Page 26 of The Mystery Guest

I jump out of bed, sleep and dreams forgotten. I bustle about the apartment getting ready for my day. I have no idea what it will bring, but as Gran used to say,Embrace the possibilities. You never know what might happen.I just hope that we’ll soon be able to chalk up the untimely death of Mr. Grimthorpe to natural causes and get on with doing what we do best at the Regency Grand—providing our guests with the finest customer service in a sophisticated venue that befits the modern age.

Within the hour, I’m walking briskly in the sunshine toward the hotel’s scarlet stairs. Mr. Preston, in cap and greatcoat, is standing on the carpeted landing helping some tourists with directions. He points a young couple to the next street over and they hurry down the stairs to their destination as though everything is normal, as though our hotel did not experience a seismic upheaval just the day before. As I stare at the entrance to the hotel, my knees start to shake.

“Molly!” Mr. Preston calls out the moment he spots me.

I walk up the stairs to meet him.

“My dear girl, I’ve been thinking about you all morning. What a horrendous shock you must have had yesterday. Are you all right?”

“Mr. Preston, I’m not the one who died. It stands to reason that I’m fine,” I reply, though I don’t quite believe my own words.

“Thank heavens for that,” Mr. Preston says. “I’m just glad yousurvived yesterday’s ordeal without getting too rattled. Good riddance to the writer, I say.”

“Good riddance?” I reply. “That’s not very charitable.”

“I reserve charity for those who deserve it,” Mr. Preston replies. “And that man did not deserve it.”

A strange tingling sensation stirs in the depths of my belly. My gran used to get feelings like this. She called them her “intuitions.”

“Mr. Preston,” I say. “Did you know Mr. Grimthorpe?”

“I’m not sure anyone knew him, least of all himself,” he replies.

“You don’t actually think someone inside this hotel could have killed him, do you?”

“A man like that? Anything’s possible.”

Just then, some guests arrive in a taxi. “Molly, be careful in there today,” Mr. Preston says. “There are things going on around here that I don’t quite understand, and until I do, you best be vigilant.”

It’s an odd thing to say in a conversation replete with oddities, but Mr. Preston has not been himself lately. He keeps insisting on meeting me for dinner, which makes me wonder if he’s all right. He’s more distracted and tired than usual, too. He’s asking the valets for help and taking breaks with greater frequency these days.

“There’s no need to worry about me, Mr. Preston,” I say. “I’ll be fine. If anything, you should worry about yourself.”

He nods and starts down the stairs. I head the other way, pushing through the revolving doors into the stunning lobby of the Regency Grand. It’s a hive of activity even though it’s not yet nine. Visitors gather in close huddles on every jewel-toned settee. The morning scents of coffee and fresh lemon polish commingle in the air.

A line of new guests waits at Reception as bellhops call back and forth, tackling the sudden surfeit of suitcases that litters the lobby. I’ve seen this before, of course, the day after the infamous Mr. Blackdied in our hotel. That morning, our hotel was filled to capacity. Every lookie-loo in town had suddenly checked in to be part of “the scene,” all of them asking the same question: had Mr. Black died of natural causes or was something more sinister at play in the Regency Grand? It’s no different this time. Yesterday, a world-renowned writer dropped dead on the tearoom floor, and today the lobby pulses with conspiratorial energy as guests and staff members exchange salient bits of gossip about who knows who and who knows what. It’s worrisome, all this chatter about potential suspects and possible criminals in our midst.

I take a sharp right away from the lobby and rush downstairs to the housekeeping quarters, where my freshly dry-cleaned uniform hangs in clingy plastic on my locker door—a new beginning. I quickly put it on and am fastening my Head Maid pin above my heart when something in the corner of the low-ceilinged room makes me jump.

“Lily!” I say. She’s standing stock-still in the shadows by her locker. “You frightened me half to death. My dear girl, what are you doing here today? I didn’t expect you, not after yesterday’s commotion. Why didn’t you call in sick?”

“Because I’m not sick,” she whispers. “And there’s something I have to—”

At that moment, Cheryl enters, dragging her feet in that slovenly way that makes me want to chop them off.

“There you are, my little wallflower,” Cheryl drones as she spots Lily hiding in the corner. “Aren’t you just ‘polished to perfection.’ You’ll clean the whole second floor today since Molly’s being called elsewhere.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask Cheryl.

“Oh, didn’t Mr. Snow tell you? He needs you in the Social. Something about waiters not showing up. That makesmeyour supervisor today, Lily. Mr. Snow’s orders.” She points to the lopsided pinfastened above her substantial bosom. “Look who’s back to being Head Maid.”

Turmoil bubbles inside me. I cannot decide whether to straighten Cheryl’s lopsided pin or simply slap her across the face. “I’m sure this is some misunderstanding,” I assure Lily. “I’ll speak to Mr. Snow about this posthaste.”

“Knock yourself out,” Cheryl mutters.

Gran used to say,There’s no point boxing with buffoons,so I unclasp my Head Maid pin and tuck it neatly into my locker. “Have a lovely day, Lily,” I say to her before walking out of the change room without another word to Cheryl.

Up the stairs I trot, feeling hotter than a boiling kettle.

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