Page 86 of The Mystery Guest

Am I a maid or am I just employed as one? Is that something I want to change? Is it something Icanchange? Moreover, do I have the wisdom to know the difference?

“We better go,” says Detective Stark. “We should get out front and make sure Beulah makes it into my cruiser. I have a feeling the lobby is about to get very crowded.”

“You’re right,” I say. “The snoops have probably already arrived.”

The detective puts the lid back on the banker’s box. It makes a satisfying sound as it closes.

“Come on,” says Stark as she heads for the door. Together, we leave the tearoom, nodding at Angela and Lily, who are standing guard by the door. We thread our way through the corridors until we reach the glorious front lobby of the Regency Grand. Oh, how I love this lobby. How I’d miss it if I didn’t see it almost every day—the grand staircase winding to the opulent balcony, the Italian marble floors, the tang of lemon polish that perfumes the air, the receptionists, dressed in black and white like neat little penguins. They’re checking in new guests as I watch from afar. On the jewel-toned settees, guests sit in tight huddles, gossiping and people-watching, exchanging confidences and secrets that become steeped into the fabric of everything.

I observe the guests, noting their expressions. Some faces are so clear to me, transparent and open, but most are as locked as the doors of their rooms upstairs. It’s just as Gran always said: people are a mystery that can never be solved.

“Hey, you.” I feel a tap on the arm. “You work here, don’t you?Do you know anything about what’s happening outside on the steps?”

“Me?” I ask, turning to the reporter in front of me. “Why would I know anything? I’m just a maid.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry,” he replies as he trots off in search of someone more important.

“Let’s go, Molly,” Detective Stark says as she leads me toward the gleaming revolving doors. We pass through them and find ourselves delivered onto the red-carpeted landing outside.

The entrance is packed. The LAMBS are jammed up on one side of the staircase, nattering and chattering about how they always suspected Beulah was unhinged. Beulah is halfway down the stairs, struggling against the officers who have a firm hold on her handcuffed wrists. Detective Stark heads down the stairs to help them.

“This is insane! Can’t you see that I’ve done the world a favor?” Beulah calls out. “I’ve rid the world of a monster! You should be thanking me, not arresting me!”

There it is—she’s just admitted it in front of a crowd.

I spot fuchsia-haired Birdy jostling to get close to Beulah. “How could you?” she yells at her. “How could you poison a literary genius?”

“He was no genius. He was a fraud!” Beulah yells back. “And a predator!”

“You’re the fraud, Beulah Barnes! You’re also a killer!” curly-haired Gladys bellows as she brandishes her red flag like a sword. “You’re barred from the LAMBS forever!”

The reporters and other lookie-loos are arriving now in full force, blocking the stairs, recording videos on their phones, and shouting out questions to Beulah.

“Hey, did you really kill him? Why did you do it?”

“Do you work here? Are you his number-one fan?”

“Did you have help? Or did you do it on your own?”

Mr. Preston pushes back the crowd until he’s standing right in front of Beulah.

“Keep your hands on her, boys,” Detective Stark orders as Beulah gnashes and struggles against the officers.

“Easy now, Ms. Barnes,” Mr. Preston says. “No point thrashing about. Is that how a biographer of your stature behaves?”

Suddenly, Beulah goes still. It’s as though Mr. Preston has flipped a switch in her. She stares at him like he’s the only person in the world who matters.

“Will you allow me to take your arm, madam?” Mr. Preston asks.

“Stand back, everyone! Let the doorman approach,” Detective Stark calls out.

Her officers don’t release their grip on Beulah’s wrists, but they permit Mr. Preston to take Beulah’s elbow. The throng on the stairs watches in silence.

“I don’t understand,” Beulah says to Mr. Preston. “Iuncovered the truth. The world is a better place without Grimthorpe in it.”

“On that last point, we agree,” Mr. Preston replies.

“Don’t let them throw away my research,” Beulah begs. “Please, my biography must see the light of day. And will you make sure someone takes care of my cats at home? They don’t deserve to suffer.”

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