Page 28 of The Mystery Guest

“That’s completely understandable,” Mr. Snow replies. “You have my deepest sympathies, and should you require emotional support during this difficult time, please know you can count on me.”

I cannot believe what happens next. Mr. Snow lays a hand on Ms. Sharpe’s bare arm. I’m about to point out that this is aviolation of all hotel rules outlining appropriate guest-to-employee conduct—rules that came from Mr. Snow himself—but before I can do so, Ms. Sharpe extricates herself from his hand.

“I wanted to ask,” she says. “Do you have an update about how Mr. Grimthorpe died? Did the police reveal anything?” Her voice is shaky and unsure.

“I’m afraid not,” says Mr. Snow. “The autopsy results will take a day or two, so I’m told.”

“Actually,” I say. “Yesterday, Detective Stark was looking for you, Ms. Sharpe. She wanted to know what Mr. Grimthorpe was about to announce before he died.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” she replies. “The detective left a half dozen messages on my phone.”

“Perhaps you can ring her back,” I suggest.

Ms. Sharpe’s face turns to stone. “I’m heading to the station now, as a matter of fact,” she says stiffly.

Just then, something flits at the edge of my vision. I turn and spot Lily in the darkest corner of the lobby. She’s holding a feather duster and standing under the grand staircase between two emerald settees. Why on earth is she in the lobby when she should be upstairs cleaning guest rooms?

“Exactly how long have you worked for Mr. Grimthorpe?” Mr. Snow asks Ms. Sharpe.

“A little over a year,” she replies. “He hired me as his personal secretary after his previous secretary passed away. I have no idea what I’m going to do for work now that he’s gone.”

At exactly that moment, Cheryl enters the lobby pushing a discolored woolly mop. Why on earth is yet another maid in the lobby when she should be upstairs? Clearly, Mr. Snow is thinking the very same thing because he’s looking at Cheryl with utmost disdain. He’s opened his mouth, but before he can call out to her, apiercing sound assaults our ears. My hands spring up to cover my own. It takes a moment to realize the fire alarm has sounded. All around me, guests and employees jostle and start.

I feel a hand on my arm. It’s Angela, guiding me to the hotel entrance. Throngs of guests surround us, all of us pushing through the revolving doors. Before long, we’re standing outside on the plush scarlet staircase, where the shrieking alarm is not nearly as deafening.

A sea of humanity gathers around us.

“What’s going on?”

“What happened?”

“Is there a fire?”

In the midst of the chaos, Mr. Preston calls for calm and ushers people down the staircase toward the safety of the sidewalk.

As suddenly as the hubbub began, the alarm ends. Mr. Snow rushes through the revolving doors and calls down the stairs: “All is well! A false alarm! Please, you may reenter the Regency Grand.”

Audible sounds of relief are heard all around me.

“That was exciting,” Angela says.

“It was far from exciting,” I reply. “It was stressful and agitating.”

“Come on,” Angela says. “It’s over now. Let’s go back in.”

I follow her up the stairs and through the revolving doors. We make our way to the reception desk, where we were standing earlier.

Mr. Snow rushes over. His eyes search the lobby. “Where did she go?” he asks. “Where’s Serena?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Angela replies.

It’s then that I take in the reception desk behind us. It appears that Ms. Sharpe is not the only absentee. The banker’s box containing the rare first edition is gone.

Before

I am transported back to the tiny kitchen where Gran and I enjoyed so many meals together when I was a child. It’s the morning after I looked into the steely eye of the troll that lives behind the wall in the Grimthorpe library. Was I frightened? Yes. Did I run? I did. But the troll did not eat me. I did not turn to stone or melt on the spot. I faced the monster, and I survived.

I swing my little legs back and forth under our worn country kitchen table. Gran brings over two steaming bowls of cinnamon porridge. I take in the scent that to this day I equate with goodness and home.

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