Chapter 4

Lily and I have been waiting in Mr. Snow’s office an inordinately long time. Neither of us has said a word in at least ten minutes. This is, admittedly, more unusual for me than for Lily. I’m pacing the room while she sits immobile in her chair, looking clammy and pale.

It was horrific when Mr. Grimthorpe dropped dead on the tearoom floor and even worse when the police and paramedics hurried in and began yelling, “Everyone out of this room! Now!” A rush of guests made for the exit as the paramedics tried in vain to resuscitate the extinguished man on the floor. I was about to follow the guests out, but Lily had escaped my grasp and was pressed against the wall, raw terror writ so large across her face that even I could read it easily. She was frozen in place, blending into the wallpaper.

“Lily!” I called out. I pushed my way to her. “Let’s go,” I said as I grabbed her icy hand. Together we exited the tearoom trying not to look at Mr. Grimthorpe’s body, limp and lifeless on the floor. “Take her to my office, Molly,” Mr. Snow said when he saw us. “The authorities may want to speak to her.”

“Authorities.” The word sent a shiver down my spine.

With Lily by my side, I cut a path through the crowd plugging up the entire corridor from the tearoom entrance all the way to the front lobby. Mystery-obsessed LAMBS and story-hungry journalists, all with VIP lanyards strung about their necks, were exchanging information in hushed tones—“Is he dead? What happened? What was he going to announce?” But by this point, there were others gathering, too, those who’d heard that something untoward had happened at the Regency Grand.

As we rushed through the lobby, I caught a glimpse of Mr. Preston on the front steps, arms spread, trying to hold back the throng as the flashing red lights of emergency vehicles bounced off the hotel’s glossy entrance.

With every step, Lily became heavier on my arm. I got the feeling she was about to collapse right there on the floor. “Chin up, Buttercup. All will be well,” I chimed as I gripped her strongly and hurried her through the back corridors of the hotel. In truth, I didn’t believe all would be well, but I learned from Gran long ago the importance of a sunny disposition in dark times.

We traversed the maze of corridors and passages until at last we found ourselves outside of Mr. Snow’s office. I knocked hard and said, “Housekeeping!” in a trembling but authoritative voice. No one answered, not surprisingly, but it is important to follow protocols. I turned the knob, mercifully finding it unlocked. I led Lily to a maroon guest chair, which she crumpled into like a dropped marionette. She’s been sitting there slumped, silent, for over half an hour.

“Lily?” I ask her. “Are you all right?”

Lily looks at me, her pupils larger than I remember them ever being before. “I have a terrible feeling,” she whispers. “This could be very, very bad. For me. For us.”

Just then, a face appears at the door, a familiar and most welcome face. “Angela!” I call as I rush over to her, slipping out of the office to join her in the corridor. She has a teacup in her hands.

“Here,” she says as she passes me the warm cup. “I thought you could use this.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I can’t believe it, Angela. I can’t believe he died.”

“Neither can I,” she replies. “Let’s just hope there’s a good explanation. But I’m telling you, Molls, this looks bad. Like true-crime bad.”

I’ve always been prone to fainting, and in that moment, my old nemesis—vertigo—strikes again, giving me the horrific feeling that the whole world is turning upside down and there’s not a thing I can do to stop it. To keep myself steady, I concentrate on the teacup in my hands.

Isn’t it strange how the meaning of a thing can change in a flash? Just a few months ago, Angela introduced me to true-crime podcasts, and I quite enjoyed the experience. Together, we listened to one called A Dozen Dirty Suspects, about a string of mafia murders in the suburbs. Angela guessed the killer ten minutes into the very first episode.

“Bam!” she exclaimed gleefully when, in the final episode, the murderer was revealed. “Who’s the boss?” she asked as she and her fiery red hair did a jiggy dance to celebrate her clairvoyance.

Just months ago, true crime was an entertaining escape, but now the thought of it makes me feel faint.

“Molly, are you all right?” Angela asks.

I manage a small nod.

“Don’t you worry,” Angela says. “I’ve got my ear to the ground. I’ll let you know if I uncover any dirt.”

“Dirt?” I reply.

“Molly,” she says as she lays a hand on my shaking arm. “Dying suddenly like that isn’t exactly natural.”

“If it’s not natural, what is it?” I ask.

“Criminal,” Angela says as she fixes me with her somber, orb-like eyes.

“My gran used to say, ‘Don’t jump to conclusions, lest you trip and fall,’ ” I tell her.

“My gran used to say, ‘Keep your eyes as peeled as your bananas,’ ” Angela replies. “So that’s what I’m doing.”

Just then, we hear sobbing from inside Mr. Snow’s office. We both peek through the door and see Lily, head in her hands, crying in her chair.

“Is she okay?” Angela asks.

“Truthfully, I do not know,” I reply sotto voce. I thank Angela for the cup of tea. Then she nods and leaves without another word or whisper.

I enter the office and put the cup on the side table beside the one I brought Lily earlier. “Here,” I say. “A good cup of tea cures all ills. And if it doesn’t, have another.”

I’m hoping for a smile, a glance, but I receive neither.

For an extraordinarily long time, I trill nonsensically about what a tidy office Mr. Snow keeps, the differences between leather-bound and paperback books, and how I learned from my gran not only tips for polishing silver but also best practices for cleaning leather-bound volumes using a lint-free cloth and saddle soap.

“Molly,” Lily says suddenly.

I hurry over and sit on the chair next to hers. “Yes?”

Her eyes are round pools of trepidation. “I’m afraid.”

“I know,” I say. “But why?”

“Because a famous man is dead. Because they always blame the maid. You of all people should know that.”

I take both her hands in mine. I’m about to launch into my best pep talk about how good always triumphs over evil and how the meek shall inherit the earth, but just then, Mr. Snow appears in the doorway.

“Oh, thank goodness,” I say. “I’m so glad to see—” My words choke in my throat because as Mr. Snow steps into the room, behind him is someone I had the horrible misfortune to meet some years ago and who I’d hoped never to meet again. She is large, imposing, with broad athletic shoulders. She’s wearing a black sweater and black pants, though the fact that she’s in plain clothes rather than in uniform does nothing to quell my agitation.

“Hello, Molly,” Detective Stark says as she stands confidently in the threshold of Mr. Snow’s office.

I know etiquette requires me to say something such as “How lovely to see you” or “What a pleasure to meet you again after you unjustly pegged me as Mr. Black’s murderer a few years ago and nearly ruined my life,” but I have learned that if I can’t control the words in my head, it’s best not to open my maw.

“Someone dialed 911 the second Mr. Grimthorpe collapsed,” Mr. Snow says. “The police arrived soon after you left the room, Molly.”

“And I arrived not long after that,” Detective Stark says as she threads her thumbs through her belt loops, tipping back and forth on her heels the way cowboys do in old movies. “Being here is like déjà vu,” she adds, looking around Mr. Snow’s office.

“I certainly hope not,” I say. “If you’re here to investigate, it would be preferable to avoid gross miscarriages of justice this time around. As my gran used to say, ‘To err once is human; to err twice is idiotic.’ ”

Mr. Snow clears his throat. “Molly, I understand you’re rattled by this morning’s events.”

Stark enters the room and takes in Lily, slumped and defeated in her chair. “Looks like someone else is rattled, too,” the detective says, nodding toward Lily. “I understand that young woman served Grimthorpe just before he died.”

“That young woman has a name,” I say. “She’s Lily Finch, my trusted Maid-in-Training. Please forgive her silence. I believe she’s in an abject state of shock.”

“May I?” the detective asks as she draws up a chair in front of Lily, then sits before anyone can say “Be my guest.”

“I need to ask you some questions,” the detective says too loudly. Does she think Lily is deaf?

“Her ears work just fine,” I say.

Lily studies her hands, which are white and clenched in her lap.

“She’s not the most talkative person, but I assure you she’s an exceptional Maid-in-Training,” I explain.

“Exceptional at what is the question,” the detective replies. “Lily, you understand that Mr. Grimthorpe is deceased. I had a good look at his body just now, and I noted some…very strange things. Suspicious things. I hear you prepared his tea this morning.”

“How do you know that?” I demand.

“Cheryl told the detective,” Mr. Snow replies. “She stuck around at the scene.”

“What does Lily preparing Mr. Grimthorpe’s tea have to do with him dropping dead on the floor?” I ask.

The detective turns in her chair to face me. “Molly, men don’t just die suddenly without a good reason,” she says. “They usually require a bit of help.” She turns away from me then and leans right into Lily’s face. “Lily,” she says, “did anyone besides you touch that writer’s tea cart this morning?”

Silence.

“Did you see anything out of the ordinary in the hotel today?” Detective Stark asks. “Upstairs or maybe downstairs in the kitchen?”

Lily doesn’t answer. Her eyes are glazed and unfocused. The word “catatonic” comes to mind, and I’m tempted to spell it out loud, an old habit, but I resist.

“Detective,” I chime in. “The kitchen staff prepared two tea carts for Mr. Grimthorpe this morning—one served before the event and one served during. Lily was charged with delivering both carts. And as for things being ‘out of the ordinary in the hotel,’ strange things transpire with alarming regularity at the Regency Grand. A few weeks ago, a guest smuggled a pet snake into his room. It escaped and curled up on a lobby chair. Fortunately, I spotted the anomalous coil on an emerald-green settee right before a rather generous-bottomed madam took a seat on the reptile. Did you know that I once caught a pop star filling his toilet with ice to chill champagne? And just yesterday, several fans of Mr. Grimthorpe’s were walking through the hotel with falsified VIP passes strung around their necks.”

“How did you know they were fakes?” the detective asks.

“Grimthrope,” I reply.

“Sorry?”

“The badges had reversed the letters in Grimthorpe’s name. Spelling error,” I explain. “Very careless.”

“Molly has an eagle eye for details,” Mr. Snow confirms.

“Hmm,” Detective Stark says as her lip curls on one side. I’m reminded of the dog across the street from my apartment. Its lip does exactly the same thing right before it lunges full force at the fence. Perhaps Lily notices this, too, because she suddenly bursts into tears again, burying her face in her hands.

“You’re not in any trouble, Lily,” I say.

“Bit soon to tell,” the detective replies.

“For the record, Lily isn’t the only one to touch those tea carts this morning. I touched them, too. I corrected several small oversights by the kitchen staff. They are short a key employee this week, and I’m sorry to report they are making a few faux pas.”

The detective stands and paces the room. After a few complete perambulations, she comes to a halt right in front of me.

“So you admit to touching that tea cart,” she says.

“I do,” I say as I raise my right hand. “It’s my duty as Head Maid to double-check every detail for quality control. And I never shirk duty.”

“Was there anything strange about that cart? Or the previous one delivered? Anything askew?” the detective asks.

I think for a moment. “In fact, there was. The doily under the teapot was slightly off kilter, but I straightened it.”

“God help me,” Detective Stark says as she rubs her forehead with one hand. “I didn’t mean it literally.”

“I’m sorry?” I say, which I also don’t mean literally. I mean: I don’t understand what in heaven’s name you want from me.

“That tea cart,” the detective repeats. “I’m asking if there was anything about it that might relate to a man suddenly dropping dead on the tearoom floor.”

“Unless the tea was poisoned, I should think not,” I reply.

As if on cue, Stark’s mouth becomes a smirk and Lily starts up with a fresh round of tears.

The detective turns to Mr. Snow. “I need you to tell me exactly what Grimthorpe said in his big announcement.”

“Nothing,” Mr. Snow replies. “Before he could say anything of note, he…he…”

“Died,” I offer. “There’s no point calling it anything other than what it was. Mr. Grimthorpe died before he gave his speech.”

Detective Stark looks at Mr. Snow. “And as the man organizing the event with Grimthorpe, didn’t you know what he was going to announce?”

“I’m afraid not,” says Mr. Snow.

“Check the cue cards,” I suggest.

“Cue cards?” Detective Stark repeats, sounding very much like a trained parrot.

“He had them in his hand when he walked onto the stage. He put them on the podium,” I say.

“Really?” Stark replies as she crosses her arms.

I take a moment to reflect on whether this is a rhetorical “really” or if the detective actually expects an answer from me this time. Out of an abundance of caution, I opt for the former.

Detective Stark exhales in a way that my gran might have once described as “overly dramatic.” “We didn’t find cue cards on the podium,” she says. “Or anywhere else in the room.”

She turns to Lily. “You need to start talking. Now. And I need you to come with me to that tearoom and walk me through what happened. Is that clear?”

“Detective,” I say, as I step between her and my distressed Maid-in-Training. “Lily is not capable of speech at this time. I’ve experienced similar blockages in the past. In my case, the blockages occurred when people spoke to me in a manner I didn’t deserve. I understand this matter is urgent, and since my mouth is fully functional—at least at the moment—I volunteer to accompany you to the tearoom to walk you through this morning’s events.”

“Nope. Not a chance,” the detective replies.

“Now, hold on,” says Mr. Snow. “Molly was right there beside Lily. She saw everything. Also, she just identified a missing object that you and your officers failed to uncover at the scene. Molly might be more useful than you think.”

“I do have an eagle eye for details,” I say.

“Though you miss as many as you spot,” Stark adds.

Gran once said that if you don’t have anything nice to say, best not say anything at all. It is for this reason that I keep my chin high, my shoulders back, and my mouth firmly shut.

The silence, however, soon becomes deafening.

The detective sighs a few times with her trademark dramatic flair. “Come on, then, Molly,” she says. “This better not be a waste of my time.”