Chapter 25

Long ago, my gran told me a true story about a maid, a rat, and a spoon. I have never forgotten it. A maid working in a castle is blamed for the disappearance of a silver spoon, but years later, that spoon is found in a nest beside the petrified skeleton of the rat who stole it.

That’s what I’m thinking about as I sit beside Detective Stark in her parked police cruiser. We are just outside the gates of the Grimthorpe mansion, and there’s a jewel-encrusted egg in my lap, a parting gift from Jenkins.

I have just finished explaining to the detective, in minute detail, why it is we must hurry to the Regency Grand. I’ve told her everything I know, everything I remember.

“I can’t believe it,” she says once I’m done talking. “Molly, how in hell did you piece all of that together?”

“Details,” I say. “You’ve been told before that I’m very good at them, but you didn’t believe it. I may miss what you think is obvious, but I’ve always been attuned to what others ignore. We’re all the same in different ways, Detective Stark. My gran taught me that long ago.”

“I…regret that I…underestimated you,” Stark says. It’s as though there’s a frog caught in her throat, because it takes her a good long time to spit so few words out of her mouth.

“Most people underestimate me,” I reply. “But that doesn’t matter right now. We’ve got to hurry.”

Detective Stark nods and starts the cruiser. My back is pushed into the seat as she picks up speed and races down the road.

“By the way,” she says once we’re sailing, “why did that strange man insist you take that silly old trinket?” She looks away from the road for a moment at the tarnished egg in my lap.

“The Fabergé?” I ask.

“You don’t actually believe that’s a Fabergé, do you, Molly? It’s a dime-store knickknack.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Detective. This egg meant a lot to me when I was a child, and I shall treasure it. One must look beyond the surface to see true value in anything.”

“Are you still talking about the egg?” Stark asks.

“What do you think I’m talking about?” I reply.

Detective Stark doesn’t answer, but I feel the speed of the cruiser increase. She turns the lights and siren on as we barrel down the road toward the Regency Grand.

We arrive in record time, screeching to a halt in front of the red-carpeted steps.

“Molly, what’s going on? Are you all right?” Mr. Preston asks as I jump out of the cruiser and rush past him.

“No time!” I call back to him.

“You can’t just leave a flashing cruiser in the landing zone,” a valet yells out to Detective Stark.

“Oh, yes I can!” she replies as we both hurry through the revolving doors.

We run to the reception desk, where Mr. Snow is assisting guests.

“Have the LAMBS checked out yet?” I ask him.

“Molly, you’re interrupting,” Mr. Snow says.

“My most sincere apologies for contravening guest protocol,” I say, “but this happens to be an emergency.”

“Did you hear her?” Stark says. “When do the goddamn kookballs check out?”

“Tomorrow,” Mr. Snow replies.

“We’re going into one of their rooms. Immediately,” Stark announces.

“You can’t just enter a guest room without provocation,” Mr. Snow says. “It’s a violation of privacy.”

“Your maid has just uncovered crucial information in this case. She’s on to something big,” says Stark.

Mr. Snow’s eyebrows peak on his forehead. “In that case, follow me,” he says.

The three of us head toward the elevator, where we get on and take a silent trip up to the fourth floor. The doors open and we enter the hallway. Sunshine and Lily are there with their trolleys. Sunshine’s face falls the second she sees us. Lily stops cold in her tracks.

“Molly, what’s going on?” Sunshine asks.

“No time!” I say, as I march behind Mr. Snow and Detective Stark toward Room 404.

The three of us pause outside the door. “You do the honors,” Mr. Snow says.

“Molly, just act normal,” Detective Stark advises.

“That’s definitely not my strong suit,” I reply. Regardless, I knock on the door three times. “Housekeeping!” I call out in a firm but authoritative voice.

We wait, leaning our ears toward the door.

Nothing. Not a sound.

“Unoccupied,” Mr. Snow says as he takes out his universal keycard and opens the door.

We enter and look around.

“This is definitely the right room,” I say.

It’s been cleaned recently—the bed perfectly made, hospital corners crisp and tight—and yet every square inch beyond the bed is occupied with detritus of all kinds. Cardboard boxes filled with binders line the floor, each one labeled Grimthorpe, followed by a number. A suitcase lies open by the window, clothes heaped in haphazard disarray, every item covered in heaps of cat hair.

Mr. Snow covers his nose.

“This is disgusting,” Stark says. “It looks like a rat moved in. Don’t the maids clean this room every day?”

“We do,” I say. “But we can’t do a deep cleaning until a guest departs. Maids can clean only clear surfaces in a guest-occupied room.”

I walk over to the minibar by the window. It’s just as I remember it: on top of the bar fridge is a hoard of incongruous miniature Regency Grand shampoo bottles beside various snack food packages, all left open, their contents spilling onto the floor—half-eaten cereal, an open package of crackers, and a big jar of peanut butter.

Detective Stark approaches the desk opposite the bed. It’s a cluttered mess of papers, file folders, notepads, books, and crumpled receipts. “Molly, check this out,” Stark says.

I join her by the desk, where she’s pointing at a black Moleskine notebook with the monogram JDG. Beside it is another black Moleskine, but with a different monogram: BB.

I’m used to touching people’s personal items in their hotel room, but it feels strange when I pick up Beulah’s Moleskine, not to tidy it but to look inside. The first page is titled “Close Encounters,” and after that, point-form notes run page after page after page.

“It’s a ledger,” I tell Detective Stark as Mr. Snow looks on.

“So it is,” Stark exclaims. “It’s every attempt at an encounter with Mr. Grimthorpe.”

I flip through the dated pages, which go back years. I read at random:

mailed flyer to acquaint him with the LAMBS: NO RESPONSE.

sent email to website declaring me his #1 fan: NO RESPONSE.

located private phone number and home address. Left voicemail with contact info: NO RESPONSE.

sent 5th request to be his Official Biographer by registered mail: NO RESPONSE.

I flip to the most recent entries in the book:

slipped note under hotel room door suggesting dinner date at the Social: NO RESPONSE.

waited for J.D. outside his room at the Regency Grand: LOCATED!

requested his denial of troubling new facts: DECLINED.

requested permission to be Official Biographer: DENIED.

requested permission to enter his room: DOOR SLAMMED IN FACE.

“What’s the date on that last entry?” Stark asks.

“The day before the press conference,” I reply.

The detective and I lock eyes.

“I don’t see how this adds up to much,” Mr. Snow says, shaking his head.

“I do,” I say. “I need Lily.”

I put down the Moleskine and rush into the hall. Her trolley is propping open a door at the other end of the corridor. I find her inside, vacuuming the carpet into Zen-garden lines.

“Lily!” I call out, but she can’t hear me.

I turn off her vacuum. “Lily,” I repeat.

She shrieks and jumps back into a shadowy corner by the bed.

“It’s okay,” I say. “You’re not in any trouble. But I need you to come with me right now.”

I don’t waste a moment, I grab her by the hand and rush her out of the room, down the corridor, and back to Room 404, where Mr. Snow and Detective Stark are waiting.

Out of breath, I stand in front of the detective, with Lily by my side.

“Lily,” I say. “Do you remember a few days ago, when we were cleaning this very room?”

She nods.

“And do you remember what a state this room was in?”

She nods again. “It’s always a mess. Hard to clean around all the junk. It’s been like this every day I’ve tried to clean it.”

“Exactly,” I reply. “And do you remember how we laughed about all the little shampoo bottles and how there was food everywhere just like now—half-eaten boxes of cereal and crackers, and that big jar of peanut butter right there?”

Lily nods. “Yes. It’s the same now.”

“Not quite,” I say. “There was something different about the peanut butter jar that day.”

“It was open, and there was a spoon in it,” she says.

“Exactly! I took the spoon out and closed the lid, remarking about who would leave it open like that with a spoon sticking out. I washed that spoon, which is when I realized it wasn’t a Regency Grand silver spoon but an ordinary stainless-steel one from the Social downstairs. Do you remember?”

Lily nods. “Yes, I do. I asked if I should return it to the restaurant, and you said no, if the guest was using it, it was fine to leave it in the room.”

“Precisely! And I put that stainless-steel spoon on the minibar right beside the jar of peanut butter,” I reply. “But it’s not there now. It’s gone. Lily, did you clean this room today?”

“As much as I could,” she says. “It’s never easy.”

“And have you seen that spoon?” I ask.

Lily looks from me to Mr. Snow to Detective Stark. Then she nods.

“Where?”

She points to the bedside table, then walks over to it. “It’s right there,” she says. “By the lamp.”

I hurry over. There it is—the same ordinary, stainless-steel spoon. “That’s the one,” I say.

The detective and Mr. Snow approach. Stark looks at it, then leans forward and pulls open the drawer of the bedside table. Inside, tucked into an open-faced, red-satin-lined box, is a silver Regency Grand honey pot.

“Oh no!” says Lily the moment she spots it. “I washed the bedside table. The whole thing was slick and sticky,” she says. “I wiped it down thoroughly, just the way you taught me, Molly—deep cleaning to give meaning. I didn’t know. I didn’t know what was in that drawer!”

“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “You did everything as you were supposed to.”

Detective Stark’s face is drawn, her eyes wide. “So the killer kept the weapon. She put it in a satin-lined box. This is officially the strangest murder trophy I’ve ever seen,” she says. She turns to me. “Molly, we always knew the crime. And the location.”

“Murder. In the tearoom,” I reply.

“Now we have a motive,” Detective Stark adds.

“Revenge,” I say. “Revenge for rejection.”

“I’m afraid I’m not following,” says Mr. Snow. “How on earth have you deduced that the occupant of this room is guilty of murder? All you’ve uncovered is a piece of silver a guest was trying to steal.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Snow,” Detective Stark says. “We found the murder weapon. It’s right here.”

“But it’s just a honey pot and an ordinary spoon,” says Mr. Snow.

Detective Stark reaches forward and plucks the pocket square from Mr. Snow’s breast pocket. “Do you mind?” she asks.

He shrugs and adjusts his glasses.

Detective Stark unfolds the pocket square, then gingerly removes the silver lid of the honey pot, all without ever touching it with her fingers. A sweet, burnt odor instantly fills the room.

“It smells strange. The honey is off,” says Mr. Snow. “And it’s not quite the right color.”

“Because it’s not plain honey,” I say.

“Then what is it?” Mr. Snow asks as he looks back and forth between me and the detective.

“Honey mixed with another key ingredient,” I offer.

“What?” he asks.

“Household antifreeze,” says Detective Stark.