Page 9 of The Mystery Guest

“Very well,” Gran said, and with that she slapped her thighs, collected her purse, and stood rather abruptly. “Let’s go, Molly,” she said. “Time is precious.”

I followed my gran as she made her way to the door.

“Wait,” Ms. Cripps said. “Molly stays here. She’s got a full school day ahead of her.”

“Ah,” said Gran. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. If you’re forcing her to repeat the year, then the least I can do is relieve her of having to finish this one. Goodbye,” Gran replied. And with that, she marched me right out the door.

—

In my mind, a warm hand cradles my own, such simple comfort. I’m not in the new principal’s office anymore. I’m standing with Gran in front of the Grimthorpe mansion.

“Are we going in?” I ask.

“Yes, we’re going in,” she says.

“Are they expecting me?”

“No, they’re most certainly not expecting you.”

“What if they don’t want me in the house while you’re working? What if they don’t like me? What will we do then?”

“My dear girl,” Gran says. “We’ll tackle the situation the way we tackle everything.”

“How’s that?” I ask.

“Together,” she replies.

Lily and I have been waiting in Mr. Snow’s office an inordinately long time. Neither of us has said a word in at least ten minutes. This is, admittedly, more unusual for me than for Lily. I’m pacing the room while she sits immobile in her chair, looking clammy and pale.

It was horrific when Mr. Grimthorpe dropped dead on the tearoom floor and even worse when the police and paramedics hurried in and began yelling, “Everyone out of this room! Now!” A rush of guests made for the exit as the paramedics tried in vain to resuscitate the extinguished man on the floor. I was about to follow the guests out, but Lily had escaped my grasp and was pressed against the wall, raw terror writ so large across her face that even I could read it easily. She was frozen in place, blending into the wallpaper.

“Lily!” I called out. I pushed my way to her. “Let’s go,” I said as I grabbed her icy hand. Together we exited the tearoom trying notto look at Mr. Grimthorpe’s body, limp and lifeless on the floor. “Take her to my office, Molly,” Mr. Snow said when he saw us. “The authorities may want to speak to her.”

“Authorities.” The word sent a shiver down my spine.

With Lily by my side, I cut a path through the crowd plugging up the entire corridor from the tearoom entrance all the way to the front lobby. Mystery-obsessed LAMBS and story-hungry journalists, all with VIP lanyards strung about their necks, were exchanging information in hushed tones—“Is he dead? What happened? What was he going to announce?” But by this point, there were others gathering, too, those who’d heard that something untoward had happened at the Regency Grand.

As we rushed through the lobby, I caught a glimpse of Mr. Preston on the front steps, arms spread, trying to hold back the throng as the flashing red lights of emergency vehicles bounced off the hotel’s glossy entrance.

With every step, Lily became heavier on my arm. I got the feeling she was about to collapse right there on the floor. “Chin up, Buttercup. All will be well,” I chimed as I gripped her strongly and hurried her through the back corridors of the hotel. In truth, I didn’t believe all would be well, but I learned from Gran long ago the importance of a sunny disposition in dark times.

We traversed the maze of corridors and passages until at last we found ourselves outside of Mr. Snow’s office. I knocked hard and said, “Housekeeping!” in a trembling but authoritative voice. No one answered, not surprisingly, but it is important to follow protocols. I turned the knob, mercifully finding it unlocked. I led Lily to a maroon guest chair, which she crumpled into like a dropped marionette. She’s been sitting there slumped, silent, for over half an hour.

“Lily?” I ask her. “Are you all right?”

Lily looks at me, her pupils larger than I remember them ever being before. “I have a terrible feeling,” she whispers. “This could be very, very bad. For me. For us.”

Just then, a face appears at the door, a familiar and most welcome face. “Angela!” I call as I rush over to her, slipping out of the office to join her in the corridor. She has a teacup in her hands.

“Here,” she says as she passes me the warm cup. “I thought you could use this.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I can’t believe it, Angela. I can’t believe he died.”

“Neither can I,” she replies. “Let’s just hope there’s a good explanation. But I’m telling you, Molls, this looks bad. Like true-crime bad.”

I’ve always been prone to fainting, and in that moment, my old nemesis—vertigo—strikes again, giving me the horrific feeling that the whole world is turning upside down and there’s not a thing I can do to stop it. To keep myself steady, I concentrate on the teacup in my hands.

Isn’t it strange how the meaning of a thing can change in a flash? Just a few months ago, Angela introduced me to true-crime podcasts, and I quite enjoyed the experience. Together, we listened to one calledA Dozen Dirty Suspects,about a string of mafia murders in the suburbs. Angela guessed the killer ten minutes into the very first episode.

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