King of Murder by Betsy Byars

when Herculeah broke it.
    â€œI’ve got to go. Mom’s yelling at me. Will I see you tomorrow?”
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    â€œI hope so.”
    â€œOh, you will. You always do.”
    â€œThen good night, Meat.”
    â€œGood night, Herculeah.”

What’s in store for Herculeah?
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    Turn the page for a sneak preview of her next terrifying adventure,
    THE BLACK TOWER
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    THE TERROR IN BLACK TOWER
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    Slowly she climbed the circular stairs in the tower, drawn against her will to what waited at the top.
    Halfway there, she paused. She heard the sound of the tower door close below her. Had it been a hand that closed it? She looked down. The thought that she might be trapped made her dizzy.
    She touched the wall to steady herself There was an eerie coldness to the stones beneath her hand.
    She lifted her head. She listened.
    She heard nothing, but she knew someone was up there, waiting for her.
    And whoever it was knew she was coming.
    Slowly she took another step and another. Higher ... higher. With each step, her fear grew until it seemed to swirl around her like a cape that held no warmth.
    Herculeah stopped reading and let the book fall to her lap. “Are you positive this is the book you want me to read?” she asked.
    The old man on the bed blinked his eyes once. That meant “yes.”
    â€œWell, I’m getting spooked,” Herculeah said. “Particularly because this house, your house, has a tower attached to it. It’s exactly like this one, isn’t it?”
    One blink. Yes.
    â€œHave you ever been up there?”
    Yes.
    â€œWhat’s up there? Oh, I forgot. You can’t answer that kind of question. Only yes or no. Is there a room up there?”
    Yes.
    â€œDoes the tower have circular stairs?”
    Yes.
    â€œThat was stupid of me. I guess all towers do. Either that or they have a ladder.”
    Herculeah glanced out the window. She could see the tower now. It rose, black and forbidding, part of the house and yet somehow separate. Halfway up the tower there were windows. They were slits so deep in the stone that no daylight could come through.
    Herculeah paused in thought. Her hands tightened on the book in her lap. The silence continued.
    Herculeah had come here to read to Mr. Hunt. Her mother, a private detective, had asked her to do this. Mr. Hunt was, or had been, one of her mother’s clients.
    â€œWhy was he a client?” Herculeah had asked, instantly curious. “What did he want you to do?”
    â€œThat doesn’t concern you.”
    Herculeah had leaned forward, more interested than ever. “What did he want you to find? That’s what all old people want you to do—find someone or something from their past.”
    Her mother’s wry smile made Herculeah think she had hit the mark.
    â€œSo what could it have been?” she went on thoughtfully. “What could have happened? Murder? Was it a murder?” Her gray eyes lit up. “It was murder, wasn’t it?”
    â€œWhatever it was happened a long time ago.”
    â€œSo it was murder.”
    Her mother lifted one hand to silence her. “If you’re going to play detective—”
    â€œMom, I don’t play detective. I have solved six murders.” She began to count them on her fingers. “Mr. Crewell, Madame Rosa...”
    Her mom sighed, and Herculeah discontinued her list. “Oh, all right, what do you want me to do?”
    â€œJust read to him for an hour or so. The man is lonely. He can’t move at all since his stroke. He can only blink his eyes—one blink for yes, two for no.”
    â€œHow awful! Sure, I’ll do it. Actually, I enjoy reading to people. What kind of book would an old man like? Something about old horses, old airplanes, or”—she grinned—“old women? I’ll take a bunch of books so he’ll have a choice. First thing tomorrow