Page 90 of The Mystery Guest

“Have you talked to the maid?” I ask.

“Nope. She told Beulah everything but demanded anonymity,said she had good reasons for remaining invisible. And when Beulah realized she’d devoted her life to a fraud, she devised a plan.”

“To kill Mr. Grimthorpe,” I say.

“Not quite,” Stark replies. “She decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. She rewrote her biography, turning it into a searing exposé. So now she had two versions—her original flattering portrait, and the second, which was completely damning.”

“But why?” I ask. “Why would she write the biography two ways?”

“Because she wanted to ask him herself if he really was a fraud and a predator. Which version she published depended entirely on his answer.”

“But when she met Grimthorpe outside his hotel room the day before the big announcement, he refused to answer her troubling questions,” I say. “Beulah wrote something about that in her ledger.”

“Uh-huh,” Stark says. “He also rejected her as his official biographer, even under threat of having an exposé published.”

“And he slammed the door in her face,” I add.

“So after that encounter, she decided to kill him,” Angela says with somber finality. “The triple whammy sent Beulah into a quiet murderous rage.”

“And as it turns out,” Stark says, “the tea cart in this tearoom wasn’t the only one Beulah poisoned. She poisoned every honey pot on every tea cart left outside his hotel room, from the day before the big event to the morning of it.”

“Which explains why he died so quickly,” I say. “He’d been drinking poisoned tea for over twenty-four hours.”

“Well, holy shih tzu,” says Angela. “It’s just like the plot of his novelPoison & Punishment.What a kick-ass podcast this would make.”

“Maybe you should make it,” says Stark.

Angela’s eyes go wide. “You really think I could?”

“Yeah, I do,” Stark replies.

Before Angela can contemplate this further, Mr. Snow enters the tearoom. He’s dressed in an emerald-green waistcoat and a paisley bow tie.

“My, my,” says Detective Stark. “Someone’s dressed to impress.”

“Good to see you, Detective,” he says. He grabs his pocket square and mops the excess sweat collecting along his brow. “Is everything ready? The guests are lined up outside. Shall I let them through?”

“Release the hounds, Mr. Snow,” Angela says.

“And the LAMBS,” I add.

He heads to the tearoom entrance, and a few moments later, crowds of VIP guests pour into the well-appointed room. Many of them are recognizable as LAMBS, their faces and gray hair familiar. But there are only two that stand out in particular—Birdy, the tiny treasurer with pink highlights, and Gladys, their tall, curly-haired, flag-bearing leader.

Detective Stark takes a seat in front of the stage as the LAMBS swarm her, hurling questions about Beulah and if there will be a trial while squabbling about who gets to sit next to the lead detective.

Meanwhile, reporters rush to the back of the room, shouting directives to one another as they ready their cameras and phones, focusing their attention on the spotlighted podium at center stage.

My own phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out. It’s a text from my beloved Juan Manuel.

Five minutes to boarding the. Can’t wait to BWUBH!

BWUBH?I text back.

Be With U Back Home.

I can’t wait either!I reply. And it’s true. I’ve missed him so much. Life will be better the moment he walks through our apartmentdoor. I have just one niggling concern: How will I ever explain to him everything that’s happened during the time he’s been away? Will he ever forgive me for keeping it all a secret? But I can’t think about that. Not yet.

One step at a time. It’s the only way to get anywhere in this life.

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