The Mystery Guest

Chapter 28

As a maid in a hotel, I experience a fair number of déjà vu moments. Sometimes, when I’m cleaning Room 401, I’d swear on the Oxford dictionary I’m in Room 201. In my dreams at night, the corridors morph and blend, dirty sheets mixing with clean ones, but eventually I sort it all out. I make the beds in record time, tucking hospital corners tight, topping pillows with turn-down chocolates, and leaving everything in a pinnacle state of cleanliness.

I’m having a déjà vu moment right now. I’m standing in the Regency Grand Tearoom surveying it one final time before today’s big event, just as I did a little over a week ago on the day of Mr. Grimthorpe’s big announcement, an announcement he never got to make.

I have laid the tables with crisp white linens, pleated every napkin into a rosebud fold, and arranged the polished Regency Grand silver for each place setting. Now, I’m admiring the result—a splendid sight indeed. Let’s just hope that today no one drops dead on the tearoom floor, thereby upsetting the perfect order of things and tarnishing the sterling reputation of our five-star boutique hotel.

Today we have a chance at resurrection—of the Regency Grand, I mean, not of Mr. Grimthorpe. Mr. Grimthorpe will never breathe again.

I’ve been working tirelessly to arrive at this moment, but I’m not alone. I’ve had plenty of help. This morning, as I entered the hotel, I stopped on the stairs to greet Mr. Preston.

“The big day has arrived,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied. “The announcement is at ten sharp.”

“Oh,” Mr. Preston says as he clears his throat. “That’s not what I meant. I meant it’s the day of our chat.”

Amidst all the preparations for the press conference, I’d forgotten that I agreed to have Mr. Preston over to my apartment for tea. I suggested we could have our long-awaited talk and then both be there this afternoon to greet Juan upon his return from his trip. Mr. Preston readily agreed to this plan.

Mr. Preston thinks it’s some big surprise, but I know what he will tell me—that he’s retiring from his job as a doorman at the Regency Grand. He thinks this news will upset my fragile equilibrium, but it won’t. I’m stronger than everyone thinks. Good eggs don’t crack so easily.

I will miss him terribly, of course, but I will carry on. And we’ll still have our Sunday dinners.

“Good luck in there today,” Mr. Preston had said earlier this morning. “I’m here if you need anything.”

“You always are,” I replied. “And for that I’m grateful.”

He tipped his hat. Then I raced up the stairs and pushed through the gleaming revolving doors into the Regency Grand. The enormous gilt-framed sign in the lobby advertised the day’s big event.

Today

VIP Press Conference

TOPIC: J. D. GRIMTHORPE

Deceased Mystery Author

10:00 a.m.

Regency Grand Tearoom

I hurried past the sign and rushed downstairs to the housekeeping change rooms, where Lily had arrived early for her shift. We donned our uniforms. I placed my Head Maid pin adroitly above my heart, but I surprised her by saying, “Hold on a moment. Give me your pin.”

Lily looked at me in confusion as she placed her Maid-in-Training pin in my open hand. I then exchanged it with what I had concealed in my other palm—a fresh new pin, black with shiny gold letters. It said:

LILY

Maid

She gasped as she took it from my palm. “Really?” she asked as she held proof of her promotion in her own hands.

“You’ve earned it. Put it on,” I replied.

She turned to the mirror and affixed it right above her heart.

“Lily,” I said, “do you think you can serve the tea to our VIP guest, just as you did last week?”

She shook her head, her eyes wide with shock.

“I don’t mean that literally. I assure you the end result of today’s tea service won’t be an untimely death. Can you manage, Lily? Tell me if you can’t.”

“I can do it,” she said in her new, confident voice. “A good maid has a can-do attitude,” she added. “You taught me that.”

“I best be off,” I said. “Please get the VIP tea cart ready. You can roll it into the tearoom at five to the hour.”

Lily curtsied, then left.

I heard the familiar sound of feet flopping down the hallway. It could be only one person.

“Good morning, Cheryl,” I said as she entered the change room. Miracles are possible, and the proof was on the wall clock. Cheryl was early for her shift!

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your punctuality?” I asked her.

“Dunno,” she replied with a shrug. “Doesn’t it say something about the wisdom of early birds in that annoying handbook of yours?”

I gritted my teeth but said nothing. After all, her punctuality was a sign of improvement, and that’s exactly what I’ve been hoping for.

After a rather impassioned debate between Mr. Snow and me a week ago, it was decided that despite Cheryl’s flagrant theft and mischief, we would not fire her. I wanted to give her one last chance to redeem herself as a maid.

I made it expressly clear that animalistic behavior of all kinds would not be tolerated. “In other words, you are not to behave like a thieving rat or a trash panda,” I explained. I placed her on a PIP explaining that I had “Great Expectations” for her in the future. Naturally, she didn’t understand my witty references to Charles Dickens’s novel, so I explained that PIP was short for “Professional Improvement Plan,” meaning Cheryl’s employment was subject to strict adherence to every chapter, rule, and verse of A Maid’s Guide & Handbook. It also meant she would retrain as a maid, working right by my side, where I could watch her every move—and I have been watching her every single day.

I do believe Cheryl is grateful for my clemency, not that she has expressed it in words. But she shows it in other ways. A few days ago, she sneezed and was about to wipe her nose on her sleeve, but I stopped her. “Ah, ah, ah,” I said. “Tissue for your issue.” I handed her one right from her own trolley.

Yesterday, I caught her about to use her toilet cloth on a guest’s washroom sink. “Ah, ah, ah,” I said. “What’s the rule?”

“Please be neat when you sterilize the seat,” she replied with only the faintest trace of sarcasm.

So you see: we’re making progress.

“Earth to Molly. Are you with us?”

I shake off my reverie to find Angela and Detective Stark standing outside the maroon cordon by the entrance to the tearoom. Angela holds up the cordon, and they both duck under and come my way.

“Detective Stark,” I say. “I didn’t know you were coming today.”

“Neither did I,” says Stark. “But the LAMBS showed up at the station yesterday and dropped off this lanyard for me.”

I look at the VIP event pass hanging around her neck. “I couldn’t help myself,” she says. “Curiosity killed the cat and all of that.”

“Here’s hoping no feline, or anyone else, is killed in today’s proceedings,” I reply.

“How are preparations for the court case going?” Angela asks.

“Beulah pled guilty,” says the detective. “So there won’t be a trial. Just a sentencing. And you’ll never believe what she admitted.”

“Do tell!” says Angela as she rubs her hands together with glee.

“The maid she tracked down, the one who used to work for the Grimthorpes ages ago,” Stark says. “Turns out, that maid knew all about the ghostwriter in the mansion, said she figured out long before she was fired what Grimthorpe’s personal secretary really did for him.”

“Have you talked to the maid?” I ask.

“Nope. She told Beulah everything but demanded anonymity, said she had good reasons for remaining invisible. And when Beulah realized she’d devoted her life to a fraud, she devised a plan.”

“To kill Mr. Grimthorpe,” I say.

“Not quite,” Stark replies. “She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. She rewrote her biography, turning it into a searing exposé. So now she had two versions—her original flattering portrait, and the second, which was completely damning.”

“But why?” I ask. “Why would she write the biography two ways?”

“Because she wanted to ask him herself if he really was a fraud and a predator. Which version she published depended entirely on his answer.”

“But when she met Grimthorpe outside his hotel room the day before the big announcement, he refused to answer her troubling questions,” I say. “Beulah wrote something about that in her ledger.”

“Uh-huh,” Stark says. “He also rejected her as his official biographer, even under threat of having an exposé published.”

“And he slammed the door in her face,” I add.

“So after that encounter, she decided to kill him,” Angela says with somber finality. “The triple whammy sent Beulah into a quiet murderous rage.”

“And as it turns out,” Stark says, “the tea cart in this tearoom wasn’t the only one Beulah poisoned. She poisoned every honey pot on every tea cart left outside his hotel room, from the day before the big event to the morning of it.”

“Which explains why he died so quickly,” I say. “He’d been drinking poisoned tea for over twenty-four hours.”

“Well, holy shih tzu,” says Angela. “It’s just like the plot of his novel Poison & Punishment. What a kick-ass podcast this would make.”

“Maybe you should make it,” says Stark.

Angela’s eyes go wide. “You really think I could?”

“Yeah, I do,” Stark replies.

Before Angela can contemplate this further, Mr. Snow enters the tearoom. He’s dressed in an emerald-green waistcoat and a paisley bow tie.

“My, my,” says Detective Stark. “Someone’s dressed to impress.”

“Good to see you, Detective,” he says. He grabs his pocket square and mops the excess sweat collecting along his brow. “Is everything ready? The guests are lined up outside. Shall I let them through?”

“Release the hounds, Mr. Snow,” Angela says.

“And the LAMBS,” I add.

He heads to the tearoom entrance, and a few moments later, crowds of VIP guests pour into the well-appointed room. Many of them are recognizable as LAMBS, their faces and gray hair familiar. But there are only two that stand out in particular—Birdy, the tiny treasurer with pink highlights, and Gladys, their tall, curly-haired, flag-bearing leader.

Detective Stark takes a seat in front of the stage as the LAMBS swarm her, hurling questions about Beulah and if there will be a trial while squabbling about who gets to sit next to the lead detective.

Meanwhile, reporters rush to the back of the room, shouting directives to one another as they ready their cameras and phones, focusing their attention on the spotlighted podium at center stage.

My own phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out. It’s a text from my beloved Juan Manuel.

Five minutes to boarding the . Can’t wait to BWUBH!

BWUBH? I text back.

Be With U Back Home.

I can’t wait either! I reply. And it’s true. I’ve missed him so much. Life will be better the moment he walks through our apartment door. I have just one niggling concern: How will I ever explain to him everything that’s happened during the time he’s been away? Will he ever forgive me for keeping it all a secret? But I can’t think about that. Not yet.

One step at a time. It’s the only way to get anywhere in this life.

I check the time on my phone. Five to ten. Right on cue, Lily arrives with her VIP tea cart in tow. She wheels it over to the side of the stage and nods my way as she gets into position.

The guests are sipping their tea and enjoying their finger sandwiches, an anticipatory buzz filling the room.

Mr. Snow enters carrying a teacup and a spoon. He heads straight up the stage stairs to the podium and switches on the microphone.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says, tapping the silver spoon against the Regency Grand cup to get the crowd’s attention—such a delightful tinkling sound.

“It is my distinct pleasure to introduce our VIP speaker who will be making an important announcement regarding the recently deceased, internationally renowned master of mystery, Mr. J. D. Grimthorpe. Please welcome a charming young lady of unusual poise and distinction, formerly Mr. Grimthorpe’s personal secretary, the lovely Serena Sharpe.”

The hidden stage door in the wood paneling opens as the crowd goes silent. Ms. Sharpe, dressed elegantly in a tailored blue dress suit, takes the stage.

She stands behind the podium holding cue cards in her trembling hands. She clears her throat, then begins to speak. “A week ago, a man who claimed to be the solo creator of The Maid in the Mansion, one of the top-selling mysteries ever written, along with countless other bestselling titles, graced this very stage to make an announcement. As you all know, that announcement was never made.”

The entire room is pin-drop silent. All eyes are on Ms. Sharpe.

“Today, I’ll tell you the secret he never lived to tell. It is this: J. D. Grimthorpe was not the author of his books. They were in fact written by my deceased mother, his former personal secretary.”

The silence is broken by murmurs and whispers, passed person to person throughout the room.

“For over thirty years,” Ms. Sharpe continues, “my mother wrote all of his novels, helping him shape his scrambled ideas into clear and compelling story lines. She was paid a modest wage as his personal secretary when in fact she was his ghostwriter.”

Ms. Sharpe waits for the whispers to cease before continuing. “I intimidated Mr. Grimthorpe into holding last week’s press conference, during which he was supposed to divulge the truth to the world his way—meaning semitruthfully, elliptically, and narcissistically. I have no doubt he would have found a way to subtly diminish my mother’s work, but I didn’t care because in return for my silence, I would receive a lump-sum fee and one hundred percent of his book royalties going forward.

“As it turns out, justice really is possible,” Serena says, “at least sometimes. Last week, Mr. Grimthorpe’s publisher contacted my lawyers to inform me they’ve begun legal proceedings to restore both credit and royalties to the rightful author of Grimthorpe’s books, meaning my mother. All I ever wanted was for her to be properly acknowledged. J. D. Grimthorpe was a fraud, not a master of mystery. The real magic behind his work was my mother, Abigail Sharpe. Now, it is her name that will go down in literary history—in perpetuum. Thank you.”

Ms. Serena Sharpe puts down her cue cards, steps off the stage, and heads toward the tearoom door. When the crowd realizes she’s leaving, they jump to their feet, hurling questions at her in rapid succession.

“Ms. Sharpe! Where are you going? There are things we need to know!”

“Tell us more about your mother! What was Abigail like?”

“Where did she get her ideas?”

“Was she inspired by real life?”

“Ms. Sharpe, will you write her authorized biography?”

“Will there be a sequel to The Maid in the Mansion?”

Ms. Sharpe makes it out of the tearoom, but not without a train of VIPs and LAMBS and journalists trailing after her. Their volley of questions echoes all the way down the corridor.

After a minute or two, only a few stragglers remain in the tearoom, including me and one imposing detective.

I approach Stark where she sits alone at her table in front of the stage.

She grabs a shortbread biscuit from a platter. “Well, that’s that,” she says as she takes a bite.

“Indeed,” I say.

“Wow. These are good.”

“Made right in the kitchen downstairs.”

Detective Stark turns her laser-eyed focus on me. “Molly, I’m serious about what I said the other day, that you’d make a great detective.” She takes another bite of biscuit, chews mindfully, then swallows. “And just so you know, there are uniforms in my profession. I prefer to work in plain clothes, but that doesn’t mean you’d have to.”

She passes the platter of cookies to me. I grab one between two fingers.

“There’s a badge as well,” she adds. “You could pin it right above your heart, just like you do now.”

I take a bite of the shortbread and try to imagine it—me, in a police uniform, Detective Gray on a badge above my heart.

“Does the police station handle dry cleaning?” I ask. “Are the uniforms sanitized daily and wrapped in clingy plastic?”

Stark’s eyes squint in a funny way. “Why is it that I never quite know what’s about to come out of your mouth?” she asks. “As for dry cleaning, I suppose clingy plastic could be arranged, for the right employee. I must warn you, though, an officer’s hours are long. Criminals never take days off. They work harder than most.”

“Harder than maids?” I ask.

“You have a point there.” And with that, she stands suddenly and heads for the tearoom door. At the threshold, she stops and turns my way one more time. “Will you give what I said serious consideration?” she asks.

She waits as I take another bite of the shortbread biscuit, chew it twenty times, then swallow. “I’ll consider it,” I reply.

“Good,” she says. “See you around, Molly Gray.”

What she does next completely surprises me. She puts her right foot behind her left and performs a slow, deep curtsy. Then she nods and leaves the room.