The Mystery Guest

That’s when it happens. His face clouds over again and his eyes turn to slits. “Who exactly do you think you are? Of course that’s all she does! Now get out!” he roars.

I’m glued to my spot. I want to run, but it’s as though I’ve been turned to stone.

“Did you hear me or are you an imbecile? I said get OUT!” he growls.

My feet untether from the floor, and I rush out of the room, the secret door slamming shut behind me and becoming a wall of books once more. I stand breathless and alone in the library, my heart pounding in my ears. I have no idea what I’ve done wrong or in what way I’ve caused offense.

“Molly?” I hear. It’s Gran’s singsong voice, echoing up the stairs.

“Sorry to interrupt your reading, but can you come downstairs? It’s teatime!”

“Coming!” I call down.

I grab my book from the chaise longue and put it back on the far shelf. I take one last look at the shaft of light spilling onto the floor from the hidden study behind the wall. Then, with a sick feeling in the base of my stomach, I rush out of the library and hurry to the safety of tea and my gran.

Chapter 10

We’re back in the hotel lobby—Mr. Snow, Angela, and me. No more fire alarm. Order is restored.

We’re staring at an empty space on the reception desk, a void that less than an hour ago was filled with a single banker’s box containing a first edition of Mr. Grimthorpe’s most famous novel; his fountain pen; a black, monogrammed Moleskine; and a thank-you note to Ms. Sharpe.

“The box,” I say. “It was right here…and now it’s gone.”

“You see?” Angela says. “You can’t be too careful these days. There are criminals everywhere.”

“There is nothing criminal about any of this,” says Mr. Snow. “Clearly, Serena was in a rush. And she left with the box she came here for. Angela, there’s no need to turn everything into a conspiracy.”

Just then, Cheryl pushes through the revolving front doors of the Regency Grand, her sloppy mop knocking awkwardly against guests as she shuffles our way.

She stops when she reaches us and leans on her mop. “Damn fire alarms,” she says. “We should get rid of them.”

Mr. Snow removes his glasses and massages the bridge of his nose. “Cheryl, in a safe hotel, the guests sleep well.” He’s quoting directly from A Maid’s Guide & Handbook, and to hear him repeat my words fills me with overweening pride. But Cheryl’s eyes roll so far back into her head, it’s a wonder she doesn’t choke on them.

“Where’s Grimthorpe’s little lady?” she asks.

“That is not how we address guests in this hotel,” Mr. Snow replies. “And shouldn’t you be upstairs cleaning guest rooms? I have no idea what you’re doing in the lobby at all.”

“The same goes for Lily,” I say. “As her temporary supervisor, you should be looking out for her. I don’t know why she was here earlier.”

“She wasn’t,” Cheryl insists.

“She was. Right by the stairs.” I point to the now-empty spot by the staircase where Lily stood with her duster.

“Hmm,” says Angela. “Right by the lever for the fire alarm.”

Mr. Snow claps his hands together. “All right. That’s enough. Doesn’t anyone in this hotel have a job to do? Off you go. Molly, you’re to assist Angela at the Social, and as I assured you, it’s just for today.”

Cheryl smirks, then drags her sloppy mop toward the elevators while Angela and I head to the Social Bar & Grill.

Once we’re out of earshot, Angela grabs me by the shoulders and rather brusquely tucks us both under an alcove.

“What on earth did you do that for?” I ask.

“Molly, I need to tell you something,” she says, as she whisks stray strands of hair away from her wide, round eyes. “We’re not as short-staffed as I said. I needed to get you away, to warn you. You’re in trouble, do you understand? We all are.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“I heard that detective speaking to her officers yesterday. They think there was foul play involved in Mr. Grimthorpe’s death. They interviewed the kitchen staff last night and the Social staff, too. They’ve put together a list of potential suspects even before they’ve gotten the autopsy results. They were naming names.”

“Mine?” I ask.

“Uh-huh,” she replies.

“Did they name anyone else?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.

“Your delicate flower,” she answers. “Lily.”

My eyesight starts to blur. It’s always like this—whenever living proves too much to handle, a dark veil is thrown over me, removing me from the present.

“Molly!” Angela says as she shakes my shoulders. “Don’t you dare pass out on me now. Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”

“A plan?” I say to the triplicates of Angela swaying before my eyes.

“To stay one step ahead. I’m telling you, I’ve been preparing for this for my entire life.”

Truly, I haven’t a clue what she’s talking about, but at least the world has stopped spinning for the time being. “What have you been preparing for?” I ask.

“Murder. Crime. Suspects, motives, and alibis.” She shakes her head as if this is the most obvious statement in the world. “Sometimes bad shit happens for a good reason, Molls, you know what I mean?”