Page 37 of The Mystery Guest

Gladys shakes her curly head. “Beulah doesn’t like that theory because she’s harbored a crush on J.D. for ages.”

“Ridiculous,” Beulah huffs. “If anyone’s in love with him, it’s Birdy. And neither of you knows the first thing about scholarship, about the fine art of uncovering clues,” Beulah adds. “As J.D.’s biographer, I know more about him than you two ever will.”

“Beulah claims to have uncovered hidden truths about J.D., but she refuses to enlighten us with proof or details, which is a source of—”

“Tension,” Birdy offers as she smooths her fuchsia hair.

“Frustration,” Gladys adds, punctuating this with a wave of her red flag.

“All will be revealed when I publish my official biography,” Beulah says.

“Unofficial,” Gladys corrects.

“You don’t need permission from the dead,” Beulah replies.

“But you have no one to corroborate your findings, which is your professional duty,” Birdy notes. “She’d been petitioning J.D. ceaselessly to hire her officially. This has been her life’s work for almost two decades.”

“J.D. is—was—reticent to reveal certain sensitive details about himself,” Beulah says. “That’s understandable. We’ve had exchanges over the years, you know.”

“Have you?” Birdy asks. “Have you really?”

“One day, the truth will come out,” Beulah replies.

“Why not today?” I ask. Three dagger-eyed gazes turn my way. “In my experience,” I say, “secrets have a way of punishing those who keep them.”

“It’s irresponsible to posit theories without absolute proof,” Beulah replies.

“Your breakfasts.” Angela arrives at our table with plates balanced precariously on both arms. She puts down the plates. Beulah and Gladys dig into their meals immediately. Birdy takes dainty bites as she stares off into space. I have to wonder, are all three of these women smitten with the famous writer? How that’s possible is beyond me, but Gran always said,When love is blind, frogs resemble princes.Still, whatever tension existed amongst the trio moments ago has dissipated with the arrival of food.

I take this moment of calm to stir some milk into my cooling tea. I focus on the dull clank of the stainless-steel spoon against the ordinary ceramic cup. Only at the Social do we use such mundane cutlery, which lacks the pleasing tinkle of Regency Grand silver against proper porcelain.

Angela stands beside me with her hands on her hips, looking from one lady to the next as they eat their breakfasts without so much as a word.

Angela leans in to whisper in my ear. “Do you hear that?” she asks.

“Hear what?” I whisper back.

“The silence,” she says. “The Silence of the LAMBS.”

Before

I’m swinging my legs back and forth under our worn-out breakfast table as I chew each bite of my breakfast twenty times because (a) it aids with digestion, (b) it’s delicious, and (c)there are children in the world who don’t eat every day, so best be thankful for every single bite.

It’s now been a week since Mr. Grimthorpe’s tirade, and from time to time I’ve heard his telltale footfalls beyond the fourth wall, but I haven’t seen him in the flesh. I can’t stop thinking about him, though. Why does a man who has so much seem so unhappy? And what did I do to anger him so? Will I ever see him again?

The great physicists are right—the universeisexpanding, or at least mine is. The proof is in the number of new questions I have for Gran every single day. Last night, I lay awake in my bed searching for answers yet again. It wasn’t like this before, when I was going to school every day. Then, my mind was imprisoned, a caged tiger, stunted and pacing restlessly behind bars. I couldn’t think atall, much less question things. But since visiting the Grimthorpe mansion, my imagination is unfettered, my curiosity insatiable.

Sitting at our table, legs dangling, I come to an important realization—that education is not something that happens exclusively in classrooms, that education is a state of mind. I launch into my new set of queries with a dogged enthusiasm that must have exhausted my gran, not that she ever showed so much as an iota of frustration. She always treated me like an adult and spoke to me as though I were one. Did she know that one day I would remember our conversations, that I would replay them over and over in my mind, uncovering layer after layer of her wisdom?

“Gran, is it possible to be rich and poor at the same time?” I ask as I glug milky tea and prepare for a new bite.

“It most certainly is,” she replies. “One can be rich in love and poor in worldly goods.”

“Or one can be poor in health and rich in wealth,” I add.

“Touché.” She butters her crumpet with artful precision until her knife is wiped clean.

“Gran, how did the Grimthorpes get so rich?”

---