Page 44 of The Mystery Guest

“Indeed I do,” I say. “Because it tastes sweet. Very sweet. You can hide it in almost anything.”

“Exactly,” Detective Stark replies. “And how did Mr. Grimthorpe take his tea, Molly?”

“With honey,” I reply. “Lots of it.”

“That’s right!” says Stark in a gratingly singsong voice. “And who put the honey pot on his tea cart, Molly?”

“Me,” I say with grave authority. I realize only after the word leaves my mouth that this could be misconstrued. “But I didn’t poison Mr. Grimthorpe,” I clarify. “I had no motive to do so.”

“We found your prints all over his tea cart,” Stark replies.

“Of course you did. And I’m sure you found Lily’s, too.”

Detective Stark sniffs but doesn’t respond.

“I came here to confess to a crime you won’t arrest me for only to discover you once again want to peg me for a murder I know nothing about. Detective Stark, if you’re going to arrest me, then you better well have evidence that links me—without a shadow of a doubt—to the crime. You can’t detain me without a motive, some evidence, and a weapon. And so far as I can tell, all you’ve got at the moment is the crime.”

“So where is it, Molly?” Detective Stark asks. “Where’s the goddamn honey pot? Did you keep it as some sort of sick trophy? Or did you throw it in a dumpster?”

“Why not check the hotel?” I ask. “If I’m daft enough to poison a famous man, leaving my fingerprints all over the tea cart, it stands to reason I left the honey pot right in my locker, too.”

Stark guffaws. “Snow let me check your locker last night. Didn’t find much.”

I gasp out loud. “You went in my locker without my permission?”

“Are you serious?” the detective replies.

“Coming here was a terrible mistake,” I say. “You’ll never see me for what I am, no matter how hard I try. Are we done, Detective? May I go now?” I ask.

“I can’t very well stop you, can I?” Detective Stark replies. “But I’ll be watching your every move, Molly. I’ve got eyes in the hotel. I’ve got eyes everywhere.”

Unless she’s a dragonfly or a spider, this is patently ridiculous, but since it’s clear the detective is more than a little enervated, I decide not to question her ocular exaggeration.

Instead, I say, “Goodbye, Detective.” Then I curtsy deeply and leave.

—

It is only once I’m out of the station and back on the other side of the street that I start to breathe again, and as soon as I do, the gravity of the situation sinks in. Mr. Grimthorpe did not die of natural causes. He was murdered in cold blood. Someone poisoned him, and whoever did it is probably still in the hotel. I have to get back and tell Mr. Snow before the news becomes public.

I pick up my pace, rushing back as fast as my feet will carry me. I’m only a few blocks away when something across the street makes me stop in my tracks. I’m kitty-corner to the local pawnshop, the one with the big glass window display and the neon sign that blazes 24/7.

Mr. Preston is standing outside the shop. He’s studying something in the display window. He saunters into the store, and I hear the chime of the doorbells as he disappears inside. This in itself is not remarkable—Mr. Preston, my friend, the hotel doorman, browsing the neighborhood pawnshop. That is not concerning at all.

The problem is what he held in his hands when he entered. That dark, wooden door and the single eye peeking through the keyhole—even from a distance, I could make out the cover design quite clearly.

It was a rare first-edition copy ofThe Maid in the Mansion,by J. D. Grimthorpe.

Before

It has always been like this for me, me with my eye for details. I see one thing, but I miss another. I watch with care yet am somehow unaware of what others notice with relative ease.

In my mind’s eye, I’m a child again, holding a report card that rates my social behaviors asextremely poorand that officially declares me afailure, and orders me to repeat my grade next year. I’ve been working alongside my gran at the mansion for nearly two weeks, and with each day that passes, I gain confidence in my abilities. But now, as I hold that report in my hands, my self-esteem evaporates in an instant.

I can’t even look at Gran. My cheeks burn red from shame. I want to rip the paper in a million pieces, light it on fire, and reduce it to ash. But a part of me is curious, too—curious about how I’m different from my peers.

“Gran, what’s it like to understand all social behaviors?” I ask.

She laughs. “Oh, Molly. No one, least of all me, understandsallof them. Social interactions are complex. The more practice youget relating to others, the more you’ll see how everything fits together.”

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