Page 5 of The Mystery Guest

“I figure you and your Wisp-in-Training could use a maid with ample years of experience.”

Lily stood stock-still and did not speak. She rarely spoke when other staff were present. Instead, she studied the well-polished tops of her shoes.

“How remarkably generous you are, Cheryl,” I said. Let the record show I did not mean it. As I’ve learned, sometimes a smile does not mean someone is happy. Sometimes a compliment is feigned. And while I praised Cheryl’s “generosity,” I was in fact employing irony, because there are few people in the world as selfishly motivated as she is.

“I have an idea,” Cheryl offered. “Lily should clean guest roomstoday, and I can help you serve tea at the Grimthorpe event. I’ve given her a head start by cleaning the Chens’ suite.”

She may have cleaned their suite, but I knew she’d done so only to steal the tip left by our most generous guests, a tip meant for Lily, not for her.

“Thank you, but no thank you,” I said as I pushed through the doorway, forcing Cheryl out of my way. “And, Cheryl,” I added, turning to face her. “Wash your hands before you get back to work. Remember: sanitation is our obligation.”

I beckoned for Lily to follow me, and we left Cheryl behind.

Once we were down the corridor, one left and one right turn from Housekeeping, I asked Lily to go to the kitchen and check on preparations for the tea reception. “You’re in charge of both of Mr. Grimthorpe’s tea carts today,” I said. “Bring one to his room now. Knock thrice and leave it outside his door. Then have another cart ready for the actual event itself. Make sure the kitchen staff prepares both carts to Mr. Grimthorpe’s exact specifications,” I said.

Lily nodded, then headed to the snaking corridor that led to the steamy kitchen. Meanwhile, I rushed up the basement stairs and went straight to the Regency Grand Tearoom, stepping past the burgundy cordon that blocked off the entrance.

I stood a moment admiring the splendid sight. The high-ceilinged room featured a domed skylight that bathed everything in a shimmering glow. The walls were clad in green-and-gold Art Deco wallpaper, arches rising triumphantly to empire crown moldings. Round café tables were crisply laid with white linens I’d arranged myself, napkins pleated into rosebud folds, and floral centerpieces spotlighting elegant pink lotus blooms. Simply put, the room was a vision, a glorious return to an era of infinite possibility and grandeur.

My moment of rapture was interrupted by the sound of journalists who’d gathered at the back of the room, running cables and adjusting cameras, murmuring about J. D. Grimthorpe’s mysterious motivations for making a most rare public appearance. At the front of the room, Mr. Snow nodded repeatedly at a pretty, binder-toting young woman as she tested the microphone on the podium. Booksellers off to the side of the raised stage were laying a display table of J. D. Grimthorpe’s bestselling books, includingThe Maid in the Mansion,the novel that first propelled him to global bestsellerdom. On the cover of the most recent edition was a winding path of blood-red roses leading to a monolithic estate, an ominous light shining in an upper-story window. A tremor ran through me as I eyed the stack of copies. I knew so much about the man who’d written that novel.

Just then, Mr. Snow spotted me and beckoned me to the front of the room. I looped my way around the white-linened tables until I stood in front of him and the young woman.

“Molly,” Mr. Snow said. “Allow me to present Ms. Serena Sharpe, J. D. Grimthorpe’s personal secretary.”

She was wearing a bold blue dress that hugged her figure so perfectly, all eyes in the room were riveted to her. Ms. Sharpe smiled at me, a smile that did not quite reach her feline eyes. Something about her face was sphinxlike, and I could not quite read it.

“I’m Molly Gray, Head Maid,” I said by way of introduction.

“Ms. Sharpe is reviewing the final details of Mr. Grimthorpe’s appearance,” Mr. Snow explained. “I have assured her that no one without a VIP pass will gain entry to this room and that all guests will be served tea and refreshments at precisely 9:15a.m. in anticipation of Mr. Grimthorpe’s entry at exactly 10:00a.m.”

I was not at all surprised by Mr. Snow’s precise run-of-show because we’d spent hours reviewing every last detail the day before.

“I do appreciate you accommodating us in your new venue atshort notice,” Ms. Sharpe said. “I know such requests put tremendous strain on all staff.”

Indeed they had. The builders had rushed to put the finishing touches on the tearoom’s tiled floor; the chefs and sous-chefs had quickly conjured an elegant breakfast tea menu, complete with finger sandwiches; Mr. Preston had arranged extra hotel security; and I was tasked with locating in our storerooms fifteen fine silver tea sets with matching cutlery. Long ago, I acquired quite a talent for polishing silver, so I buffed every piece myself, right down to the final spoon.

“It is a pleasure to serve,” I said to Mr. Grimthorpe’s assistant. “I hope you find our tearoom pleasing.”

“I do,” she replied. “In fact, everything’s so perfect, I think we’re ahead of schedule. If you’re interested, I can send J.D. in early to sign a few books for staff members.”

Mr. Snow’s eyebrows shot into his receding hairline. “That would be wonderful!” he exclaimed as he removed his phone from the pocket of his double-breasted suit and made a succession of rapid calls.

Within minutes, an eager group of hotel employees was lined up behind the burgundy cordon at the tearoom’s entrance. Angela, wearing her black barmaid’s apron, was midline, while Cheryl staked her claim up front. Lily shored up the rear, trailing behind various cooks, dishwashers, and maids.

“Walk them in, Molly, in an orderly fashion,” Mr. Snow said, and so I guided my fellow employees to line up in front of the book table, where an empty chair awaited the arrival of our VIP literary guest.

Ms. Serena Sharpe knocked on a hidden door in the paneling to the side of the stage. It creaked open, and Mr. Grimthorpe emerged—lean, lithe, with wild, hawkish eyes, unruly gray hair, and a measured, confident gait. He took his seat at the signingtable. Ms. Sharpe handed him a black-and-gold fountain pen. The room rippled with murmurs and exploded with recording phones, everyone vying for the best photo.

“Molly, don’t forget to line up,” Mr. Snow urged. “This is your only chance to get a book signed by the master of mystery himself.”

My legs felt like tree stumps, but I urged them into motion, taking my place behind a bellhop who bobbed like an eager gopher in front of me.

I tapped his shoulder. “Did anyone tell Mr. Preston about the staff signing?” I asked.

“Of course,” he replied. “He didn’t want to come. Said he preferred to breathe fresh air rather than bow down to the author.”

“Is that really what he said?”

---