Page 20 of The Mystery Guest

“Adjoining rooms? With her boss?” the detective says. She turns to her men. “Did it occur to either of you to detain and question the personal secretary?”

The two men avoid her eyes.

Detective Stark snaps her notepad shut. “Time to hustle,” she says as she marches toward the exit.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“To find Serena Sharpe.”

—

I follow the detective out of the tearoom, past the hotel lobby, to the elevators, where several guests are waiting to board.

“You’re dismissed. Go do whatever it is you do here,” Detective Stark announces as she presses the Up button with a good deal more force than is necessary. “But don’t leave this hotel yet, Molly. You hear? And don’t let that sidekick of yours go anywhere either.”

“Very well,” I reply. “And how exactly do you intend to enter Ms. Sharpe’s room if she isn’t there? Did someone furnish you with a key? Mr. Snow, perhaps? And I presume you have a warrant, since you can’t just enter a guest’s room at will…unless, of course, you’re a maid,” I say as I hold up my master keycard.

Stark surveys the guests in our midst. Is it a trick of the light, or do I detect a tomato-red hue traveling up her neck to the apples of her cheeks?

“Fine,” she mutters under her breath. “You can come with me. And should anyone ask, technically, you’ll be the one entering that room, not me, got it?”

“As you wish,” I reply.

Then something happens that has never occurred in all my years as a hotel maid. The elevator doors open and guests standing nearus step back, allowing the detective and me to enter first. When we do, they don’t even follow us in. I can hear them whispering to one another: “Who’s the woman in black? She looks like a plainclothes detective! Does this mean Grimthorpe was murdered?” The doors slide closed, and I push the button for the second floor. Stark and I ride in silence until the elevator doors ding open.

“This way,” I say, leading Detective Stark to Ms. Sharpe’s suite, number 201. I knock on the door while the detective waits a few paces back. “Housekeeping!” I call out in a firm but authoritative voice. “For once, I’m not here to clean your room. Rather, I have someone who wishes to speak with you.”

We wait, but there’s no reply. I turn to Detective Stark. “Strictly speaking, and according to my very own rule book, only Ms. Sharpe’s maid is allowed to enter the room, and that is not me. But I’ll make an exception just this once.”

“I’m eternally grateful,” Detective Stark replies, though the way she says it makes me question her sincerity.

I buzz in with my keycard and prop the door open. The detective remains outside, but her head juts in, pivoting this way and that. I know what she’s doing because I do it, too. She’s memorizing the details of the room, saving them in her mind’s eye to be studied later.

The bed is freshly made, tight hospital corners folded just so. The water glasses on the table are fitted with sanitation covers. The carpet is freshly vacuumed in Zen-garden rows, the pile perfect and pristine. Not only has this room been recently cleaned but also Ms. Sharpe is clearly gone. There’s no suitcase anywhere, no personal items at all on any surface.

“Is everything okay, Molly?” I hear behind me. “Did we polish everything adequately?”

I turn to see Sunshine and Sunitha, two senior maids, standing by a cleaning trolley in the doorway beside the detective.

“Have either of you seen Ms. Sharpe?” I ask the maids.

Sunshine shakes her head. “Reception said she checked out. We were told to clean this suite and Mr. Grimthorpe’s adjoining one. He’s checked out as well.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Detective Stark says.

“He’s dead,” I explain to the maids. “Very dead.”

Sunitha’s mouth falls open. Sunshine’s eyes pop wide.

“You hadn’t heard?” I ask.

“We’re short two maids, Molly, because you and Lily were assigned to the tearoom. This is actually Lily’s room to clean, but Cheryl told us to do it. We haven’t left this floor all morning,” Sunshine explains.

“Can I look through your trash?” the detective asks.

Sunshine and Sunitha exchange a look that can only mean they suspect this giant of a woman dressed head to toe in black of lunacy, perversion, or a medley of both.

“She’s here to investigate,” I say. “Please produce the bagged garbage from this room.”

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