WHILE JJ WAS trying to find out more about who Mr. Clark was, Penny decided it was time she talked to the man who’d been pulling all the strings, setting up this whole murder mystery weekend.

Mr. Barclay. He had to be done talking to her grandpa. So where was he now?

Penny looked at the map. Most adults loved the hot tub, but Mr. Barclay might want some quiet. She took a peek inside the library, only to find it deserted.

She tried the Cupcake Shoppe, and found Mr. Barclay sitting in the dark, in a booth in the far corner of the small bakery.

“Mr. Barclay?”

The man was slumped over, his hands clasped on the table. He stared off into space. Penny remembered her dad having the same stare when her great-aunt died.

“It’s me, Penny?” she said, not sure if he remembered who she was.

Mr. Barclay looked up and smiled, still looking sad. “Oh yes, the straggler. You remind me of my daughter when she was your age,” Mr. Barclay said out of nowhere. “Always looking for the next fun thing to do.”

“Where did she move to?” Penny tried to sound casual but wasn’t sure if she’d achieved that. What if his daughter was right here at the hotel, and hated her father’s guts for some reason? What if Ms. Chelsea or Fiona Fleming was really Mr. Barclay’s daughter?

“My daughter is dead, Penny.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” So much for that being a lead. Penny sat across from Mr. Barclay. “What happened?”

Mr. Barclay’s voice was very sad, and crackled like one of those old vinyl records her mom liked to play. “Her mother had a rare genetic blood disease, though she passed away quick. My daughter had the same disease. But her death took a few years—I tried every doctor, every medicine . . .”

Penny looked around the Cupcake Shoppe. Most of the seats were wrapped in plastic, like moths in a cocoon. “You built all this for her?”

He nodded, looking very sad again. “She was too sick to leave the estate. So I tried to make the hotel fun for her.”

“I think that makes you a great dad,” Penny said.

Mr. Barclay gave a small smile in response to the compliment.

“I actually came to ask you about Mr. Clark,” Penny said. “How did he become your butler?”

Mr. Barclay seemed to collect his thoughts. “Mr. Clark came to the hotel last year after I’d spent over ten years in a daze. After my daughter died, I was a mess. I needed a butler, so I placed an ad for the job. Mr. Clark called within a day, showed up the next, and did a great job from the start. I didn’t ask any questions.”

Mr. Barclay continued, “I always loved the theater and games. One day, to cheer me up, Mr. Clark dressed as a magician. The next day, a gunslinger. I joined in on the fun after a while. It was easier to pretend to be someone else than to be myself.”

“That disguise you wore today was pretty advanced,” Penny said.

“Thank you.”

An idea was forming at the back of Penny’s mind, one that would make a lot of puzzle pieces fall into place. “Did Mr. Clark teach you that?”

Mr. Barclay nodded. “Gregory was quite the expert in disguises. He once dressed as Chef Pierre. I didn’t even know it was him.”

Penny said, “A couple of the suspects mentioned that they met you that Friday, and that you went back on some agreements you made. The cowboy guy and his ranch, the librarian and her grant, and JJ’s mom with the restaurants.”

“That was quite odd,” Mr. Barclay agreed. “Mr. Clark told me they all despised me, that death threats had been made. It’s how I knew who to invite this weekend: Mr. Clark told me. And I never talked to anyone that Friday morning. Mr. Clark dealt with them all, he said.”

Penny asked, “Could it be that Mr. Clark was disguised as you, telling all those people to go away?”

“But why?” Mr. Barclay asked, looking confused again.

“You said that Mr. Clark knew all your business dealings,” Penny said, trying to formulate the butler’s motive. “What would happen if you died?”

Suddenly the door to the Cupcake Shoppe flew open.

JJ barged in, looking out of breath. “Mr. Barclay.” He waved a stack of papers. “You have to read this!”