“Are you kidding me?” Cheryl says as she points to me and Lily. “This lot wouldn’t know a gold nugget if it hit them on the forehead.”
“She forced Lily to be an accessory to her crimes,” I say.
“I didn’t want to help her, Detective,” Lily says. “But…but…” The words catch in her throat.
“Go on,” I say. “Speak up.”
“It’s just that I need this job so badly,” Lily continues. “And I didn’t think anyone would believe me over her.”
Cheryl is about to say something but then thinks better of it. Her lips are so pursed they call to mind the puckered orifice of a cat’s hind end.
“Those blurry cue cards,” Stark says. “What was written on them, Cheryl?”
“How should I know? I never read them closely. Looked boring,” she replies.
“Who bought them?” Stark demands.
“No idea,” Cheryl says. “I couriered everything to some PO box right here in this city. My customers demand anonymity. I don’t even know their real names.”
“Don’t you keep the buyers’ addresses?”
“Yeah, but they’re useless. Can’t sell them.”
“Lower than a squirrel’s behind,” Mr. Preston mutters under his breath.
“Cheryl, you’ll get me the details of that PO box,” Stark demands. “I’ll run the address at the station.”
Cheryl shrugs. “Sure,” she says.
“What about this love note?” Detective Stark asks. “It’s blurred out, too. I suppose you didn’t read it either?”
“Actually, that one was juicier, so I did read it,” Cheryl admits. “But it was sentimental hogwash. Sounded like a Hallmark card from the nineteen hundreds. It was signed Your Chiefest Admirer. Old Man Grimthorpe was obviously getting it on with his personal secretary. Same old story. Ancient geezer, young mistress. Kinda like the Blacks.”
“She’s wrong,” I say. “That note was not written by Mr. Grimthorpe.” I watch as Mr. Snow’s face turns crimson.
“It was written by me,” Mr. Snow confirms. “I’ve held a certain…affection for Ms. Sharpe—for Serena—ever since she approached us several weeks ago about holding a press conference in our tearoom. That note, the one I put in the banker’s box…well…I admit it was a declaration of my romantic intentions.”
“You left a love note in her room as well, didn’t you, Mr. Snow?” I say.
“Along with twelve long-stem roses,” Detective Stark adds.
“I did,” Mr. Snow replies. He removes his pocket square from his breast pocket and wipes the dewy beads that have proliferated on his forehead. “Serena’s an enchanting young woman—intelligent, enterprising, and elegant. How you could ever think she’d be Mr. Grimthorpe’s mistress is beyond me, Cheryl. She’s a paragon of beauty.”
“Oh dear,” Mr. Preston says. “Love is blind.”
“Were you romantically involved with Ms. Sharpe?” Detective Stark asks.
“Goodness, no!” Mr. Snow replies.
“Not for want of trying,” Angela adds under her breath.
Stark turns to Lily. “Did you give Cheryl your signed copy of Mr. Grimthorpe’s latest book?”
“Give?” Lily says with her chin held high. “She took it. She said I could have it back when I proved myself to be a good maid by cleaning all her rooms and mine in a single shift.”
“That’s impossible,” I say. “No maid could ever do that.”
“Exactly,” says Mr. Preston.
“The first edition that was in the banker’s box. Why isn’t it listed on your site? And where is it now, Cheryl?” Stark asks.
“Sold,” she says. “I pawned it to the guy in the shop down the street. He gets top dollar for old books, even better than on the website.”
A thought occurs to me then. I suddenly see it with clarity. Cheryl took everything she could get her grubby hands on. She even took the cue cards off the podium. So, what if she took other items, too? “The honey pot and spoon,” I say. “The ones that were on Mr. Grimthorpe’s tea cart the day he died. Did you take them, Cheryl? That spoon was the last thing to touch Mr. Grimthorpe’s lips.”
“A honey pot and spoon?” Cheryl asks. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“Lying will get you into even more trouble than the considerable amount you’re already in,” Stark warns. “Admit it. You took them.”
“I didn’t,” Cheryl replies. “But that spoon is really good thinking—‘the last thing to touch the lips of the famous writer!’ The copy writes itself. The Vultures love that crap. ‘Unique ephemera,’ they call it.”
“The Moleskine notebook,” Stark continues. “You blurred out photos of many of the other written items. Why didn’t you blur out that one as well?”
“Because there was nothing to see,” Cheryl replies. “It was filled with doodles and gobbledygook. For a big-time writer, it’s kinda weird there wasn’t even a single legible word on the pages.”
During this entire exchange, I’ve remained steady and calm, but now, a hairline crack threatens my composure. How is it possible I never realized before? Deep in my being, a fracture splits and vertigo sets in. The revelation I experience is so seismic it takes effort to remain upright.
I feel a hand on my arm—not Mr. Preston’s, not Mr. Snow’s. Lily is holding me steady, pulling me close to her side.
“Molly!” I hear Mr. Preston shout.
“What the hell is wrong with her?” Detective Stark asks.
The x in the equation, the missing key—it’s been there all along, right in front of my eyes!
“Detective Stark,” I say. “I have a confession to make. There’s something you need to know. I knew Mr. Grimthorpe when I was a child.”
The detective shakes her head. “So? What does that have to do with anything?”
All eyes are on me. Cheryl’s face is filled with predatory glee.
“Mr. Grimthorpe suffered from writer’s block,” I explain. “The evidence is right there in that black Moleskine notebook. He was perfectly literate, but he couldn’t write a single word. I remember it so clearly—on his desk at the mansion were stacks of Moleskines he claimed were his first drafts. They were just like the one Cheryl stole from that box—monogrammed and filled with doodles and indecipherable scrawls. When I was a child, I thought it was code or a secret language. But it wasn’t. I see that now.”
“As usual, Molly, you’re making no sense,” Stark says.
“Can’t you see? The black Moleskine is proof of a motive,” I say. “There was a good reason why someone wanted Mr. Grimthorpe dead.”
“Even I don’t know what you’re getting at,” Angela says.
“Nor do I,” Mr. Preston adds.
“For god’s sake, Molly,” Stark says. “Spell it out for us, will you?”
“Motive,” I say. “M-O-T-I-V-E. Meaning: a reason to kill. Mr. Grimthorpe didn’t write his books, not a single one of them. Someone else did.”
Chapter 23
I used to think it only happened in movies, the classic black-and-white kind that Gran and I used to watch together on Movie Nights in our apartment, snuggled side by side on our threadbare sofa. But now I know it can happen in reality, too—that a segment of your past can play out like a movie montage, that life can flash before your very eyes, reminding you of everything you’ve lived through that has brought you to the present moment, that has made you who you are.
That’s what I’ve been experiencing as I reveal the truth to Detective Stark about that fateful couple of weeks I spent working alongside Gran in the Grimthorpe mansion, polishing silver, reading in the library, and befriending a troubled man, an author to whom I fed ideas I had no clue would lead him to write an international blockbuster. I have relived all of this in Technicolor. I have seen it again through fresh eyes.