Chapter 8: Keely's Butler

"No," Colm said, before the desk manager had even hung up. "Tell her the consultant isn't a butler."

"Tell her yes," I said.

He looked at me.

"She's asking for Jane because Ryland told her about Jane," I said. "She wants to know what you've got. If I don't go up, she knows she scared us."

"And if she recognizes you?"

"She shared a desk with me for four years and never once asked how my weekend was." I picked up my tote. "She's never really looked at me either."

Colm said into the phone, "Jane will be up at eight."

He hung up and didn't take his eyes off me.

"You have one rule," he said. "If anything feels wrong, you call me. One ring. I'll come up myself."

"And do what?"

"Complain about the towels."

At eight I knocked on 1810 in the wig, the glasses, a black butler's vest borrowed from the head housekeeper and the flattest voice I had.

The head housekeeper had also taken my nails down to nothing with an emery board in the linen room.

"She'll look at your hands," she'd said. "Rich women always look at the hands."

My phone sat in my vest pocket with the voice memo already running.

Keely opened the door in a silk robe.

She looked me up and down.

"Oh," she said. "You're the spy."

"I'm your butler, ma'am."

"Sure you are." She walked away and left the door open. "Unpack me."

I unpacked her.

Eleven blouses. She made me press the cream one three times.

"There's a crease," she said the third time, holding it up to the window.

There wasn't a crease.

I pressed it again.

She ordered breakfast and sent it back because the eggs were "sad."

She ordered it again and ate half and pushed the tray at me.

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