“Yes, of course now. I’m going to see what Trickett is up to.”
Chapter Sixteen
“But a minute ago you said Johnny Carmichael’s murder had nothing to do with Wings & Co.,” said Emily to Buster as he buttered the toast.
The magic lamp poured boiling water into a complaining teapot.
“I’ve changed my mind,” replied Buster. “I’m beginning to think this is one of the most interesting cases we’ve had in a long time.” Emily followed him as he carried the tea tray upstairs. “You wouldn’t understand, seeing as you are a girl and new to the business of being a detective.”
Emily wondered—as she often did—whoever had thought up boys, for they hadn’t done a very good job. She opened the door to the drawing room, glad to find that it was still where it had been last time. The curtains blew gently in the sea breeze. Edie was seated on the green-velvet sofa. Next to her perched Morris.
Morris wasn’t very good at sitting still. He looked twitchy, and even the tea and toast didn’t do all that much to anchor him to the furniture.
Buster pulled up a chair and took out his notebook.
“Best,” he said, “that you start at the beginning.”
And Morris did.
It was a rather long beginning, and by the time Morris Flipwinkle had reached the middle, Emily’s mind had wandered to another problem. What on earth was keeping Fidget and Primrose? Fidget could usually be relied upon to escape from any sticky situation.
Emily stared absentmindedly at what Buster had written in his notebook:
Pink jumper.
One wing.
Face an unopened Christmas present.
Then he had doodled a picture of a roller coaster, and beside that was a rather good drawing of an odd-looking seagull. Below it, he had written the word diamond surrounded by wiggly lines.
Why diamond? wondered Emily.
“Was there anything unusual about that afternoon?” Buster asked Morris.
“Yes,” interrupted Edie, who had been listening to all this. “The Wurlitzer was out of tune.”
“The C note was a bit flat,” said Morris. “And I thought once I’d finished my set, I would see what was wrong with the old girl.”
“Old girl?” asked Emily.
“The Wurlitzer,” Morris explained. “That’s what I call her.”
“Oh,” said Emily.
“But you didn’t, did you?” said Buster.
“I didn’t what?” asked Morris.
“You didn’t look inside the Wurlitzer.”
“No,” said Morris. “The minute the Wurlitzer and I arrived below stage, there was Johnny Carmichael, prowling back and forth like an over-boiled tiger. I asked him what was wrong, and he told me to push off if I knew what was good for me.”
“Wow,” said Emily. “That was rude of him. Did he often talk to you like that?”
“Yes,” replied Morris. “He never liked me much.”
“I suppose,” said Emily, “some might think that’d be reason enough for you to bump him off.”
“But I didn’t,” said Morris. “I wouldn’t.”
“No, love, you couldn’t,” echoed Edie.
“So you left,” said Buster, ignoring Morris’s outburst. “And then you remembered that you’d forgotten to tell him that the C was flat?”
“Yes,” said Morris. “I ran back.”
“How long before you returned?” asked Emily.
Timing, she had read, was important in an investigation. Though to be honest, fairies and clocks never really worked that well together. Fairies, she had learned through experience, tended to live in their own time, which was quite different from humans’.
“A matter of moments,” said Morris. “It was dark under the stage with only one work light. I saw Johnny sitting at the Wurlitzer bolt upright, still as a statue. I didn’t see the knife, not until I was much closer, on account of his dinner jacket. And even then I thought it was a joke. I mean, Johnny liked to play tricks on me, to make me look a fool. I was used to them.”
“So you believed that he was pretending to be dead?” said Buster. “Until you touched the knife?”
“I didn’t know that he was really dead. Honestly, I thought he was just messing around. Then I got frightened. What was I to do? My fingerprints were all over the murder weapon.”
Edie patted Morris’s hand.
“There, there, love,” she said. “You weren’t to know.”
“What happened then?” asked Emily.
“One moment I had my hand on the knife, then everything went into a terrible whirl. Time stood still, and then there I was, in front of the curious cabinet. The key turned in the lock, and I found that one of my glorious wings had been returned to me. I ran away and hid in the one place the police would least expect to find me—the Starburst Ballroom.”
“You didn’t see the murderer?” said Emily.
“I did and I didn’t. I saw his shoes,” said Morris.
“Hopeless,” muttered Emily to herself.
“You saw the shoes because they were the only things that showed up in the darkness down there?” said Buster suddenly. “The heels flashed with red lights, didn’t they?”
“Yes,” said Morris miserably. “How did you know?”
Buster shrugged, and in that moment Emily realized to her great annoyance that he was keeping something from her. As usual.
“Then he and his shoes disappeared through the door leading to the ghost train,” said Morris.
“Interesting,” said Buster. “Very interesting indeed. And the ghost train runs under the ballroom, you say?”
Morris nodded.
Buster stood up.
“Come on, Emily. We need to visit the scene of the crime, talk to people who were there. There’s work to be done.”
“Yes,” said Emily. “For a start, you might tell me what it is you know that I don’t. And stop being vain, arrogant, unreasonable, and difficult to work with. In short, behaving like a prima donna.”
“A what?” said Buster.
“You heard,” said Emily.
Buster looked a little stunned. “Okay. Sorry,” he said. “I worked on my own for a hundred years, and I’m not used to being part of a team. I have a hunch, and I’ll tell you about it on the way to the Starburst Ballroom.”
“I have a hunch too,” said Emily. “Fidget said the shop brought us to Puddliepool-on-Sea for a reason. I’m beginning to think that reason is that Billy Buckle is here.”
Chapter Seventeen
If it hadn’t been for the fact that Primrose was so happy, Fidget would have left the Starburst Ballroom hours ago. He didn’t like Theo Callous and his Me Moment show one little bit. There were too many “me moments” in the lives of human beings already, and all of them, as far as Fidget could see, ended in trouble. Fidget just wanted to go home. He needed a catnap. A day without naps and fish-paste sandwiches was a day when something wasn’t right in the trawling net of life.
He had seated himself away from the dance floor, at a circular table by one of the pillars that held up the gallery above. Theo Callous had forgotten him, which was good, for it gave Fidget a chance to properly look around. He had noticed that every so often the ballroom shook. Having once been a master builder, Fidget knew a thing or two about bricks and mortar. He knew there was little cause for a building to wobble unless an earthquake or a landslide or something was wobbling it. So what was it?
Primrose’s voice rose high into the painted ceiling of the ballroom, where cherubs, princes, and princesses beamed down at her.
Somewhere over the rosebush
Skies are blue.
Somewhere over that rosebush
I will wait for you.
By now even Theo Callous, who usually noticed very little except his own reflection, had commented on the shaky ballroom floor.
Curiosity was what made Fidget a great detective. Curiosity was what caused him to have only eight of his nine lives left. Curiosity was
what made him now take off his shoes so he could prowl around in the murky darkness under the gallery until he found a door marked STAFF ONLY. That door interested him.
Cats have claws for good reasons, and Fidget’s had proved most useful over the centuries, especially with locked doors. It only took a jigger and a jag for the door to give way. Fidget checked that no one was watching him. Fortunately, all eyes were on Primrose. She sang:
I used to dream upon a star
Now I know they’re very far
Lost among a sparkling sea
Will you ever fi-ind me?
Again the ballroom shook.
On velvet paws, Fidget slipped through the door and down some steps.
He would never say so, for it would be boasting—and that was a thing Fidget never did—but really a cat makes the most perfect detective. Not only has a cat clever claws and silent paws, he also has eyes that can see in the dark.
He found himself standing in a tunnel beside some tracks. Rattling toward him, the noise of it peppered with screams and echoing electronic laughter, was a small, brightly painted open car.
Mash my mushy peas, thought Fidget as it hurtled down the tracks. So this is what’s causing all the noise and shaking. He shook his head sadly. Who would do such a terrible thing to such a lovely building?
The front of the car was the shape of a monster’s head, its mouth wide open. Inside, sitting bolt upright, was a terrified dad with his son, who appeared less terrified—that is, until the boy suddenly saw a man-size cat lit up by the whirling lights.
The boy let out an ear-piercing scream.
“DAD! Look—it’s enormous!”
The moment the car had gone, Fidget scampered across the tracks to where skeletons loomed, their eyes bobbing out of their skulls, and then into the next chamber. Corpses bicycled around and around him, lit by flashing neon. He caught a glimpse of a huge cage in the chamber beyond. It was guarded by two flapping doors.
Fidget’s fur began to bristle, which told him straightaway that something decidedly fishy—something that needed investigation—was going on beyond the flapping doors. They only opened when one of the painted cars banged through them. There was nothing to do but hitch a ride. Fidget waited. He chose a car carrying two boys. Above the noise, Fidget heard one boast to the other.
“You think this is scary? It’s stupid.”
“Yeah,” said his friend. “This is a ghost train for babies.”
Fidget sprang onto the back of their car. When the two boys turned and came face-to-face with a giant cat, they let out shrieks worthy of any horror movie.
Once through the doors, Fidget jumped off the car, grinning. Now he was in a vaulted chamber, larger and taller than the others. It was filled with mist and cobwebs, and in the middle stood a ginormous cage. In it, Fidget could just make out two huge legs ending in two huge red shoes. Mayonnaise my tuna, he thought to himself. It can’t possibly be … How would he have gotten down here? It must be a waxwork.
Above him, Primrose started to sing again.
Somewhere over the rosebush …
A groan rumbled around the chamber, shaking the vaulted ceiling. Fidget was about to investigate further when he realized he was not alone. Through the mist he saw the shadowy figure of a man and, creeping along the floor, two flashing red lights.
Fidget looked around. There was nowhere for a man-size cat to hide. Time to get out of here—and fast. But tomorrow he’d be back to take a closer look at that waxwork.
Chapter Eighteen
The walls of Mr. Trickett’s office were covered with peeling posters of dancers from the past. The manager’s desk was piled high with papers, a half-eaten pizza, and a lot of worrying brown envelopes. It didn’t take a fairy detective to work out that things were not looking good for the business, thought Emily.
Mr. Trickett paced up and down.
“I have enough on my plate,” he said, “without you two kids causing trouble. How on earth did you get past the security guards?”
It was a good question, and Emily doubted if Mr. Trickett would really want to know the answer. Buster had flown up, holding tight to Emily, until they reached the top floor, where they climbed in through a bathroom window.
“I know what your game is, young lady,” said Mr. Trickett to Emily. “You’re trying to sneak your way onto The Me Moment. Mr. Callous has already told you—”
“No,” said Emily. “We’re worried about our two friends.”
She saw that Buster was trying to read the papers on the desk upside down and nudged him. “Aren’t we, Buster?”
“Yes. Mr. Fidget and a little girl called Primrose,” said Buster.
They had agreed that this would be a good way to start the interview with Mr. Trickett.
“You mean the man in the cat costume and that ginormous girl with the braids?”
“We do,” said Emily.
“Well, the cat failed the audition. Pity. It’s one of the best costumes I’ve ever seen. But no other talent apart from knitting and saying ‘Spot on the fishcake.’ The girl, on the other hand, is something special. I don’t need a crystal ball to see that she is going to be a star. Forgive the pun, but a giant career is waiting for her.”
“Hold on a mo,” said Buster. “She’s only six years old.”
“Six?” repeated Mr. Trickett. “Impossible. She’s well over six feet tall. That little-kiddie thing is an act, isn’t it?”
“No,” said Emily firmly. “She’s six and needs her father’s consent before she can appear on any show.”
“All right, all right. I need this show to be a success,” said Mr. Trickett, tapping his fingers on the desk. “That shouldn’t be too difficult. Where’s her father?”
“Mr. Buckle is missing,” said Emily. “That’s what we’re investigating.”
“Investigating?”
“Yes,” said Emily, handing him a business card on which was printed:
Wings & Co.
Fairy Detective Agency
“What are you two, a couple of comedians?”
“No, we are detectives,” said Buster. “And we also have a client with an interest in the murder of Johnny Carmichael.”
Mr. Trickett’s face collapsed into folds of anxiety. He stared, bewildered, at Buster and Emily.
“Look. I have enough problems right now, like the murder and Blinky Belvale, for starters. Primrose can’t be six—that’s impossible. Now, you two clowns, scram.”
“She is six,” said Emily. “Without parental consent, you’ll be in even more trouble than you already are.”
“But if you will help us,” said Buster, “we’ll try to help you.”
Mr. Trickett slumped in his chair, defeated.
“Five minutes,” said Buster. “That’s all it will take.”
Mr. Trickett glanced at his watch.
“Five minutes. Then I want you both out of here. No more games. Deal?”
“Deal. Who is Blinky Belvale?” asked Buster.
“He’s the bigwig who owns the whole of the Starburst Amusement Park, except for the ballroom. And I’ll tell you this: I am not selling it. My great-great-grandfather built the ballroom, and this is where my heart belongs. Murder or no murder, Blinky Belvale will not lay his slimy hands on my son’s inheritance.”
“What’s the murder got to do with your son’s inheritance?” asked Emily.
“Well, the bank’s not going to lend me another penny until this mess is cleared up. In other words, I’m up duck alley. This is just what Belvale has been waiting for.”
Emily took out her notebook and wrote in large letters BLINKY BELVALE. A strange name, she thought. Like a made-up name.
“Mr. Trickett,” she said, “is it possible that Blinky Belvale murdered Johnny Carmichael? After all, he seems to have a motive.”
A mouse poked its head out from behind a filing cabinet and started to eat a scrap of pizza that had fallen to the floor.
“I wouldn’t put anything past that m
an,” said Mr. Trickett.
“What did you do when you discovered Mr. Carmichael was dead?” asked Buster.
“I called the police. What else would I do? Then I went upstairs to the ballroom, where I was told that Edie Girdle had vanished. I sent one of my staff to check the toilet stalls in case she was locked in. It happens, you know.”
“Yes,” said Emily. “But she wasn’t.”
“No, she wasn’t,” said Mr. Trickett. “And now Morris Flipwinkle has vanished too.”
“The ghost train runs under the dance floor,” said Buster. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Trickett. “Mr. Belvale told me that if I made a fuss about him expanding the ride, he would have my ballroom closed down on the grounds of health and safety.”
The mouse seemed to be listening with interest to the conversation.
Mr. Trickett took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Then he stood up and stamped his foot at the mouse.
“Blasted mice,” he said as it scuttled away.
“Tell me more about Blinky Belvale,” said Emily.
“The man is a rotten onion. There are many layers to him—and all of them smelly. You never know when he is going to turn up. Sly, that’s what he is.”
“How big is the space under the ballroom?” asked Buster.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Just wondered,” said Buster.
Mr. Trickett sighed. “It’s vast, a cavern of a place.”
“Did Mr. Belvale do a lot of building work?”
“At first, but then he stopped. Then he started again about two weeks ago. Improvements, he said. Goodness knows what he was up to down there. I heard he brought a donkey in one evening. I haven’t a clue what that was all about.” Mr. Trickett stopped. “Look, what is the point of all these questions? No. That’s enough. I have work to do. A father to find, permission to get, and a show to put on.”
“Four minutes and fifty-six seconds—so we have time for a last question,” said Buster.
“Come on, stop playing games,” said Mr. Trickett. “Enough is enough.” He guided them to the door.