Page 18 of The Mystery Guest

“I haven’t ruled out anything,” Detective Stark replies.

“I can help you,” the cat-hair-sweater lady offers. “I’m an expert on J. D. Grimthorpe.”

“I’ve already got more help than I want,” Stark replies as she looks at me. “And what I require from all of you right now is privacy. I’m going to ask you to clear the vicinity immediately.”

The president nods. “Of course. LAMBS—give the detective space.” She raises her red flag to rally the others. “Detective, we’re here if you change your mind and want background information,” she offers as she guides her group away from the tearoom entrance.

“Please don’t forget us,” says the tiny, gray-haired woman with the fuchsia highlights.

“I couldn’t if I tried,” Detective Stark replies.

The flag-bearing president leads her flock down the corridor and out of sight.

Once they’re gone, Detective Stark raises the yellow caution tape hanging across the entrance. “Go in, Molly,” she orders.

“How kind of you,” I say as I duck under the tape. Detective Stark follows after me.

The two male officers who were zipping up the body bag saunter our way.

“Findings?” Detective Stark asks.

“Urticaria around the mouth, angioedema under the eyes.”

“Meaning: swelling consistent with organ failure or sometimes cardiac arrest,” I say. “But what really causes a heart to stop? That’s always the question, is it not?”

The officers turn my way as though seeing me for the first time. “Who the hell is she?” the taller one asks.

“Molly. She’s just a maid,” Detective Stark replies.

“Molly the maid? You’ve gotta be kidding me,” says the shorter one.

“Wish I were,” Detective Stark replies sotto voce, but not sotto voce enough to escape my ears.

“What’s a maid doing at the crime scene?” the tall one asks.

“Are you assuming this is a crime scene?” I ask. “When you assume, you make an A-S-S out of U and ME.” For some reason I cannot fathom, Detective Stark rolls her eyes, while the mouths of both her officers fall slack.

“Ignore her,” Detective Stark says. “She’s my problem. Just get back to work.”

“But I need to clean this mess up,” I tell the detective. “It will take some time to return this room to a state of perfection.”

“Not a chance. No cleaning,” Stark says.

I realize only then what a foolish impulse this was.

The two officers go back to the mess at the front of the room.

Stark removes a small notebook from her pocket. “Okay, let’s get this over with. I want you to describe the room as it was before the event. Can you tell me who and what was where the moment before Mr. Grimthorpe took to the stage? No detail is too small. Do you understand?”

“I understand perfectly,” I reply as I turn back time to this morning and call to my mind a portrait of the tearoom in its full glory, populated with guests awaiting Mr. Grimthorpe’s entrance.

“At a quarter past nine, all the guests were seated. Porters, waiters, and maids stood on the sidelines. I was right there, near the front of the room, right beside Lily. The photographers and journalists were behind us.”

“And that table?” Stark asks.

“The booksellers were behind it. And Lily was manning Mr. Grimthorpe’s tea cart.”

“Is that his cart there?” She points to a cart at the front of the room.

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