“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.