Page 27 of The Mystery Guest

I make my way to the lobby, where Mr. Snow is standing by the reception desk wearing a black velvet waistcoat and a neat paisley cravat. Beside him is Angela, her blazing red hair in a tizzy.

I head straight for them. “Am I or am I not the Head Maid at this hotel?” I ask Mr. Snow.

He sighs, then straightens his cravat. “It’s only for today, Molly. Angela’s short three servers, so we’re in quite a pickle. We need your help in the restaurant. And with you away from the guest rooms, I had to put someone in charge of the maids.”

“And you chose Cheryl?” I say. “Why didn’t you consult me about the running of my very own department? Has the world officially turned upside down? And what happened to the waiters? Did they call in sick?” I ask.

“Called in afraid is more like it,” Angela replies. “Seems they’re worried there’s a murderer on the loose right here in our hotel.”

“That’s absurd,” Mr. Snow says. “Patently ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Angela replies. “If podcasts have taught me anything, it’s that the worst things happen in the safest places.”

Mr. Snow’s lips pucker as though he’s sucking on a lemon.

“Also,” Angela says, “don’t you think it’s a bit weird thatGrimthorpe’s personal secretary bolted out of here yesterday right after her boss kicked the bucket? I mean, I’m glad she’s coming back today, but still…it’s messed up.”

“How do you know Ms. Sharpe is coming back today?” Mr. Snow asks.

“Duh,” Angela says. “The banker’s box right behind you has her name on it.”

Mr. Snow adjusts his glasses, setting them more or less straight on the bridge of his nose.

“By the way, you look some fit today, Mr. Snow,” Angela says. “Doesn’t he look sharp, Molly?”

“Indeed,” I say. “Is there a high-end wedding in the hotel? Or a banquet? Mr. Snow, why are you so dressed up?”

Mr. Snow’s eyes search the lobby again, looking for what or whom, I do not know.

“Mr. Snow?” I repeat.

“What’s in the box?” Angela asks.

He looks at her with trepidation. “A few trifles,” he replies. “Odds and ends left behind after all of the commotion yesterday.” He flattens a palm over the lid of the box behind him.

“Cool. I like trifles,” says Angela as she grabs the lid and removes it in one fell swoop, causing Mr. Snow’s hand to plummet to his side. “Get a load of that, Molls!” Angela says as she peers into the box.

Inside is a very old edition of Mr. Grimthorpe’s bestselling novelThe Maid in the Mansion,which, unlike the ones for sale at the event yesterday, features the original cover art—an iconic mansion door and an eye looking through the keyhole. Beside the book is Mr. Grimthorpe’s fountain pen, which I recognize from yesterday’s signing, as well as a black monogrammed Moleskine and a sealed Regency Grand envelope labeledSerena.

“The note to Serena is from me,” Mr. Snow says. “To thank her for her patronage.”

“Serena? Surely you mean Ms. Sharpe,” I say. I’m about to launch into a diatribe about the proper protocols for addressing guests, but before I can commence my lecture, Mr. Snow interrupts.

“Let me make one thing abundantly clear,” he says. “Serena is as innocent as a spring lamb.”

“No one in this hotel isthatinnocent,” Angela replies. “Not even you, Mr. Snow.” She picks up the novel and flips through the pages until she finds the copyright page. “Dang! It’s a first edition,” she says. “This has gotta be rare.”

“Yes. It is,” Mr. Snow concedes. “We had it in a display case out front to promote Mr. Grimthorpe’s announcement, alongside the other mementos in the box. Anyhow, Serena has asked for everything back.”

“Well, well. Speak of the devil,” Angela says.

Just then, Ms. Serena Sharpe pushes through the gold revolving doors of the Regency Grand. She is radiant, ethereal, though her outfit—a form-fitting black velvet dress—makes it clear she’s in mourning.

Ms. Sharpe looks around the lobby and spots Mr. Snow waving frantically in her direction. She makes her way over to us. Up close I can’t help but notice the fatigue—or is it sadness?—writ large in the dark circles under her enigmatic blue eyes.

“My dearest Serena,” Mr. Snow says. “How are you doing?”

“To be honest, I’m still in shock,” she says. “I can’t quite believe he’s gone.”

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