“Detective, do you have a message for the killer?”
Stark pauses. It’s as though she’s looking right through the TV at me. “You can hide the truth for a while, but it won’t stay buried forever. Just remember that,” she says, before walking away from the scrum.
I turn off the TV.
I pick up my cloth and carefully open the glass doors of Gran’s curio cabinet. Deep cleaning gives life meaning. Just grab a duster, Buster.
Yes, Gran, I think to myself as I remove her precious treasures—a secondhand menagerie of Swarovski crystal animals, her pride and joy, and her souvenir spoons from far-flung places she never got to see with her own eyes.
I furiously polish each trinket, then turn to the framed photos on top of the cabinet. There’s a new photo of me and my dear Juan Manuel with matching ice cream mustaches. There are older photos, too, of Gran and me. But it’s the photo of my mother when she was young that I study with care. Dark hair like mine and a porcelain complexion, bright apple cheeks, not wan and hollowed out like that strange young woman who stole the rent on the first day of the month so long ago. As a child, I had no idea who she was. I realized only when I was much older that Maggie—the stranger at the door that day—was my mother, and that one of the reasons she’d come was to see me. How I failed to put two and two together at the time, I do not know. Why is it always like that? Why do I understand everything too late?
Now, I put all of Gran’s treasures back in the cabinet. I shower, then scrub the washroom until my fingers pucker into dried prunes. I eat a crumpet at the worn kitchen table, chewing every bite exactly twenty times. Then I leave the apartment and head to work, anxiety powering me like a jet engine.
Now that everyone knows Mr. Grimthorpe was poisoned, this workday at the Regency Grand will be the furthest thing from normal. I have no idea what to expect.
When I arrive, Mr. Preston is standing at the doorman’s podium, directing the throngs of guests on the plush red landing. I elbow my way through the crowd until I’m standing right in front of him.
“Molly,” he says. “Have you heard? About how Mr. Grimthorpe died?”
“Yes,” I say. “And I’m most distressed. Who do you suppose might be capable of such a thing?”
“A lot of people. That man wasn’t what he seemed.”
I search Mr. Preston’s face, which is grim and tense, his lips concealed in his mouth. “What about you, Mr. Preston? Are you what you seem?”
“Molly, are you all right?” he asks as he places a hand on my arm. “Are you feeling faint?”
I pull away. “We need to talk,” I say. “But not here. Not now.”
“My dear, I’ve been saying so for some time.”
“Olive Garden. Five-fifteen p.m.,” I say. “I expect you to arrive on time.”
“Naturally. Molly, are you sure you’re well?”
I can’t believe he’s asking this again. “You should ask yourself that question, not me,” I reply.
Mr. Preston stares at me as though trying to place someone wholly unfamiliar.
“Good day,” I say, and then I stomp up the red stairs and push through the revolving doors of the elegant Regency Grand.
The lobby is even busier than it was yesterday, filled with wide-eyed guests and onlookers whispering to one another in little cliques, but given the number of people about, it’s far too quiet, a funereal hush in the air. And no wonder.
I spot Mr. Snow at the reception desk. He’s murmuring instructions to a concierge who looks piqued and jittery and strained. I walk over to Mr. Snow as he finishes his conversation. The concierge hurries away. Mr. Snow turns his owl eyes to me. “Molly, I can’t believe it,” he says. “A man was poisoned. Here. In our hotel. How is this even possible?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Snow,” I reply. “We’ve spent the last few years buffing our tarnished reputation, but we’re now besmirched in a new and most grievous manner. I wonder—will the stain ever come out?”
“It doesn’t bear thinking about, Molly. The police are pointing fingers, asking questions.”
I look around the lobby and spot several men in black clothes standing by themselves, earpieces in their ears. “Who are they?” I ask. “They don’t look like guests.”
“They’re undercover officers,” Mr. Snow replies. “And they’re everywhere, watching our every move. Rather than close the hotel, Detective Stark demanded we remain operational and attempt to ‘act normal.’ She and her special agents are convinced this is the best way to flush out the killer.”
“Wouldn’t the killer have fled by now?”
“Apparently, the manner of death suggests the murderer might stick around. Detective Stark mentioned something about trophies and ‘the pathology of the poisoned cup.’ It seems for some killers, hiding in plain sight is part of the thrill.”
A tremor runs through me, and as I glance about the lobby, I see everything and everyone veiled in suspicion.
Mr. Snow gazes past the lobby, through the glass revolving doors where Mr. Preston directs foot traffic from his podium on the stairs. “Hard to imagine,” Mr. Snow says, “but the detectives are convinced the killer is…” He pauses.
“Spit it out, Mr. Snow. A worker? One of us?” I ask.
Mr. Snow nods gravely.
An invisible vise clenches around my heart, and for a moment I wonder how I’m supposed to carry on. Chin up, Buttercup.
“I’d better go,” I say. “This hotel isn’t going to clean itself.” What I don’t say is that a criminal layer of grime lurks in every hidden nook and cranny of this hotel, but we cannot clean what we cannot see.
“Be vigilant, Molly,” Mr. Snow says.
“I always am,” I reply.
I leave him and am heading toward the elevators when I hear a familiar “Yoo-hoo!” at my back. I turn to see two LAMBS sitting on an emerald settee by the grand staircase. Gladys, the curly-haired president, is waving her little red flag at me while Beulah intently picks cat hair off that same awful sweater of hers. They’re the last people I wish to talk to right now, but as Mr. Snow often reminds staff members, “You’re at the behest of every guest.”
“Ladies,” I say as I approach. “I hope you’re well.”
“Well?” says Gladys. “How could we possibly be well? J. D. Grimthorpe has been murdered in cold blood.”
“We’re in deep mourning,” Beulah adds as she wraps her arms around herself.
“Do you know if the Social will open at the regular time for breakfast today?” Gladys asks.
“It will,” I reply. “At the Regency Grand, we pride ourselves on predictability and timely service.”
“Good,” says Beulah. “I could use something in my stomach to settle it.”
While I don’t always have the most reliable read on human emotions, I can’t help but notice the incongruity here. Both women appear more afraid of missing breakfast than they are of a potential murderer on the loose. And why have they stuck around when there’s quite literally a zero percent chance of them meeting the very man they came here to see? It suddenly strikes me that the third member of their usual trio, the little one with the pink highlights, is separated from the flock.
“Where’s the other number-one fan you two are always with?” I ask. “Ms. Birdy. Has she flown home?”
“Home? Are you kidding? And miss the action?” Beulah says. “She’s wandering the hotel, collecting clues. She’s pitching theories and motives to your people.”
“My people?” I say.
“Yes. The secret agents, the men in black who’re all over the hotel today. We know they’re working with you,” Gladys says. She points to one of the men with earpieces littering the lobby at intervals.