“I did,” Angela replies, her mouth turning upward into a smile so incongruous with the situation that it makes me want to scream.
“You lied. About me!” I say.
“For your own good, Molly. This way, we can team up.”
“I’m not up for this particular partnership,” I say.
“Why not? We need to find the real murderer before Stark pins this death on one of us workers. You of all people know how inept the cops are,” she pleads. “They say they want justice, but do they really? They jump to the wrong conclusion and blame people like us all the time.”
“This is ridiculous, a harebrained scheme that will undo us both,” I say.
“Molly,” Angela replies as she wags a finger in my face. “I may be an amateur, but make no mistake: I’m a kick-ass sleuth. I’ve always been good at putting two and two together when others can’t. If we work together, we’ll outdetect that stuck-up Stark and her squadron of goons. Also, now that the LAMBS know you’re working undercover, they’ll tell you everything. Just trust me, okay?”
Before I can respond, something at the other end of the lobby catches Angela’s eye. “Uh-oh,” she says. “They’re early.”
Coming the other way are two familiar-looking ladies led by the tall, curly-haired, flag-carrying leader of the LAMBS. The trio is heading straight for the Social.
“Yoo-hoo!” we hear before I can say another word. The president of the LAMBS is waving her red flag at us. “Detective, please join us for breakfast.”
I want to correct her, to tell her exactly what I am and what I’m not, but Angela’s nails are digging so deep into my arm that I cannot form words.
“How sweet of you to invite Molly to join you,” Angela says as they approach. “We’ll walk over with you.”
“Oh, we’re happy to cooperate,” says the flag-bearing leader. “It’s our solemn duty to J.D. We want to help you and…the detective,” she whispers while pointing at me.
“I’m just a maid,” I say. “That’s all I am.”
“Of course,” says the president, her gray curls bouncing up and down as she nods.
“Absolutely,” says another one of the LAMBS, the tiniest of the three, the one with the bright fuchsia highlights. “You’re doing a marvelous job of keeping a low profile. I saw you cleaning my hotel room just the other day. I’m amazed at the lengths to which you detectives will go just to stay undercover. It’s really impressive.”
“I agree,” says the third gray-haired lady, who—much to my horror—is wearing the same lumpy brown sweater she wore yesterday, still covered in cat hair.
And so it is that despite repeated protests and further attempts to clarify who I am, I find myself sitting down for breakfast at the Social with a gaggle of LAMBS, who believe me to be something I most definitely am not.
“You four can take that table right there,” Angela says once we enter the restaurant. She points to a free table closest to the bar. “This way, I can look after you myself.” She grabs some menus from the bar top and plops them on our table.
“Allow me,” the woman in the brown sweater says as she pulls out my chair and beckons me to sit. “I’m Beulah, by the way,” she announces as she takes a seat beside me. “Beulah Barnes, J. D. Grimthorpe’s biographer.”
“Unauthorized biographer,” the flag-bearing leader of the LAMBS corrects as she settles into a chair across from me. “And I’m Gladys, Chief Literary Officer and President of the LAMBS. The little flaming-pink-haired one here is Birdy, Official Treasurer. The rest of the LAMBS are right over there—they’re the early risers.” Across the restaurant, numerous pairs of eyes size me up from afar.
“I’ll grab you all coffees,” Angela says.
“Tea for me,” I say.
“Back in a jiffy,” Angela replies. Then to me she only whispers, “While I’m gone, Molly, ask questions. Lots of them. Remember, that’s why you’re here.”
She winks, then rushes off. The three women are staring at me, leaving me at a complete loss about what to say. A question pops into my head. “I guess I’m wondering why it is you’re still here,” I say. “In the hotel, I mean. It’s not as though there will be book events, not after what happened yesterday.”
“When there’s joy, we celebrate together. When there’s grief, we grieve together,” says the president of the LAMBS.
All three nod in unison.
“Also,” says Beulah, “we crave answers about J.D. as much as you do. It will be a ghastly biographical footnote if it turns out to be…”
“Murder,” Birdy squeaks, finishing Beulah’s sentence. This is the only word the tiny woman has spoken since we sat down.
Angela appears with three coffees and my tea. She places them down on the table. “Ready to order?” she asks.
The LAMBS order identically—Le Grand Oeuf, the biggest breakfast on the menu.
“What will you have, Molly?” Angela asks.
“Nothing,” I reply.
“She’s on the job,” Angela explains.
“Very professional,” says Gladys the president. “We do have a question for you, Molly. Have you figured out what Mr. Grimthorpe was going to announce yesterday during his big event?”
“We have not,” Angela replies. “I mean, the authorities haven’t,” she says as she points at me. “But we’d love to hear your theories.”
“Oh no, here we go,” says Beulah.
“You’ve stumbled upon a matter of great contention,” Gladys says as she stirs a heaping spoonful of sugar into her coffee.
“We don’t always agree,” Beulah adds as she picks cat hair off her sizable bosom, sending it flying into the air above our table.
“My theory,” Gladys offers, “is that J.D. was going to announce a sequel to his biggest bestseller.”
“The Maid in the Mansion, 2.0,” Birdy chimes in. “Do you know that as of yesterday, the auction price for a first edition of that book has soared to a whopping five figures?”
“Collectors,” Beulah huffs through a halo of fur. “Such morbid vultures.”
“Aren’t you all collectors?” Angela asks.
“We are much more than that. To be clear,” Gladys says, “we are researchers who take pride in what we study. We have not now, nor have we ever, sought to profit from J. D. Grimthorpe.”
“That’s right,” Beulah adds. “Our mandate has always been to promote his oeuvre.”
“I’ll go place your orders now,” Angela says. She turns and heads to the bar, leaving me dreadfully alone.
Diminutive Birdy leans in to speak. She is so small her head looks like a pink grapefruit hovering above the edge of the table. “We were wondering if you’ve considered that J.D.’s novels might contain clues. His biggest bestseller is about a novelist who is holed up in his mansion completing his greatest book ever. But someone—I won’t reveal who—is out to kill.”
“It was the maid,” Beulah says. “She was the killer, working right in that mansion all along, and yet she seemed so innocent.”
“For the love of good writing, there she goes again! Spoiler alert,” Birdy says.
Gladys’s gray curls shake in frustration. “How many times have we told you, Beulah? You know our policy.”
Birdy raises a finger in the air as though conducting an orchestra. “The LAMBS shalt not spoil the ending of a whodunit for any mystery reader,” she says. “It’s our cardinal rule.”
Beulah sighs, then fixes me with her apathetic gaze. “There are two twists in that book. I just gave away one. I swear, some readers read only for the twists. But there’s more than that to J.D.’s novels. Any fool would be able to see as much,” she says, practically spitting the words at her fellow LAMBS. Then she turns her attention to me. “I don’t suppose you’ve read The Maid in the Mansion, have you?”