Chapter 27

We continue to hear Beulah’s protests as Stark’s men drag her toward the lobby.

Finally, the room is quiet.

We all turn to Lily, her Mona Lisa smile still blooming on her face.

“Was that your idea, to bring in the tea cart?” Detective Stark asks.

Lily nods.

“You made her admit to knowing how Grimthorpe took his tea,” I say.

Lily nods again.

“Incredible,” says Stark. “And Angela, well done with that recording.”

“Thanks,” Angela replies. “True crime podcasts. They taught me everything I know.”

“Would you two mind standing guard for a minute at the entrance while I have a private word with Molly? I have a funny feeling the LAMBS might make a reappearance here sometime soon, and I’m in no mood to answer their questions.”

“Of course,” Angela says as Lily nods. The two of them make their way to the door.

Detective Stark and I remain where we are. We’re both staring at the trophies in the banker’s box on the table.

“Molly, there’s one thing I still don’t understand,” Stark says. “How did you know that spoon was the key to everything?”

“The sound,” I say. “When Jenkins brought in tea at the mansion, I remembered my childhood and the first time I heard the tinkling sound of a proper silver spoon against a fine porcelain teacup. I love that sound. Then I remembered that day at the podium when Mr. Grimthorpe was about to make his speech. He took the teacup from Lily, added honey with the spoon from the honey pot, and stirred.”

“So?” says Detective Stark.

“I know the sound of a Regency Grand teaspoon against a Regency Grand teacup,” I explain. “That high-pitched tinkle—music to my ears. But the sound that day was all wrong—a dull clank.”

“Because the spoon Beulah used was not Regency Grand silver?” she asks.

“Exactly,” I say. “It was a stainless-steel one from the Social, the same one I saw sticking out of her peanut butter jar days earlier.”

Detective Stark shakes her head. “You really do have an eye for the strangest details. And an ear for them as well.”

“Mostly, I notice the wrong things at the wrong times,” I say. “That’s been my downfall for as long as I remember.”

“And you think that makes you different from anyone else?” Stark asks. “Molly, I was wrong about you. I read you the wrong way from the very beginning. “

“Never judge a book by its cover. My gran used to say that.”

“Bit of an occupational hazard,” says Stark. “This may come as a surprise, but if you ever wanted a career change, the force could use someone with your skills. My force, I mean.”

“But I’m a maid. My work is to polish guest rooms to perfection. To clean up all the messes people leave behind.”

“Is that so different from what I do? I try to leave the world a cleaner place than I found it,” Stark says.

I see the similarities, I do. And yet I’ve never imagined myself being anything other than what I am now.

“It’s impossible, Detective,” I say. “Changing my profession would mean retraining, going back to school.”

“Well, yes. So what?”

“I was never good at school. Actually, I was an abject failure, below my peers in every way, incapable of meeting the bar.”

“Maybe the bar was set in the wrong place. Maybe the school was the wrong kind. Maybe the teachers made the same mistake I made—focusing on your weaknesses instead of your strengths.”

“Do you know, you sound just like my gran?”

A memory returns with such startling force that the room starts to spin. I grip my hands to my stomach. It’s the moment after Gran’s death. Gran is in our apartment, dead in her bed, and I’m right beside her, holding her serenity pillow, clutching it to my chest as a wave of grief engulfs me, threatening to drown me and take me under forever.

I think of that pillow now, where it sits on the chair by the front door of the apartment I share with my beloved Juan Manuel. I see that pillow every day. Gran embroidered every stitch of wisdom into it. Why did she choose those words? Why that prayer?

It occurs to me only now, the permanence of her message, meant to resonate with me in perpetuum:

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

What is it I need to accept?

I am who I am. Molly. Molly with all my weaknesses and foibles. And all my strengths, too.

Maybe it’s time I accept myself, because there’s not a thing I can do to change it.

Am I a maid or am I just employed as one? Is that something I want to change? Is it something I can change? Moreover, do I have the wisdom to know the difference?

“We better go,” says Detective Stark. “We should get out front and make sure Beulah makes it into my cruiser. I have a feeling the lobby is about to get very crowded.”

“You’re right,” I say. “The snoops have probably already arrived.”

The detective puts the lid back on the banker’s box. It makes a satisfying sound as it closes.

“Come on,” says Stark as she heads for the door. Together, we leave the tearoom, nodding at Angela and Lily, who are standing guard by the door. We thread our way through the corridors until we reach the glorious front lobby of the Regency Grand. Oh, how I love this lobby. How I’d miss it if I didn’t see it almost every day—the grand staircase winding to the opulent balcony, the Italian marble floors, the tang of lemon polish that perfumes the air, the receptionists, dressed in black and white like neat little penguins. They’re checking in new guests as I watch from afar. On the jewel-toned settees, guests sit in tight huddles, gossiping and people-watching, exchanging confidences and secrets that become steeped into the fabric of everything.

I observe the guests, noting their expressions. Some faces are so clear to me, transparent and open, but most are as locked as the doors of their rooms upstairs. It’s just as Gran always said: people are a mystery that can never be solved.

“Hey, you.” I feel a tap on the arm. “You work here, don’t you? Do you know anything about what’s happening outside on the steps?”

“Me?” I ask, turning to the reporter in front of me. “Why would I know anything? I’m just a maid.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry,” he replies as he trots off in search of someone more important.

“Let’s go, Molly,” Detective Stark says as she leads me toward the gleaming revolving doors. We pass through them and find ourselves delivered onto the red-carpeted landing outside.

The entrance is packed. The LAMBS are jammed up on one side of the staircase, nattering and chattering about how they always suspected Beulah was unhinged. Beulah is halfway down the stairs, struggling against the officers who have a firm hold on her handcuffed wrists. Detective Stark heads down the stairs to help them.

“This is insane! Can’t you see that I’ve done the world a favor?” Beulah calls out. “I’ve rid the world of a monster! You should be thanking me, not arresting me!”

There it is—she’s just admitted it in front of a crowd.

I spot fuchsia-haired Birdy jostling to get close to Beulah. “How could you?” she yells at her. “How could you poison a literary genius?”

“He was no genius. He was a fraud!” Beulah yells back. “And a predator!”

“You’re the fraud, Beulah Barnes! You’re also a killer!” curly-haired Gladys bellows as she brandishes her red flag like a sword. “You’re barred from the LAMBS forever!”

The reporters and other lookie-loos are arriving now in full force, blocking the stairs, recording videos on their phones, and shouting out questions to Beulah.

“Hey, did you really kill him? Why did you do it?”

“Do you work here? Are you his number-one fan?”

“Did you have help? Or did you do it on your own?”

Mr. Preston pushes back the crowd until he’s standing right in front of Beulah.

“Keep your hands on her, boys,” Detective Stark orders as Beulah gnashes and struggles against the officers.

“Easy now, Ms. Barnes,” Mr. Preston says. “No point thrashing about. Is that how a biographer of your stature behaves?”

Suddenly, Beulah goes still. It’s as though Mr. Preston has flipped a switch in her. She stares at him like he’s the only person in the world who matters.

“Will you allow me to take your arm, madam?” Mr. Preston asks.

“Stand back, everyone! Let the doorman approach,” Detective Stark calls out.

Her officers don’t release their grip on Beulah’s wrists, but they permit Mr. Preston to take Beulah’s elbow. The throng on the stairs watches in silence.

“I don’t understand,” Beulah says to Mr. Preston. “I uncovered the truth. The world is a better place without Grimthorpe in it.”

“On that last point, we agree,” Mr. Preston replies.

“Don’t let them throw away my research,” Beulah begs. “Please, my biography must see the light of day. And will you make sure someone takes care of my cats at home? They don’t deserve to suffer.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Mr. Preston replies.

As she leans on Mr. Preston, Beulah steps lightly down the stairs, as though she’s a princess being delivered to a royal carriage rather than a lonely, disturbed woman who murdered a famous man. Mr. Preston guides her all the way to the bottom of the stairs, where Mr. Snow is standing by the police car.

Stark opens the door of her cruiser.

“Easy now, madam,” Mr. Preston says as he releases Beulah’s elbow. He protects her head as Stark’s officers put her into the back seat, closing the door behind her.

“Take her to the station,” Stark orders. “I’ll be there soon enough.” One of the men grabs the detective’s keys, then gets into the car.

The crowd surges forward, and Mr. Preston and the valets hold them back as the car departs. The last thing I see is Beulah’s face of confusion as she stares out of the fogging window wondering how on earth it came to this.

Once the car is gone, Detective Stark trots up the stairs, blazing a trail until she’s standing tall behind the doorman’s podium on the landing.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” she calls out in a firm and authoritative voice. “If you have questions—be they burning, inappropriate, or just plain dumb—would you be so kind as to direct them to me? The workers at this hotel have suffered enough harassment in the last few days. For the record, they are not, nor have theyever been, to blame for any of this.”

The crowd surrounds her at the podium, but Detective Stark isn’t paying attention to them. She’s looking at me.

I curtsy, stepping one foot back and bowing my head exactly as my gran taught me to do so many years ago. When I look up again, Detective Stark has disappeared behind a relentless horde of guests, reporters, and hotel employees.

I suddenly feel quite dizzy. I can’t catch my breath. I hold on to the brass railing for fear I might pass out right here on the steps of the Regency Grand.

I feel a hand on my arm.

“Are you quite all right?”

It’s Mr. Preston. He’s always had a way of finding me in my moment of need. Of propping me up. Whatever would I do without him?

“I’ll be fine,” I say.

I’m staring out into the street, observing the black skid marks left behind by the cruiser. “I should clean those,” I say.

“Clean what?” he asks.

“The tire marks. On the road.”

“Goodness me, Molly. We’ve got bigger messes to clean,” he says. “Did she really do it, that Beulah woman? I’ve spoken to her many times. She always said she was Grimthorpe’s biographer and number-one fan.”

“I’m afraid she’s also his killer, Mr. Preston.”

I expect him to say something respectful about the dead, but he doesn’t. He remains silent.

“Do you remember how I told you about a guest room Lily and I cleaned that was so filled with junk it looked like a rat’s nest?” I ask.

“Of course,” Mr. Preston replies. “You regaled Juan and me with that doozy just last week.”

“That room was Beulah’s. It was filled with detritus, hoards of miniature shampoos…and a poisoned silver honey pot.”

Mr. Preston shakes his head. “Loneliness and emptiness, hoarding to fill the void. A terrible affliction with a simple cure.”

“Which is?” I ask.

“Kindness. A patient ear. A loving arm. If she’d had any of those things, maybe it wouldn’t have come to this.”

It strikes me how right he is.

“Molly? Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes,” I say. “It’s actually a relief to get some closure. Maybe things will go back to normal around here.”

“Let’s hope so. All’s well that ends well,” Mr. Preston says. “Molly, I was wondering. Do you think you can spare a moment sometime soon for us to have our chat? I really do need to speak with you.”

I nod. But then another thought occurs to me. A terrible thought. I can’t believe it never occurred to me before.

I clasp Mr. Preston’s hands in mine. “You aren’t sick, are you? Please tell me you aren’t dying.”

Mr. Preston chuckles. “My dear girl, even as a child, you had the most overactive imagination. And a tendency to jump to conclusions. I am not ill, Molly. I’m in perfectly good health, for a doddering old man, at least.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “In that case,” I say, “I need time to rest and recover. It’s been quite a day, quite a week, in fact. Can it wait until Juan Manuel returns?”

Mr. Preston pats my arm. “Of course it can. After all, it’s waited this long. I don’t see that a little longer will make much difference.”