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reservation for January, right?” said Mr. Pelletier. “Two thousand five? We’ll be here for the serial-killer convention, too.”
    â€œTrue crime convention,” Amy politely corrected. “Not just serial killers this time. There’ll be experts on spree rapists, kids who kill, black widows, internet scammers; there’ll be capital-punishment seminars, DNA-exonerated prisoners, weapon-mongers, life-size famous-assassination installations, a scholar on Scary-Clown Syndrome, loads of crime skits, an Are You a Sociopath? booth, and also Sanazaro Ballopio, the president of the political wing of the Reviewers, will be there. Do you know who they are? They invade people’s homes to destroy immoral objects.”
    â€œI know who they are.”
    â€œRight! Plus that guy will be there, the one who wrote Bad or Batty, you know, about criminality being nature or nurture. And plenty of TBAs. Okay then, looks like your reservations are confirmed.”
    Amy watched Jimbo as he left with his father.
    â€œUh, yes,” said Justine, hopping up to the registration desk. “I have a reservation.”
    â€œName?”
    â€œJustine Moppett. I think the rate I was quoted was too h—”
    â€œHere we go. Miss Moppett. Welcome to the Frito. Your reservation is for four nights? That’ll be $52.99 per night plus—”
    â€œFifty-two ninety-nine?” said Justine, who hated to quibble; she usually just caved quietly when overcharged or otherwise ripped off. “I think I heard you tell those guys $32.99.”
    â€œYes, but you have the Room,” said Amy, glancing out of the heavily tinted window into the parking lot, where Jimbo and his dad were taking a cauldron out of the trunk of a hail-damaged Lexus. “The Room is $52.99.”
    â€œâ€˜The Room’?” said Justine. “It sounded like you said that with capitals. Did a rock-and-roll star stay there?”
    â€œDon’t you know? The Room is where there was a murder once, a really nauseating and out-of-control mass murder,” said Amy. “They wrote a book about it. People rent the Room just because of that, you know, true-crime people? So it costs more. The new clerk we have working here, Angel, who gave the Room to you when you made your reservation a couple of days ago must not have known.”
    â€œAnd,” continued Amy, “it looks like Mr. Huppholtz, the manager, is going to raise the rate again when you check out. The Room is a very desirable room. Fifty-two ninety-nine is a bargain. You lucked out.”
    â€œGross,” said Justine, thinking she’d have to stop by the library or a bookshop later to brush up on mass-killer profiling so she wouldn’t get caught unawares in a Dan’s Hamburgers or someplace when a maniac came in and took down all the diners with automatic-weapon-fire. “I would like another room, please. A $32.99 room. Like the Pelletiers.”
    â€œI’m so sorry, we’re booked,” said Amy. “Probably no more rooms in the whole city, with the Symposium and the Sackbut Six reunion concert at the Erwin Center tonight. Like I was saying, you were very lucky to get a room at all. There must have been a cancellation, since you got it on such short notice.”
    The phone rang. Amy answered it instantly.
    â€œFrito.”
    Justine hopped over to look at the sightseeing-brochure rack and piles of free weeklies while Amy embarked on what sounded like a non-business-related conversation, with tears and accusatory shrieks. On the cover of the Chronicle was something about the many icy swimming holes around town. Justine flipped the pages till she arrived at News of the Weird, a compelling feuilleton reporting just what it announced it would.
    Amy slammed down the receiver, which promptly rang again and which Amy answered with a colorful oath.
    â€œOh. I am so sorry. I thought you were someone else, Oh my god,