“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 they ever 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.”
One Week Later
Chapter 28
As a maid in a hotel, I experience a fair number of déjà vu moments. Sometimes, when I’m cleaning Room 401, I’d swear on the Oxford dictionary I’m in Room 201. In my dreams at night, the corridors morph and blend, dirty sheets mixing with clean ones, but eventually I sort it all out. I make the beds in record time, tucking hospital corners tight, topping pillows with turn-down chocolates, and leaving everything in a pinnacle state of cleanliness.
I’m having a déjà vu moment right now. I’m standing in the Regency Grand Tearoom surveying it one final time before today’s big event, just as I did a little over a week ago on the day of Mr. Grimthorpe’s big announcement, an announcement he never got to make.
I have laid the tables with crisp white linens, pleated every napkin into a rosebud fold, and arranged the polished Regency Grand silver for each place setting. Now, I’m admiring the result—a splendid sight indeed. Let’s just hope that today no one drops dead on the tearoom floor, thereby upsetting the perfect order of things and tarnishing the sterling reputation of our five-star boutique hotel.
Today we have a chance at resurrection—of the Regency Grand, I mean, not of Mr. Grimthorpe. Mr. Grimthorpe will never breathe again.
I’ve been working tirelessly to arrive at this moment, but I’m not alone. I’ve had plenty of help. This morning, as I entered the hotel, I stopped on the stairs to greet Mr. Preston.
“The big day has arrived,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied. “The announcement is at ten sharp.”
“Oh,” Mr. Preston says as he clears his throat. “That’s not what I meant. I meant it’s the day of our chat.”
Amidst all the preparations for the press conference, I’d forgotten that I agreed to have Mr. Preston over to my apartment for tea. I suggested we could have our long-awaited talk and then both be there this afternoon to greet Juan upon his return from his trip. Mr. Preston readily agreed to this plan.