Chapter 10

We’re back in the hotel lobby—Mr. Snow, Angela, and me. No more fire alarm. Order is restored.

We’re staring at an empty space on the reception desk, a void that less than an hour ago was filled with a single banker’s box containing a first edition of Mr. Grimthorpe’s most famous novel; his fountain pen; a black, monogrammed Moleskine; and a thank-you note to Ms. Sharpe.

“The box,” I say. “It was right here…and now it’s gone.”

“You see?” Angela says. “You can’t be too careful these days. There are criminals everywhere.”

“There is nothing criminal about any of this,” says Mr. Snow. “Clearly, Serena was in a rush. And she left with the box she came here for. Angela, there’s no need to turn everything into a conspiracy.”

Just then, Cheryl pushes through the revolving front doors of the Regency Grand, her sloppy mop knocking awkwardly against guests as she shuffles our way.

She stops when she reaches us and leans on her mop. “Damn fire alarms,” she says. “We should get rid of them.”

Mr. Snow removes his glasses and massages the bridge of his nose. “Cheryl, in a safe hotel, the guests sleep well.” He’s quoting directly from A Maid’s Guide & Handbook, and to hear him repeat my words fills me with overweening pride. But Cheryl’s eyes roll so far back into her head, it’s a wonder she doesn’t choke on them.

“Where’s Grimthorpe’s little lady?” she asks.

“That is not how we address guests in this hotel,” Mr. Snow replies. “And shouldn’t you be upstairs cleaning guest rooms? I have no idea what you’re doing in the lobby at all.”

“The same goes for Lily,” I say. “As her temporary supervisor, you should be looking out for her. I don’t know why she was here earlier.”

“She wasn’t,” Cheryl insists.

“She was. Right by the stairs.” I point to the now-empty spot by the staircase where Lily stood with her duster.

“Hmm,” says Angela. “Right by the lever for the fire alarm.”

Mr. Snow claps his hands together. “All right. That’s enough. Doesn’t anyone in this hotel have a job to do? Off you go. Molly, you’re to assist Angela at the Social, and as I assured you, it’s just for today.”

Cheryl smirks, then drags her sloppy mop toward the elevators while Angela and I head to the Social Bar & Grill.

Once we’re out of earshot, Angela grabs me by the shoulders and rather brusquely tucks us both under an alcove.

“What on earth did you do that for?” I ask.

“Molly, I need to tell you something,” she says, as she whisks stray strands of hair away from her wide, round eyes. “We’re not as short-staffed as I said. I needed to get you away, to warn you. You’re in trouble, do you understand? We all are.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“I heard that detective speaking to her officers yesterday. They think there was foul play involved in Mr. Grimthorpe’s death. They interviewed the kitchen staff last night and the Social staff, too. They’ve put together a list of potential suspects even before they’ve gotten the autopsy results. They were naming names.”

“Mine?” I ask.

“Uh-huh,” she replies.

“Did they name anyone else?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.

“Your delicate flower,” she answers. “Lily.”

My eyesight starts to blur. It’s always like this—whenever living proves too much to handle, a dark veil is thrown over me, removing me from the present.

“Molly!” Angela says as she shakes my shoulders. “Don’t you dare pass out on me now. Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”

“A plan?” I say to the triplicates of Angela swaying before my eyes.

“To stay one step ahead. I’m telling you, I’ve been preparing for this for my entire life.”

Truly, I haven’t a clue what she’s talking about, but at least the world has stopped spinning for the time being. “What have you been preparing for?” I ask.

“Murder. Crime. Suspects, motives, and alibis.” She shakes her head as if this is the most obvious statement in the world. “Sometimes bad shit happens for a good reason, Molls, you know what I mean?”

“I do,” I say. “My gran used to say the same thing…minus the fecal expletive.”

“Molly, I’m a bartender. People tell me everything. And what they don’t tell me, I overhear anyhow. You know those crazy cat ladies, the number-one fans who’ve been stalking Mr. G?”

“The LAMBS,” I say. “And they’re not cat ladies—well, not all of them—they’re book ladies, aficionados of mystery.”

“Whatever. They’ll be at the Social for breakfast any minute, and if anyone knows the truth about what happened to Grimthorpe, it’s them. They’ve been stalking him ever since they got here.”

“So?” I reply. “What exactly are we supposed to do? Interrogate them over breakfast?”

“Yes. Well, kind of. You are going to interrogate them over breakfast. It’s all set up.”

“Angela,” I say. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I haven’t.” Angela sighs. “Look, you gotta trust me. Yesterday, a man died unexpectedly in our hotel. Shit keeps disappearing around here, and just now, Snow was getting googly eyes around Grimthorpe’s personal secretary…though I’m not so sure she’s really a secretary, if you know what I mean.”

“For the record,” I say, “I have absolutely no idea what you mean.”

“Never mind. Remember yesterday when you were outside the tearoom with the detective?”

“Yes.”

“I poked my head out of the Social and saw you. And when the LAMBS showed up for a drink late last night, I told them something.”

For once, Angela goes silent. It’s so out of character it qualifies as a minor miracle. “What did you tell them?” I ask.

“I kinda said that you’re doing a job in the hotel…incognito…as a maid. I kinda maybe suggested you’ve been working undercover as extra protection for Mr. Grimthorpe. I may have also said you work with Detective Stark and that you’re actually a detective. An undercover one.”

“You didn’t say that. Please tell me you didn’t.”

“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?”

My words catch in my mouth. I feel like a fish out of water, gasping for oxygen.

“Molly?” Gladys asks. “Are you all right?”

“I…I have not read the novel,” I say. “I do know its plot, though. I know it too well.” A writer in a hollow, lifeless mansion kills his wife. He thinks he’s found a way to get away with it, but he’s wrong. The maid saw everything, and she exacts her revenge, killing him the same way he killed his wife, and then making his body disappear.

“Gladys is certain that J.D. arranged yesterday’s event to announce a sequel to that book,” Birdy offers.

“And Birdy is convinced that J.D.’s wife was the reason he was such a recluse,” Gladys says. “Mrs. Grimthorpe died a few years ago, and Birdy believes yesterday’s announcement was going to be about his new love interest.”

“Mrs. Grimthorpe is dead?” I ask.

“Yes,” says Birdy. “Which means there was nothing stopping the man from pursuing new love,” she adds with a faraway look in her eyes.

“Stupidest theory I’ve ever heard,” Beulah says. “You couldn’t be more off base if you tried.”

Gladys shakes her curly head. “Beulah doesn’t like that theory because she’s harbored a crush on J.D. for ages.”

“Ridiculous,” Beulah huffs. “If anyone’s in love with him, it’s Birdy. And neither of you knows the first thing about scholarship, about the fine art of uncovering clues,” Beulah adds. “As J.D.’s biographer, I know more about him than you two ever will.”

“Beulah claims to have uncovered hidden truths about J.D., but she refuses to enlighten us with proof or details, which is a source of—”

“Tension,” Birdy offers as she smooths her fuchsia hair.

“Frustration,” Gladys adds, punctuating this with a wave of her red flag.

“All will be revealed when I publish my official biography,” Beulah says.

“Unofficial,” Gladys corrects.

“You don’t need permission from the dead,” Beulah replies.

“But you have no one to corroborate your findings, which is your professional duty,” Birdy notes. “She’d been petitioning J.D. ceaselessly to hire her officially. This has been her life’s work for almost two decades.”

“J.D. is—was—reticent to reveal certain sensitive details about himself,” Beulah says. “That’s understandable. We’ve had exchanges over the years, you know.”

“Have you?” Birdy asks. “Have you really?”

“One day, the truth will come out,” Beulah replies.

“Why not today?” I ask. Three dagger-eyed gazes turn my way. “In my experience,” I say, “secrets have a way of punishing those who keep them.”

“It’s irresponsible to posit theories without absolute proof,” Beulah replies.

“Your breakfasts.” Angela arrives at our table with plates balanced precariously on both arms. She puts down the plates. Beulah and Gladys dig into their meals immediately. Birdy takes dainty bites as she stares off into space. I have to wonder, are all three of these women smitten with the famous writer? How that’s possible is beyond me, but Gran always said, When love is blind, frogs resemble princes. Still, whatever tension existed amongst the trio moments ago has dissipated with the arrival of food.

I take this moment of calm to stir some milk into my cooling tea. I focus on the dull clank of the stainless-steel spoon against the ordinary ceramic cup. Only at the Social do we use such mundane cutlery, which lacks the pleasing tinkle of Regency Grand silver against proper porcelain.

Angela stands beside me with her hands on her hips, looking from one lady to the next as they eat their breakfasts without so much as a word.

Angela leans in to whisper in my ear. “Do you hear that?” she asks.

“Hear what?” I whisper back.

“The silence,” she says. “The Silence of the LAMBS.”