The Mystery Guest

“Her,” I say, pointing a finger at Cheryl, etiquette be damned.

Mr. Snow’s brow wrinkles in confusion.

Angela opens her laptop and proceeds to walk him through each of Cheryl’s items on KultureVulture.com. As Mr. Snow’s eyes grow wider and wider behind his tortoiseshell glasses, Cheryl remains as impassive as a lump in a gravy boat, her arms crossed against her chest, her mouth a defiant pout.

When Angela’s show-and-tell is done, Mr. Snow turns to Cheryl. “You had Lily pull the fire alarm? And you took the items in that banker’s box meant for Serena? Are you really this”—he waves a hand at the laptop screen—“this Grim Reaper?”

She shrugs. “I see myself as more of a recycling entrepreneur. By the way, what you pay maids sucks. You know that, right? And when you demoted me from Head Maid, my pay got worse. What did you expect?”

“What I expect,” says Mr. Snow, “is that you do not cheat, pillage, or steal, especially from your own colleagues.”

“You forced Lily to aid and abet you,” I say. “How could you do such a thing?”

“Oh, that’s rich,” says Cheryl. “How many times have I seen you stealing tiny jam jars off discarded guest trays in the corridors? Or pocketing turn-down chocolates guests leave behind in their rooms?”

“That’s not theft,” I say. “Those items were destined for the trash bin, and I merely liberated them from waste. There’s a provision for this in A Maid’s Guide & Handbook,” I say.

“You and your goddamn handbook. Admit it. You’re as much of a trash panda as I am.”

My backbone goes rigid. My blood pulses in my temples. I’ve been called many things over my life span, but never before has a name felt more offensive than this.

“Why do you call yourself the Grim Reaper?” Angela asks Cheryl. “Why that name in particular?”

“Because it sounds good. It’s called marketing.”

“Perhaps it’s more suggestive than you ever intended,” Mr. Preston says.

“Suggestive of what?” Cheryl asks.

“Of murder,” Lily says, her voice strong and clear, the furthest thing from a whisper.

Cheryl guffaws and slaps her thighs. “Those cleaning chemicals you two love so much must be frying your brains. I may take the odd thing here and there, but I’m no killer.”

“Glad to hear it,” says Mr. Snow. “Please, enjoy another muffin, Cheryl, courtesy of the Regency Grand.” He stands abruptly, removes his cellphone from his pocket, and dials a contact. “You can explain everything yourself,” he says.

“Explain? What do you mean? I just did,” Cheryl says.

“I’m phoning the lead investigator. I’m calling in Detective Stark.”

—

Twenty minutes later, a detective walks into a bar. She heads straight for the source of commotion, where three maids, a bartender, a doorman, and a hotel manager are arguing about a first-edition book put up for sale in a local pawnshop.

“I sold my very own property, but you sold ill-gotten goods! Can you not see the difference?” Mr. Preston asks Cheryl.

“If the book in that box was so valuable, it should have been locked in a safe,” Cheryl replies. “You can’t be too careful these days.”

“Holy forking shirtballs, Cheryl. Are you for real?” Angela says.

Some familiar-looking special agents enter the Social behind Detective Stark. They stand at the entrance, guarding it, while Stark stops in front of all of us gathered at the bar. Lily, Mr. Snow, and Mr. Preston stand up from their barstools immediately.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Detective,” Mr. Snow says.

“Is this really necessary?” Cheryl asks. “Shouldn’t I get back to work?”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Mr. Preston replies.

“Does someone here care to explain what the hell is going on?” Stark asks.

Angela wastes no time. She places her laptop in front of the detective and guides her through the evidence as Cheryl sneers on the stool right beside her, her arms crossed against her chest.

“All of the items on the site are related to Grimthorpe, minus one,” Angela notes. “The minibar bottles of scotch. Cheryl admits she’s the Grim Reaper. She sold nearly the whole lot of stolen Grimthorpe goods to a single vendor.”

Stark turns to Cheryl, staring at her for a moment. “Exactly how long have you been selling items on this website?” she asks.

“For as long as she’s worked here,” Angela answers. “Or so it seems.”

“The minibar bottles of scotch,” Stark says. “You say they’re the last thing Mr. Black drank before he died.”

“They were,” Cheryl replies. “I liberated them from Molly’s maid trolley. But that was years ago.”

“Who else are you working with in the hotel? The kitchen staff? Or maybe some other maids?” Stark looks at me and Lily, and though I want to scream, I have, for once, the good sense to keep quiet.

“Are you kidding me?” Cheryl says as she points to me and Lily. “This lot wouldn’t know a gold nugget if it hit them on the forehead.”

“She forced Lily to be an accessory to her crimes,” I say.

“I didn’t want to help her, Detective,” Lily says. “But…but…” The words catch in her throat.

“Go on,” I say. “Speak up.”