Page 17 of The Mystery Guest

“Does this mean I get to come to this mansion every day instead of going to school? And does it mean I get to clean this silver?”

I look at Gran, and she gives me the chin signal again. I stay statue-still and press my lips shut.

“You are a terrible, undisciplined child,” Mrs. Grimthorpe says.“But I hope that unlike those who’ve come before you, you will turn out better. In my beneficence, I’m offering you a second chance. For the foreseeable future, you’re to come here every day and work to make amends for the harm you’ve caused to one of Mr. Grimthorpe’s priceless antiquities. You’ll recompense me by cleaning and polishing all of the silver in this pantry.”

I cannot believe my good fortune! I start to jump up and down on the spot. I look at Gran, who appears to be eating her own grin.

“This is so delightful,” I say. “But I have one more question.” I look at Mrs. Grimthorpe, then ask, “May I begin cleaning right away?”

Detective Stark marches out of Mr. Snow’s office, leaving Lily and Mr. Snow behind. I follow her as instructed, but she stops suddenly when the corridor opens in two directions. I nearly stumble into her backside.

“Which way to the tearoom?” she asks.

“That all depends,” I reply. “Would you prefer the more scenic route through the lobby or the fastest route through the back corridors?”

“Just get me there as quickly as you can, will you?” she replies, accompanying the statement with what I detect is a generous side serving of sass.

“Very well,” I say. “The early bird catches the worm.” I turn left and lead the detective through the back corridors, turning once more left then right then left, until we reach the Grand Tearoom, where caution tape is affixed across the entrance. A deep sense of unease haunts me once again, a growing apprehension abouteverything that transpired this morning. When I look inside the room, I gasp out loud at what I see.

“You get used to it over time,” Stark says.

She’s referring to Mr. Grimthorpe, whose body lies stiff in a black bag in the middle of the tearoom floor. Two uniformed officers are zipping the bag closed. But Mr. Grimthorpe’s corpse is not the cause of my shock. It’s the state of the room that’s disconcerting. After all my hard work, it’s now in utter shambles. The tablecloths are tea-stained and askew, the dishes jostled and toppled. The tiles under my feet are sticky. Here and there, finger sandwiches have been trampled and mashed into the floor. It’s a wonder nothing is broken besides Mr. Grimthorpe’s teacup, the shards scattered haphazardly around his body bag.

“As you know, Detective,” I say, “I’ve encountered death before.” What I don’t say is that I’m not terribly upset that Mr. Grimthorpe is dead and that sometimes fate has an uncanny way of delivering exactly what’s deserved. I also don’t mention my connection to the man in the body bag. If I’ve learned anything fromColumboand from past experience, it’s that living acquaintances of the dead quickly become suspects, and that’s the last thing I want to be right now.

I look about the room once more and feel utterly crestfallen. I was so proud of the way we’d transformed it from a dusty, old storage room to a dazzling, new event space. It’s then that it strikes me—how a room is just a container. Any space can be poisoned by the memory of what occurred within it. A tearoom, a library, a parlor…

I suddenly feel unsteady on my feet. The whole world tilts on an angle. Behind me, I hear sobs and sniffs.

“Is he really…dead?” a quivering voice asks.

Detective Stark and I turn.

Gathered in the corridor is a gaggle of middle-aged womenpressed so tightly together it’s hard to tell where one woman ends and the next begins. They’re all wearing VIP lanyards and identical buttons over their hearts that readJ. D. Grimthorpe’s #1 Fan.

“Who are you?” Stark asks.

“We are the LAMBS,” says a tall woman with curly gray hair at the front of the group. I recognize her immediately as the president of the LAMBS because of her small red flag. For days, she’s carried it, herding her brethren around the hotel, hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous writer himself, score his autograph, or, better yet, snap a selfie by his side.

“They’re a fan club,” I explain to the detective. “Ardent readers of mystery novels who specialize in the study of Mr. Grimthorpe and hisoeuvre.”

“We’re notjusta fan club. We are aficionados of mystery,” a different, rather buxom gray-haired woman says as she points to the #1Fanbutton fastened to her lumpy brown sweater. The sweater is either made entirely of cat hair or so covered in it that the material underneath is largely invisible.

“Dead or alive, in sickness or in health, we devote ourselves to the master of mystery,” a petite woman sporting silver-gray hair with bright fuchsia highlights says from mid-huddle. “In our hearts and memories, J.D. livesin perpetuum.”

“Meaning: forever,” I say, recalling the moment when I first learned the phrase.

Several if not all of the LAMBS begin to sob in unison. A packet of tissues appears from somewhere in the huddle and is passed from one fan club member to the next.

“You’re a detective?” the tall, curly-haired president asks Stark as she points her red flag at her.

“Yeah,” Stark replies.

“Do you know the cause of death?” asks another woman mid-huddle.

“That’s what I’m here to find out,” Stark replies.

“Was it murder?” the petite woman with the shock of pink hair asks.

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