The Mystery Guest

Mr. Snow adjusts his glasses, setting them more or less straight on the bridge of his nose.

“By the way, you look some fit today, Mr. Snow,” Angela says. “Doesn’t he look sharp, Molly?”

“Indeed,” I say. “Is there a high-end wedding in the hotel? Or a banquet? Mr. Snow, why are you so dressed up?”

Mr. Snow’s eyes search the lobby again, looking for what or whom, I do not know.

“Mr. Snow?” I repeat.

“What’s in the box?” Angela asks.

He looks at her with trepidation. “A few trifles,” he replies. “Odds and ends left behind after all of the commotion yesterday.” He flattens a palm over the lid of the box behind him.

“Cool. I like trifles,” says Angela as she grabs the lid and removes it in one fell swoop, causing Mr. Snow’s hand to plummet to his side. “Get a load of that, Molls!” Angela says as she peers into the box.

Inside is a very old edition of Mr. Grimthorpe’s bestselling novel The Maid in the Mansion, which, unlike the ones for sale at the event yesterday, features the original cover art—an iconic mansion door and an eye looking through the keyhole. Beside the book is Mr. Grimthorpe’s fountain pen, which I recognize from yesterday’s signing, as well as a black monogrammed Moleskine and a sealed Regency Grand envelope labeled Serena.

“The note to Serena is from me,” Mr. Snow says. “To thank her for her patronage.”

“Serena? Surely you mean Ms. Sharpe,” I say. I’m about to launch into a diatribe about the proper protocols for addressing guests, but before I can commence my lecture, Mr. Snow interrupts.

“Let me make one thing abundantly clear,” he says. “Serena is as innocent as a spring lamb.”

“No one in this hotel is that innocent,” Angela replies. “Not even you, Mr. Snow.” She picks up the novel and flips through the pages until she finds the copyright page. “Dang! It’s a first edition,” she says. “This has gotta be rare.”

“Yes. It is,” Mr. Snow concedes. “We had it in a display case out front to promote Mr. Grimthorpe’s announcement, alongside the other mementos in the box. Anyhow, Serena has asked for everything back.”

“Well, well. Speak of the devil,” Angela says.

Just then, Ms. Serena Sharpe pushes through the gold revolving doors of the Regency Grand. She is radiant, ethereal, though her outfit—a form-fitting black velvet dress—makes it clear she’s in mourning.

Ms. Sharpe looks around the lobby and spots Mr. Snow waving frantically in her direction. She makes her way over to us. Up close I can’t help but notice the fatigue—or is it sadness?—writ large in the dark circles under her enigmatic blue eyes.

“My dearest Serena,” Mr. Snow says. “How are you doing?”

“To be honest, I’m still in shock,” she says. “I can’t quite believe he’s gone.”

“That’s completely understandable,” Mr. Snow replies. “You have my deepest sympathies, and should you require emotional support during this difficult time, please know you can count on me.”

I cannot believe what happens next. Mr. Snow lays a hand on Ms. Sharpe’s bare arm. I’m about to point out that this is a violation of all hotel rules outlining appropriate guest-to-employee conduct—rules that came from Mr. Snow himself—but before I can do so, Ms. Sharpe extricates herself from his hand.

“I wanted to ask,” she says. “Do you have an update about how Mr. Grimthorpe died? Did the police reveal anything?” Her voice is shaky and unsure.

“I’m afraid not,” says Mr. Snow. “The autopsy results will take a day or two, so I’m told.”

“Actually,” I say. “Yesterday, Detective Stark was looking for you, Ms. Sharpe. She wanted to know what Mr. Grimthorpe was about to announce before he died.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” she replies. “The detective left a half dozen messages on my phone.”

“Perhaps you can ring her back,” I suggest.

Ms. Sharpe’s face turns to stone. “I’m heading to the station now, as a matter of fact,” she says stiffly.

Just then, something flits at the edge of my vision. I turn and spot Lily in the darkest corner of the lobby. She’s holding a feather duster and standing under the grand staircase between two emerald settees. Why on earth is she in the lobby when she should be upstairs cleaning guest rooms?

“Exactly how long have you worked for Mr. Grimthorpe?” Mr. Snow asks Ms. Sharpe.

“A little over a year,” she replies. “He hired me as his personal secretary after his previous secretary passed away. I have no idea what I’m going to do for work now that he’s gone.”

At exactly that moment, Cheryl enters the lobby pushing a discolored woolly mop. Why on earth is yet another maid in the lobby when she should be upstairs? Clearly, Mr. Snow is thinking the very same thing because he’s looking at Cheryl with utmost disdain. He’s opened his mouth, but before he can call out to her, a piercing sound assaults our ears. My hands spring up to cover my own. It takes a moment to realize the fire alarm has sounded. All around me, guests and employees jostle and start.