The Mystery Guest

It’s nearly time to meet Mr. Preston at the Olive Garden, and truth be told, I’ve been thinking about him all day—Mr. Preston, who for years has been a trusted friend. Mr. Preston, who comes for regular Sunday dinners with Juan and me. Mr. Preston, who I’ve long considered family. Mr. Preston, who pawned a stolen book. Mr. Preston, who appears to be—at best—a thief, and at worst…

Rats and scoundrels, fly-by-nights, and wolves in sheep’s clothing. How could Mr. Preston have any association with that lot? And yet I saw with my own eyes how he pawned that first-edition book. He walked right into the shop with it under his arm.

In the housekeeping quarters, I peel off my uniform and change into my plain clothes. Lily is already gone, and so are the other maids. I’m all by myself yet again. I look at my face in the mirror. I’m carrying luggage on it—matching black bags under my eyes. If Juan Manuel were around, he’d write something on a pad like he did the last time I worked myself to a state of exhaustion.

“What’s this?” I asked when he handed me the paper.

“A prescription,” he replied.

“R & R, once daily for Molly Gray,” I read. “To be administered by J. M., via a bubble bath, a foot massage, and spaghetti and meatballs for dinner—no cleanup by Ms. Molly allowed.” There was a heart after my name.

I miss him so much. If he were here, he’d know just what to do. In his absence, who can I turn to?

Just then, Angela appears in the doorway of the change room, making me jump.

“You scared me half to death!” I say. “What are you doing down here? You should be upstairs at the Social.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Angela says. “But I’m doing a little private investigating. I talked with the kitchen staff to see if the police had tested all the liquids in the pantry for poisons.”

Here she goes again, I think to myself. “Angela, why are you getting involved? Just stay out of it,” I say.

“And miss my big chance to solve a crime? No way. Anyhow, just so you know, the police tested everything in the kitchen. They didn’t find a thing out of place. But I did my own tests anyway.”

“You did what?” I ask.

“I taste-tested a drop of every liquid in the kitchen to see if it would made me sick.”

“And what did you discover?”

“That orange juice and vinegar followed by soy sauce and honey causes serious indigestion. The good news? I haven’t dropped dead yet,” Angela says.

“I can’t believe you did that, Angela. You’re taking this too far.”

“I’m not,” she replies. She pops out of the doorway, looks both ways down the empty hallway, then tiptoes back into the change room. “Look, Molly. Things are getting really weird in this hotel. The undercover agents are closing in on a suspect. I heard them say so. There are things you need to know.”

“There are things you need to know, Angela,” I say. “And the first is that I’m not an investigator, nor do I want to be mistaken for one. I told Detective Stark that I’d made a terrible mistake and had impersonated an officer of the law. I turned myself in for fraud. I did not, however, tell her whose terrible idea that was in the first place.”

Angela stares at me in disbelief, one hand on her hip. “That’s officially the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” she says.

“You sound like Detective Stark,” I reply as I open my locker and fish out my purse. “I keep trying to tell the LAMBS I’m just an ordinary maid, but they won’t listen. Because of your deceptions, they keep feeding me leads.”

“Good. That will come in handy.”

I find myself growing enervated and annoyed. I do like Angela, but sometimes, she’s the most stubborn person alive. I close my locker with a clank and head for the door.

“Wait! Molly, we have to talk,” she says. “Are you on your way home?”

“No. I’m meeting Mr. Preston.” I turn to face her. “Angela, I’m telling you this in confidence, and I don’t want you sharing it with anyone until I speak to him first, but yesterday, I caught Mr. Preston selling the rare first edition that disappeared from the box in the lobby. He was pawning it at a shop a few blocks from here. I saw him with my very own eyes.”

“Molly, who cares?” Angela replies. “It was just a book.”

“But what if it’s all related?” I ask. “What if Grimthorpe was killed to raise the price of his rare editions?”

Angela pauses. She’s fiddling with the tie on her apron as she considers the possibility. “Nah. Impossible. Mr. Preston wouldn’t hurt a fly. You shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

“You sound like my gran. Listen, I have to go. Goodbye, Angela,” I say.

I turn and head up the stairs to the lobby without another word. Feeling shaky and unsettled, I push through the revolving doors, rush down the stairs, and head to the Olive Garden, which is less than a block away.

Once I’m there, a familiar waiter greets me with a smile, leads me to a booth, drops two menus on the table, then walks off.

Just then I spot Mr. Preston at the entrance and wave him over. I pull out my phone from my purse—5:14 p.m. At least tardiness is one thing I won’t need to berate him about.