The Mystery Guest

It’s been cleaned recently—the bed perfectly made, hospital corners crisp and tight—and yet every square inch beyond the bed is occupied with detritus of all kinds. Cardboard boxes filled with binders line the floor, each one labeled Grimthorpe, followed by a number. A suitcase lies open by the window, clothes heaped in haphazard disarray, every item covered in heaps of cat hair.

Mr. Snow covers his nose.

“This is disgusting,” Stark says. “It looks like a rat moved in. Don’t the maids clean this room every day?”

“We do,” I say. “But we can’t do a deep cleaning until a guest departs. Maids can clean only clear surfaces in a guest-occupied room.”

I walk over to the minibar by the window. It’s just as I remember it: on top of the bar fridge is a hoard of incongruous miniature Regency Grand shampoo bottles beside various snack food packages, all left open, their contents spilling onto the floor—half-eaten cereal, an open package of crackers, and a big jar of peanut butter.

Detective Stark approaches the desk opposite the bed. It’s a cluttered mess of papers, file folders, notepads, books, and crumpled receipts. “Molly, check this out,” Stark says.

I join her by the desk, where she’s pointing at a black Moleskine notebook with the monogram JDG. Beside it is another black Moleskine, but with a different monogram: BB.

I’m used to touching people’s personal items in their hotel room, but it feels strange when I pick up Beulah’s Moleskine, not to tidy it but to look inside. The first page is titled “Close Encounters,” and after that, point-form notes run page after page after page.

“It’s a ledger,” I tell Detective Stark as Mr. Snow looks on.

“So it is,” Stark exclaims. “It’s every attempt at an encounter with Mr. Grimthorpe.”

I flip through the dated pages, which go back years. I read at random:

mailed flyer to acquaint him with the LAMBS: NO RESPONSE.

sent email to website declaring me his #1 fan: NO RESPONSE.

located private phone number and home address. Left voicemail with contact info: NO RESPONSE.

sent 5th request to be his Official Biographer by registered mail: NO RESPONSE.

I flip to the most recent entries in the book:

slipped note under hotel room door suggesting dinner date at the Social: NO RESPONSE.

waited for J.D. outside his room at the Regency Grand: LOCATED!

requested his denial of troubling new facts: DECLINED.

requested permission to be Official Biographer: DENIED.

requested permission to enter his room: DOOR SLAMMED IN FACE.

“What’s the date on that last entry?” Stark asks.

“The day before the press conference,” I reply.

The detective and I lock eyes.

“I don’t see how this adds up to much,” Mr. Snow says, shaking his head.

“I do,” I say. “I need Lily.”

I put down the Moleskine and rush into the hall. Her trolley is propping open a door at the other end of the corridor. I find her inside, vacuuming the carpet into Zen-garden lines.

“Lily!” I call out, but she can’t hear me.

I turn off her vacuum. “Lily,” I repeat.

She shrieks and jumps back into a shadowy corner by the bed.

“It’s okay,” I say. “You’re not in any trouble. But I need you to come with me right now.”

I don’t waste a moment, I grab her by the hand and rush her out of the room, down the corridor, and back to Room 404, where Mr. Snow and Detective Stark are waiting.

Out of breath, I stand in front of the detective, with Lily by my side.

“Lily,” I say. “Do you remember a few days ago, when we were cleaning this very room?”

She nods.

“And do you remember what a state this room was in?”

She nods again. “It’s always a mess. Hard to clean around all the junk. It’s been like this every day I’ve tried to clean it.”

“Exactly,” I reply. “And do you remember how we laughed about all the little shampoo bottles and how there was food everywhere just like now—half-eaten boxes of cereal and crackers, and that big jar of peanut butter right there?”

Lily nods. “Yes. It’s the same now.”

“Not quite,” I say. “There was something different about the peanut butter jar that day.”

“It was open, and there was a spoon in it,” she says.

“Exactly! I took the spoon out and closed the lid, remarking about who would leave it open like that with a spoon sticking out. I washed that spoon, which is when I realized it wasn’t a Regency Grand silver spoon but an ordinary stainless-steel one from the Social downstairs. Do you remember?”

Lily nods. “Yes, I do. I asked if I should return it to the restaurant, and you said no, if the guest was using it, it was fine to leave it in the room.”

“Precisely! And I put that stainless-steel spoon on the minibar right beside the jar of peanut butter,” I reply. “But it’s not there now. It’s gone. Lily, did you clean this room today?”

“As much as I could,” she says. “It’s never easy.”

“And have you seen that spoon?” I ask.

Lily looks from me to Mr. Snow to Detective Stark. Then she nods.

“Where?”

She points to the bedside table, then walks over to it. “It’s right there,” she says. “By the lamp.”