Page 77 of The Mystery Guest

“Molly, what’s going on?” Sunshine asks.

“No time!” I say, as I march behind Mr. Snow and Detective Stark toward Room 404.

The three of us pause outside the door. “You do the honors,” Mr. Snow says.

“Molly, just act normal,” Detective Stark advises.

“That’s definitely not my strong suit,” I reply. Regardless, I knock on the door three times. “Housekeeping!” I call out in a firm but authoritative voice.

We wait, leaning our ears toward the door.

Nothing. Not a sound.

“Unoccupied,” Mr. Snow says as he takes out his universal keycard and opens the door.

We enter and look around.

“This is definitely the right room,” I say.

It’s been cleaned recently—the bed perfectly made, hospital corners crisp and tight—and yet every square inch beyond the bed is occupied with detritus of all kinds. Cardboard boxes filled with binders line the floor, each one labeledGrimthorpe, followed by a number. A suitcase lies open by the window, clothes heaped in haphazard disarray, every item covered in heaps of cat hair.

Mr. Snow covers his nose.

“This is disgusting,” Stark says. “It looks like a rat moved in. Don’t the maids clean this room every day?”

“We do,” I say. “But we can’t do a deep cleaning until a guest departs. Maids can clean only clear surfaces in a guest-occupied room.”

I walk over to the minibar by the window. It’s just as I remember it: on top of the bar fridge is a hoard of incongruous miniature Regency Grand shampoo bottles beside various snack food packages, all left open, their contents spilling onto the floor—half-eaten cereal, an open package of crackers, and a big jar of peanut butter.

Detective Stark approaches the desk opposite the bed. It’s a cluttered mess of papers, file folders, notepads, books, and crumpled receipts. “Molly, check this out,” Stark says.

I join her by the desk, where she’s pointing at a black Moleskine notebook with the monogramJDG.Beside it is another black Moleskine, but with a different monogram:BB.

I’m used to touching people’s personal items in their hotel room, but it feels strange when I pick up Beulah’s Moleskine, not to tidy it but to look inside. The first page is titled “Close Encounters,” and after that, point-form notes run page after page after page.

“It’s a ledger,” I tell Detective Stark as Mr. Snow looks on.

“So it is,” Stark exclaims. “It’s every attempt at an encounter with Mr. Grimthorpe.”

I flip through the dated pages, which go back years. I read at random:

mailed flyer to acquaint him with the LAMBS: NO RESPONSE.

sent email to website declaring me his #1 fan: NO RESPONSE.

located private phone number and home address. Left voicemail with contact info: NO RESPONSE.

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