Page 55 of The Mystery Guest

“Stealing?” whispers Mr. Preston as he leans across the table. “I haven’t stolen anything in my life, least of all a Fabergé.”

I study his face, looking for telltale shiftiness, which so often betrays a lie, but I find nothing.

I try a new tactic. “Once upon a time, there was a box,” I say. “Inside was a rare first-edition copy ofThe Maid in the Mansion,belonging to Ms. Serena Sharpe. One second it was on the reception desk. The fire alarm was pulled and—poof—the box disappeared. The next time I saw that book, it was in your hands.”

“Oh, Molly,” Mr. Preston says as he puts his elbows on the table and hides his face in his palms.

“Elbows are not meant for the table, not now, not ever,” I remind him.

Mr. Preston sighs. He does, however, remove his offending appendages from the tabletop.

The waiter saunters over. “Hey there. Are you two ready to order?” he asks.

“Chardonnay, two glasses,” Mr. Preston says.

“I willnotbe drinking wine,” I say. “Water for me. This is hardly a celebration.”

The waiter looks from me to Mr. Preston, expecting further explanation. When he doesn’t receive it, he slinks away.

“Molly,” Mr. Preston says. “I have a confession to make.”

Here it is, the moment when all my fears congeal into ugly reality, when all my trust in a man who has been like family to me is destroyed in an instant. But I will beat him to the punch. “So you admit it: you poisoned Mr. Grimthorpe.”

“What?! I did no such thing!” Mr. Preston replies. “How can that even cross your mind?”

I look at him carefully, studying his face. He is on the verge of tears.

“Molly, the only thing I’m guilty of is a little white lie,” he says.He grabs a napkin from the holder on the table, then dabs his forehead before continuing. “A few days ago, when you asked me about Mr. Grimthorpe, I suggested I did not know him, but I do. Or rather I did, a long time ago.” He pauses, staring at me as though waiting for me to figure something out.

“Go on,” I say.

“That book I pawned is one Grimthorpe gave me himself, years ago when I was under his employ and you…well, you were knee-high to a grasshopper.”

Nothing makes any sense. This sounds like fancy footwork to distract me from the terrible truth. “The Grimthorpes never had a doorman,” I say, crossing my arms. “I know this for a fact.”

“Correct,” Mr. Preston replies. “But they did have a gatekeeper.”

My head starts to swirl. The banquette under me tilts and whirls. Memories and feelings collide as though a tornado is sweeping through me.

“Molly? I’m not a murderer. I’m not even a thief. That you could think I’d stoop that low, well…that breaks my heart.” Mr. Preston reaches across the table for my hand. “The only thing I’m guilty of is not confessing to you earlier that I knew Mr. Grimthorpe. And the day after he died, I walked past the pawnshop on my way home from work and saw a first-edition copy in the display window. It was listed at an astronomical price. That gave me the idea to sell my own copy. Plus, I’ve always despised Mr. Grimthorpe, so why keep his book? Your gran used to preach patience, but she put up with too much working in that coldhearted place, especially when Grimthorpe was drunk. She thought if he could just get sober, everything would change, but she was mistaken. Mrs. Grimthorpe trusted almost no one near her husband, just your gran and his personal secretary. She said they were the only women besides herself strong enough to deal with his antics. For a long time, your gran stood by the Grimthorpes. But even she saw the truth in the end. Grimthorpe was a vile andodious man, not worthy of her loyalty. And Mrs. Grimthorpe let your gran down, too. They both betrayed her in different ways.”

“Gran never told me any of this,” I say.

“No. She wouldn’t have. She was ashamed, humiliated. She wanted to put it all behind her, make a fresh start.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because it relates to what I’ve been trying to tell you for some time.”

“That you knew me. Before. When I was a child at the Grimthorpe mansion. I get it,” I say.

“That’s only part of it. I remember you, the brave little girl who held her grandmother’s hand and walked up the path of roses. That same little girl made the reverse trip one day to stand in front of the cameras at the gate and deliver a gift to the gatekeeper. Do you remember?”

Of course I remembered. How could I ever forget the kindness of that stranger? But I didn’t know who I was speaking to. I had no idea at the time.

My stomach churns and agitates. “Mr. Preston,” I say. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.” Shame burns in my throat, and I struggle for a moment to find the words. “I’ve made an A-S-S, not out of U, but out of myself. I don’t know who stole that book from the reception desk, but I see now that it wasn’t you. And I see so much more than that. I’m terribly sorry. Will you ever forgive me?”

“Forgive you? Molly, that’s a given. Now and always.”

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