The Mystery Guest

Lily runs toward the Social. I’m about to follow, but Detective Stark holds me back. “Molly, you stay with me. Watch and listen. If you see something I don’t, you tell me, okay?”

“Very well,” I reply.

She turns and strides out of the lobby, down the corridor toward the entrance of the Regency Grand Tearoom. Mr. Snow and I trail behind her.

We arrive not a minute too soon. Coming the other way is a familiar gaggle of ladies—about ten in total—led by a tall, curly-haired woman carrying her small red flag.

“We’re here for the free seminar,” Gladys, the leader of the LAMBS, announces. “Who’s the special guest?” she asks Mr. Snow. “Is it Serena Sharpe?”

“There was a mistake in that announcement,” Detective Stark says. “The VIP guest we’re looking for is Mr. Grimthorpe’s number-one fan. Do you know where she might be?”

An electric charge pulses through the LAMBS. Hands fly up and various members step forward.

“Me! I’m his number-one fan!”

“No, not her. Me!”

“Me! Here!”

“I’m over here!”

The LAMBS push closer. Mr. Snow extends his arms to keep them from charging the tearoom en masse.

“Please!” I call out in my most firm but authoritative maid’s voice. “There can be only one number-one fan.”

“You,” Detective Stark says, pointing to the now familiar-looking woman wearing a lumpy brown sweater covered in cat hair. “We met right here a couple of days ago. You’re Mr. Grimthorpe’s official biographer, right?”

“Unofficial,” Gladys corrects as she waves her flag.

“Not only are you his number-one fan,” I say to Beulah, “but you’re also the world’s foremost expert on Mr. Grimthorpe, are you not?”

“There are many other LAMBS just as knowledgeable as Beulah,” says Gladys with a huff.

“That’s right!” I hear. It’s a small voice from the middle of the gaggle. It’s Birdy, her fuchsia hair distinguishing her from all the other LAMBS. She’s standing on her tiptoes to be seen. “I’m his number-one fan. It’s me you want to speak to,” Birdy insists.

“I’m sure it’s not,” says Detective Stark. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we’re holding a private audience with J. D. Grimthorpe’s biographer.”

“Are you tracking a lead?” one of the LAMBS calls out. “Have you found J.D.’s murderer?”

“I’m afraid not,” says Detective Stark. “We’re stumped,” she says. “Isn’t that right, Detective?” Stark looks at me. “Detective?” she says again.

“I’m not a detective,” I say.

“You’re better than a lot I’ve worked with,” Stark insists. She turns back to Beulah. “We could really use your help, ma’am, as a true Grimthorpe aficionado.”

Beulah stands taller and adjusts her sweater.

“Thank you, everyone,” I say. “We have the expert we need. Now move along.” Mr. Snow politely directs the LAMBS toward the lobby as Detective Stark ushers Beulah into the Grand Tearoom. I enter as well and head for the white-linened table at center stage where they’re seated. I pull out a chair and sit across from them.

I’m fully expecting Stark to launch into some version of You are under arrest for the murder of J. D. Grimthorpe, but she doesn’t do that. She does something else entirely.

“What an honor to speak privately with an expert such as yourself,” she says. “When Detective Gray and I met you the other day, we instantly realized we were in the presence of a truly great literary biographer.”

Beulah begins to blush. “I rarely get the credit I deserve, not even from the LAMBS. How nice to be acknowledged,” she says.

“Of course,” Stark replies. “And I’m sorry we dragged you here on false pretenses, but we need your help. There appears to be an organized ring of corruption at the Regency Grand Hotel, and while we know you are not in any way involved, we have reason to believe that you, as Mr. Grimthorpe’s number-one fan and biographer, can help us. Molly, tell her,” Stark says.

“Tell her what?” I ask, utterly confused.

“About the website,” Stark prompts.

“Right,” I say. “Someone’s selling stolen Grimthorpe collectibles on a popular website. Detective Stark has—I mean, we have—been called in to investigate that crime as well.”

“Last I heard, buying off a website wasn’t a crime,” Beulah says.

“We’re investigating the seller, not the buyer,” says Stark. “Whoever that buyer is, they’re really clever. Very enterprising.”

Beulah holds up her hands. “You caught me! I’m the clever buyer. I bought the entire Grimthorpe collection as soon as the listings went up. I assumed the goods were bona fide, though, not ill-gotten gains. Naturally, I wanted to protect his legacy.”

“Naturally,” I say.

Detective Stark nudges me under the table.

“Tell me,” Stark says. “Given your superior research skills, why aren’t you Mr. Grimthorpe’s authorized biographer?”

Beulah picks at the hairs on her sweater. “Beats me,” she answers. “But it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s dead. I can write whatever I want about him. And I will.”

“I, for one, look forward to reading your biography on Mr. Grimthorpe,” I say. “It’s sure to be most enlightening.”