EMMA COULD FEEL herself getting more and more frustrated as she roamed the hotel. They weren’t getting anywhere with any of the suspects, and now the chef was a suspect too! Mr. Clark wasn’t any help either, and he’d been right here when Mr. Barclay died, right? Maybe it was time to look at the butler as a suspect.

Emma was already near Mr. Clark’s room—might as well break in, she figured. Once you got started breaking and entering, one more time didn’t really matter. (It does matter. Breaking and entering is technically a crime, just ask Detective Walker.)

Mr. Clark’s room was tidy—almost too tidy. There were no clothes lying around, no personal photos. There was only his work schedule, pinned neatly to an otherwise empty bulletin board.

Then she looked in his closet and found . . . Well, it was difficult to describe. There were clothes, but not anything she’d seen Mr. Clark wear. Casual wear, even overalls, and Emma couldn’t imagine Mr. Clark wearing any of those things. There were hats too, wigs . . .

Costumes. These were costumes.

Was Mr. Clark into theater? Emma couldn’t remember, but then how well did anyone really know Mr. Clark?

Emma moved to his desk, and opened the top drawer.

There was a letter at the bottom of the drawer. Emma unfolded the paper.

I know who you are. You will pay.

It was signed His Daughter. A threat.

Who was this daughter, and why was she so angry with Mr. Clark?