Page 10 of The Mystery Guest

“Bam!” she exclaimed gleefully when, in the final episode, the murderer was revealed. “Who’s the boss?” she asked as she and her fiery red hair did a jiggy dance to celebrate her clairvoyance.

Just months ago, true crime was an entertaining escape, but now the thought of it makes me feel faint.

“Molly, are you all right?” Angela asks.

I manage a small nod.

“Don’t you worry,” Angela says. “I’ve got my ear to the ground. I’ll let you know if I uncover any dirt.”

“Dirt?” I reply.

“Molly,” she says as she lays a hand on my shaking arm. “Dying suddenly like that isn’t exactly natural.”

“If it’s not natural, what is it?” I ask.

“Criminal,” Angela says as she fixes me with her somber, orb-like eyes.

“My gran used to say, ‘Don’t jump to conclusions, lest you trip and fall,’ ” I tell her.

“Mygran used to say, ‘Keep your eyes as peeled as your bananas,’ ” Angela replies. “So that’s what I’m doing.”

Just then, we hear sobbing from inside Mr. Snow’s office. We both peek through the door and see Lily, head in her hands, crying in her chair.

“Is she okay?” Angela asks.

“Truthfully, I do not know,” I reply sotto voce.I thank Angela for the cup of tea. Then she nods and leaves without another word or whisper.

I enter the office and put the cup on the side table beside the one I brought Lily earlier. “Here,” I say. “A good cup of tea cures all ills. And if it doesn’t, have another.”

I’m hoping for a smile, a glance, but I receive neither.

For an extraordinarily long time, I trill nonsensically about what a tidy office Mr. Snow keeps, the differences between leather-bound and paperback books, and how I learned from my gran not only tips for polishing silver but also best practices for cleaning leather-bound volumes using a lint-free cloth and saddle soap.

“Molly,” Lily says suddenly.

I hurry over and sit on the chair next to hers. “Yes?”

Her eyes are round pools of trepidation. “I’m afraid.”

“I know,” I say. “But why?”

“Because a famous man is dead. Because they always blame the maid. You of all people should know that.”

I take both her hands in mine. I’m about to launch into my best pep talk about how good always triumphs over evil and how the meek shall inherit the earth, but just then, Mr. Snow appears in the doorway.

“Oh, thank goodness,” I say. “I’m so glad to see—” My words choke in my throat because as Mr. Snow steps into the room, behind him is someone I had the horrible misfortune to meet some years ago and who I’d hoped never to meet again. She is large, imposing, with broad athletic shoulders. She’s wearing a black sweater and black pants, though the fact that she’s in plain clothes rather than in uniform does nothing to quell my agitation.

“Hello, Molly,” Detective Stark says as she stands confidently in the threshold of Mr. Snow’s office.

I know etiquette requires me to say something such as “How lovely to see you” or “What a pleasure to meet you again after you unjustly pegged me as Mr. Black’s murderer a few years ago and nearly ruined my life,” but I have learned that if I can’t control the words in my head, it’s best not to open my maw.

“Someone dialed 911 the second Mr. Grimthorpe collapsed,” Mr. Snow says. “The police arrived soon after you left the room, Molly.”

“And I arrived not long after that,” Detective Stark says as she threads her thumbs through her belt loops, tipping back and forth on her heels the way cowboys do in old movies. “Being here is like déjà vu,” she adds, looking around Mr. Snow’s office.

“I certainly hope not,” I say. “If you’re here to investigate, it would be preferable to avoid gross miscarriages of justice this time around. As my gran used to say, ‘To err once is human; to err twice is idiotic.’ ”

Mr. Snow clears his throat. “Molly, I understand you’re rattled by this morning’s events.”

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