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happened between midnight and one.”
    â€œShe tell you anything else?”
    â€œWell, I had to chin for a while, bits and pieces, she’s pretty sharp, had her eyes open. She says there were at least two intruders, maybe three.”
    â€œShe knows this how?”
    â€œShe doesn’t know it, she thinks it. Maybe . Says she saw footprints from the terrace, dirt tracked in, and a different set with no dirt. Maybe. She was just spitballing. Cop talk.”
    â€œRegular Chatty Cathy,” says Rachel. “You must’ve turned on the old Gritchfield charm.”
    â€œHey, she was stuck guarding an empty hallway. We were comparing notes. Technically, I was first on the scene.”
    â€œWhat the hell were they after?”
    â€œBeats me,” Gritch says. “If they were looking for something, they either found it in a hurry or quit looking. They didn’t go down the hall.”
    â€œMaybe they were after her,” says Rachel. “Lot of talk this morning. The general opinion is she was more than his housekeeper.”
    â€œShe was,” I say.
    â€œAhh,” says Rachel.
    â€œDo me a favour,” I ask them both, “check out where the brothers were. They both had invitations to the dinner, neither one showed up.”
    â€œNot a lot of togetherness,” Rachel says. “We had twenty-seven at our last family gathering, and not everyone could make it.”
    â€œThey all get along?” Gritch asks.
    â€œHeck no,” she says, “but they came. It’s family.”
    Housekeeping is located on the third floor, east side, close to the service elevators — supplies, equipment, lockers and dressing rooms for the maids and cleaning staff, and Mrs. Dineen’s office, from which she rules every aspect of the Lord Douglas’s domestic management. It isn’t a part of the hotel I have need to visit often.
    Two women in uniform are emerging from their cloister at the end of a corridor. The murmured conversation can only be about one subject.
    â€œHi,” I say. “Is Mrs. Dineen in?”
    â€œShe’s there,” says a woman whose name is, I think, Christine.
    â€œIt’s Christine, right?”
    â€œMr. Grundy,” she says in reply. “Yes. We’ve met. Twice.”
    â€œBetter than my average,” I say. “Usually takes me four meetings to put a name to a face. I’m not all that quick on the uptake. I’m sorry, I don’t know your friend’s name.”
    The other woman has more important things to attend to than loitering in the hall with an interloper. She’s already headed for the service elevators.
    â€œThat’s Tricia,” says Christine, who is moving past me. She looks over her shoulder toward Mrs. Dineen’s closed door and I know that the last thing on earth she wants is for that door to open.
    I follow her to the elevators where Tricia (I’m repeating the name in my head in a conscious effort to memorize it) is checking supplies and consulting a list of room numbers with notations of checkouts and special requests — extra towels, more coffee filters.
    â€œHi, Tricia,” I say. “I’m Joe Grundy, you’ve probably seen me prowling the halls. You know what happened last night, I guess.”
    Tricia’s hair is cut short and square across the front; she keeps her voice down but speaks clearly. “We don’t know anything, for sure. Raquel was killed up in the penthouse. That’s all.”
    â€œMust be a hundred rumours going around,” I say.
    â€œJust gossip,” says Christine.
    â€œMrs. Dineen doesn’t encourage gossip,” says Tricia.
    â€œI’m investigating a murder,” I say, although I’m certain Mooney and Pazzano would characterize my intrusion otherwise. “What sounds like gossip right now could be helpful later on. May I talk to you for a minute?”
    â€œGet on,” Tricia says, as the