Nita Prose On Saying Goodbye To Molly The Maid

“I think of myself as an accidental novelist,” says Nita Prose, the Toronto-based author of the cozy mystery series The Maid, whose final instalment—The Maid’s Secret—is out now (see below for an excerpt).

The bestselling series came to be after Prose, a former book editor, had a life-changing encounter while on a business trip to London. “I went out for a meeting, came back and opened the door and completely surprised the maid,” she says. “The most embarrassing part was that she had my sweaty inside-out track pants in her hands and she was folding them.”

The experience prompted Prose to reflect on the supremely intimate nature of cleaning hotel rooms. “She knew what makeup I wore, what medicines I took, whether someone had been in my bed or not the night before,” she says. 

On the flight home, a crisp and proper voice popped into her head: that of 25-year-old Molly Gray, the Regency Grand Hotel’s most dedicated maid, obsessed with cleanliness, order and formality, and grappling with the recent death of her beloved Gran. Prose wrote what would become the prologue of The Maid on the napkin from her drink. 

She never intended for the book—in which Molly gets tangled up in the murder of a hotel guest—to become a series, but its overwhelming popularity, alongside the fact that readers had absolutely fallen in love with both Molly and Gran, propelled her to write more. (Even Stephen King is a fan, having called Molly “the most interesting [and endearing] main character in a long time.”) In the past three years, there have been three more Molly the Maid books: 2023’s The Mystery Guest, 2024’s The Mistletoe Mystery and 2025’s The Maid’s Secret. This final instalment toggles between a present-day heist drama in which Molly appears on an Antiques Roadshow-style television program, and an epic love story from her beloved Gran’s past.  

“Gran is the beating heart of the story, ” says Prose. “I’ve hinted at her past in the past; in this book we get to see the grand exposé.”

It’s not a spoiler to say that both Molly and Gran’s stories end on satisfying and very sweet notes. (Keep a tissue in hand for the final scene.) “It’s a wonderful thing to have a sense of closure,” says Prose, who is now working on her next novel—a mystery thriller set in Canadian cottage country. “All those good eggs out there who have embraced her make me feel like she’s in the best place possible.”

Read on for an excerpt from The Maid’s Secret, and find more of our favourite Canadian books.

“So you’re Molly the Maid,” said Brown, his apple cheeks curving down to a chiseled jawline.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“Your name tag was my first clue,” Brown replied as the crowd laughed.

“So you’re in charge of special events and you’re a maid here at this hotel?” Beagle inquired.

“That’s right. I love my job. My gran always said if you choose the right job, you’ll never work a day in your life.”

“So true. I’ve never worked a day in my life,” Beagle said as he preened his glossy, dark curls.

“Descended from nobility, you’re a most regal Beagle,” Brown quipped.

“I’ve been called worse things,” said Beagle with a shrug.

“Molly, as a hotel maid, you must see so many things behind all those closed doors. Tell us, what treasures have you stumbled across in your time here?” Brown asked.

“Once, I found the diamond wedding ring of a dead tycoon in my vacuum cleaner, and let me assure you, that was quite a surprise. Another time, I stumbled across a guest’s snake coiled on a chair in the lobby, but while exotic and valuable, I wouldn’t exactly call that serpent a treasure. Oh, and I regularly find untouched turndown chocolates left behind in guests’ rooms, the kind wrapped in gold foil and placed on your pillow? Believe it or not, not everyone likes them.”

“Who doesn’t like chocolates?” Brown said. 

“Especially when wrapped in gold foil!” Beagle added as he slapped his knee.

Suddenly, the audience’s laughter was so shrill I could hardly think. I looked out at a sea of jeering faces and wide-open mouths. 

“Are they laughing with me or at me?” I asked the Bees. 

“Oh, isn’t she just darling?” Brown drawled, his blue eyes sparkling. 

“She’s the treasure,” Beagle replied, and suddenly both stars were clapping—for me! The entire audience joined them, and I had no idea why. 

“Molly the Magnificent Maid,” Brown said. “Are you ready to show us the contents of your little ol’ shoebox?” 

“Yes,” I said. I removed the lid and placed the box on the table in front of me. “I’ve brought a few things that belonged to my gran. I wish she could be here today to meet you.” 

“Why didn’t you bring her?” Beagle asked. 

“Because she’s dead,” I replied. 

Beagle’s eyes grew two sizes. “An excellent excuse,” he concluded. 

“There you have it, folks. Molly tells it like it is,” Brown said. 

Beagle leaned forward, peering into my shoebox. “My, my, what do I spy with my appraiser’s keen eye . . .” 

“Well, well, what have we here?” Brown added as he donned a pair of thick black-rimmed glasses from the breast pocket of his scarlet waistcoat. 

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing, Bax?” said Beagle. 

“I am, but I’m not quite believing it,” Brown replied as he slowly shook his blond head. 

“If you’re looking at my gran’s favorite teacup, it’s fine bone china, Royal Standard, and these are pure silver souvenir spoons, and a Swarovski crystal swan . . .” I explained. 

“Yes, all trinkets,” Beagle pronounced with a wave of his delicate, jewel-encrusted hand. “Worthless.”

“Not to me,” I said. “I also brought that old skeleton key that I’d love to know more about. My gran claimed it was the key to her heart.”

“The key to her diary is more like it,” said Brown. “Edwardian-style diaries were often kept under lock and key to protect the secrets of the well-to-do ladies who wrote in them.”

“But my gran was a maid, just like me.”

“Do you have her diary?”

“I don’t believe she ever kept one,” I said.

“Then her secrets died with her,” said Brown.

“Yes,” I said. “They most certainly did.”

“But, Molly,” said Beagle, “you’ve managed to point out everything in that box except the one item that’s actually caught our eye. Brown, you’re seeing this, too, yes?”

“I definitely am,” Brown replied, and as I watched, he covered his mouth with his hand in an expression that, if I’m not mistaken, might best be classified as “utter disbelief.” Brown reached into the box and gingerly removed the ornamental golden egg sitting on its delicate bow-legged pedestal. He held it carefully in the palm of his hand. The camera zoomed in for a close-up, the lights catching the egg’s sparkling jewels and the Bees’ rounded eyes.

“My word,” Beagle said as he leaned back in his chair. “Molly, you have brought us a most unusual item.”

“I didn’t mean to waste your time,” I said. “It was actually my fiancé’s idea to bring that silly egg here. It was given to me by a gardener who worked at a mansion my gran used to clean when she was a maid. I’ve been warned it’s a bit of junk, but no matter. It has sentimental value.”

“Good golly, Miss Molly. I wouldn’t jump to conclusions so quickly. I’m not so sure that’s a bit of junk,” said Brown.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Thomas,” said Brown. “What’s your assessment of the jewels?”

Beagle removed a jeweler’s loupe from the pocket of his indigo jacket. He held the magnifier over his small right eye, which grew several sizes under the loupe as he examined the egg proffered in his husband’s flat palm. “Jewels intact,” he said. “Free of inclusions. All cuts and markings characteristic of the period.” 

Beagle brought the loupe down and stared meaningfully at his husband, though what exactly that look meant, I could not have said. “Bax,” said Beagle. “The gold pedestal.” 

“Yes, I know,” said Brown. “Pure gold, through and through, twenty-four karat, the detailing unmistakable. In all my years as an antiquities appraiser, I never dared to dream I’d see such a thing with my own eyes.” 

Both men paused and the audience drew a breath. 

“Forgive me,” I said, clearing my throat. I was suddenly aware of the tension in the room. “I’ve been told I have a habit of missing obvious clues, but for goodness’ sake, will someone please explain exactly what is going on here?” 

“Molly,” said Brown as, with exceptional care, he placed the egg on the display table between us. “I’m afraid Thomas and I are in a bit of a state of shock.” 

“We are,” echoed Beagle, his mouth a tight line. 

Baxley took off his glasses and returned them to his scarlet breast pocket. “What you have in that box is a bona fide, jewel-encrusted, one-of-a-kind prototype made by the famed St. Petersburg jewelers who once served the Russian tsars.” 

I followed the words, but their meaning was lost on me. It was as though the two men were suddenly Charlie Brown adults blathering in a language I didn’t understand. 

“Once upon a time, Molly, the Russian royals gave precious Easter eggs as gifts,” said Beagle. “They hired a very special design house to craft their imperial treasures, and for well over a hundred years, rumors have swirled about the prototype egg that started it all, the only closed egg ever designed, resting on an iconic gold pedestal, the original egg that inspired all those made after it.”

I was certain I was missing something, that as usual I was failing to comprehend the obvious. I decided to voice what was on my mind. “All that glitters isn’t gold. That’s what my gran used to say.”

“And she was right,” said Brown. “But not when it comes to this egg. Each of the quatrefoils on it are inlaid with the rarest rubies, pearls, emeralds, and rose-cut diamonds.”

“And the pedestal base is pure gold, with cabriolet feet,” added Beagle. “There’s only one house in the world that ever detailed them like that.”

“The House of Fabergé,” Brown said.

“We called the egg the Fabergé—Gran and me. But it was a joke,” I said.

“This is no joke,” Beagle said somberly as he slipped his jeweler’s loupe into his blue velvet pocket. “The specimen of fine art you’ve brought today is not only rare, it’s a hidden treasure, unique in all the world.”

“I would estimate its minimum worth at five million dollars,” Brown added.

Both men’s faces blurred in front of me. Gasps and shouts rang through the crowd. Cameras zoomed in on my face, and questions were hurled my way.

“Molly, you’re a multimillionaire!”

“Molly, can you hear us?”

“Molly, mi amor. Are you okay?”

I couldn’t answer. Gold stars unfurled at the edges of my vision. Jewels and quatrefoils danced and jeered.

Then, suddenly, my world faded to black.

Excerpted from The Maid’s Secret by Nita Prose. Copyright © 2025 by Nita Prose Literary Service Inc. Published by Viking Canada, an imprint of Penguin Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited. Reproduced by arrangement with the Publisher. All rights reserved.