooked potato from the carpet fibers, her mind worked over Gretta and Lucas’s latest chatter.
A Prince or a Princess of The Palace. That was clever on Trixie Trent’s part. Big companies often tried to personalize their businesses, and it seemed that The Palace was no different.
Would a prince get the job, or a princess?
Lucas seemed to think that a woman was going to be rewarded with the position.
Serena, Cinda thought. That was the same name that I overheard in that conversation in the conference room, wasn’t it? Serena was the one who got slapped. What was it, exactly, that they were talking about? Why did they run away when I tried to reach out to help?
With these thoughts on her mind, she continued scrubbing the carpet.
3
The french fry was so imbedded into the carpet that no amount of scrubbing would make the mark go away. Cinda realized that she needed a brush with stiffer bristles to fix the mess, so she got up off of her knees and made her way to the room’s exit.
First, she checked the small cleaning closet about midway down the hallway. Finding no bristle brushes, she headed for the bigger cleaning closet, which was near the lobby.
As she got closer to the lobby, she heard the faint sound of sirens. When she rounded a corner, the lobby came into sight. She saw three pa
ramedics moving at a fast clip and pushing an empty stretcher along with them. Behind the medics, there were several firefighters and a police officer.
Cinda hurried over to the front desk, where a man in his early twenties was stationed. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“It’s a kitchen worker,” the front desk attendant said. He wore a polite smile and a golden badge on the lapel of his blazer that read “Marcus.” “She had some kind of diabetic seizure. She’s not breathing.”
Cinda shook her head. She suddenly felt guilty for thinking her situation was so bad. A smooshed french fry really isn’t anything to complain about, she thought as she made her way to the cleaning closet. It could be worse. Some poor girl had a seizure, for crying out loud. Now that’s a rough day.
She foraged through the closet until she found a brush that would serve her purpose. With brush in hand, she exited the closet. However, instead of heading right back to the scene of the smooshed-fry crime, she decided to take a different route—a route that would take her past the kitchen. As she headed in that direction, she checked her watch to see how she was doing on time and saw that it was 12:45. She was behind schedule.
The double doors to the large industrial kitchen were propped open. A crowd was gathered in one section of the sparkling new kitchen, and Cinda could make out the form of a body on the ground, just barely visible amidst the crowd of first responders and hotel staff.
Cinda recognized Trixie Trent’s silver bob at the edge of the crowd. “How is she doing?” Cinda asked Trixie.
Trixie turned. Her face was pale, her eyes filled with concern. All of her earlier air of bravado was gone. “Helena’s not doing well,” she said in a quivering voice. Her eyes glistened with tears. “Her heart stopped; they’re trying to get it started again; it’s not looking good.”
“No!” Cinda said. “Really? I thought it was some kind of diabetic seizure. Can’t they treat that with a little sugar?”
Cinderella and the Cyanide Page 2
