WHILE JJ AND Penny were getting stuck in an elevator, Emma was off to look for actress Fiona Fleming, to find out why she might have wanted to kill Mr. Barclay.

Emma was the determined type—or at least that’s what her dad used to say to her all the time. And look at her now! She was about to interview her first suspect—how exciting . . .

It didn’t occur to Emma that she might be in mortal danger. Ms. Fleming was a murder suspect, after all.

Emma knew Fiona Fleming had to be in the theater—it was the logical place for an actress to be, right? Sure enough, the double doors to the theater were cracked open.

Emma slipped inside and could already hear Fiona Fleming talking. She was in the center of the stage, sitting on the floor. She was laying out cards, and there was a candle lit across from her. The space was dark, but Emma could see the colors on the cards. They were tarot cards.

Was Fiona summoning spirits? Maybe Mr. Barclay’s spirit?

The irony of this was that Mr. Barclay’s ghost could easily point the finger at the killer.

Emma walked toward the stage, and Fiona squinted in the near dark to see. “Who is there?”

“I’m Emma. I’m the chef’s niece.”

The actress blinked, glanced down at her tarot cards, and then looked up at Emma like she’d just realized something. “Ah, yes. Welcome.”

Emma stopped at the stage. “What are you doing?”

Fiona looked at the cards again. “I am summoning the spirits. In addition to my acting pursuits, I’m also a spiritual advisor.”

Emma decided to get straight to the point. She said, “I was wondering why Mr. Clark said you were a suspect.”

Fiona looked away. “Oh, he is sadly mistaken. Mr. Barclay and I got along swimmingly—we’re kindred spirits, lovers of all things theater,” she mused.

“You seem far too nice to be a killer,” Emma said, to get Fiona to like her. She sat down in one of the front-row seats. Like most kids, she knew that flattery could get you anywhere. “I think I’ve been to one of your plays once.”

“Really?” Fiona perked up. “Which one?”

“The one in town, at the theater,” Emma fibbed. “I can’t remember the title . . .”

Fiona nodded, filling in where Emma couldn’t. “Maybe The Mousetrap? It’s such a great play, written by Agatha Christie herself, a brilliant mystery. But obviously not as good as my script.” Fiona sure had a high opinion of herself.

Emma smiled. “You and Mr. Barclay both loved the theater. I can’t see how you could have the motive to kill Mr. Barclay.”

“Oh, and I don’t,” Fiona said. She moved toward the edge of the stage, in front of Emma. “Well, I guess technically I have a motive.”

Emma was dumbstruck. Was Fiona about to confess? Would it really be that easy?

“But I didn’t do it!” Fiona added quickly.

Bummer, Emma thought. “What is your motive, then?”

Fiona hesitated, and rubbed her hands. “Mr. Barclay loves a good murder mystery. He invented the game Catch a Criminal—and that’s basically just a murder mystery game in a box.”

That’s exactly what I said, Emma thought.

Fiona sighed. “I wrote the script for a murder mystery game, to be played right here in the Barclay Hotel. It was going to be a grand attraction, something that would make people come to the hotel, book a room, and stay. It was great! I based it on that Catch a Criminal game and everything.”

Emma did think that sounded pretty fun.

“What went wrong?”

“I worked hard on it, and he seemed excited to bring it to the Barclay Hotel,” Fiona said. “Then suddenly he changed his mind and said he’d have to think about it.”

Emma saw where this was going. “Mr. Barclay said no.”

Fiona nodded but hesitated before she kept going. “Without this deal with Mr. Barclay, I would go bankrupt and have to shut my theater down. It really was vital to me that Mr. Barclay buy my script, and that I would get to perform here at the Barclay Hotel.”

“When did he tell you all this?” Emma asked.

“I was here Friday, for a meeting. Around ten o’clock in the morning.”

Emma nodded, computing what she’d just heard. Not only did Fiona Fleming have a motive, she had opportunity too—she was here on Friday.

Fiona’s eyes were tearful. “I swear, I didn’t kill Mr. Barclay!”

But would anyone believe her? All suspects say that.