The elevator stopped on the fourth floor and the elderly couple got off. The doors slid shut and I was alone with the room service guy. Strange that he was on the guest elevator. Didn’t waiters usually ride the service elevators? For the first time I noticed his jacket, and a frisson of fear ran down my spine. If this was the Stratford Hotel, why did his lapel say The Plaza? Was that unnaturally black hair of his actually a wig? And was it my imagination, or was one side of his mustache slightly lower than the other?

Then I looked down at his hands and saw he was wearing something room-service guys rarely wear—nail polish.

“Pam!” I blurted out, before I could stop myself.

“It’s me, all right.”

There was a manic gleam in her eyes that froze my blood. Gone were all traces of the friendly woman I’d met at the Bargain Barn.

“Too bad you had to drop my purse today. Once you saw the lottery ticket, I knew it was only a matter of time before you figured things out. So I rented this costume and took a chance I’d get you alone in the elevator. Guess I lucked out, huh?”

And with that, she tossed aside the metal cover from the room service tray, to reveal a butcher knife.

Oh, Lord. It was big enough to gut a whale.

Frantic, I sprinted for the control panel to push the alarm button, but before I could reach it, Pam yanked me back by my ponytail and hurled me against the wall. I howled in pain.

She was stronger than me. A lot stronger.

“Don’t be crazy,” I said, holding my throbbing head. “The elevator could stop any minute. What if someone sees you?”

“They won’t see me. They’ll see a deranged room service waiter.” She picked up the knife and I felt a wave of bile rise in my throat. “When they find your body, they’ll think a man did it. Maybe even Marty. Don’t forget. I’ve got that paper you signed this afternoon blaming him for your murder.”

I cursed myself for writing that damn statement. Thanks to my stupidity, Pam was going to get away with murder—twice.

But I couldn’t just stand there and let her slice me open like a Benihana chef. I had to keep her talking and somehow get that ghastly knife away from her.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why did you have to kill Marybeth? Couldn’t you have just stolen the ticket?”

“She saw me take it from her purse. The bitch had eyes in the back of her head. She threatened to tell everybody. Can you imagine? Telling everyone that I was a thief?”

I refrained from pointing out that’s exactly what she was.