Page 92 of The Mystery Guest

I take a bite of the shortbread and try to imagine it—me, in a police uniform,Detective Grayon a badge above my heart.

“Does the police station handle dry cleaning?” I ask. “Are the uniforms sanitized daily and wrapped in clingy plastic?”

Stark’s eyes squint in a funny way. “Why is it that I never quiteknow what’s about to come out of your mouth?” she asks. “As for dry cleaning, I suppose clingy plastic could be arranged, for the right employee. I must warn you, though, an officer’s hours are long. Criminals never take days off. They work harder than most.”

“Harder than maids?” I ask.

“You have a point there.” And with that, she stands suddenly and heads for the tearoom door. At the threshold, she stops and turns my way one more time. “Will you give what I said serious consideration?” she asks.

She waits as I take another bite of the shortbread biscuit, chew it twenty times, then swallow. “I’ll consider it,” I reply.

“Good,” she says. “See you around, Molly Gray.”

What she does next completely surprises me. She puts her right foot behind her left and performs a slow, deep curtsy. Then she nods and leaves the room.

Never fear a new beginning. One chapter must end for another to begin.

I’m standing in front of Gran’s curio cabinet in the apartment I used to share with her and will soon share once more with my beloved Juan Manuel, who is returning from his trip in just a short time.

In one hand, I hold a cloth. In my other hand, I hold an ornamental egg. The Fabergé has not been cleaned in well over a decade. I’m certain I was the last to clean it, getting in trouble for wiping the patina of age away, for restoring the tarnished jewels and gold to a perfectly polished shine.

I don’t care if my cleaning it makes the egg less valuable. I don’t even know if this egg is a rare treasure as Mrs. Grimthorpe suggested it was all those years ago. That’s not what matters—not to me. What I behold is a thing so radiant and enchanting, it takes my breath away every time I look at it. I give it one final buff and polish, then place it on top of Gran’s cabinet right beside the photo ofmy mother as a young girl. Maggie, the stranger at my door. Maggie, who said she had once worked with my gran as a maid. Is that true? Did she, too, work in that loveless mansion, polishing silver and suffering Mr. Grimthorpe’s abuse? Three years after her mysterious appearance at our door that day, Gran told me my mother died. And yet, even so, I sometimes have visions of her appearing in my life out of nowhere, knocking on my door again the way she did all those years ago. But she hasn’t yet. And I suppose I must accept that she never will.

As soon as I think it, there’s a knock on the door, which makes me gasp and jolt. I look out the fish-eye peephole and am relieved to see Mr. Preston, right on time, wearing his plain clothes rather than a doorman’s cap and coat. He shifts from one foot to the other.

I open the door. “Mr. Preston, do come in,” I say. “I have our tea ready. We have just enough time for a chat before Juan Manuel arrives.”

“Wonderful,” he says as he steps inside. He passes me a box.

“Raisin bran muffins,” he says. “Your favorite,” he adds with a wink.

“How very thoughtful. I’ll add them to our tea service,” I say as I take them to the kitchen.

Mr. Preston removes his shoes, wipes the bottoms with the cleaning cloth in the closet, then neatly slips them onto the mat inside.

“How did the rest of today go, Mr. Preston?” I ask.

“I survived,” he replies. “When the press conference let out, the valets and I were mobbed on the stairs. I practically had to beat the crowd off as poor Ms. Sharpe made her escape in a taxi.”

“Did you know her when she was a child?” I ask.

“No,” he replies. “Unlike your grandmother, Abigail Sharpe never brought her daughter to the mansion. You were the onlychild around—our bright spot of hope amidst all that dreary darkness.”

The kettle boils. I transfer water into a proper teapot on Gran’s thrift-store silver tray and bring it to the living room along with two porcelain cups.

Mr. Preston takes a seat on the sofa, but he’s clearly unsettled. He fidgets and shifts in his place.

“Juan will be here in a bit,” I say. “He’s landed. But we have time for a spot of tea now.”

“Lovely,” says Mr. Preston. I pour tea into my favorite cup, the one with pretty white-and-yellow daisies on it, and I pass it to him. I fill Gran’s country cottage cup for myself.

“I better get to it, then,” he says as he takes a sip, then puts the cup down on its saucer. “There’s no easy way to say this, Molly, though I suspect you’ve known what I’m about to say for some time.”

“I’ll admit I do know, Mr. Preston. And it’s okay. It’s perfectly reasonable for you to retire. You deserve to enjoy your time off. No one can work forever.”

Mr. Preston stares at me with a look I can’t quite read. After a moment, he says, “Molly, I’m your grandfather.”

At first, I’m certain I’m hearing things. But then I realize what’s really going on. Poor Mr. Preston is older than I think and is losing touch with reality. Goodness me, his mind is starting to curdle like warm milk.

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