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—

It’s been one week since I read Gran’s diary, and these past few days Gran has felt even closer—her voice, her memories, her advice ringing in my mind. I know that will never change.

Once Detective Stark and Angela presented the plan of a sting, I knew they were on to something. I decided on the spot to sell the Fabergé at auction—again. Excitement buzzed through me, as though Gran herself was egging me on (pun intended). Her diary was our secret weapon—the proof that the Bees and the Grays were connected.

As we converged in the early morning, bleary-eyed in my livingroom, I told everyone I was ready to sell. Detective Stark suggested I call Brown and Beagle right away to set up the auction. With her, Juan, Angela, and my gran-dad watching, I practiced the message I would leave on their answering machine. When I felt ready, I dialed their number on speaker phone so everyone could listen in. Though it wasn’t even 7:00 a.m ., to my surprise, Brown answered.

“Molly? Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Perfectly fine,” I replied.

“Then why are you calling so early?”

“I want to sell the egg.”

“That’s wonderful!” said Brown. “Beagle’s still asleep, but he’ll be thrilled when I tell him. We’ll get all the big bidders back. I’ll ring Steve and set up a special Hidden Treasures show for the redux. You’ll go viral again—Molly the Maid returns! Just you wait.”

Beside me, Juan shook his head.

“A private sale—no TV, no cameras, no publicity. We’ll hold the auction at the Regency Grand,” I said, “with proper security this time. Detective Stark can help with that.”

Beside me, the detective gave a thumbs-up.

“We’ll set the date for a month from now,” said Brown.

“In a week,” I countered.

“A week? Okay. Is there anything else?”

“Just a question,” I said. “Your grandfather. What was his name?”

Angela ran a finger across her neck as though I’d just made a grave error.

“Magnus,” said Brown. “Why do you ask?”

“Yesterday, we learned so much about Beagle’s grandfather, so I was curious about yours. And your father, what was his name?”

Juan’s and my gran-dad’s eyes went wide.

“Algernon,” Brown replied.

“Is he alive?”

“Deceased, or ‘very dead,’ as you might say, Molly—a boating accident in Saint-Tropez not long after I was born. He was with my mother, and he fell from the yacht without her even noticing. A real tragedy.”

“Pushed,” I said sotto voce.

“I’m sorry?”

“Ooouuff,” I said, correcting myself. “What a loss.”

“Indeed,” he said. “Beagle should be up soon. I’ll tell him we’re going to auction. Is there anything else?”

“That’s plenty. Goodbye.”

—

It was that simple. The auction was set. And in the seven days since that call, we’ve madly prepared the Regency Grand for every eventuality. It was decided that we’d set up hidden cameras and sound equipment at crucial locations throughout the hotel so we could see and hear everything. We gathered in Mr.Snow’s office to discuss the matter. Mr.Snow wasn’t keen at first.

“We’ve never allowed this kind of surveillance at the hotel. Guest privacy is paramount to us. It’s part of our appeal.”

“Part of your problem, too,” Stark observed. “It’s just for one day.”

Mr.Snow reluctantly agreed, and he seems to have come to enjoy the elaborate secret preparations. “The penthouse suite on the fourth floor can serve as our headquarters,” he offered. “We can run the whole covert operation from there.”

“It’ll need a name,” said Juan.

“What about the penthouse suite on the fourth floor?” I suggested.

“A short-form, a code,” Angela insisted, and I do believe I detected an eye roll.

“The Black Hole?” I offered. The name suggested the secrecy of the mission and the untimely death of a certain guest who died in that same suite a few years ago.

“Perfect!” said Stark.

“She has a way with words,” my gran-dad declared.

After that, we decided who else would be in on the sting, and Speedy’s name came up. At first, I was against this idea. “I’m not sure we can trust him,” I said. “Besides, I don’t understand a word he says.”

“You don’t need to understand him,” said Angela. “Just let him run the tech. He’s a wizard, Molly. And he knows the hotel inside out.”

And so it was decided that Juan would bring Speedy to Mr.Snow’s office.

“Yo!” Speedy said as he entered. “Is this a VIP party? Is there bottle service?”

I would have walked him out then and there had Angela not stopped me.

“Speedy, we need your help,” Mr.Snow announced.

“What we’re about to tell you must be kept in absolute secrecy,” Detective Stark added.

“Excretion is my middle name,” said Speedy.

“Good grief,” I exclaimed with a sigh.

Detective Stark then explained that she wanted Speedy to work with her officers to set up hidden surveillance cameras and microphones throughout the hotel on the day of the auction—in the lobby, in the tearoom, at the Social, in Mr.Snow’s office, on the front steps, and in the greenroom.

“Sick!” Speedy replied.

“If you’re ill, we’ll find someone else,” I said, relieved.

“He’s fine, Molly. He’s excited to help,” Angela explained.

Late last night, we completed the entire clandestine setup. Speedy made a list of the equipment needed, and Stark and her surveillance team provided it. While Angela and I prepared the tearoom with phones for call-in bidders and put auction paddles on the white-linened tables, Speedy and Stark’s team ran wires and mics for sound, and hid cameras in key locations.

Now, the day is finally here. In a couple of hours the auction will take place and the Fabergé will be sold to the highest bidder—or to someone who appears to be the highest bidder. After, there will be a private reception at the Social so we can draw people away from the greenroom, where Baxley Brown and Thomas Beagle will be alone, and where, if we’re right, we’ll learn more about their motives and their connection to the egg.

It’s seven in the morning, and Juan and I are waiting outside our building for Gran-dad, who will drive us to the hotel. I’m so nervous, I can’t stay still.

“I’ve seen jumping beans less antsy,” Juan says.

“What if we’re wrong? What if all these preparations are pointless? What if the Bees aren’t the thieves?”

“We won’t lose anything by trying, Molly. Plus, the sale isn’t real, so in the end, you’ll still have the egg.”

“If it doesn’t disappear again,” I say.

“Over my dead body,” Juan replies.

Just then, Gran-dad drives up and we hop in his car. He’s wearing his doorman’s greatcoat and cap, his uniform out of retirement for today only, since he’s filling in for Speedy. Speedy has officially called in “sick,” but unofficially, he’ll be upstairs, manning the Black Hole.

We drive in silence to the hotel, and Juan and I say goodbye to Mr.Preston on the red-carpeted stairs.

“Everything will be okay in the end, Molly,” my gran-dad says.

“Let’s hope that’s true,” I reply.

Juan and I leave Gran-dad and make our way through the revolving doors, heading straight to the fourth floor, where Detective Stark lets us into the penthouse suite. It’s now a high-tech hub, the furnishings pushed to the walls to make room for monitors, speakers, and keyboards. Speedy is working with Stark’s surveillance team, checking the feeds as Detective Stark looks on.

Speedy looks up. “You maid it!” he says when he sees me. “Get it?”

Of course I did, as it was a pun.

“Madre mía,” Juan exclaims as he surveys the various cameras that let us watch what’s happening all over the hotel. “This is incredible.”

“Layer in the sound,” Detective Stark orders. One of her officers slides a switch on the console, then Speedy directs us screen by screen so we suddenly hear what’s happening in each surveillance location. There’s Mr.Preston on the red-carpeted stairs giving guests directions to a waffle house. And there’s Cheryl in the housekeeping quarters mumbling about sore feet and taking a load off. Angela and Mr.Snow are in the greenroom greeting the Bees, who are dapperly dressed as usual and who are asking for me. “She’ll be down soon,” says Angela, clear as a bell.

“Speedy,” I say, “you really are a technical wizard.”

“Big ups to po-po here. She got us all this sick equipment,” Speedy says.

“And if we catch the thief,” Stark replies, “I may forgive what you just called me.” She then turns to me. “We’re all set. Molly, Juan, Speedy, you know what to do?”

“Totes,” says Speedy.

“We’re ready,” Juan and I reply.

We ran through everything the night before—how I will be in the tearoom with the Bees and Mr.Snow, watching the auction unfold; Detective Stark will stay in the Black Hole with Speedy, overseeing the cameras and sound; Angela will be in the bedroom beside them, calling in her winning bid to a dealer in the tearoom who, thanks to Stark faking Angela’s credentials and bank balance, is convinced she’s a nouveau riche collector; Mr.Preston will man the entrance and report any suspicious intruders; and two officers have been assigned “hen duty” with Juan—protecting the egg not only when it will leave the safe in Mr.Snow’s office but when it is taken to the tearoom before the auction begins. There will also be several plainclothes police officers scattered through the hotel.

Last night, I’d insisted on no display case. “Juan will hold the egg,” I demanded. I wanted the person I trusted most in all the world to hold it in the palms of his hands. The detective agreed.

“Good luck, Molly,” says Stark now as she sees me and Juan out the penthouse door. “If anything goes wrong, we’re a text message away.”

Juan and I make our way downstairs to the front lobby, which is buzzing with expectation. The settee area is cordoned off, and within it are various dealers and art aficionados wearing Bee today she is wearing a different dress but it’s as tangerine in shade as the one she wore the last time she was here. She gets on a call, talking with her “foreign buyer,” who, little does she know, has hair that matches her dress and who is just four floors above us.

“It’s starting,” Mr.Snow announces a few minutes later.

Two burly officers make their way through the tearoom entrance, hands on their holsters. Behind them comes Juan. In his steady, white-gloved hands he holds Gran’s egg, and the twinkling sight of it brings a frog to my throat. I don’t know why, but it’s like Gran herself is being carried into the room. I push the emotion down as Juan takes the stage, his eyes meeting mine.

Tall Baxley Brown and his diminutive husband, Thomas Beagle, emerge from the greenroom. They step up to the podium as a hush descends.

“Good morning, all. I’m Baxley Brown.”

“And I’m Thomas Beagle.”

“And together we represent Brown & Beagle Auction House…”

“…the most trusted purveyors of fine art in the world.”

“This auction is private rather than televised,” says Brown.

“Because the seller experienced certain…irregularities after the last auction, she wishes minimal fanfare this time around,” Beagle explains. “Brown, your gavel. Let the auction begin.”

Beagle steps away from the podium, and Brown takes over.

“The Fabergé egg in question—displayed onstage in front of us by the current owner’s fiancé—recently reached a selling price of ten million. Today, we expect to surpass that, so our bidding will begin at seven million. Do I have seven million?” Brown asks.

Paddles fly up all around the room.

“And seven point five…Eight to the man up front. Eight million is the leading bid…. Nine, from Madame Orange, no stranger to the art world. Ten to the gentleman at table four. Do I hear ten five? Yes, noted, madam.”

I think of Angela upstairs, upping her bid, her hair in a tizzy.

“And I see you at table two. Eleven million. No, eleven five, to the bidder beside you. Yes, Madame Orange, raising to twelve. Do I have twelve million five? Twelve million—and it’s back to you at table two. And raising to thirteen million. Do I have thirteen?”

As I hold my breath, Brown surveys the crowd.

“High or low, there’s Madame O. We’re at thirteen million. Do I have thirteen five? Anyone?…This is fair warning…”

Brown raises his gavel, then it thuds against the podium, the sound echoing throughout the room.

“Sold for a lucky thirteen million to an anonymous bidder on our phone lines, represented by Madame Orange.”

Polite applause breaks out in the room. Beside me, Mr.Snow’s shock at the selling price is evidenced by his eyebrows, which have shot up beyond the rims of his glasses.

“This concludes the auction,” says Beagle. “And judging by our egg holder, not a moment too soon.”

Juan is sweating, his hands shaking as he tries to hold the egg steady in his palms. Officers flank him, and he’s escorted out of the room with the egg. Mr.Snow exits behind them.

Beagle and Brown step off the stage and come right to me.

“Congratulations, Molly,” says Brown.

“Thank you,” I say.

“I’ll bet you’re glad that’s over,” Beagle adds.

“I will be,” I say.

“Listen, we’re going to change in the greenroom. Then we’ll meet you at the Social for the afterparty, okay?”

“Yes,” I say. “Take your time, and we’ll see you there.”

I watch as they head through the paneled door, disappearing from sight.

As everyone files out of the room, I excuse myself, then run up the back stairs to the fourth floor. Using my master keycard, I slip into the penthouse suite, securing the door behind me.

“It’s done!” I say to Stark and Speedy as I lean against the door, catching my breath. “They’re in the greenroom.”

“Shh,” says Stark.

“Zip it,” says Angela.

At the console, Speedy turns up the sound in the greenroom. I hurry over to watch the screen.

Brown and Beagle are seated on a couch right below the hidden camera.

“Congrats, Bax. That’s a very healthy commission you just scored us,” says Beagle as he squeezes his husband’s hand.

“Goodbye, Molly. Goodbye, egg,” says Brown. “Shall we order a bottle of Veuve to celebrate?”

“Not yet,” Beagle says, as he smooths his dark curls, then turns to face his partner. “There’s something we need to discuss.”

“Can’t it wait?” says Brown as he reaches a long arm around Beagle’s shoulders.

“Please, Bax. I have to tell you something,” Beagle pleads.

Both men are silent for a moment as Brown waits for his husband to speak.

“This is about me,” says Beagle as he crosses his slender legs. “I was the one who—”

Beagle’s lips are moving, but the sound has suddenly cut out.

“We can’t hear him!” says Angela. “Turn it up!”

“Speedy, what’s going on?” Stark asks.

“The little dude’s leg wigged out! He crossed it and popped the plug.” Speedy points on the screen to a cord on the floor.

“Cripes on a crutch, now what?” Angela asks.

I don’t know how it comes to me or why, but a lightbulb goes off. “Angela!” I say. “Follow me. Now!” I grab her by the arm and head to the penthouse door.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“To the tearoom,” I say.

“But we won’t see a thing from there,” she replies.

“Irrelevant!” I say. “We’ll have our ears to the ground. And for the record, Angela, I mean that literally.”