Midnight at the Barclay Hotel

by Fleur Bradley

  There was something off about Mr. Clark; he didn’t appear to be who he said he was.

  The clock would soon strike midnight, and the Barclay Hotel would once again go silent. Not everyone was sleeping, however, especially not those with motive to worry about. Those four suspects were probably tossing and turning in their plush beds, wondering how they were going to get out of this mess.

  Emma couldn’t sleep either. After she left JJ and Penny that evening, she went over the evidence again. And all that excitement over finally having friends at the hotel had her brain buzzing. So she decided to do what she always did when she couldn’t sleep: take a stroll around the hotel.

  It was just before midnight when Emma settled into one of the poufy chairs in the den. Emma loved how the chairs seemed to wrap around you all cozy.

  She waited for the clock to chime—and sure enough, there it was. (It also played Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” afterward, to add to the suspense). Emma wasn’t afraid of ghosts, so she hummed along to the tune.

  Emma relaxed on the chair and looked out the windows.

  While the clock played its song, a lady in white floated down the stairs, Mr. Roberts walked in as if he’d been working in the garden, and a little kid with marbles ran up and down the den. But Emma missed the whole thing. Her eyes were on the windows—or more accurately, on the trees and the massive valley below.

  It was quiet in the hotel, the kind of silence that in the Colorado Rockies invites nature to bring a little drama.

  Because at exactly midnight, it began to snow.

  PENNY WAS BLISSFULLY unaware of the snow outside—in fact, you could say she was out cold. She fell asleep the minute her head hit the pillow. Not surprising if you consider that it was two hours later (and well past her bedtime) in Florida.

  The little cot that the Barclay Hotel provided was pretty comfortable. Her grandpa was snoring up a storm, but somehow that sound was very reassuring to Penny. She was dreaming of opening up a detective agency, one where she would help kids solve mysteries. Wouldn’t that be something?

  Penny was far away in detective dreamland until she began to feel a tickling at her toes. In her deep sleep, Penny’s right foot had drifted off the bed and out into the open air. Someone (or something) thought it would be fun to tickle her feet.

  “Huh!” Penny sat up in her bed.

  Her grandpa made a snoring noise.

  She looked around the room. There was no one there, and she couldn’t find what her foot might have rubbed up against. Penny’s first thought was that she’d imagined the whole thing.

  She settled back into bed, covering up her foot. But then she realized that this was the perfect opportunity to draw out the ghost. If there even was a spirit there. After all, Penny didn’t believe in any of that nonsense.

  She carefully shifted her foot, sliding it out from under the covers, and closed her eyes.

  Nothing happened. Penny was tired enough that she drifted off to sleep again. The covers were nice and fluffy, like wrapping yourself in a cloud . . .

  There it was again! Penny was careful not to sit up abruptly. She opened one eye. Something tickled her foot; she was sure of it.

  She craned her neck. She was hoping to catch whoever or whatever it was that was tickling her foot, not scare it away.

  It was dark, but Penny was sure she saw a round shape at the end of her bed. Right by her foot.

  She craned her neck a little more this time. Until she felt the tickling again, and saw what (who?) was doing it.

  It was a cat. The kitty was small and black, and it ran its narrow tail right along Penny’s foot.

  Penny laughed, covering her mouth so she wouldn’t scare the cat away. Of course it wasn’t a ghost! The hotel probably had a resident cat. “Here, kitty,” she whispered.

  The cat looked her way and froze. Like it was surprised it had been caught in the act of foot tickling.

  Penny’s grandpa snored, and mumbled, “There is no veal on my plate.” He was probably dreaming of that five-course meal he was promised on the invitation (which had yet to be delivered).

  The cat stirred, and bolted under Penny’s bed. Penny sat up and leaned over so she could look under the rollaway bed she was sleeping on.

  No kitty.

  “Here, little one,” she whispered. Not that she would wake up her grandpa by talking, what with all the heavy snoring. “Where are you?”

  Penny got up and looked around the room. Behind the chair, under her grandpa’s big antique bed. In the bathroom. She even looked inside the antique wardrobe, just in case the cat had found a way inside.

  No kitty.

  Penny sat on her bed. Where had this cat disappeared to? She turned, and there it was. Sitting on her bed. It let out a small meow.

  “Hi, kitty.” Slowly, carefully, Penny reached out to pet the cat. But she just managed to catch air.

  The cat vanished just as quickly as it appeared.

  Penny blinked, twice for good measure. But this cat was gone, poof!

  “Poppycock,” her grandpa muttered in his sleep.

  Indeed. Penny sat for another moment before deciding to go back to sleep. For all she knew, this whole thing was a dream anyway.

  Penny put her head on the pillow and pulled up the blanket. But she left her foot dangling out in the air. Just in case that cat decided to pay her another visit . . .

  THE NEXT MORNING, breakfast at the Barclay Hotel was served in the dining room promptly at seven a.m. It was very difficult to ignore the smell of pancakes, eggs, and croissants wafting through the hotel.

  JJ’s mouth was practically watering when he and his mom made their way down the stairs. But no one was in the dining room. And judging from all the talking out in the den, something was going on outside.

  JJ saw pretty quickly what all the fuss was about. Outside in the dim light of morning, the trees, mountains, and front lawn were covered in snow. Lots and lots of snow—at least a foot of the stuff. And it was still coming down in thick, fluffy flakes, the kind that could easily add another foot if it kept going.

  “So much for leaving this place today,” JJ’s mom said next to him. She sighed. “I’m having some bacon and toast.”

  JJ was about to join his mom when Penny pulled him aside by the fireplace. “You see that snow? This means we’re all trapped!”

  JJ said, “I don’t think anyone is too happy about that. Except maybe you and me.”

  Penny smiled. “We don’t get snow in Florida. Do you think we could go sledding?”

  “Not unless you want to freeze to death.” JJ pointed to the swirling snow. “That’s a full-on blizzard. On top of a mountain like this one, it’s deadly.”

  “Bummer,” Penny muttered. “It looks so cool, though.”

  JJ and Penny joined the detective and JJ’s mom in the dining room.

  When they reached the table, they heard the detective say, “It’s a little on the cold side, if you want to know the truth.”

  “Breakfast?” his mom asked.

  “No, no—the hot tub.”

  At another table was Buck (who looked very grumpy) and the librarian, who was reading Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express.

  “Everyone, may I have your attention, please?” Mr. Clark stood and cleared his throat. “As you all can see, there’s a blizzard outside. I’ve been told that the roads are treacherous right now, and therefore no one will be able to leave today.”

  There was some grumbling, but the guests understood. Snow was snow—no way to make it stop.

  “I do have some news to share,” Mr. Clark said. “I received an update on Mr. Barclay’s murder. I got a phone call a few minutes ago from the coroner’s office in Denver.” The coroner’s office is where they take bodies to be examined. “They’ve concluded that Mr. Barclay ingested the poison between the hours of nine a
.m. and eleven a.m. on Friday, March twenty-seventh.” Mr. Clark paused for drama.

  Detective Walker’s interest was piqued. “What did he eat that was poisonous?”

  Mr. Clark nodded, and paused again. “It was a treat. Mr. Barclay was poisoned with frosting. On a cupcake.” Mr. Clark added, “The poison is apparently very easily obtainable. It’s a simple blend of otherwise innocent chemicals, but when mixed together . . .” So, any of the suspects had the means to commit the crime: all they had to do was order the poison and bring it to the hotel.

  The room seemed to be holding its breath.

  Mr. Clark continued, “I know that Mr. Barclay had his tea and cupcake at exactly ten thirty on Friday morning. He was a man of routine and had it at the same time every morning.”

  Jackie said, “So the killer poisoned the frosting after the cupcake was on his plate, right before Mr. Barclay ate it?”

  “That is correct,” Mr. Clark conceded.

  “Were there other cupcakes in the kitchen?” Detective Walker asked. “If so, did you have them tested?” He was a detective; he couldn’t help himself. The detective felt a familiar fire in his chest, the kind that only came with a case to investigate.

  Mr. Clark said, “Yes. None of the other cupcakes were poisoned.”

  “Who served the cupcake?” Buck asked in his deep voice.

  Mr. Clark paused. “Have any of you figured out the motives for all the guests yet?”

  “We have,” Penny said. She immediately wished she’d kept her mouth shut, because everyone looked at her. It’s a lot like raising your hand in class when you’re so sure you know the answer, only to find you’re the only kid with your palm in the air.

  “It’s true,” JJ added. Penny felt better now that she was not alone.

  “Very good,” Mr. Clark said. “Although technically, you are stragglers. The four suspects should have been the ones playing the murder mystery game.”

  “A man is dead,” Detective Walker said in an extra-stern voice. “This is not a game, Mr. Clark, whatever Mr. Barclay may have intended.”

  “Who served Mr. Barclay the poisoned cupcake?” Buck asked again.

  Mr. Clark took a breath. “Mr. Barclay had his tea in the kitchen, along with that cupcake. His chef was the one who served him.”

  THE CHEF WAS Emma’s uncle! JJ looked around for Emma to see how she’d reacted to this news, but he couldn’t find her.

  “That makes the chef a suspect too,” Buck said, sitting back in his chair, looking smug.

  Fiona added to the chorus. “Not just any suspect. If Mr. Barclay was poisoned by a cupcake’s frosting, I would say that whoever made the cupcake is the prime suspect.”

  Everyone agreed that this was a logical conclusion to arrive at.

  “So now we have five suspects?” JJ’s mom asked, pointing out the obvious.

  Fiona said, “I would say the chef is the only suspect.”

  There was murmuring, which turned into louder voices, protesting, and finger pointing.

  Mr. Clark raised his hands. “Everyone, everyone.”

  Out of nowhere, Fiona stood up and clapped her hands twice. “Well, since I have everyone’s attention, I’d like to announce that I’ll be hosting my murder mystery game during dinner this evening. It’s called Midnight at the Barclay Hotel. This way, I can show you all just how much fun it could be!”

  Buck grumbled, “I think we’re all fed up with murder mystery games, Ms. Fleming.”

  Everyone nodded.

  Fiona’s face dropped.

  “Perhaps another time, Ms. Fleming,” Mr. Clark said.

  She sank back down into her seat, looking disappointed.

  Mr. Clark said in closing, “To continue the game, you will need to interview each other as suspects. So ensure you all are available this afternoon.”

  * * *

  “I NEED TO call home,” JJ’s mom said as they left the dining room.

  “Hey, Mom?” JJ said. He looked down at his shoes. “I’m really sorry about all this.”

  Jackie looked surprised. “Unless you killed Mr. Barclay, this isn’t your fault, JJ.”

  That wasn’t exactly what he was referring to when he apologized. Lying to his mom about the letter from the principal was starting to eat away at him.

  “Did you like the sticky notes?” she asked, smiling. This only made JJ feel worse, if that was possible.

  “The tired MOM was in a JAM and decided to find the hot tub instead of a BATH,” JJ said. It wasn’t so awesome, but he did use all three words in a sentence.

  His mom seemed to like it—she was JJ’s mom, after all. “Nice one. I’ll give you some new ones, later.”

  JJ nodded. He was a little old for the sticky notes at this point, but he didn’t have the heart to tell his mom that he had long moved on from sight words. Sometimes, moms don’t like to be reminded that their kids grow up.

  “Maybe we can check out that pool later today,” JJ’s mom said. “Right now, I have to go call your dad, and let him know what’s going on over here.”

  A phone call. There was something about it that made JJ think it was a clue. He felt an idea forming in his head . . .

  “You’re awfully quiet. Are you okay, JJ?” his mom asked.

  “Yeah, sure.” He needed to think. And talk to Penny and Emma. “I’m going to do some more exploring of the hotel. See you at lunch?”

  JJ’s mom nodded and gave him a last hug.

  JJ didn’t waste any time making his way to the back of the room and down the secret passage, up the stairs to the secret room. Penny was there, poring over her notes.

  Emma seemed relieved to see him. “Oh good, you’re here. Penny just told me that my uncle is a suspect! We have to find a way to clear him.”

  JJ nodded. Penny made a face, like she was fearing the worst.

  “He didn’t kill Mr. Barclay!” Emma was nearly in tears.

  “Okay, okay.” JJ raised his hands in defense, then sat down in one of the old chairs. “Neither did my mom, you know.”

  Emma worked to compose herself. “I know. So, I guess it’s up to us to prove that.”

  Penny said, “Let’s see what we have so far. You have your notebook, JJ?” Once he handed it to Penny, she tore out five pages. “One piece of paper for each suspect. We have to add your uncle, Emma. If we want to rule him out as a suspect, we have to prove it.”

  “Okay,” Emma relented. “You’re right. Five suspects.”

  Penny made a drawing of each suspect on a different sheet of paper.

  Buck Jones

  Fiona Fleming

  Jackie Jacobson

  Ms. Chelsea

  Chef Pierre

  And then she added a sixth page called extra clues.

  “These are great drawings, Penny,” JJ said.

  He went around the room, pinning the pages to the wall, using the nails that were already there. Then he took one of the pads of sticky notes from his backpack. “For the clues,” he said.

  “Nice.” Penny smiled, then her face got serious. She said, “Buck Jones. Motive.”

  Emma summed it up. “He wanted to buy the ranch, but Mr. Barclay wouldn’t allow it.”

  JJ wrote down ranch on a sticky note, and put it under Buck Jones. Then he said, “But what would killing Mr. Barclay do to make that better?”

  “Buck Jones was angry,” Emma said, but she didn’t sound convinced either.

  JJ pointed to the next name. “The actress, Fiona Fleming. Another angry person?”

  Penny said, “She wrote the murder mystery game script for Mr. Barclay. And then he turned her down.”

  JJ wrote script on a note under Fiona Fleming’s name.

  “Mr. Barclay is not a very nice guy, is he?” Penny asked no one in particular.

  JJ nodded in agreeme
nt. “He was downright mean. He promised all these people things and then didn’t deliver. What’s weird is that he wasn’t like that before.”

  Emma nodded. “Yeah, I think he was really nice, you know, normally.” She scrunched up her face again as if she might start crying at the thought of him, but she looked away before the other two noticed anything.

  JJ wrote grant on a sticky note for the library funding motive for Ms. Chelsea.

  “Jackie Jacobson,” Penny said softly. It was awkward, to say the least.

  JJ sighed and looked at the wall. “Well, my mom had motive too. Mr. Barclay was going to make her pay back the loan she used to start PB&JJ.” He put a PB&JJ loan note under her name. “I feel like there’s an important clue I’m missing, something to do with the phones . . .”

  “Like what?” Penny asked.

  “I don’t know yet.” JJ chewed on the end of his pen.

  “It’ll come to you.” Penny wanted to be encouraging. It couldn’t be easy to have your mom be suspected of murder.

  “The chef,” JJ said, moving along on the suspect list.

  “We don’t know if my uncle had any motive,” Emma said. “But since he’s the chef, I would say he definitely had the opportunity. He served the cupcake.” She sounded nervous.

  “We should talk to him,” Penny said.

  “I can do it,” Emma said a little too quickly.

  Penny felt awkward but said, “An impartial person should question your uncle. Like me, or JJ.”

  “Sorry, Emma, but . . .” JJ said.

  But Emma was already storming out of the room.

  Penny sighed. She felt bad for Emma. She turned back to JJ and tried to figure out what to do next.

  Then she remembered a clue. Penny got up and took a sticky note from JJ. She put Mr. Clark has a secret. “He is pretending to be British. I heard him, and he sounded American.” She put the note under extra clues.

  JJ looked at the wall. “Now what?” he asked Penny.

  A deep voice went, “Now you find the person with opportunity.”