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of the check-in counter to pick up a ballpoint pen and two sheets of hotel stationery, which she folded twice on her way back to make a stiff little pad on which to write.
    “May I ask your name?”
    “I’m Samantha Wills, from Clarksville.” Samantha coughed and said, “Hotel air, it makes my throat dry.”
    “Tennessee?” asked Jill, writing.
    “Yes. I own The Silver Needle. I took it over from my aunt, who retired last year.”
    “Do you know who the victim is?”
    “No. But she was up on the top floor, so I think she was a store-owner. The wholesalers don’t have rooms up there, do they?”
    “They’re only selling things from the sixth floor down,” said Jill.
    “Yes, that’s what I thought. This is my first Market. But I didn’t recognize her up there, and over there . . .” Samantha swallowed hard, and nodded toward the hubbub out in the atrium. “It’s hard to say, now. I mean, she, she’s kind of . . .” Suddenly her face crumpled up, and she put a hand to her forehead.
    “Here,” said Jill, “let’s go over here where you can sit down. That wasn’t a nice thing to see.”
    “It sure wasn’t,” the woman said sincerely.
    Jill took her by an arm and led her to one of the pair of couches facing one another. “Are you all right? Do you need a drink of water?”
    The woman shook her head. “No, I’m all right. Just a little scared, I guess. It was scary to see her fall like that. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
    “I’m sure you haven’t. Which elevator were you riding in?”
    “That farther one, over on the pool side.” She gestured with hand and head.
    The woman who had been on the phone said, “Thank you for waiting,” and they both turned to see her approaching. “May I ask your name?” she asked Samantha.
    “I’m Samantha Wills, owner of The Silver Needle in Clarksville. This is Sergeant Jill Larson, a police officer from Minnesota.”
    The woman looked at Jill, obviously reworking her initial impression—crazy lady in a wet nightgown and too-small slippers. “I’m Marveen Harrison, Manager.”
    Jill held up the paper and pen and said, “I thought I’d start collecting information until the local police arrive.”
    “Great,” said Marveen. Still, reluctant to give up any authority, she said, “But can I speak with Ms. Wills now?”
    “Of course.” Jill nodded and stepped back, but prepared to write down anything more Samantha Wills might say.
    Jill heard a rattle of wheels and glanced out into the atrium. A young woman in dark slacks and white shirt was pushing a tall chrome frame whose center was filled with a dark, rust-brown fabric along the tile floor toward the crowd around the body. The Hispanic woman in red was walking with her, explaining something. Behind them was a young man, with another frame. Noisy buggers, everyone was looking. She hoped there were enough of the frames to make a perimeter.
    Then she realized she was not thinking of this as a disturbing tragedy but a crime scene. Why should she do that?
    Jill thought about the sturdy, ivy-covered railings, none of them broken through. So unless the victim was leaning way out for some reason, this probably was not an accident. Then she recalled that Market Guide, marked in red. People planning a suicide don’t plan shopping trips.
    That left murder. But Samantha said the victim was all alone up there. On the other hand, a single eyewitness was a fragile thread to hang an explanation on. Jill made a note: Other eyewitnesses? And under that Jill wrote the name of a person she trusted could find out the truth: Betsy!

Eight

Saturday, December 15, 10:23 A.M.

    Cherry had heard the yell and the ugly sound of something landing on the atrium floor, but she didn’t go look. She almost had second thoughts when people below started to scream, but resisted the urge to go gape like a yokel. Instead, she rolled down the middle of the hall, turned the corner, and continued toward the elevators. She