Page 40 of The Mystery Guest

I observe the spindly man sitting in front of me, with his errant hair and the eyes of a wild stallion. What if this isn’t make-believe? The thought makes my stomach curdle and churn.

“Are you planning to kill Mrs. Grimthorpe?” I ask.

He throws his head back and laughs uproariously at my question.

“Why are you laughing?” I ask.

“Because it’s absurd. I have no intentions of killing my wife. There’d be no point. She’s been as good as dead for at least twenty years, and it’s my fault. That long-suffering woman has spent her entire adult life protecting my reputation and seeing to my health and well-being. I assure you, I’ve not made any of it easy. Let’s just say there are more faithful husbands in the world, but there are few wives quite as loyal as she.”

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“Never mind. The point is I need a resolution to my novel. A dénouement. A twist. Maybe two. And I need to make that imaginary body disappear.”

“Lye,” I say.

“Lie about what?” he asks.

“Not that kind of lie,” I say. “Lye as in the chemical. It burns. Use enough of it, and I suppose you could make an entire body disappear.”

He stands and paces. He stops in his tracks, his icy blue eyes drilling into mine. “How do you know this?” he asks.

“There once was a maid,” I say. “She was so unhappy with her master that she dissolved his hands in lye.”

His eyes go wide. “Who told you this?”

“I made it up, kind of. Gran told me a true story, but then I changed it just now. What do you call it when there’s truth in a story but it’s not a fact?” I ask.

His face morphs. All the hard lines soften. All the pain dissolves. For the first time ever, he looks giddy and happy and light.

“A novel,” he replies. “You call it a novel.”

I’ve excused myself from my breakfast with the LAMBS and am leaving the Social when Angela stops me at the front of the restaurant.

“Molly, you were amazing!” she says. “Those ladies totally believed you were a detective, bought it hook, line, and sinker!”

“That was humiliating and deceitful,” I say. “And I’m not sure I uncovered anything of value.”

“Sometimes what sounds like nothing at first becomes the key to unlocking the mystery. You just have to know how to piece things together.”

“I’m not interested in piecing things together, Angela. I’m interested in doing my job—my job as a maid,” I say.

“Okay,” Angela replies. “Don’t bust a gasket. Go be a maid. Ignore the shite-fest going on all around you. But, Molls, be careful, okay? And if you hear or see anything suspicious, will you let me know?”

“Yes,” I say. “May I go now?”

I don’t wait for a response. I simply march my way out of the restaurant and head for the lobby, where Mr. Snow spots me and beckons me to the reception desk. “Where are you going, Molly?”

“Angela’s done with me,” I say. “And vice versa. I’m going back to my real job now if that’s all right with you.”

“Very well,” says Mr. Snow. “The maids upstairs will be happy to see you.”

I make my way to the back staircase and head to the fourth floor. My stomach is turned inside out. I know exactly why I’m so distressed. During breakfast with the LAMBS, I pretended to be something I’m not, and even though Gran has no eyes to see it, I know my behavior would not make her proud. I’m a fraud and a hypocrite, two things she never taught me to be. Why didn’t I just speak up and tell the truth? Why didn’t I insist to the LAMBS that I’m just an ordinary maid?

As I reach the fourth floor, I find Sunshine in the hallway with her trolley and an overflowing bag of laundry.

“Oh, Molly,” she says the moment she lays eyes on me. “Please tell me you’re back to work with us. We can’t keep up. New Boss Lady is in the staff lounge ‘taking a load off,’ and Lily—well, let’s just say I don’t know what’s going on with her today. We’re exhausted. Look at Sunitha.”

Sunitha appears from the guest room next door, dragging a laundry bag full of soiled sheets behind her. She’s glazed over like a frosted tea cake melting in the sun.

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