The Mystery Guest

“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 called A Dozen Dirty Suspects, about a string of mafia murders in the suburbs. Angela guessed the killer ten minutes into the very first episode.

“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.

“My gran 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.”