Page 59 of The Mystery Guest

We find Angela behind the bar at the Social, her brazen hair in disarray, her expression pinched in concentration as she stares at the screen of her laptop, which is open on the bar in front of her. She’s so entranced by whatever she’s looking at, she doesn’t even glance at us. At last, she notices our presence and waves us over. Mr. Preston and I sit side by side on barstools in front of her.

“Will this be quick?” I ask. “I really should get to work.”

“Molly, you’re always half an hour early for your shift,” Angela says. “And believe me, when you see what I’m about to show you, you’re going to lose your mind. You, too, Mr. Preston,” she adds. “Best settle in.”

Mr. Preston takes off his cap and places it on the bar.

With a flourish, Angela turns her laptop to face us. On-screen is a website called KultureVulture.com. Its logo is an ominous bird of prey with an old book in its talons.

“What is this?” Mr. Preston asks.

“An online shopping site for memorabilia,” Angela replies.“People auction off used books, autographs of famous people, collector’s items, and anything else they think they can sell. There’s even a listing for a rock star’s dirty underwear. And the worst part? They sold. Look at this page,” Angela says as she clicks into another tab. “This vendor calls themself ‘The Grim Reaper.’ ”

Mr. Preston reads out the vendor’s description. “Selling original goods owned by the rich, dead, and infamous. One hundred percent bona fide! Anonymous inside source!”

“Now check this out,” Angela says as she scrolls down the screen to reveal various items labeled as sold.

I can’t believe my eyes. I gasp out loud.

“Are all of these items related to Mr. Grimthorpe?” Mr. Preston asks before I can even get words out.

“Most,” says Angela. “There’s one item that isn’t.” She scrolls to a photo of empty minibar bottles of scotch. The description underneath reads: “The Last Liquid Supper of Mr. Charles Black—theMr. Black—from the day he dropped dead at the Regency Grand Hotel!”

My head is spinning. My heart starts to race.

“Check this out,” Angela says. She hovers over a sold listing for a fountain pen and a note card. “This twofer could be yours!” the caption reads. “J. D. Grimthorpe’s fountain pen and a scandalous love letter he wrote to his personal secretary!”

“Goodness gracious,” Mr. Preston says. “Click on it.”

Angela clicks to enlarge the photo.

I study the black-and-gold fountain pen with its elegant tapered nib. “That’s Mr. Grimthorpe’s pen,” I say. “It was in the box that disappeared.”

“Is it my old eyes or is that love note illegible?” Mr. Preston asks.

“The vendor blurs things on purpose,” Angela explains. “Only the buyer gets ‘the inside scoop.’ ”

“That’s Regency Grand stationery,” Mr. Preston says, noting the familiar logo even though it’s fuzzy.

“Well, I’ll be dipped in shite. You’re right,” says Angela.

“But they’re wrong about the note,” I say. “Mr. Grimthorpe didn’t write it. Mr. Snow did. He admitted as much.”

“Figures,” says Angela. “As the name implies, these online vendors really are vultures. They’ll lie about anything just to make a buck.”

“And this pen and note sold for how much?” Mr. Preston asks.

“Five hundred dollars,” says Angela. “Plus express shipping and handling.”

“Who would spend money on such rubbish?” he asks.

“Lots of people,” Angela says. “And not just collectors either. Podcasters and reporters, too. Look at this.” She clicks on a photo of a black Moleskine notebook with the monogramJDG, followed by a shot of the same notebook spread open, the pages filled with unintelligible scribbles and doodles. “It says it belonged to J. D. Grimthorpe, but I doubt it’s real,” Angela says.

“Oh, it’s real,” I reply. “It’s most definitely real.” Another listing catches my eye. “Scroll up, please,” I say.

Angela clicks into a sold item advertising “J. D. Grimthorpe’s last words! Be the first to read the speech he never gave!”

My heart beats faster as recognition dawns. “Those are the cue cards that disappeared from the podium,” I say. “They’re blurred out, but those are the cards!”

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