The Mystery Guest

“I do,” I say. “My gran used to say the same thing…minus the fecal expletive.”

“Molly, I’m a bartender. People tell me everything. And what they don’t tell me, I overhear anyhow. You know those crazy cat ladies, the number-one fans who’ve been stalking Mr. G?”

“The LAMBS,” I say. “And they’re not cat ladies—well, not all of them—they’re book ladies, aficionados of mystery.”

“Whatever. They’ll be at the Social for breakfast any minute, and if anyone knows the truth about what happened to Grimthorpe, it’s them. They’ve been stalking him ever since they got here.”

“So?” I reply. “What exactly are we supposed to do? Interrogate them over breakfast?”

“Yes. Well, kind of. You are going to interrogate them over breakfast. It’s all set up.”

“Angela,” I say. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I haven’t.” Angela sighs. “Look, you gotta trust me. Yesterday, a man died unexpectedly in our hotel. Shit keeps disappearing around here, and just now, Snow was getting googly eyes around Grimthorpe’s personal secretary…though I’m not so sure she’s really a secretary, if you know what I mean.”

“For the record,” I say, “I have absolutely no idea what you mean.”

“Never mind. Remember yesterday when you were outside the tearoom with the detective?”

“Yes.”

“I poked my head out of the Social and saw you. And when the LAMBS showed up for a drink late last night, I told them something.”

For once, Angela goes silent. It’s so out of character it qualifies as a minor miracle. “What did you tell them?” I ask.

“I kinda said that you’re doing a job in the hotel…incognito…as a maid. I kinda maybe suggested you’ve been working undercover as extra protection for Mr. Grimthorpe. I may have also said you work with Detective Stark and that you’re actually a detective. An undercover one.”

“You didn’t say that. Please tell me you didn’t.”

“I did,” Angela replies, her mouth turning upward into a smile so incongruous with the situation that it makes me want to scream.

“You lied. About me!” I say.

“For your own good, Molly. This way, we can team up.”

“I’m not up for this particular partnership,” I say.

“Why not? We need to find the real murderer before Stark pins this death on one of us workers. You of all people know how inept the cops are,” she pleads. “They say they want justice, but do they really? They jump to the wrong conclusion and blame people like us all the time.”

“This is ridiculous, a harebrained scheme that will undo us both,” I say.

“Molly,” Angela replies as she wags a finger in my face. “I may be an amateur, but make no mistake: I’m a kick-ass sleuth. I’ve always been good at putting two and two together when others can’t. If we work together, we’ll outdetect that stuck-up Stark and her squadron of goons. Also, now that the LAMBS know you’re working undercover, they’ll tell you everything. Just trust me, okay?”

Before I can respond, something at the other end of the lobby catches Angela’s eye. “Uh-oh,” she says. “They’re early.”

Coming the other way are two familiar-looking ladies led by the tall, curly-haired, flag-carrying leader of the LAMBS. The trio is heading straight for the Social.

“Yoo-hoo!” we hear before I can say another word. The president of the LAMBS is waving her red flag at us. “Detective, please join us for breakfast.”

I want to correct her, to tell her exactly what I am and what I’m not, but Angela’s nails are digging so deep into my arm that I cannot form words.

“How sweet of you to invite Molly to join you,” Angela says as they approach. “We’ll walk over with you.”

“Oh, we’re happy to cooperate,” says the flag-bearing leader. “It’s our solemn duty to J.D. We want to help you and…the detective,” she whispers while pointing at me.

“I’m just a maid,” I say. “That’s all I am.”

“Of course,” says the president, her gray curls bouncing up and down as she nods.

“Absolutely,” says another one of the LAMBS, the tiniest of the three, the one with the bright fuchsia highlights. “You’re doing a marvelous job of keeping a low profile. I saw you cleaning my hotel room just the other day. I’m amazed at the lengths to which you detectives will go just to stay undercover. It’s really impressive.”

“I agree,” says the third gray-haired lady, who—much to my horror—is wearing the same lumpy brown sweater she wore yesterday, still covered in cat hair.

And so it is that despite repeated protests and further attempts to clarify who I am, I find myself sitting down for breakfast at the Social with a gaggle of LAMBS, who believe me to be something I most definitely am not.

“You four can take that table right there,” Angela says once we enter the restaurant. She points to a free table closest to the bar. “This way, I can look after you myself.” She grabs some menus from the bar top and plops them on our table.

“Allow me,” the woman in the brown sweater says as she pulls out my chair and beckons me to sit. “I’m Beulah, by the way,” she announces as she takes a seat beside me. “Beulah Barnes, J. D. Grimthorpe’s biographer.”