The Mystery Guest

“Unauthorized biographer,” the flag-bearing leader of the LAMBS corrects as she settles into a chair across from me. “And I’m Gladys, Chief Literary Officer and President of the LAMBS. The little flaming-pink-haired one here is Birdy, Official Treasurer. The rest of the LAMBS are right over there—they’re the early risers.” Across the restaurant, numerous pairs of eyes size me up from afar.

“I’ll grab you all coffees,” Angela says.

“Tea for me,” I say.

“Back in a jiffy,” Angela replies. Then to me she only whispers, “While I’m gone, Molly, ask questions. Lots of them. Remember, that’s why you’re here.”

She winks, then rushes off. The three women are staring at me, leaving me at a complete loss about what to say. A question pops into my head. “I guess I’m wondering why it is you’re still here,” I say. “In the hotel, I mean. It’s not as though there will be book events, not after what happened yesterday.”

“When there’s joy, we celebrate together. When there’s grief, we grieve together,” says the president of the LAMBS.

All three nod in unison.

“Also,” says Beulah, “we crave answers about J.D. as much as you do. It will be a ghastly biographical footnote if it turns out to be…”

“Murder,” Birdy squeaks, finishing Beulah’s sentence. This is the only word the tiny woman has spoken since we sat down.

Angela appears with three coffees and my tea. She places them down on the table. “Ready to order?” she asks.

The LAMBS order identically—Le Grand Oeuf, the biggest breakfast on the menu.

“What will you have, Molly?” Angela asks.

“Nothing,” I reply.

“She’s on the job,” Angela explains.

“Very professional,” says Gladys the president. “We do have a question for you, Molly. Have you figured out what Mr. Grimthorpe was going to announce yesterday during his big event?”

“We have not,” Angela replies. “I mean, the authorities haven’t,” she says as she points at me. “But we’d love to hear your theories.”

“Oh no, here we go,” says Beulah.

“You’ve stumbled upon a matter of great contention,” Gladys says as she stirs a heaping spoonful of sugar into her coffee.

“We don’t always agree,” Beulah adds as she picks cat hair off her sizable bosom, sending it flying into the air above our table.

“My theory,” Gladys offers, “is that J.D. was going to announce a sequel to his biggest bestseller.”

“The Maid in the Mansion, 2.0,” Birdy chimes in. “Do you know that as of yesterday, the auction price for a first edition of that book has soared to a whopping five figures?”

“Collectors,” Beulah huffs through a halo of fur. “Such morbid vultures.”

“Aren’t you all collectors?” Angela asks.

“We are much more than that. To be clear,” Gladys says, “we are researchers who take pride in what we study. We have not now, nor have we ever, sought to profit from J. D. Grimthorpe.”

“That’s right,” Beulah adds. “Our mandate has always been to promote his oeuvre.”

“I’ll go place your orders now,” Angela says. She turns and heads to the bar, leaving me dreadfully alone.

Diminutive Birdy leans in to speak. She is so small her head looks like a pink grapefruit hovering above the edge of the table. “We were wondering if you’ve considered that J.D.’s novels might contain clues. His biggest bestseller is about a novelist who is holed up in his mansion completing his greatest book ever. But someone—I won’t reveal who—is out to kill.”

“It was the maid,” Beulah says. “She was the killer, working right in that mansion all along, and yet she seemed so innocent.”

“For the love of good writing, there she goes again! Spoiler alert,” Birdy says.

Gladys’s gray curls shake in frustration. “How many times have we told you, Beulah? You know our policy.”

Birdy raises a finger in the air as though conducting an orchestra. “The LAMBS shalt not spoil the ending of a whodunit for any mystery reader,” she says. “It’s our cardinal rule.”

Beulah sighs, then fixes me with her apathetic gaze. “There are two twists in that book. I just gave away one. I swear, some readers read only for the twists. But there’s more than that to J.D.’s novels. Any fool would be able to see as much,” she says, practically spitting the words at her fellow LAMBS. Then she turns her attention to me. “I don’t suppose you’ve read The Maid in the Mansion, have you?”

My words catch in my mouth. I feel like a fish out of water, gasping for oxygen.

“Molly?” Gladys asks. “Are you all right?”

“I…I have not read the novel,” I say. “I do know its plot, though. I know it too well.” A writer in a hollow, lifeless mansion kills his wife. He thinks he’s found a way to get away with it, but he’s wrong. The maid saw everything, and she exacts her revenge, killing him the same way he killed his wife, and then making his body disappear.

“Gladys is certain that J.D. arranged yesterday’s event to announce a sequel to that book,” Birdy offers.