Page 50 of The Mystery Guest

“Well?” says Gladys. “How could we possibly be well? J. D. Grimthorpe has been murdered in cold blood.”

“We’re in deep mourning,” Beulah adds as she wraps her arms around herself.

“Do you know if the Social will open at the regular time for breakfast today?” Gladys asks.

“It will,” I reply. “At the Regency Grand, we pride ourselves on predictability and timely service.”

“Good,” says Beulah. “I could use something in my stomach to settle it.”

While I don’t always have the most reliable read on human emotions, I can’t help but notice the incongruity here. Both women appear more afraid of missing breakfast than they are of a potential murderer on the loose. And why have they stuck around when there’s quite literally a zero percent chance of them meeting the very man they came here to see? It suddenly strikes me that the third member of their usual trio, the little one with the pink highlights, is separated from the flock.

“Where’s the other number-one fan you two are always with?” I ask. “Ms. Birdy. Has she flown home?”

“Home? Are you kidding? And miss the action?” Beulah says. “She’s wandering the hotel, collecting clues. She’s pitching theories and motives to your people.”

“My people?” I say.

“Yes. The secret agents, the men in black who’re all over the hotel today. We know they’re working with you,” Gladys says. She points to one of the men with earpieces littering the lobby at intervals.

“They arenotworking with me,” I reply. “I am just a maid. That’s it. That’s all.”

“Of course. We understand,” Gladys says. “Nod, nod. Wink, wink. We won’t say a word. But we do have something important to tell you—as a maid, of course.”

“If it’s truly as a maid, then I will listen. What is it?” I ask.

“It’s about Birdy,” Gladys says.

Beulah scratches at her fur-covered sweater, then says, “As you probably noticed, Birdy and I don’t always get along. We share a love for all things Grimthorpe, but let’s just say the love ends there. For many years, there’s been a professional rivalry between us.”

“A professional jealousy is what I’d call it,” says Gladys.

“You see, I’m something that Birdy is not—only I am Mr. Grimthorpe’s biographer.”

“Unofficialbiographer,” Gladys adds.

“One thing I’ve learned over the years is never to underestimate a tiny woman. Birdy may be small, but she’s strong, wily, and…”

“She has a history with poison,” Gladys says.

The two women exchange a look.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Two years ago, during our biannual symposium on The Genius of J. D. Grimthorpe, an esteemed academic from a local universitywas in attendance. After Birdy’s rather long-winded lecture about crime and punishment in J.D.’s mysteries, this academic raised her hand and said she’d never understood why his work was so popular. She called his writing rigid.”

“ ‘Constipated’ was the exact word she used,” Beulah says. “Birdy was apoplectic.”

“On the second day of the symposium, when the academic returned for our Crime & Crumpets Salon, Birdy served her a special brownie she’d baked herself,” Gladys says.

“Brown as my favorite sweater, and laced with laxatives,” Beulah adds. “Let’s just say that academic never attended one of our symposiums ever again.”

“Typical Birdy,” says Gladys, shaking her curly head. “The punishment befits the crime.”

The two ladies nod in unison.

“When that detective on the news said Mr. Grimthorpe was poisoned, we both had the same thought: Birdy,” Beulah says.

Gladys leans toward me. “If Birdy could poison a brownie, what else might she be capable of?”

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