Page 88 of The Mystery Guest

“Let’s hope so. All’s well that ends well,” Mr. Preston says. “Molly, I was wondering. Do you think you can spare a moment sometime soon for us to have our chat? I really do need to speak with you.”

I nod. But then another thought occurs to me. A terrible thought. I can’t believe it never occurred to me before.

I clasp Mr. Preston’s hands in mine. “You aren’t sick, are you? Please tell me you aren’t dying.”

Mr. Preston chuckles. “My dear girl, even as a child, you had the most overactive imagination. And a tendency to jump to conclusions. I am not ill, Molly. I’m in perfectly good health, for a doddering old man, at least.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “In that case,” I say, “I need time to rest and recover. It’s been quite a day, quite a week, in fact. Can it wait until Juan Manuel returns?”

Mr. Preston pats my arm. “Of course it can. After all, it’s waited this long. I don’t see that a little longer will make much difference.”

As a maid in a hotel, I experience a fair number of déjà vu moments. Sometimes, when I’m cleaning Room 401, I’d swear on the Oxford dictionary I’m in Room 201. In my dreams at night, the corridors morph and blend, dirty sheets mixing with clean ones, but eventually I sort it all out. I make the beds in record time, tucking hospital corners tight, topping pillows with turn-down chocolates, and leaving everything in a pinnacle state of cleanliness.

I’m having a déjà vu moment right now. I’m standing in the Regency Grand Tearoom surveying it one final time before today’s big event, just as I did a little over a week ago on the day of Mr. Grimthorpe’s big announcement, an announcement he never got to make.

I have laid the tables with crisp white linens, pleated every napkin into a rosebud fold, and arranged the polished Regency Grand silver for each place setting. Now, I’m admiring the result—a splendid sight indeed. Let’s just hope that today no one drops dead onthe tearoom floor, thereby upsetting the perfect order of things and tarnishing the sterling reputation of our five-star boutique hotel.

Today we have a chance at resurrection—of the Regency Grand, I mean, not of Mr. Grimthorpe. Mr. Grimthorpe will never breathe again.

I’ve been working tirelessly to arrive at this moment, but I’m not alone. I’ve had plenty of help. This morning, as I entered the hotel, I stopped on the stairs to greet Mr. Preston.

“The big day has arrived,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied. “The announcement is at ten sharp.”

“Oh,” Mr. Preston says as he clears his throat. “That’s not what I meant. I meant it’s the day of our chat.”

Amidst all the preparations for the press conference, I’d forgotten that I agreed to have Mr. Preston over to my apartment for tea. I suggested we could have our long-awaited talk and then both be there this afternoon to greet Juan upon his return from his trip. Mr. Preston readily agreed to this plan.

Mr. Preston thinks it’s some big surprise, but I know what he will tell me—that he’s retiring from his job as a doorman at the Regency Grand. He thinks this news will upset my fragile equilibrium, but it won’t. I’m stronger than everyone thinks. Good eggs don’t crack so easily.

I will miss him terribly, of course, but I will carry on. And we’ll still have our Sunday dinners.

“Good luck in there today,” Mr. Preston had said earlier this morning. “I’m here if you need anything.”

“You always are,” I replied. “And for that I’m grateful.”

He tipped his hat. Then I raced up the stairs and pushed through the gleaming revolving doors into the Regency Grand. The enormous gilt-framed sign in the lobby advertised the day’s big event.

Today

VIP Press Conference

TOPIC: J. D. GRIMTHORPE

Deceased Mystery Author

10:00a.m.

Regency Grand Tearoom

I hurried past the sign and rushed downstairs to the housekeeping change rooms, where Lily had arrived early for her shift. We donned our uniforms. I placed my Head Maid pin adroitly above my heart, but I surprised her by saying, “Hold on a moment. Give me your pin.”

Lily looked at me in confusion as she placed her Maid-in-Training pin in my open hand. I then exchanged it with what I had concealed in my other palm—a fresh new pin, black with shiny gold letters. It said:

LILY

Maid

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