The Mystery Guest

Now, I arrive at the front entrance of the Regency Grand, with its elegant façade. Valets bustle about, helping guests with their luggage. Mr. Preston, in his doorman’s coat and cap, stands at his podium on the landing, a portrait of dignity and grace. He sees me pause at the bottom of the stairs. My legs won’t move. I don’t deserve the red carpet. I never have.

He rushes down the stairs and grabs my arm. “Molly, are you all right?”

“I am not all right. I have never been all right.”

“There, there,” he says, guiding me up the staircase. “One foot in front of the other. It’s the only way to get anywhere in this life.”

“Gran used to say that,” I tell him as I steady myself on his arm.

“I know,” he replies.

We stop at the landing in front of the revolving doors. “I accused you of a terrible thing. You shouldn’t forgive me, Mr. Preston. I don’t deserve your kindness.”

“We all make mistakes. It’s what we do after that matters.”

“Gran used to say that, too.”

He smiles and squeezes my arm. I never fully appreciated until now just how old he’s become in a short time, how gray his hair is, no longer tinged with black but fully sterling. Even this I have not seen clearly until now. Mr. Preston is going to retire at some point soon, which means I won’t see him every day. The very thought makes my heart heavy.

“Molly,” Mr. Preston says, “I spoke with Angela last night. She wants to talk to us. Right away.”

“You spoke with Angela?” I repeat dumbly as I wonder why on earth Mr. Preston would be in touch with her after hours.

“When you and I talked yesterday, it got me thinking. I called her because I wanted her thoughts on that missing box that was in the lobby and that rare first edition of Grimthorpe’s novel I saw in the pawnshop window. You were right about one thing, Molly—there’s something fishy about all of it. Angela didn’t have much light to shed last night, but this morning, she has a bee in her bonnet. She wants to see us in the restaurant.”

“Very well,” I say. “I have a few minutes before my shift.”

Mr. Preston tells the valets he’s taking a break, then points the way through the revolving front doors of the hotel, following close behind me.

We find Angela behind the bar at the Social, her brazen hair in disarray, her expression pinched in concentration as she stares at the screen of her laptop, which is open on the bar in front of her. She’s so entranced by whatever she’s looking at, she doesn’t even glance at us. At last, she notices our presence and waves us over. Mr. Preston and I sit side by side on barstools in front of her.

“Will this be quick?” I ask. “I really should get to work.”

“Molly, you’re always half an hour early for your shift,” Angela says. “And believe me, when you see what I’m about to show you, you’re going to lose your mind. You, too, Mr. Preston,” she adds. “Best settle in.”

Mr. Preston takes off his cap and places it on the bar.

With a flourish, Angela turns her laptop to face us. On-screen is a website called KultureVulture.com. Its logo is an ominous bird of prey with an old book in its talons.

“What is this?” Mr. Preston asks.

“An online shopping site for memorabilia,” Angela replies. “People auction off used books, autographs of famous people, collector’s items, and anything else they think they can sell. There’s even a listing for a rock star’s dirty underwear. And the worst part? They sold. Look at this page,” Angela says as she clicks into another tab. “This vendor calls themself ‘The Grim Reaper.’ ”

Mr. Preston reads out the vendor’s description. “Selling original goods owned by the rich, dead, and infamous. One hundred percent bona fide! Anonymous inside source!”

“Now check this out,” Angela says as she scrolls down the screen to reveal various items labeled as sold.

I can’t believe my eyes. I gasp out loud.

“Are all of these items related to Mr. Grimthorpe?” Mr. Preston asks before I can even get words out.

“Most,” says Angela. “There’s one item that isn’t.” She scrolls to a photo of empty minibar bottles of scotch. The description underneath reads: “The Last Liquid Supper of Mr. Charles Black—the Mr. Black—from the day he dropped dead at the Regency Grand Hotel!”

My head is spinning. My heart starts to race.

“Check this out,” Angela says. She hovers over a sold listing for a fountain pen and a note card. “This twofer could be yours!” the caption reads. “J. D. Grimthorpe’s fountain pen and a scandalous love letter he wrote to his personal secretary!”

“Goodness gracious,” Mr. Preston says. “Click on it.”

Angela clicks to enlarge the photo.

I study the black-and-gold fountain pen with its elegant tapered nib. “That’s Mr. Grimthorpe’s pen,” I say. “It was in the box that disappeared.”

“Is it my old eyes or is that love note illegible?” Mr. Preston asks.

“The vendor blurs things on purpose,” Angela explains. “Only the buyer gets ‘the inside scoop.’ ”

“That’s Regency Grand stationery,” Mr. Preston says, noting the familiar logo even though it’s fuzzy.

“Well, I’ll be dipped in shite. You’re right,” says Angela.