Not surprisingly, I didn’t sleep well that night. Sometime around three thirty a.m., I awoke and jumped out of bed, ready to boogie. When I realized what time it was, I groaned and walked to the window, just to make sure the alarm clock wasn’t lying. I pushed back the curtains and saw that it was indeed still dark outside, and raining, which fit my mood perfectly. The city seemed to shine in all its wet, fog-shrouded, shadowy glory. The lights from the castle reflecting off the clouds cast an eerie glow over the streets. I worried that I might not be able to enjoy the city as much as I had in the past. So far, the trip was kind of… well, to call it a bummer would be putting it mildly.

My eyes slowly focused on the space just outside my window, and I noticed with some alarm that my room was right on the path of the hotel fire escape. Iron stairs ran past my window, and a narrow platform made a perfect little perch for someone to stand on as they jimmied my window open. How damned convenient.

If I hadn’t been wide-awake before, I was now.

Shaken, I carefully checked the window locks. They seemed secure enough, but the killer had entered my room by one means or another, and I wasn’t going to take any chances. I would demand a new room when I went downstairs for breakfast.

“Now what?” I paced the room, knowing I couldn’t go back to sleep. Back at the window, I stared out at the darkness for a few minutes, then suddenly wondered if the killer might be watching me. A little moan escaped my throat and I shoved the curtains closed.

I’d had my reasons for requesting a room on a lower floor, but giving a determined killer a shorter climb wasn’t one of them.

But who had broken into my room? So far, the only person I could think of was Perry McDougall, but how would he have gained access? The windows were locked, and besides, I had a hard time picturing him crawling up a fire escape, just to get my hammer. Yes, we’d had our little altercation earlier, but was that enough to use me as a pawn in some weird game of death and revenge?

I knew it wasn’t Helen. I’d already decided she had nothing to do with it, even while I’d laid out her possible motives to Derek in the lobby earlier.

But who could’ve done it? Who hated me so much that they’d risk danger and exposure and arrest to somehow break into my room and steal my stuff in order to frame me for murder?

Minka.

An image of her sneering face caused shudders to vibrate clear down to my bones. Minka hated me enough to do almost anything to destroy me. Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough to have her thrown in jail, and sadly, it probably wasn’t her anyway. But I recalled with fondness how the San Francisco police had arrested her for a short time while Abraham’s murder was being investigated. In the end, though, Minka had been a dead end. Still, it was fun to imagine her living behind bars, forced to hook up with a cell mate named Big Marge.

My shoulders slumped and my eyelids drooped as exhaustion sneaked its way into my system. Just thinking about Minka had sapped every last bit of energy I had. I crawled back into bed and slept like a dead guy, no offense to Kyle.

The alarm went off four hours later, and this time I had to drag myself out of my warm bed. Stumbling around the room, I tried to figure out what to do first. Instinct led me to the compact coffee butler on the dresser, where I found packets of coffee, decaf, tea and hot chocolate. I knew the powdered coffee would be awful, but hot chocolate sounded yummy. I filled the small pot with water and plugged it in to heat.

Remembering my discovery of the night before, I stared across the room at the curtains. With some trepidation, I peeked outside, then pulled them open and winced at the glare of morning sunlight that poured in. There was frost on the windowsill, but it was no longer raining. The city looked refreshed and alive-and cold. Ordinarily, it would’ve been a perfect day to sneak out of the hotel and wander for a while, but I was hoping that the book fair committee would arrange some sort of memorial for Kyle. It was the least they could do.

I was halfway through my shower when I remembered that Robin would be here sometime today. I almost wept with happiness. I could really use a good friend by my side.

I finished my shower, then did the hair-and-makeup routine. Twenty minutes later, I was feeling a bit more alert, thanks to the two cups of Cadbury hot chocolate I’d sucked down while getting ready. Ever the optimist, I dressed for brisk outdoor weather in jeans tucked into boots, a turtleneck and my sage-colored down jacket. I slipped a collapsible umbrella into my bag in case the rain returned, then headed downstairs to meet Helen.

It was a few minutes past nine but I didn’t see Helen in the lobby yet, so I stopped at the front desk to request a new room.

“May I be of service, ma’am?” the young clerk asked in a charming Scottish accent I could listen to all day long.

When he informed me that the hotel was full, I frowned and explained, “My room was broken into yesterday, so I was hoping there might be something available that’s not directly on the fire escape.”

“Yer wha…?” he said.

“My room was-”

“Brooken inta?” His eyes widened. “Ach! Om sartin gash! Wuh cana low tha! Wuh canna lehti gon.”

“Um, pardon me?” I asked.

“Sa cram!” he cried, pounding his hand on the counter. “Wartha police anya naidem?”

“Um, hmm.” I could pick out little phrases here and there but really had no idea what he was saying. I did think his level of excitement and concern was sending the right message, though. On the other hand, he was starting to get strange looks from his fellow clerks.

He grabbed the telephone, then slammed it down. “Wa kana chanty wrassler wuh dit?” He whipped around, looking for someone, then shook his head. “All gie heid bummer.”

Bummer. Yes. I caught that word but wondered if it meant something different in Scottish.

He continued muttering as he walked back to an anteroom. I was completely lost on the words, but I got the gist of what he was saying and appreciated his enthusiasm. Despite my problems, there was something sexy and wonderful about a volatile young Scotsman.

I could see him on the phone in the small office behind the desk area. He hung up and walked back.

“I’m sorry to say we have no more available rooms,” he said, and I could tell it pained him. “My manager will send security to your room to make sure the locks are in working order, and they’ve already added an extra guard detail because of the unfortunate death last night.”

He spoke with barely a trace of the heavy dialect he’d used only seconds ago. Did he slip into dialect only when he was excited? Interesting.

“My manager has alerted our people to keep an eagle eye on the fire escape as well. That’s the best we can do for now, Ms. Wainwright.” He placed his hand over his heart. “But I promise you, it won’t happen again.”

I felt strangely disappointed by his upstanding British accent. Weird. But I also had a feeling he’d stand guard on the fire escape himself, if he had to.

I thanked him for his trouble, then asked, “What’s your name?”

“It’s Gregory,” he said, with just a touch of a lilt in his voice. It sounded like gray-gree. He was so cute.

Meanwhile, I was stuck with my same room off the fire escape.

I thought briefly about changing hotels, but that would take me away from my friends and colleagues and the book fair ambience. If the hotel management was serious about fixing my windows and stepping up security, that would have to be good enough. But I’d be sleeping with one eye open from now on.

As I crossed the lobby, I saw a signboard announcing that all book fair activities had been canceled this morning. A memorial service for Kyle McVee would be held at noon in the Triton Room on the conference level.