The Mystery Guest

“Hey, you.” I feel a tap on the arm. “You work here, don’t you? Do you know anything about what’s happening outside on the steps?”

“Me?” I ask, turning to the reporter in front of me. “Why would I know anything? I’m just a maid.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry,” he replies as he trots off in search of someone more important.

“Let’s go, Molly,” Detective Stark says as she leads me toward the gleaming revolving doors. We pass through them and find ourselves delivered onto the red-carpeted landing outside.

The entrance is packed. The LAMBS are jammed up on one side of the staircase, nattering and chattering about how they always suspected Beulah was unhinged. Beulah is halfway down the stairs, struggling against the officers who have a firm hold on her handcuffed wrists. Detective Stark heads down the stairs to help them.

“This is insane! Can’t you see that I’ve done the world a favor?” Beulah calls out. “I’ve rid the world of a monster! You should be thanking me, not arresting me!”

There it is—she’s just admitted it in front of a crowd.

I spot fuchsia-haired Birdy jostling to get close to Beulah. “How could you?” she yells at her. “How could you poison a literary genius?”

“He was no genius. He was a fraud!” Beulah yells back. “And a predator!”

“You’re the fraud, Beulah Barnes! You’re also a killer!” curly-haired Gladys bellows as she brandishes her red flag like a sword. “You’re barred from the LAMBS forever!”

The reporters and other lookie-loos are arriving now in full force, blocking the stairs, recording videos on their phones, and shouting out questions to Beulah.

“Hey, did you really kill him? Why did you do it?”

“Do you work here? Are you his number-one fan?”

“Did you have help? Or did you do it on your own?”

Mr. Preston pushes back the crowd until he’s standing right in front of Beulah.

“Keep your hands on her, boys,” Detective Stark orders as Beulah gnashes and struggles against the officers.

“Easy now, Ms. Barnes,” Mr. Preston says. “No point thrashing about. Is that how a biographer of your stature behaves?”

Suddenly, Beulah goes still. It’s as though Mr. Preston has flipped a switch in her. She stares at him like he’s the only person in the world who matters.

“Will you allow me to take your arm, madam?” Mr. Preston asks.

“Stand back, everyone! Let the doorman approach,” Detective Stark calls out.

Her officers don’t release their grip on Beulah’s wrists, but they permit Mr. Preston to take Beulah’s elbow. The throng on the stairs watches in silence.

“I don’t understand,” Beulah says to Mr. Preston. “I uncovered the truth. The world is a better place without Grimthorpe in it.”

“On that last point, we agree,” Mr. Preston replies.

“Don’t let them throw away my research,” Beulah begs. “Please, my biography must see the light of day. And will you make sure someone takes care of my cats at home? They don’t deserve to suffer.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Mr. Preston replies.

As she leans on Mr. Preston, Beulah steps lightly down the stairs, as though she’s a princess being delivered to a royal carriage rather than a lonely, disturbed woman who murdered a famous man. Mr. Preston guides her all the way to the bottom of the stairs, where Mr. Snow is standing by the police car.

Stark opens the door of her cruiser.

“Easy now, madam,” Mr. Preston says as he releases Beulah’s elbow. He protects her head as Stark’s officers put her into the back seat, closing the door behind her.

“Take her to the station,” Stark orders. “I’ll be there soon enough.” One of the men grabs the detective’s keys, then gets into the car.

The crowd surges forward, and Mr. Preston and the valets hold them back as the car departs. The last thing I see is Beulah’s face of confusion as she stares out of the fogging window wondering how on earth it came to this.

Once the car is gone, Detective Stark trots up the stairs, blazing a trail until she’s standing tall behind the doorman’s podium on the landing.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” she calls out in a firm and authoritative voice. “If you have questions—be they burning, inappropriate, or just plain dumb—would you be so kind as to direct them to me? The workers at this hotel have suffered enough harassment in the last few days. For the record, they are not, nor have they ever been, to blame for any of this.”

The crowd surrounds her at the podium, but Detective Stark isn’t paying attention to them. She’s looking at me.

I curtsy, stepping one foot back and bowing my head exactly as my gran taught me to do so many years ago. When I look up again, Detective Stark has disappeared behind a relentless horde of guests, reporters, and hotel employees.

I suddenly feel quite dizzy. I can’t catch my breath. I hold on to the brass railing for fear I might pass out right here on the steps of the Regency Grand.

I feel a hand on my arm.

“Are you quite all right?”

It’s Mr. Preston. He’s always had a way of finding me in my moment of need. Of propping me up. Whatever would I do without him?

“I’ll be fine,” I say.