Chapter 26

When I was a child, Gran and I watched Columbo while curled up on the couch. Gran used to love it when the murderer began to lie.

“Don’t you smell it, Molly?” she once said.

“I don’t smell anything,” I replied.

“I smell a rat,” she chimed in her singsong voice.

“We must trap it, quickly!” I was deeply concerned that a new pestilence had invaded our apartment.

“I don’t mean it literally, Molly. I mean the murderer on Columbo. Watch her behavior. Can you see how she’s lying? How she’s trying to cover everything up?”

The shifty eyes. The changing details. The desire for secrecy competing with the great need to have her criminal genius acknowledged. “Yes,” I said. “I see it now.”

“Watch what Columbo does next,” Gran replied. “Watch the way he lures the rat from its nest.”

“How?” I asked.

“With words. He baits the trap.”

It’s this memory that gives me the idea for what to do next.

The four of us are standing by the reception desk in the lobby—Mr. Snow, Lily, Detective Stark, and me. We have left Room 404. Detective Stark has just ordered three of her special agents to secure the evidence inside.

“Beulah’s not in her room, but she’s probably lurking nearby,” I say.

“The important thing is to take her by surprise,” Detective Stark advises.

“How?” Lily asks.

“We bait the trap,” I suggest. “We make an announcement about a free seminar on Mr. Grimthorpe.”

“Smart,” says Detective Stark.

I can’t quite believe she said that word, at least not in relation to me.

“We can plan that for tomorrow,” Mr. Snow offers.

“No. We do it now,” Stark says. “In fact, you do it, Mr. Snow. You make the announcement on the hotel’s intercom, right away.”

Beads of sweat collect at Mr. Snow’s hairline. “We can’t create a seminar out of thin air. Event planning takes time.”

“I’m not asking for doilies and those damn finger sandwiches,” Stark says. “Just make the announcement. And be quick about it.”

Mr. Snow goes behind the reception desk, turns on the microphone, and speaks. “Calling all Regency Grand Hotel guests. This is a special announcement for J. D. Grimthorpe fans. There will be a free seminar on the life and times of the famous author to be held in the Grand Tearoom…” He pauses, covering the mic with his hand. “When?” he whispers to Stark.

“Now!” she mouths.

“…in five minutes,” he says into the mic. “Tea will be served. And finger sandwiches. Also: the event will feature a live VIP guest.”

He clicks the mic off and leaves the desk as the questioning eyes of the reception clerks follow his every move.

“VIP guest?” I ask when he returns to my side.

“I couldn’t very well say ‘detective,’ could I?” he explains.

“You promised tea,” Lily tells Mr. Snow.

“And finger sandwiches,” I add.

“Oh dear. So I did. Lily, please alert the kitchen. And ask for Angela’s help, too.”

Lily runs toward the Social. I’m about to follow, but Detective Stark holds me back. “Molly, you stay with me. Watch and listen. If you see something I don’t, you tell me, okay?”

“Very well,” I reply.

She turns and strides out of the lobby, down the corridor toward the entrance of the Regency Grand Tearoom. Mr. Snow and I trail behind her.

We arrive not a minute too soon. Coming the other way is a familiar gaggle of ladies—about ten in total—led by a tall, curly-haired woman carrying her small red flag.

“We’re here for the free seminar,” Gladys, the leader of the LAMBS, announces. “Who’s the special guest?” she asks Mr. Snow. “Is it Serena Sharpe?”

“There was a mistake in that announcement,” Detective Stark says. “The VIP guest we’re looking for is Mr. Grimthorpe’s number-one fan. Do you know where she might be?”

An electric charge pulses through the LAMBS. Hands fly up and various members step forward.

“Me! I’m his number-one fan!”

“No, not her. Me!”

“Me! Here!”

“I’m over here!”

The LAMBS push closer. Mr. Snow extends his arms to keep them from charging the tearoom en masse.

“Please!” I call out in my most firm but authoritative maid’s voice. “There can be only one number-one fan.”

“You,” Detective Stark says, pointing to the now familiar-looking woman wearing a lumpy brown sweater covered in cat hair. “We met right here a couple of days ago. You’re Mr. Grimthorpe’s official biographer, right?”

“Unofficial,” Gladys corrects as she waves her flag.

“Not only are you his number-one fan,” I say to Beulah, “but you’re also the world’s foremost expert on Mr. Grimthorpe, are you not?”

“There are many other LAMBS just as knowledgeable as Beulah,” says Gladys with a huff.

“That’s right!” I hear. It’s a small voice from the middle of the gaggle. It’s Birdy, her fuchsia hair distinguishing her from all the other LAMBS. She’s standing on her tiptoes to be seen. “I’m his number-one fan. It’s me you want to speak to,” Birdy insists.

“I’m sure it’s not,” says Detective Stark. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we’re holding a private audience with J. D. Grimthorpe’s biographer.”

“Are you tracking a lead?” one of the LAMBS calls out. “Have you found J.D.’s murderer?”

“I’m afraid not,” says Detective Stark. “We’re stumped,” she says. “Isn’t that right, Detective?” Stark looks at me. “Detective?” she says again.

“I’m not a detective,” I say.

“You’re better than a lot I’ve worked with,” Stark insists. She turns back to Beulah. “We could really use your help, ma’am, as a true Grimthorpe aficionado.”

Beulah stands taller and adjusts her sweater.

“Thank you, everyone,” I say. “We have the expert we need. Now move along.” Mr. Snow politely directs the LAMBS toward the lobby as Detective Stark ushers Beulah into the Grand Tearoom. I enter as well and head for the white-linened table at center stage where they’re seated. I pull out a chair and sit across from them.

I’m fully expecting Stark to launch into some version of You are under arrest for the murder of J. D. Grimthorpe, but she doesn’t do that. She does something else entirely.

“What an honor to speak privately with an expert such as yourself,” she says. “When Detective Gray and I met you the other day, we instantly realized we were in the presence of a truly great literary biographer.”

Beulah begins to blush. “I rarely get the credit I deserve, not even from the LAMBS. How nice to be acknowledged,” she says.

“Of course,” Stark replies. “And I’m sorry we dragged you here on false pretenses, but we need your help. There appears to be an organized ring of corruption at the Regency Grand Hotel, and while we know you are not in any way involved, we have reason to believe that you, as Mr. Grimthorpe’s number-one fan and biographer, can help us. Molly, tell her,” Stark says.

“Tell her what?” I ask, utterly confused.

“About the website,” Stark prompts.

“Right,” I say. “Someone’s selling stolen Grimthorpe collectibles on a popular website. Detective Stark has—I mean, we have—been called in to investigate that crime as well.”

“Last I heard, buying off a website wasn’t a crime,” Beulah says.

“We’re investigating the seller, not the buyer,” says Stark. “Whoever that buyer is, they’re really clever. Very enterprising.”

Beulah holds up her hands. “You caught me! I’m the clever buyer. I bought the entire Grimthorpe collection as soon as the listings went up. I assumed the goods were bona fide, though, not ill-gotten gains. Naturally, I wanted to protect his legacy.”

“Naturally,” I say.

Detective Stark nudges me under the table.

“Tell me,” Stark says. “Given your superior research skills, why aren’t you Mr. Grimthorpe’s authorized biographer?”

Beulah picks at the hairs on her sweater. “Beats me,” she answers. “But it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s dead. I can write whatever I want about him. And I will.”

“I, for one, look forward to reading your biography on Mr. Grimthorpe,” I say. “It’s sure to be most enlightening.”

“Oh, it will be. Did you know that I’ve been researching him for about two decades? I’ve dedicated much of my life to that man, and my efforts were underappreciated. I always thought my biography would be flattering.” She leans in close and lowers her voice. “But let’s just say recent evidence suggests he was not what he seemed.”

“Fascinating,” says Stark.

“Do tell us more,” I add.

Beulah puts her clasped hands on the table. “If I tell you, you must assure me that none of my research will be used in an unauthorized biography or publicly disseminated in any way. My book must be the first to market. It will cement my place as the foremost literary biographer of our times. My name will live on shelves in perpetuum.”

“Remarkable,” I say out loud. What I don’t say is how her use of Latin mirrors Mr. Grimthorpe’s so precisely.

“We won’t steal your research,” says Detective Stark. “And you know, I have a funny feeling you’re right. Beulah Barnes is a name that will go down in history.” Stark smiles a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Now about those Grimthorpe items,” she says.

“Bought fair and square,” Beulah replies. “And sorry, I don’t know anything about the seller if that’s what you’re getting at. But I’m now the proud owner of an original monogrammed Grimthorpe Moleskine, amongst other valuable items. For years, the LAMBS were certain his notebooks meant he wrote his first drafts in longhand. Like with most things, they were wrong.”

“Wrong?” Stark says.

“He only doodled in them,” Beulah explains.

“That doesn’t seem so damning,” I say. “Why has your opinion of the man changed so much?”

“Because of other evidence. The love note, for instance.”

“Love note?” I repeat.

“J.D. was having an affair with that pretty, young secretary of his, Serena Sharpe,” Beulah says.

“He was not,” I reply, but I feel another nudge under the table.

“Molly’s right,” Detective Stark adds. “Turns out that note was from someone else in this hotel.”

“Look, not every KultureVulture item has a clear provenance, but let me assure you that J.D. was a fraud,” Beulah says. “His cue cards from the day of the big event prove it.”

“So you have his cue cards?”

“I do,” Beulah says. “I bought them alongside everything else.”

“You knew we were conducting a murder investigation, but you never thought to hand over those cards?” Stark says.

Beulah snorts. “Some investigation. You don’t know a thing about the man. J. D. Grimthorpe had a closet full of secrets.”

“Secrets?” Stark says. “Such as?”

“Did you know that at one point in his life, he was a raging alcoholic?” Beulah offers. “I tracked down employees who used to work for him—security guards, gardeners, and a maid. They were all fired. According to the maid, J.D.’s wife was a tyrant and he himself was not who he appeared to be. The maid accused him of getting handsy, then got fired for speaking up. He didn’t dare lay a hand on me, though.” Beulah picks more cat hair off her bosom and sends it flying.

“So you met him?” I ask. “You met J.D. in person?”

“Yes, I did. Right outside his hotel room. Lesson learned: beware of meeting your idols. They don’t always live up to expectations.”

“His books were powerful,” Stark says, “and yet he was kind of weak, wasn’t he?”

“He was,” Beulah says. “Liver and kidney damage from years of alcohol abuse.”

“So you were aware of that as well,” Stark says.

“Of course. Like I said, J.D. was my life’s work.”

Just then, Lily and Angela appear at the entrance of the tearoom. They wheel a tea cart toward the table. Angela is wringing her hands on her apron, her eyes flitting about the room. Lily’s shoulders are back, her head held higher than I’ve ever seen before. For once, she doesn’t look skittish at all.

“My apologies for the interruption,” Lily says, her voice resonant, a clarion bell.

We all turn her way.

“Angela and I were instructed to bring in this tea cart,” she explains. “It’s complimentary, for Mr. Grimthorpe’s number-one fan.” She pauses and executes the most perfect curtsy I have ever seen.

“That’s very thoughtful,” says Beulah.

“You’re not wearing your pin,” Angela notes, pointing to the spot on Beulah’s sweater where her #1 Fan pin used to be.

“I lost it,” Beulah explains.

“That’s funny,” says Angela. “I thought I saw you take it off the other day at the Social. You tossed it on the table and left it behind.”

“Must’ve been someone else,” Beulah insists. “No one can tell us LAMBS apart. It’s rather insulting.”

Lily picks up the teapot from the cart and pours steaming tea into a Regency Grand cup. She places it in front of Beulah. “How do you take your tea, Ms. Barnes?” she asks.

“Four lumps of sugar,” Beulah replies. “Bit of a sweet tooth.”

“Ah yes,” says Lily. “You take your tea the same way Mr. Grimthorpe did.”

“No,” Beulah replies. “J.D. took his with honey, not sugar. Always honey. Loads of it.”

And there it is—another telling detail, which Lily set her up to reveal. A Mona Lisa smile edges onto Lily’s lips as she ladles four sugar cubes into Beulah’s cup. She stirs the tea with a Regency Grand silver spoon, which makes a pleasing tinkling sound against the porcelain cup.

“Thank you,” Beulah says when Lily passes her the cup.

Just then, three undercover officers appear in the doorway. One of them holds a plain banker’s box.

Beulah is taking a sip of tea but stops mid-sip. “What are they doing here?” she asks.

“Extra security,” Detective Stark replies. “We can’t be too careful with delinquents running loose in the hotel. Please excuse me a moment,” Detective Stark says as she walks over to the men. They exchange a few words and pass her the banker’s box. Stark walks back to the table with it, putting it down in front of Beulah. She removes the cardboard lid. Inside is an ordinary stainless-steel spoon and beside it, a silver Regency Grand honey pot in a red satin case.

“Can you explain this, Beulah?” Stark asks as she looks from the objects in the box to Beulah’s slack-jawed face.

“Were you in my room? Why were you touching my things?”

“Why were you keeping these items in your room?” Stark asks.

“For goodness’ sake. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

“But this spoon is no ordinary spoon, Beulah. It’s a murder weapon. And so is that silver honey pot,” Stark says. “You added a key ingredient to it before Mr. Grimthorpe’s big announcement, didn’t you? You contaminated it with antifreeze, and because you knew about Grimthorpe’s sweet tooth, you realized he’d never detect the taste in his tea. You also knew it would kill him quickly, what with the liver and kidney damage he’d sustained as an alcoholic.”

“This is preposterous. Why would I poison my idol?” Beulah asks.

“Because he rejected you,” I say. “Which meant your life’s work was for naught.”

“You’re accusing the wrong person. You should talk to her. She’s the one who served him the tea!” Beulah says as she points a pudgy finger at Lily.

“Oh no,” says Lily. “The maid is not to blame. Not this time.”

“Unbelievable,” says Angela. “How can you live with yourself, Beulah?”

“You took a plot point right from one of his books—killing a bitter villain with a cup of sweetness. Isn’t that right, Beulah?” I say.

Beulah’s fury is mounting, and she turns on me without warning. “You! You pretend to be an investigator, but I don’t believe it. You’re just a maid. You killed him. You and that quiet one are in cahoots! This place is teeming with lowlifes who’ll stop at nothing for their personal gain, including selling a dead guest’s trash just to make a buck!”

Detective Stark stands. “That’s enough, Beulah Barnes. The game is up. You’re under arrest,” she says as the undercover officers rush forward to handcuff Beulah. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. And bloody hell, silence really is your best option right now because you most certainly have said too much.”

“Said too much? I haven’t said nearly enough!” Beulah shouts as she struggles against the men holding her by her handcuffed wrists and escorting her to the exit. “And it’s still your word against mine!”

“Your ‘word’ has been recorded, Beulah,” Angela says as Lily picks up a napkin from the tea cart to reveal Angela’s cellphone underneath, the live voice memo recording.

“You’re not to go back in my hotel room!” Beulah shrieks. “That’s an invasion of privacy! I’ll sue the Regency Grand!”

“Stop talking,” Stark says. “You’re digging yourself deeper.”

As Beulah disappears down the corridor, it occurs to me that her true nature has just been revealed—because digging deeper is exactly what rats do.