The Mystery Guest

“You’re not in any trouble, Lily,” I say.

“Bit soon to tell,” the detective replies.

“For the record, Lily isn’t the only one to touch those tea carts this morning. I touched them, too. I corrected several small oversights by the kitchen staff. They are short a key employee this week, and I’m sorry to report they are making a few faux pas.”

The detective stands and paces the room. After a few complete perambulations, she comes to a halt right in front of me.

“So you admit to touching that tea cart,” she says.

“I do,” I say as I raise my right hand. “It’s my duty as Head Maid to double-check every detail for quality control. And I never shirk duty.”

“Was there anything strange about that cart? Or the previous one delivered? Anything askew?” the detective asks.

I think for a moment. “In fact, there was. The doily under the teapot was slightly off kilter, but I straightened it.”

“God help me,” Detective Stark says as she rubs her forehead with one hand. “I didn’t mean it literally.”

“I’m sorry?” I say, which I also don’t mean literally. I mean: I don’t understand what in heaven’s name you want from me.

“That tea cart,” the detective repeats. “I’m asking if there was anything about it that might relate to a man suddenly dropping dead on the tearoom floor.”

“Unless the tea was poisoned, I should think not,” I reply.

As if on cue, Stark’s mouth becomes a smirk and Lily starts up with a fresh round of tears.

The detective turns to Mr. Snow. “I need you to tell me exactly what Grimthorpe said in his big announcement.”

“Nothing,” Mr. Snow replies. “Before he could say anything of note, he…he…”

“Died,” I offer. “There’s no point calling it anything other than what it was. Mr. Grimthorpe died before he gave his speech.”

Detective Stark looks at Mr. Snow. “And as the man organizing the event with Grimthorpe, didn’t you know what he was going to announce?”

“I’m afraid not,” says Mr. Snow.

“Check the cue cards,” I suggest.

“Cue cards?” Detective Stark repeats, sounding very much like a trained parrot.

“He had them in his hand when he walked onto the stage. He put them on the podium,” I say.

“Really?” Stark replies as she crosses her arms.

I take a moment to reflect on whether this is a rhetorical “really” or if the detective actually expects an answer from me this time. Out of an abundance of caution, I opt for the former.

Detective Stark exhales in a way that my gran might have once described as “overly dramatic.” “We didn’t find cue cards on the podium,” she says. “Or anywhere else in the room.”

She turns to Lily. “You need to start talking. Now. And I need you to come with me to that tearoom and walk me through what happened. Is that clear?”

“Detective,” I say, as I step between her and my distressed Maid-in-Training. “Lily is not capable of speech at this time. I’ve experienced similar blockages in the past. In my case, the blockages occurred when people spoke to me in a manner I didn’t deserve. I understand this matter is urgent, and since my mouth is fully functional—at least at the moment—I volunteer to accompany you to the tearoom to walk you through this morning’s events.”

“Nope. Not a chance,” the detective replies.

“Now, hold on,” says Mr. Snow. “Molly was right there beside Lily. She saw everything. Also, she just identified a missing object that you and your officers failed to uncover at the scene. Molly might be more useful than you think.”

“I do have an eagle eye for details,” I say.

“Though you miss as many as you spot,” Stark adds.

Gran once said that if you don’t have anything nice to say, best not say anything at all. It is for this reason that I keep my chin high, my shoulders back, and my mouth firmly shut.

The silence, however, soon becomes deafening.

The detective sighs a few times with her trademark dramatic flair. “Come on, then, Molly,” she says. “This better not be a waste of my time.”

Chapter 5

Before

Do you ever wonder what it would be like to go back to places you remember from your childhood, to see them again through adult eyes? Would they look the same or would they appear smaller, like objects in a rearview mirror, not because they have changed but because you have?

In my mind I hear the mechanical grumble of a black wrought-iron gate closing behind me.

“One foot in front of the other. It’s the only way to get anywhere in this life,” Gran says. She places her warm hand on my back and urges me up the rose-lined pathway toward the Grimthorpe mansion.

“Are you sure it’s not a museum?”

“It’s a private residence, my dear,” Gran says. “Though I hesitate to call it a home.”

“Why?” I ask.

“You’ll see.”

As we walk, I reach out and touch the soft, satiny petals of the resplendent blood-red rose blossoms.

“Careful,” Gran says. “You must always watch out for the thorns.”

I retract my hand and find Gran’s once more. “Are there other maids and workers in the mansion?” I ask as we reach the halfway point on the long path.