Chapter 18

Ever since I was a small child, I’ve been told—in direct and indirect ways—that I am a failure. Not good enough. Doesn’t meet the bar. Fails to grasp what others understand with relative ease. Molly the Mutant. Roomba the Robot. Oddball Moll.

Before this very moment, I never fully believed any of these pronouncements. I railed against the assumption that my differences made me lesser than. I refused to accept it. But now, as my feet pound the sidewalk and I rush off to work, where I will have to face Mr. Preston for the first time since I mistook him for a murderer, I’m starting to believe that everything that’s always been said about me might be true. Maybe I am lesser than. I most certainly am a fool, an A-S-S if ever there was one. How could I ever mistake Mr. Preston for a bad egg? How could I make such an awful blunder? And if I’m daft enough to do that, what other colossal errors am I capable of?

Juan Manuel called me this morning while I was finishing chew #14 of a bite of English muffin. I swallowed, then asked him, “Am I a good person? Am I a good egg?”

He was silent for a moment on the other end of the line. “Mi amor, what are you talking about? You’re more than a good egg. Molly, you’re my Fabergé.”

I gulped down my tea, then changed the subject entirely, asking Juan about his trip and his mother and his siblings, until he cheerily chirped away and forgot all about my strange questions.

Now, I arrive at the front entrance of the Regency Grand, with its elegant façade. Valets bustle about, helping guests with their luggage. Mr. Preston, in his doorman’s coat and cap, stands at his podium on the landing, a portrait of dignity and grace. He sees me pause at the bottom of the stairs. My legs won’t move. I don’t deserve the red carpet. I never have.

He rushes down the stairs and grabs my arm. “Molly, are you all right?”

“I am not all right. I have never been all right.”

“There, there,” he says, guiding me up the staircase. “One foot in front of the other. It’s the only way to get anywhere in this life.”

“Gran used to say that,” I tell him as I steady myself on his arm.

“I know,” he replies.

We stop at the landing in front of the revolving doors. “I accused you of a terrible thing. You shouldn’t forgive me, Mr. Preston. I don’t deserve your kindness.”

“We all make mistakes. It’s what we do after that matters.”

“Gran used to say that, too.”

He smiles and squeezes my arm. I never fully appreciated until now just how old he’s become in a short time, how gray his hair is, no longer tinged with black but fully sterling. Even this I have not seen clearly until now. Mr. Preston is going to retire at some point soon, which means I won’t see him every day. The very thought makes my heart heavy.

“Molly,” Mr. Preston says, “I spoke with Angela last night. She wants to talk to us. Right away.”

“You spoke with Angela?” I repeat dumbly as I wonder why on earth Mr. Preston would be in touch with her after hours.

“When you and I talked yesterday, it got me thinking. I called her because I wanted her thoughts on that missing box that was in the lobby and that rare first edition of Grimthorpe’s novel I saw in the pawnshop window. You were right about one thing, Molly—there’s something fishy about all of it. Angela didn’t have much light to shed last night, but this morning, she has a bee in her bonnet. She wants to see us in the restaurant.”

“Very well,” I say. “I have a few minutes before my shift.”

Mr. Preston tells the valets he’s taking a break, then points the way through the revolving front doors of the hotel, following close behind me.

We find Angela behind the bar at the Social, her brazen hair in disarray, her expression pinched in concentration as she stares at the screen of her laptop, which is open on the bar in front of her. She’s so entranced by whatever she’s looking at, she doesn’t even glance at us. At last, she notices our presence and waves us over. Mr. Preston and I sit side by side on barstools in front of her.

“Will this be quick?” I ask. “I really should get to work.”

“Molly, you’re always half an hour early for your shift,” Angela says. “And believe me, when you see what I’m about to show you, you’re going to lose your mind. You, too, Mr. Preston,” she adds. “Best settle in.”

Mr. Preston takes off his cap and places it on the bar.

With a flourish, Angela turns her laptop to face us. On-screen is a website called KultureVulture.com. Its logo is an ominous bird of prey with an old book in its talons.

“What is this?” Mr. Preston asks.

“An online shopping site for memorabilia,” Angela replies. “People auction off used books, autographs of famous people, collector’s items, and anything else they think they can sell. There’s even a listing for a rock star’s dirty underwear. And the worst part? They sold. Look at this page,” Angela says as she clicks into another tab. “This vendor calls themself ‘The Grim Reaper.’ ”

Mr. Preston reads out the vendor’s description. “Selling original goods owned by the rich, dead, and infamous. One hundred percent bona fide! Anonymous inside source!”

“Now check this out,” Angela says as she scrolls down the screen to reveal various items labeled as sold.

I can’t believe my eyes. I gasp out loud.

“Are all of these items related to Mr. Grimthorpe?” Mr. Preston asks before I can even get words out.

“Most,” says Angela. “There’s one item that isn’t.” She scrolls to a photo of empty minibar bottles of scotch. The description underneath reads: “The Last Liquid Supper of Mr. Charles Black—the Mr. Black—from the day he dropped dead at the Regency Grand Hotel!”

My head is spinning. My heart starts to race.

“Check this out,” Angela says. She hovers over a sold listing for a fountain pen and a note card. “This twofer could be yours!” the caption reads. “J. D. Grimthorpe’s fountain pen and a scandalous love letter he wrote to his personal secretary!”

“Goodness gracious,” Mr. Preston says. “Click on it.”

Angela clicks to enlarge the photo.

I study the black-and-gold fountain pen with its elegant tapered nib. “That’s Mr. Grimthorpe’s pen,” I say. “It was in the box that disappeared.”

“Is it my old eyes or is that love note illegible?” Mr. Preston asks.

“The vendor blurs things on purpose,” Angela explains. “Only the buyer gets ‘the inside scoop.’ ”

“That’s Regency Grand stationery,” Mr. Preston says, noting the familiar logo even though it’s fuzzy.

“Well, I’ll be dipped in shite. You’re right,” says Angela.

“But they’re wrong about the note,” I say. “Mr. Grimthorpe didn’t write it. Mr. Snow did. He admitted as much.”

“Figures,” says Angela. “As the name implies, these online vendors really are vultures. They’ll lie about anything just to make a buck.”

“And this pen and note sold for how much?” Mr. Preston asks.

“Five hundred dollars,” says Angela. “Plus express shipping and handling.”

“Who would spend money on such rubbish?” he asks.

“Lots of people,” Angela says. “And not just collectors either. Podcasters and reporters, too. Look at this.” She clicks on a photo of a black Moleskine notebook with the monogram JDG, followed by a shot of the same notebook spread open, the pages filled with unintelligible scribbles and doodles. “It says it belonged to J. D. Grimthorpe, but I doubt it’s real,” Angela says.

“Oh, it’s real,” I reply. “It’s most definitely real.” Another listing catches my eye. “Scroll up, please,” I say.

Angela clicks into a sold item advertising “J. D. Grimthorpe’s last words! Be the first to read the speech he never gave!”

My heart beats faster as recognition dawns. “Those are the cue cards that disappeared from the podium,” I say. “They’re blurred out, but those are the cards!”

“That confirms it. An inside job for sure,” Mr. Preston says. “This vendor either works here or is in cahoots with someone who does.”

Angela nods, her mouth a tight grimace. “Are you getting the picture, Molly?” she asks.

Our worst fears have just been confirmed. “There’s a thief who works here,” I say. “And they might also be…” I pause. I don’t want to say it out loud.

“A coldhearted killer,” Angela replies. “There’s one more thing. And I have to warn you, Molly. This part will come as a shock.”

I ball my hands into fists on the bar top. I don’t know how much more I can take. The barstool I’m seated on is swaying from side to side.

Angela scrolls to the final listing, the only Grimthorpe-related item that hasn’t yet sold. It advertises his most recent book, “one of the last he ever signed!” selling for the “low, low price of $100!”

“Get ready,” Angela says. She clicks on the photo to reveal the book opened to the title page, where J. D. Grimthorpe personalized it:

In return for your sweetness, my thanks for reading.

This message is followed by his signature, the very same one in the book he signed for me and in every signed edition I’ve ever seen, the letters rickety and ramshackle, as wildly unpredictable as the man himself—an unmistakable, authentic Grimthorpe autograph.

Angela isn’t looking at the screen anymore. She’s looking at me with an expression I recognize from my mental catalogue of human behaviors. Mr. Preston’s expression is a Xerox copy of hers. I used to confuse this look with anguish, but now I know the name for this acutely painful embarrassment, one that’s felt not for yourself but for someone else: it’s called pity.

“Please,” I say. “Please tell me Lily is not the Grim Reaper. I can’t believe it. It can’t be!”

“Molly, let’s not jump to conclusions,” Mr. Preston says. “There may be a rational explanation.”

“He’s right,” Angela adds. “Innocent until proven guilty and all that. We don’t know anything for sure. Not yet.”

“Plus, Lily didn’t work here during all that funny business with Mr. Black,” says Mr. Preston. “She couldn’t possibly know that scotch was the last thing that man drank before he died.”

“She knew,” I say. “Because I told her. When I trained her, we spent hours together cleaning rooms. I told her about the day Mr. Black drank all the scotch from his minibar, leaving a mess of empties behind. I told her how I thought he’d passed out in his bed when in fact he was dead. I told her how all fingers after that pointed my way. You can never be too careful as a maid, I said. It was a cautionary tale.”

Angela and Mr. Preston exchange a concerned look. It does nothing to make me feel better.

I don’t tell them what I’m hearing over and over in a loop in my head, Lily’s quiet whisper of a voice, repeating what I already know: “The maid is always to blame.”