Page 34 of The Mystery Guest

Once we’re out of earshot, Angela grabs me by the shoulders and rather brusquely tucks us both under an alcove.

“What on earth did you do that for?” I ask.

“Molly, I need to tell you something,” she says, as she whisks stray strands of hair away from her wide, round eyes. “We’re not as short-staffed as I said. I needed to get you away, to warn you. You’re in trouble, do you understand? Weallare.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“I heard that detective speaking to her officers yesterday. They think there was foul play involved in Mr. Grimthorpe’s death. They interviewed the kitchen staff last night and the Social staff, too. They’ve put together a list of potential suspects even before they’ve gotten the autopsy results. They were naming names.”

“Mine?” I ask.

“Uh-huh,” she replies.

“Did they name anyone else?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.

“Your delicate flower,” she answers. “Lily.”

My eyesight starts to blur. It’s always like this—whenever living proves too much to handle, a dark veil is thrown over me, removing me from the present.

“Molly!” Angela says as she shakes my shoulders. “Don’t you dare pass out on me now. Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”

“A plan?” I say to the triplicates of Angela swaying before my eyes.

“To stay one step ahead. I’m telling you, I’ve been preparing for this for my entire life.”

Truly, I haven’t a clue what she’s talking about, but at least the world has stopped spinning for the time being. “What have you been preparing for?” I ask.

“Murder. Crime. Suspects, motives, and alibis.” She shakes her head as if this is the most obvious statement in the world. “Sometimes bad shit happens for a good reason, Molls, you know what I mean?”

“I do,” I say. “My gran used to say the same thing…minus the fecal expletive.”

“Molly, I’m a bartender. People tell me everything. And what they don’t tell me, I overhear anyhow. You know those crazy cat ladies, the number-one fans who’ve been stalking Mr. G?”

“The LAMBS,” I say. “And they’re not cat ladies—well, not all of them—they’re book ladies, aficionados of mystery.”

“Whatever. They’ll be at the Social for breakfast any minute, and if anyone knows the truth about what happened to Grimthorpe, it’s them. They’ve been stalking him ever since they got here.”

“So?” I reply. “What exactly are we supposed to do? Interrogate them over breakfast?”

“Yes. Well, kind of.Youare going to interrogate them over breakfast. It’s all set up.”

“Angela,” I say. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I haven’t.” Angela sighs. “Look, you gotta trust me. Yesterday, a man died unexpectedly in our hotel. Shit keeps disappearing around here, and just now, Snow was getting googly eyes around Grimthorpe’s personal secretary…though I’m not so sure she’s really a secretary, if you know what I mean.”

“For the record,” I say, “I have absolutely no idea what you mean.”

“Never mind. Remember yesterday when you were outside the tearoom with the detective?”

“Yes.”

“I poked my head out of the Social and saw you. And when the LAMBS showed up for a drink late last night, I told them something.”

For once, Angela goes silent. It’s so out of character it qualifies as a minor miracle. “What did you tell them?” I ask.

“I kinda said that you’re doing a job in the hotel…incognito…as a maid. I kinda maybe suggested you’ve been working undercover as extra protection for Mr. Grimthorpe. I may have also said you work with Detective Stark and that you’re actually a detective. An undercover one.”

“You didn’t say that. Please tell me you didn’t.”

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