Page 87 of The Mystery Guest

“I’ll do what I can,” Mr. Preston replies.

As she leans on Mr. Preston, Beulah steps lightly down the stairs, as though she’s a princess being delivered to a royal carriage rather than a lonely, disturbed woman who murdered a famous man. Mr. Preston guides her all the way to the bottom of the stairs, where Mr. Snow is standing by the police car.

Stark opens the door of her cruiser.

“Easy now, madam,” Mr. Preston says as he releases Beulah’selbow. He protects her head as Stark’s officers put her into the back seat, closing the door behind her.

“Take her to the station,” Stark orders. “I’ll be there soon enough.” One of the men grabs the detective’s keys, then gets into the car.

The crowd surges forward, and Mr. Preston and the valets hold them back as the car departs. The last thing I see is Beulah’s face of confusion as she stares out of the fogging window wondering how on earth it came to this.

Once the car is gone, Detective Stark trots up the stairs, blazing a trail until she’s standing tall behind the doorman’s podium on the landing.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” she calls out in a firm and authoritative voice. “If you have questions—be they burning, inappropriate, or just plain dumb—would you be so kind as to direct them to me? The workers at this hotel have suffered enough harassment in the last few days. For the record, they are not,nor have theyever been,to blame for any of this.”

The crowd surrounds her at the podium, but Detective Stark isn’t paying attention to them. She’s looking at me.

I curtsy, stepping one foot back and bowing my head exactly as my gran taught me to do so many years ago. When I look up again, Detective Stark has disappeared behind a relentless horde of guests, reporters, and hotel employees.

I suddenly feel quite dizzy. I can’t catch my breath. I hold on to the brass railing for fear I might pass out right here on the steps of the Regency Grand.

I feel a hand on my arm.

“Are you quite all right?”

It’s Mr. Preston. He’s always had a way of finding me in my moment of need. Of propping me up. Whatever would I do without him?

“I’ll be fine,” I say.

I’m staring out into the street, observing the black skid marks left behind by the cruiser. “I should clean those,” I say.

“Clean what?” he asks.

“The tire marks. On the road.”

“Goodness me, Molly. We’ve got bigger messes to clean,” he says. “Did she really do it, that Beulah woman? I’ve spoken to her many times. She always said she was Grimthorpe’s biographer and number-one fan.”

“I’m afraid she’s also his killer, Mr. Preston.”

I expect him to say something respectful about the dead, but he doesn’t. He remains silent.

“Do you remember how I told you about a guest room Lily and I cleaned that was so filled with junk it looked like a rat’s nest?” I ask.

“Of course,” Mr. Preston replies. “You regaled Juan and me with that doozy just last week.”

“That room was Beulah’s. It was filled with detritus, hoards of miniature shampoos…and a poisoned silver honey pot.”

Mr. Preston shakes his head. “Loneliness and emptiness, hoarding to fill the void. A terrible affliction with a simple cure.”

“Which is?” I ask.

“Kindness. A patient ear. A loving arm. If she’d had any of those things, maybe it wouldn’t have come to this.”

It strikes me how right he is.

“Molly? Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes,” I say. “It’s actually a relief to get some closure. Maybe things will go back to normal around here.”

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