Page 81 of The Mystery Guest

“Now!” she mouths.

“…in five minutes,” he says into the mic. “Tea will be served.And finger sandwiches. Also: the event will feature a live VIP guest.”

He clicks the mic off and leaves the desk as the questioning eyes of the reception clerks follow his every move.

“VIP guest?” I ask when he returns to my side.

“I couldn’t very well say ‘detective,’ could I?” he explains.

“You promised tea,” Lily tells Mr. Snow.

“And finger sandwiches,” I add.

“Oh dear. So I did. Lily, please alert the kitchen. And ask for Angela’s help, too.”

Lily runs toward the Social. I’m about to follow, but Detective Stark holds me back. “Molly, you stay with me. Watch and listen. If you see something I don’t, you tell me, okay?”

“Very well,” I reply.

She turns and strides out of the lobby, down the corridor toward the entrance of the Regency Grand Tearoom. Mr. Snow and I trail behind her.

We arrive not a minute too soon. Coming the other way is a familiar gaggle of ladies—about ten in total—led by a tall, curly-haired woman carrying her small red flag.

“We’re here for the free seminar,” Gladys, the leader of the LAMBS, announces. “Who’s the special guest?” she asks Mr. Snow. “Is it Serena Sharpe?”

“There was a mistake in that announcement,” Detective Stark says. “The VIP guest we’re looking for is Mr. Grimthorpe’s number-one fan. Do you know where she might be?”

An electric charge pulses through the LAMBS. Hands fly up and various members step forward.

“Me! I’m his number-one fan!”

“No, not her. Me!”

“Me! Here!”

“I’m over here!”

The LAMBS push closer. Mr. Snow extends his arms to keep them from charging the tearoom en masse.

“Please!” I call out in my most firm but authoritative maid’s voice. “There can be only one number-one fan.”

“You,” Detective Stark says, pointing to the now familiar-looking woman wearing a lumpy brown sweater covered in cat hair. “We met right here a couple of days ago. You’re Mr. Grimthorpe’s official biographer, right?”

“Unofficial,” Gladys corrects as she waves her flag.

“Not only are you his number-one fan,” I say to Beulah, “but you’re also the world’s foremost expert on Mr. Grimthorpe, are you not?”

“There are many other LAMBS just as knowledgeable as Beulah,” says Gladys with a huff.

“That’s right!” I hear. It’s a small voice from the middle of the gaggle. It’s Birdy, her fuchsia hair distinguishing her from all the other LAMBS. She’s standing on her tiptoes to be seen. “I’m his number-one fan. It’s me you want to speak to,” Birdy insists.

“I’m sure it’s not,” says Detective Stark. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we’re holding a private audience with J. D. Grimthorpe’s biographer.”

“Are you tracking a lead?” one of the LAMBS calls out. “Have you found J.D.’s murderer?”

“I’m afraid not,” says Detective Stark. “We’re stumped,” she says. “Isn’t that right, Detective?” Stark looks at me. “Detective?” she says again.

“I’m not a detective,” I say.

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