The Mystery Guest

“You’re too late,” Gran replies. Only then do I realize it’s not Gran in bed but Mr. Grimthorpe the troll, wrapped in a sheepskin and wearing a white bonnet on his head.

“No!” I scream. “You’re dead! Go away and never come back!”

He starts to laugh, a deep, maniacal laugh. Just as he’s about to reach his claws out to grab me, I wake up to my phone ringing on my bedside table.

I’m not a child in a nightmare but a grown woman in her own bed.

I swipe to answer the call. “Hello?” I say breathlessly.

“Molly?” Juan Manuel replies. “You sound like you’ve been running.”

“I was asleep,” I say. I feel sweaty and confused.

“I’m sorry to wake you, mi amor. I just wanted to wish you a good morning and to remind you to rise, polish, and shine.”

He’s quoting Gran. I’ve told him how she used to say this every morning as she pulled my curtains open when I was a little girl. “Rise, polish, and shine!” her voice trilled, bright and cheerful like a singing sparrow. She died before Juan Manuel could ever meet her, and yet in ways I’ll never fully comprehend, parts of her live on in him just as they live on in me. This truth adds solace to all of my days.

“How was the Grimthorpe event, Molly? Did you slay it?”

“Did I what?” I ask as I sit up taller in bed. It takes me a moment to realize he’s not referencing Mr. Grimthorpe but using one of those newfangled expressions he loves so much. “For the record,” I say, “I’ve slain no one.”

Juan responds with a laugh. “Did yesterday’s event go okay?”

I don’t want to avoid the truth, but I know if I tell him a famous writer died in the Regency Grand Tearoom, he’ll be worried sick. Knowing him, he’ll be on a plane back here before I can say Jiminy Cricket, and that would be so unfair. I can’t expect Juan to be there for me every time something goes awry. Besides, I’m perfectly capable of handling this situation myself. After all, I am a Head Maid.

“Mi amor, are you there? Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Who said things weren’t okay?” I ask. “Was someone from the hotel in touch with you?”

“No,” he replies. “They’re not allowed to contact me. Mr. Snow told the kitchen staff he expects them to figure things out for a change rather than come to me every time things go wrong.”

“Exactly right,” I say. “We all rely on you far too much. It’s high time you had a good, proper break.”

“But you do miss me, don’t you, mi amor?”

“Of course I do,” I say. “You have no idea how much.” Sadness suddenly rises in my throat, and I quickly swallow it down before it escapes. “I’d better go now. Lots of cleanup to do at the hotel.”

“I’m sure you’ll sort it out. You always do.”

We say our heartfelt goodbyes, and I hang up.

I jump out of bed, sleep and dreams forgotten. I bustle about the apartment getting ready for my day. I have no idea what it will bring, but as Gran used to say, Embrace the possibilities. You never know what might happen. I just hope that we’ll soon be able to chalk up the untimely death of Mr. Grimthorpe to natural causes and get on with doing what we do best at the Regency Grand—providing our guests with the finest customer service in a sophisticated venue that befits the modern age.

Within the hour, I’m walking briskly in the sunshine toward the hotel’s scarlet stairs. Mr. Preston, in cap and greatcoat, is standing on the carpeted landing helping some tourists with directions. He points a young couple to the next street over and they hurry down the stairs to their destination as though everything is normal, as though our hotel did not experience a seismic upheaval just the day before. As I stare at the entrance to the hotel, my knees start to shake.

“Molly!” Mr. Preston calls out the moment he spots me.

I walk up the stairs to meet him.

“My dear girl, I’ve been thinking about you all morning. What a horrendous shock you must have had yesterday. Are you all right?”

“Mr. Preston, I’m not the one who died. It stands to reason that I’m fine,” I reply, though I don’t quite believe my own words.

“Thank heavens for that,” Mr. Preston says. “I’m just glad you survived yesterday’s ordeal without getting too rattled. Good riddance to the writer, I say.”

“Good riddance?” I reply. “That’s not very charitable.”

“I reserve charity for those who deserve it,” Mr. Preston replies. “And that man did not deserve it.”

A strange tingling sensation stirs in the depths of my belly. My gran used to get feelings like this. She called them her “intuitions.”

“Mr. Preston,” I say. “Did you know Mr. Grimthorpe?”

“I’m not sure anyone knew him, least of all himself,” he replies.

“You don’t actually think someone inside this hotel could have killed him, do you?”

“A man like that? Anything’s possible.”

Just then, some guests arrive in a taxi. “Molly, be careful in there today,” Mr. Preston says. “There are things going on around here that I don’t quite understand, and until I do, you best be vigilant.”