Page 49 of The Mystery Guest

“Molly,” he says. “Have you heard? About how Mr. Grimthorpe died?”

“Yes,” I say. “And I’m most distressed. Who do you suppose might be capable of such a thing?”

“A lot of people. That man wasn’t what he seemed.”

I search Mr. Preston’s face, which is grim and tense, his lips concealed in his mouth. “What about you, Mr. Preston? Areyouwhat you seem?”

“Molly, are you all right?” he asks as he places a hand on my arm. “Are you feeling faint?”

I pull away. “We need to talk,” I say. “But not here. Not now.”

“My dear, I’ve been saying so for some time.”

“Olive Garden. Five-fifteenp.m.,” I say. “I expect you to arrive on time.”

“Naturally. Molly, are you sure you’re well?”

I can’t believe he’s asking this again. “You should ask yourself that question, not me,” I reply.

Mr. Preston stares at me as though trying to place someone wholly unfamiliar.

“Good day,” I say, and then I stomp up the red stairs and push through the revolving doors of the elegant Regency Grand.

The lobby is even busier than it was yesterday, filled with wide-eyed guests and onlookers whispering to one another in little cliques, but given the number of people about, it’s far too quiet, a funereal hush in the air. And no wonder.

I spot Mr. Snow at the reception desk. He’s murmuring instructions to a concierge who looks piqued and jittery and strained. I walk over to Mr. Snow as he finishes his conversation. The concierge hurries away. Mr. Snow turns his owl eyes to me. “Molly, Ican’t believe it,” he says. “A man was poisoned. Here. In our hotel. How is this even possible?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Snow,” I reply. “We’ve spent the last few years buffing our tarnished reputation, but we’re now besmirched in a new and most grievous manner. I wonder—will the stain ever come out?”

“It doesn’t bear thinking about, Molly. The police are pointing fingers, asking questions.”

I look around the lobby and spot several men in black clothes standing by themselves, earpieces in their ears. “Who are they?” I ask. “They don’t look like guests.”

“They’re undercover officers,” Mr. Snow replies. “And they’re everywhere, watching our every move. Rather than close the hotel, Detective Stark demanded we remain operational and attempt to ‘act normal.’ She and her special agents are convinced this is the best way to flush out the killer.”

“Wouldn’t the killer have fled by now?”

“Apparently, the manner of death suggests the murderer might stick around. Detective Stark mentioned something about trophies and ‘the pathology of the poisoned cup.’ It seems for some killers, hiding in plain sight is part of the thrill.”

A tremor runs through me, and as I glance about the lobby, I see everything and everyone veiled in suspicion.

Mr. Snow gazes past the lobby, through the glass revolving doors where Mr. Preston directs foot traffic from his podium on the stairs. “Hard to imagine,” Mr. Snow says, “but the detectives are convinced the killer is…” He pauses.

“Spit it out, Mr. Snow. A worker? One of us?” I ask.

Mr. Snow nods gravely.

An invisible vise clenches around my heart, and for a moment I wonder how I’m supposed to carry on.Chin up, Buttercup.

“I’d better go,” I say. “This hotel isn’t going to clean itself.” What I don’t say is that a criminal layer of grime lurks in every hidden nook and cranny of this hotel, but we cannot clean what we cannot see.

“Be vigilant, Molly,” Mr. Snow says.

“I always am,” I reply.

I leave him and am heading toward the elevators when I hear a familiar “Yoo-hoo!” at my back. I turn to see two LAMBS sitting on an emerald settee by the grand staircase. Gladys, the curly-haired president, is waving her little red flag at me while Beulah intently picks cat hair off that same awful sweater of hers. They’re the last people I wish to talk to right now, but as Mr. Snow often reminds staff members, “You’re at the behest of every guest.”

“Ladies,” I say as I approach. “I hope you’re well.”

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