“I’m serious,” her grandpa said. He had a nose for liars—he was a detective, after all. “Hang out in the library. Once the snow lets up, we’ll go home.”
Outside, the snow was falling in big fat flakes, like it was mocking the detective.
Her grandpa muttered something under his breath, then left Penny in the den.
Penny clutched her copy of The History of the Barclay Hotel close to her chest. Maybe there was something in there that could help them, like a clue about Mr. Barclay. Maybe reading was the answer to this investigation.
She settled into one of the big chairs by the warm fireplace, enjoying the feel of the pages between her fingers.
Penny stumbled upon information about Mr. Barclay’s daughter Constance when she reached chapter five. It stated that Mr. Barclay was a very private man, and that he kept his daughter from any reporters and press. There were no pictures. But the book did list the year she was born; quick math put Constance at age twenty-four.
Penny paused. A woman at the age of twenty-four, that could be . . .
She was about to grab her notebook when there was a strange sound. Something was . . . rolling. On the old wood floor.
Penny looked down and saw a marble. It rolled until it hit her book bag.
There was a giggle. Penny picked up the marble and looked around. There had to be a kid who wanted it back, right? It was a nice marble, older and heavy, like it could be from decades ago.
“Hello?” she called. But there was no reply. Just silence and a waft of cold air.
She thought she heard more rolling—another marble. Penny tried to chase the sound, but it just faded. Like it was never there. Almost like that cat in her dreams . . .
Penny pocketed the marble and sat down by the fire. She picked up her book from the coffee table. Where was she . . . ?
But before Penny could get back to reading, a note fell out of the book.
Meet me at the Barclay Carousel as soon as possible.
Penny jumped from her chair and looked around. She hadn’t seen anyone who could’ve left it. Some stealthy messenger. Or maybe someone had put it there at breakfast earlier in the day.
She remembered her grandpa’s warning. No investigating.
Of course, technically she wasn’t investigating. She was just going to the carousel.
Maybe there was a clue there. Or maybe it was JJ or Emma, trying to keep the investigation going (despite those meddling adults).
Penny tucked her book under her arm, and hurried to the carousel room. She was a detective, and she was ready to solve the mystery.
JJ ARRIVED AT the carousel at noon, and it was very dark. Someone had closed the shutters on the windows, so all you could see was a sliver of snow outside. JJ looked for a light switch but couldn’t find one.
“Hello?” JJ called. His voice echoed. He waited, then began walking around the carousel. Maybe whoever invited him here had left already.
The carousel looked like it was old enough to belong in a museum. The horses were hand-painted, and had decorative saddles. There were several in a row, then a carriage (for the parents, JJ guessed), all with fancy, colorful artwork.
He wondered if this carousel could be haunted. He so wished he had time to set up his equipment . . .
JJ stepped onto the carousel, and ran his hands along the saddle of one of the painted horses. In that moment, he wished he could see the carousel in action.
It was as if someone had read his mind.
Suddenly, the lights came on in the room. That was creepy. And the music started as a wah-wah weird electronic sound and went to a full-on carousel song. The carousel began moving, faster and faster. JJ could feel the air whirling around him, and he had to hold on to one of the horses so that he didn’t fall over.
He tried to move, so he could step off. But the carousel kept moving faster.
Faster. And faster still.
JJ caught a glimpse of a dark figure out of the corner of his eye, standing near the control panel. But the carousel moved too fast for him to get a good look, and the person had turned their back so he couldn’t see who’d started the carousel.
The carousel showed no signs of slowing down. JJ was sure something was wrong with it.
He had to hold on to the horse with both hands now. Everything around him was a blur, even the dark figure, who was now leaving through the heavy wooden doors.
“Help!” JJ called. But his screams couldn’t be heard over the loud, delirious carousel music.
JJ used his legs to steady himself. Then he moved from one horse to the next, until he was at the edge of the carousel. The centrifugal force (he remembered from science class) was even more powerful on the outside of the platform.
He looked to the floor, and knew he had to jump if he was ever going to get off this thing.
This was going to hurt!
JJ closed his eyes, and took a breath. He imagined he was jumping into a swimming pool (it seemed like a more comforting image than the hard, cold floor).
And he screamed at the top of his lungs. Maybe it was for courage, maybe because he was insanely afraid.
But he jumped.
JJ HIT THE wood floor on his side, sort of. He was pretty convinced he’d bruised his shoulder and twisted his right ankle.
The music finally slowed. And so did the carousel.
Penny came running over. “JJ? What happened?!”
JJ sat up, rubbing his shoulder. “Someone started this thing and set it to self-destruct. Or, more accurately, JJ-destruct.”
“I managed to turn it off, but the speed was set to max. You’re never supposed to do that,” Penny said.
“No kidding.” JJ stood, trying to keep his weight on his left foot. The carousel had come to a complete stop now. “I got a note.” He pulled the paper from his backpack. He felt sort of stupid now; he’d walked right into this trap.
“I got the same one,” Penny said, waving a piece of paper. “I think we were both supposed to be on the carousel, but I was late.”
JJ said, “This invitation to the carousel was a trick to get us here.”
“Right.” Penny thought of the rolling marble. It had delayed her just enough to keep her from the carousel. “I was lucky, I guess.”
“Me, not so much.” JJ winced as he tried to limp toward the door.
“It means we’re getting close to catching the killer, JJ. They know that we’re onto them, and they’re trying to scare us off.” Penny rushed ahead of him. “We have to keep going.”
JJ thought about his mom grounding him, but it suddenly seemed less important now that he had a killer on his tail.
“Come on,” Penny said. “I know how to narrow our suspect list.”
“What do you mean?” JJ asked, limping as quickly as he could to keep up with Penny.
“Mr. Barclay had a daughter. And I think she’s the missing clue.”
IT TOOK JJ and Penny forever to make it back to their secret room because of JJ’s twisted ankle.
When they finally arrived, JJ groaned as he sank into one of the big club chairs. “This ankle is sadly the least of my troubles right now.” He told Penny about his mom learning that she never got the letter from the principal, and about being grounded in the hotel room.
Penny said, “I can help you. Tell your mom I’ll tutor you over the computer—parents love it when you’re being proactive.”
JJ smiled. Penny was right: his parents would love that. Maybe that was his ticket out of one mess. Plus, maybe they could talk ghost hunting. Penny was a smart researcher, and JJ knew it was good to have a skeptic on your team. “Thanks, Penny,” he said.
When Emma showed up, she apologized for storming off. JJ and Penny filled her in on the conversation they had with the chef about his alibi and what happened at the carousel. “Hot dog! Are you okay?”
JJ showed her his ankle. Truth was, it had been pretty scary. “This killer is getting nervous.”
“We have to be onto something,” Emma mumbled as she took a long look at the list of suspects on the wall. When she got to her uncle, she put a big fat X next to his name. “The police will probably need to see his phone records, but I think we can bump him off the suspect list. No opportunity, because he wasn’t here.”
“That theory rules out my mom too,” JJ said. “What are the chances that she’ll un-ground me when she hears about that?” He doubted it, but he hoped that knowing she wasn’t a murder suspect anymore would at least make her happy.
“What about everyone else?” Penny asked.
“That leaves Ms. Chelsea, Buck Jones, and Fiona Fleming.” JJ thought about what else they knew about the three of them, but he came up empty. “All we know is that they were each here on Friday morning around ten thirty. They have motive and opportunity. But as far as the means go . . .”
“Well, the killer brought the poison, and apparently, you can buy it on the internet pretty easily,” Emma said, her voice trailing off. “Oh, I almost forgot, I found this letter in Mr. Clark’s room.”
“You broke in?”
Emma shrugged. “I got us a new clue.” She handed Penny the letter.
“I know who you are,” Penny read aloud. “You will pay.” She handed the letter to JJ. “It’s signed His Daughter. Who is that?”
“No idea, but you will pay sounds like a pretty big threat. Someone was mad at Mr. Clark.” Emma tacked the letter to the wall under EXTRA CLUES.
“What if it’s Mr. Barclay’s daughter, Constance?” Penny asked. “I’ve been reading The History of the Barclay Hotel—there is a lot about Mr. Barclay that could be important to our investigation. For instance, Mr. Barclay was always very kind to everyone he had business dealings with. So the way he was behaving on the morning of his death just doesn’t add up. And then there’s his daughter. There’s not much in the book about her. It said that Mr. Barclay protected her privacy like crazy—I haven’t even seen a picture yet, just her name and the year she was born, more than a couple of decades ago. So she has to be pretty old by now, right?”
“I don’t get it,” Emma said, sounding irritated for no apparent reason. “How is ancient history going to help us find a killer in the present?”
“Mr. Barclay’s daughter would be about twenty-four years old,” Penny replied. “What if she’s one of our suspects? Both Ms. Chelsea and Fiona are the right age. They could just lie and use a different name, right?”
Emma hesitated. Then she shook her head. “If she’s mad at Mr. Barclay, why send a threatening letter to Mr. Clark?”
“Emma’s right. That doesn’t add up,” JJ chimed in.
Penny was a little insulted that her new friends just shrugged off her thoughts about Mr. Barclay’s daughter. It was a real clue, right?
JJ added, “What I don’t get is, if the killer wanted Mr. Barclay dead, why didn’t he or she just give him a cupcake with peanut butter in it? Mr. Barclay was allergic to peanuts.”
Penny nodded. “That’s true. It’s even in the book.”
The room went silent as the three of them realized that they were stuck.
“My grandpa is right,” Penny said, standing up. “We need to find out more about our victim.”
JJ agreed. “Let’s find out more about Mr. Barclay.”
PENNY TOOK A peek inside the dining room. Everyone was still having lunch. The guests were spread so far out amongst the tables that you might think they were worried about contracting a deadly disease from one another.
Ms. Chelsea and Fiona Fleming (sitting at separate tables) were both reading: Ms. Chelsea was lost in her Agatha Christie mystery novel, and Fiona was reading what appeared to be a theater script. The cowboy looked grumpy, clutching a cup of coffee like his life depended on it.
JJ’s mom sat alone, making notes on a notepad. Penny’s grandpa also sat alone, stroking his mustache, like he was thinking.
Mr. Clark, Penny noticed, was not in the dining room or at the reception desk. She took the opportunity to take a look through the glass of the double doors to Mr. Barclay’s office, but it was very dark and deserted inside. She left and walked toward the kitchen. When she got closer to the double doors to the kitchen, she heard voices and decided to see if the butler might be in there.
When Penny got closer to the voices, she realized it was the chef and Mr. Clark arguing. She froze.
“I cannot keep your secret for much longer, monsieur,” the chef pleaded. “The kids were asking me about it earlier, and one of the guests implied I was a murderer! Moi!”
“Calm down, Pierre.” This was Mr. Clark talking. And that British accent was gone again.
Penny felt like the puzzle pieces that didn’t seem to fit were shifting, and she could see things making sense now. Maybe, possibly . . . Could what she thought be true?
“I don’t like it,” Chef Pierre said, but he sounded less upset. “Please, monsieur. Tell them the truth.”
Mr. Clark said something Penny couldn’t understand, and then there were footsteps, the kind that could only be made in fancy dress shoes.
Penny tried to turn and find a place to hide, but it was too late. Mr. Clark was already through the double doors, smacking her right in the face.
“Ouch!” Penny yelled, and jumped back.
“You.” Mr. Clark pointed at her. “Were you eavesdropping on our conversation?”
“No, I wasn’t,” Penny argued. But clearly she was.
This argument really was beside the point because, more importantly, Penny had a hunch. She studied Mr. Clark’s face, looking for a clue to her new theory that would make everything add up.
“A straggler, that’s what you are,” Mr. Clark said. He grabbed Penny by the elbow and guided her toward the dining room. “Let’s get you back to your grandfather.”
In the dining room, everyone looked up as Mr. Clark and Penny entered.
“Detective,” Mr. Clark said, letting go of Penny’s elbow now. “I believe you lost your granddaughter. I caught her snooping around the hotel.”
Penny looked at Mr. Clark’s face. The time to prove her theory was now or never. She had to be brave. She had to be bold.
Penny reached out, and pulled at Mr. Clark’s mustache.
There was a gasp from the back of the room (must’ve been from Fiona Fleming). Penny held up one side of the handlebar mustache (which looked an awful lot like a fuzzy caterpillar), and exclaimed, “This is not Mr. Clark.”
It was like the handlebar mustache was the glue that was holding the whole disguise together. Now that it was gone, Mr. Clark’s whole face was falling apart! His fake nose started peeling off, his eyebrows were coming unglued, and now that Penny got a closer look, she was pretty sure that hair was a wig.
JJ jumped up from his spot next to his mom. “No way!”
“Fiddlesticks,” Buck Jones muttered.
Mr. Clark reached for his nose and tried to patch it.
But then JJ came running up and took a swipe at the wig. He stepped really close to Mr. Clark. “This isn’t Mr. Clark.”
Penny nodded. “It’s Mr. Barclay.”
THE ROOM WAS silent for a few beats, then it was chaos, with everyone erupting in questions.
Why did he . . . ?
Where was he . . . ?
What in the world!
Why was I suspected . . . ?
WHY DID MR. BARCLAY LIE?
“Everyone, please.” Mr. Barclay peeled away the last of his disguise, then sat at one of the dining tables. “Allow me to explain.” His voice was deeper now, calmer. And the fake British accent was gone.
Mr. Barclay had pretended to be the butler, Mr. Clark, all this time. But why?
Mr. Barclay said, “Last week, on
Friday, Mr. Clark ate a cupcake that I believe was intended for me. The police were still determining cause of death, and I knew that the only way to catch the killer was to pretend that he or she had succeeded. And to bring the suspects here to my hotel.”
“So, if it was Mr. Clark who actually died,” Ms. Chelsea said, more to herself than anyone else, “that means that everyone here is no longer a suspect, right?”
Mr. Barclay shook his head. “The cupcake was intended for me.”
“I must say you are quite the actor, Mr. Barclay,” Fiona Fleming interjected. “But why pretend to be Mr. Clark?”
“I was clearly the target. I thought if I pretended to be Mr. Clark that I would buy myself some time. We used to trade places for fun from time to time.” Mr. Barclay sighed. “I’m very sorry he was the victim of a crime that was intended for me.”
Detective Walker cleared his throat. “Perhaps now is the time for me to get involved.”
“I’d say so,” Ms. Chelsea piped up. “You’re the detective.”
“Retired,” Detective Walker said. “If you remember, I came here for a nice weekend away.”
“We all did,” JJ’s mom said. “But maybe it’s time we caught this killer.”
“And my mom has an alibi!” JJ called. All eyes were on him all of a sudden. He explained how the chef was on his phone on his way into town, and had an alibi. And then how his mom was on the phone around the same time. “There’s no reception here, so the only way both the chef and my mom could have been making a cell phone call at the time of the murder was if they weren’t on the premises.”
His mom nodded and smiled. “That’s right!”
“Nice work, young man,” Detective Walker said. Then he turned to Mr. Barclay. “I’ll need to speak with you about the events that transpired on the day of Mr. Clark’s death. Privately.”
Mr. Barclay nodded, and stood.
All the adults were arguing with each other, but Penny was quiet. Something was still bugging her.
What if . . . Penny leaned closer to JJ. “I have an idea.” She thought about what her grandpa had said about the missing piece to the puzzle.
Midnight at the Barclay Hotel Page 10
