The Mystery Guest

While I don’t always have the most reliable read on human emotions, I can’t help but notice the incongruity here. Both women appear more afraid of missing breakfast than they are of a potential murderer on the loose. And why have they stuck around when there’s quite literally a zero percent chance of them meeting the very man they came here to see? It suddenly strikes me that the third member of their usual trio, the little one with the pink highlights, is separated from the flock.

“Where’s the other number-one fan you two are always with?” I ask. “Ms. Birdy. Has she flown home?”

“Home? Are you kidding? And miss the action?” Beulah says. “She’s wandering the hotel, collecting clues. She’s pitching theories and motives to your people.”

“My people?” I say.

“Yes. The secret agents, the men in black who’re all over the hotel today. We know they’re working with you,” Gladys says. She points to one of the men with earpieces littering the lobby at intervals.

“They are not working with me,” I reply. “I am just a maid. That’s it. That’s all.”

“Of course. We understand,” Gladys says. “Nod, nod. Wink, wink. We won’t say a word. But we do have something important to tell you—as a maid, of course.”

“If it’s truly as a maid, then I will listen. What is it?” I ask.

“It’s about Birdy,” Gladys says.

Beulah scratches at her fur-covered sweater, then says, “As you probably noticed, Birdy and I don’t always get along. We share a love for all things Grimthorpe, but let’s just say the love ends there. For many years, there’s been a professional rivalry between us.”

“A professional jealousy is what I’d call it,” says Gladys.

“You see, I’m something that Birdy is not—only I am Mr. Grimthorpe’s biographer.”

“Unofficial biographer,” Gladys adds.

“One thing I’ve learned over the years is never to underestimate a tiny woman. Birdy may be small, but she’s strong, wily, and…”

“She has a history with poison,” Gladys says.

The two women exchange a look.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Two years ago, during our biannual symposium on The Genius of J. D. Grimthorpe, an esteemed academic from a local university was in attendance. After Birdy’s rather long-winded lecture about crime and punishment in J.D.’s mysteries, this academic raised her hand and said she’d never understood why his work was so popular. She called his writing rigid.”

“ ‘Constipated’ was the exact word she used,” Beulah says. “Birdy was apoplectic.”

“On the second day of the symposium, when the academic returned for our Crime & Crumpets Salon, Birdy served her a special brownie she’d baked herself,” Gladys says.

“Brown as my favorite sweater, and laced with laxatives,” Beulah adds. “Let’s just say that academic never attended one of our symposiums ever again.”

“Typical Birdy,” says Gladys, shaking her curly head. “The punishment befits the crime.”

The two ladies nod in unison.

“When that detective on the news said Mr. Grimthorpe was poisoned, we both had the same thought: Birdy,” Beulah says.

Gladys leans toward me. “If Birdy could poison a brownie, what else might she be capable of?”

“But why would she poison her idol?” I ask.

“Because she’s angry,” Beulah offers. “With him and with me. Killing J.D. punishes us both.” Beulah leans into me conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “Lately, I’d been getting closer to Mr. Grimthorpe, uncovering research Birdy knows nothing about. He and I had discussed me becoming his official biographer. She was not happy about that. She’s always wanted to be more than his number-one fan. Let’s just say she was green with envy when I told her I beat her to the punch.”

“And as mentioned,” Gladys adds, “Birdy has always had a penchant for Poison & Punishment—the novel, I mean.”

“It’s her favorite book by J. D. Grimthorpe because the villain gets what’s coming to him via a tainted drink. I doubt that’s a coincidence,” says Beulah.

“Beulah and I discussed all of this last night,” Gladys adds, “and while it’s hard to imagine Birdy stooping to such a low, we decided it would be prudent to mention her backstory to someone official. You know, just in case.”

“I’m not official,” I say. “Unless you mean in my capacity as Head Maid.”

“Of course,” Gladys says loudly. “We understand.”

Beulah grabs my arm. “You’ll investigate this, right?” she whispers.

“I’ll do no such thing,” I say. “Speak to the authorities. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must be off. Hotel rooms don’t clean themselves.”

“Especially Beulah’s,” Gladys says. “Her hotel room looks like a pack rat moved in.”

“It’s not that bad,” Beulah replies as she brushes the shoulders of her sweater, sending a raft of fresh cat fur into the air.

I turn on my heel and leave without so much as another word. It must be said: I’m relieved the moment I’m out of their sight. Everything about these women sets my teeth on edge.