“My, my,” says Detective Stark. “Someone’s dressed to impress.”
“Good to see you, Detective,” he says. He grabs his pocket square and mops the excess sweat collecting along his brow. “Is everything ready? The guests are lined up outside. Shall I let them through?”
“Release the hounds, Mr. Snow,” Angela says.
“And the LAMBS,” I add.
He heads to the tearoom entrance, and a few moments later, crowds of VIP guests pour into the well-appointed room. Many of them are recognizable as LAMBS, their faces and gray hair familiar. But there are only two that stand out in particular—Birdy, the tiny treasurer with pink highlights, and Gladys, their tall, curly-haired, flag-bearing leader.
Detective Stark takes a seat in front of the stage as the LAMBS swarm her, hurling questions about Beulah and if there will be a trial while squabbling about who gets to sit next to the lead detective.
Meanwhile, reporters rush to the back of the room, shouting directives to one another as they ready their cameras and phones, focusing their attention on the spotlighted podium at center stage.
My own phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out. It’s a text from my beloved Juan Manuel.
Five minutes to boarding the 
. Can’t wait to BWUBH!
BWUBH? I text back.
Be With U Back Home.
I can’t wait either! I reply. And it’s true. I’ve missed him so much. Life will be better the moment he walks through our apartment door. I have just one niggling concern: How will I ever explain to him everything that’s happened during the time he’s been away? Will he ever forgive me for keeping it all a secret? But I can’t think about that. Not yet.
One step at a time. It’s the only way to get anywhere in this life.
I check the time on my phone. Five to ten. Right on cue, Lily arrives with her VIP tea cart in tow. She wheels it over to the side of the stage and nods my way as she gets into position.
The guests are sipping their tea and enjoying their finger sandwiches, an anticipatory buzz filling the room.
Mr. Snow enters carrying a teacup and a spoon. He heads straight up the stage stairs to the podium and switches on the microphone.
“Good morning, everyone,” he says, tapping the silver spoon against the Regency Grand cup to get the crowd’s attention—such a delightful tinkling sound.
“It is my distinct pleasure to introduce our VIP speaker who will be making an important announcement regarding the recently deceased, internationally renowned master of mystery, Mr. J. D. Grimthorpe. Please welcome a charming young lady of unusual poise and distinction, formerly Mr. Grimthorpe’s personal secretary, the lovely Serena Sharpe.”
The hidden stage door in the wood paneling opens as the crowd goes silent. Ms. Sharpe, dressed elegantly in a tailored blue dress suit, takes the stage.
She stands behind the podium holding cue cards in her trembling hands. She clears her throat, then begins to speak. “A week ago, a man who claimed to be the solo creator of The Maid in the Mansion, one of the top-selling mysteries ever written, along with countless other bestselling titles, graced this very stage to make an announcement. As you all know, that announcement was never made.”
The entire room is pin-drop silent. All eyes are on Ms. Sharpe.
“Today, I’ll tell you the secret he never lived to tell. It is this: J. D. Grimthorpe was not the author of his books. They were in fact written by my deceased mother, his former personal secretary.”
The silence is broken by murmurs and whispers, passed person to person throughout the room.
“For over thirty years,” Ms. Sharpe continues, “my mother wrote all of his novels, helping him shape his scrambled ideas into clear and compelling story lines. She was paid a modest wage as his personal secretary when in fact she was his ghostwriter.”
Ms. Sharpe waits for the whispers to cease before continuing. “I intimidated Mr. Grimthorpe into holding last week’s press conference, during which he was supposed to divulge the truth to the world his way—meaning semitruthfully, elliptically, and narcissistically. I have no doubt he would have found a way to subtly diminish my mother’s work, but I didn’t care because in return for my silence, I would receive a lump-sum fee and one hundred percent of his book royalties going forward.
“As it turns out, justice really is possible,” Serena says, “at least sometimes. Last week, Mr. Grimthorpe’s publisher contacted my lawyers to inform me they’ve begun legal proceedings to restore both credit and royalties to the rightful author of Grimthorpe’s books, meaning my mother. All I ever wanted was for her to be properly acknowledged. J. D. Grimthorpe was a fraud, not a master of mystery. The real magic behind his work was my mother, Abigail Sharpe. Now, it is her name that will go down in literary history—in perpetuum. Thank you.”
Ms. Serena Sharpe puts down her cue cards, steps off the stage, and heads toward the tearoom door. When the crowd realizes she’s leaving, they jump to their feet, hurling questions at her in rapid succession.
“Ms. Sharpe! Where are you going? There are things we need to know!”
“Tell us more about your mother! What was Abigail like?”
“Where did she get her ideas?”
“Was she inspired by real life?”
“Ms. Sharpe, will you write her authorized biography?”
“Will there be a sequel to The Maid in the Mansion?”
Ms. Sharpe makes it out of the tearoom, but not without a train of VIPs and LAMBS and journalists trailing after her. Their volley of questions echoes all the way down the corridor.
After a minute or two, only a few stragglers remain in the tearoom, including me and one imposing detective.
I approach Stark where she sits alone at her table in front of the stage.
She grabs a shortbread biscuit from a platter. “Well, that’s that,” she says as she takes a bite.
“Indeed,” I say.
“Wow. These are good.”
“Made right in the kitchen downstairs.”
Detective Stark turns her laser-eyed focus on me. “Molly, I’m serious about what I said the other day, that you’d make a great detective.” She takes another bite of biscuit, chews mindfully, then swallows. “And just so you know, there are uniforms in my profession. I prefer to work in plain clothes, but that doesn’t mean you’d have to.”
She passes the platter of cookies to me. I grab one between two fingers.
“There’s a badge as well,” she adds. “You could pin it right above your heart, just like you do now.”
I take a bite of the shortbread and try to imagine it—me, in a police uniform, Detective Gray on a badge above my heart.
“Does the police station handle dry cleaning?” I ask. “Are the uniforms sanitized daily and wrapped in clingy plastic?”
Stark’s eyes squint in a funny way. “Why is it that I never quite know what’s about to come out of your mouth?” she asks. “As for dry cleaning, I suppose clingy plastic could be arranged, for the right employee. I must warn you, though, an officer’s hours are long. Criminals never take days off. They work harder than most.”
“Harder than maids?” I ask.
“You have a point there.” And with that, she stands suddenly and heads for the tearoom door. At the threshold, she stops and turns my way one more time. “Will you give what I said serious consideration?” she asks.
She waits as I take another bite of the shortbread biscuit, chew it twenty times, then swallow. “I’ll consider it,” I reply.
“Good,” she says. “See you around, Molly Gray.”
What she does next completely surprises me. She puts her right foot behind her left and performs a slow, deep curtsy. Then she nods and leaves the room.