Page 43 of The Mystery Guest

Heavy boots trudge down the hall, and then Stark, wearing allblack as usual, is standing in the doorway. “Molly?” she says. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“She’s turning herself in,” Ms. Purple Talons whispers.

Detective Stark’s eyebrows jolt up. “Come with me,” she says.

I thank Ms. Talons, then follow the detective down a corridor to a room I’ve visited once before under circumstances I don’t care to think about. The room is exactly as I remember it—with offensively bright fluorescent lights and covered in a layer of criminal filth and grime.

“Have a seat,” Stark says, pointing to a dirty black chair in front of a smudged white table. I sit in the revolting chair. The detective takes a seat across from me.

I’m not exactly sure how to begin, since I’ve never confessed to a crime before, so I wait silently for some sort of cue. A red light flashes in the corner of the window behind the detective.

“Did you want a coffee?” Stark asks. “Would that make this easier?”

“It would not,” I reply. Last time I was here, she brought me water, not tea, as I’d requested, and she delivered it to me in a squeaky, ear-offending Styrofoam cup. If that happens again, I don’t think I’ll be able to get my words out.

The detective stares at me. “Well,” she says, “you said why you’re here, so you might as well have out with it. You’ll feel better after, I promise.”

I take a deep breath, then exhale. “I couldn’t live with the deception,” I say. “I feel sick. It’s eating me alive. I’ve been thinking about my gran and how disappointed she’d be if she knew what I’d done. Which she doesn’t know. Because she’s dead.”

“You’re doing the right thing now, Molly. And I’m ready for your confession,” Stark replies.

“I’ve committed a crime,” I say.

“Yes. I know. But you need to be more specific. You need to say out loud that you killed Mr. Grimthorpe, that you poisoned him.”

“What?” I exclaim. I cannot believe my ears. “I did no such thing! What do you take me for, a murderer?”

“You said you’re here to confess.”

“To fraud, not murder!” I reply. “I impersonated an officer of the law, and I’m deeply remorseful. I tried to tell the truth about who I am, but the LAMBS wouldn’t listen. Don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t, Molly,” Stark says. “Because as usual you’re not making sense. I don’t know why that even surprises me anymore.”

I take a moment to collect myself, then start from the beginning, explaining to Stark in minute detail how the LAMBS mistook me for a detective working incognito at the hotel and how despite my protests, they refused to believe the truth—that I’m really just a maid.

“So you see,” I say as I come to my conclusion, “I committed identity fraud. And perhaps obstruction of justice, too. You can charge me now. I deserve it.”

“Charge you?” the detective says. “Because a bunch of middle-aged book freaks mistook you for a detective?”

It’s only then that what Detective Stark said earlier sinks in. “Wait,” I say. “Was Mr. Grimthorpe poisoned?”

Detective Stark sighs. “We got the autopsy and the toxicology report. Ethylene glycol. In his tea. This isn’t public knowledge yet, but you’d have found out soon enough since we’re holding a press conference in an hour. Any idea how ethylene glycol got in his teacup, Molly?” Stark asks as she leans forward in a way that most certainly feels like a space invasion.

“How would I know how antifreeze got in his tea?” I reply.

Stark puts her elbows on the table in front of me. “I never said anything about antifreeze,” she says.

“That’s what ethylene glycol is,” I explain. “Frankly, I’m shocked that an officer of your stature does not know this.”

“God help me,” says Stark as she brings her hands to her forehead. “Molly, I never told you ethylene glycol is antifreeze! And that’s not exactly common knowledge, now, is it? Can you see how that makes me think you’re Grimthorpe’s killer?” She’s squinting at me now in a manner that is most unbecoming.

“Do you take me for an imbecile?” I ask. “I’ll have you know I’m quite knowledgeable about chemicals and poisons, and not just fromColumbo.Angela once told me a true story about a woman who killed her first and then her second husband by baking common antifreeze into their scones. There was a made-for-TV movie about it—Black Widows,I think it was called. It’s one of her favorites.”

“Angela? Who’s Angela?” Stark asks.

“The bartender at the Social,” I reply. “The movie title is apropos, don’t you think?”

Detective Stark crosses her arms. “What I think is that if you know so much about poisons, you know exactly why antifreeze was used to murder Mr. Grimthorpe.”

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