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.”