The Mystery Guest

“But they’re wrong about the note,” I say. “Mr. Grimthorpe didn’t write it. Mr. Snow did. He admitted as much.”

“Figures,” says Angela. “As the name implies, these online vendors really are vultures. They’ll lie about anything just to make a buck.”

“And this pen and note sold for how much?” Mr. Preston asks.

“Five hundred dollars,” says Angela. “Plus express shipping and handling.”

“Who would spend money on such rubbish?” he asks.

“Lots of people,” Angela says. “And not just collectors either. Podcasters and reporters, too. Look at this.” She clicks on a photo of a black Moleskine notebook with the monogram JDG, followed by a shot of the same notebook spread open, the pages filled with unintelligible scribbles and doodles. “It says it belonged to J. D. Grimthorpe, but I doubt it’s real,” Angela says.

“Oh, it’s real,” I reply. “It’s most definitely real.” Another listing catches my eye. “Scroll up, please,” I say.

Angela clicks into a sold item advertising “J. D. Grimthorpe’s last words! Be the first to read the speech he never gave!”

My heart beats faster as recognition dawns. “Those are the cue cards that disappeared from the podium,” I say. “They’re blurred out, but those are the cards!”

“That confirms it. An inside job for sure,” Mr. Preston says. “This vendor either works here or is in cahoots with someone who does.”

Angela nods, her mouth a tight grimace. “Are you getting the picture, Molly?” she asks.

Our worst fears have just been confirmed. “There’s a thief who works here,” I say. “And they might also be…” I pause. I don’t want to say it out loud.

“A coldhearted killer,” Angela replies. “There’s one more thing. And I have to warn you, Molly. This part will come as a shock.”

I ball my hands into fists on the bar top. I don’t know how much more I can take. The barstool I’m seated on is swaying from side to side.

Angela scrolls to the final listing, the only Grimthorpe-related item that hasn’t yet sold. It advertises his most recent book, “one of the last he ever signed!” selling for the “low, low price of $100!”

“Get ready,” Angela says. She clicks on the photo to reveal the book opened to the title page, where J. D. Grimthorpe personalized it:

Dearest Lily,

In return for your sweetness, my thanks for reading.

This message is followed by his signature, the very same one in the book he signed for me and in every signed edition I’ve ever seen, the letters rickety and ramshackle, as wildly unpredictable as the man himself—an unmistakable, authentic Grimthorpe autograph.

Angela isn’t looking at the screen anymore. She’s looking at me with an expression I recognize from my mental catalogue of human behaviors. Mr. Preston’s expression is a Xerox copy of hers. I used to confuse this look with anguish, but now I know the name for this acutely painful embarrassment, one that’s felt not for yourself but for someone else: it’s called pity.

“Please,” I say. “Please tell me Lily is not the Grim Reaper. I can’t believe it. It can’t be!”

“Molly, let’s not jump to conclusions,” Mr. Preston says. “There may be a rational explanation.”

“He’s right,” Angela adds. “Innocent until proven guilty and all that. We don’t know anything for sure. Not yet.”

“Plus, Lily didn’t work here during all that funny business with Mr. Black,” says Mr. Preston. “She couldn’t possibly know that scotch was the last thing that man drank before he died.”

“She knew,” I say. “Because I told her. When I trained her, we spent hours together cleaning rooms. I told her about the day Mr. Black drank all the scotch from his minibar, leaving a mess of empties behind. I told her how I thought he’d passed out in his bed when in fact he was dead. I told her how all fingers after that pointed my way. You can never be too careful as a maid, I said. It was a cautionary tale.”

Angela and Mr. Preston exchange a concerned look. It does nothing to make me feel better.

I don’t tell them what I’m hearing over and over in a loop in my head, Lily’s quiet whisper of a voice, repeating what I already know: “The maid is always to blame.”

Chapter 19

Before

There. I’ve done it. I’ve left a little gift for the mysterious man in the watchtower to thank him for helping me and my gran. It feels good to have done so, even though something in me longs to know more about what makes this man so generous. Maybe I’ll ask Gran tomorrow at breakfast, find out what else she knows about him.

I’ve made my way back to the entrance of the mansion, where I open the heavy front door and slip through it, closing it quietly behind me. I’ve managed to sneak in and out so stealthily that neither Gran nor Mrs. Grimthorpe will have noticed I left.

I wipe the bottoms of my shoes and slip them back into the vestibule. I hear voices coming from the parlor. For a moment, I think I’m hearing things because one of the voices is a man’s.