Читать книгу Mystery & Mayhem - Julia Golding - Страница 8
ОглавлениеIt felt just like mini sparklers were fizzing in Minnie Adesina’s arms and legs and elbows and knees. She couldn’t stay in her flat above Mum’s salon on Marsh Road, not with fireworks exploding from her fingers to her feet! Today was Carnival! Car-ni-val. She drawled the word slowly, the way Bernice, one of Mum’s assistants, did in her Kingston accent. Those three syllables turned the road upside-down and left-side-right every year. The regular market was swept away by a swell of sound and colour. She rushed downstairs, ready to see it all.
It was still early, the summer sun hardly heating the ground, but already the street was full. People in high-vis jackets swung barriers like giant paddles; food vans’ fried onions and spices made her mouth water. At the end of the road, a camera crew and technicians swarmed a temporary stage, tweaking the spotlights on the lighting rig, adjusting the legs of tripods and moving monitors. That would be where the bands played into the evening. But already there was music. From speaker stacks the size of cars, from tiny portable radios, from everywhere, rhythms that made her shoulders leap and roll throbbed and thrummed. Marsh Road was alive with it all.
‘Minnie!’
Flora, one of Minnie’s very best friends, hurtled down the street towards her and grabbed her elbows. Minnie and Flora were part of an investigating team who’d solved more than one mystery on Marsh Road, and seeing her always meant fun and excitement. Then Minnie noticed Flora’s twin, Sylvie, strolling behind. Minnie sighed. Sunny days came with shadows. She smiled at one half of the twins.
‘Isn’t this exciting?’ Flora asked, her red hair bouncing as she leapt up and down. ‘I can’t believe Bernice wants us to help her get ready! We’re going to be right at the heart of Carnival this year, with one of its very best costume makers.’
Minnie glanced at Sylvie. She hadn’t been part of the plan.
Flora noticed the look, but Sylvie was too busy smiling at the camera crew.
‘Is it all right if Sylvie comes too?’ Flora ground the tip of her trainer into the pavement. ‘She didn’t want to be left out.’
Sylvie never wanted to be left out. And she was often loud and pushy enough that it was impossible to ignore her. Sylvie even helped with the Marsh Road Investigators’ cases, when it suited her.
But today was too nice a day to make trouble. Minnie sighed. ‘You can both come. More hands make light work, Mum always says.’
‘Girls!’ The word was yelled so loud that it made a man carrying a barrier drop it on his foot and swear. ‘Girls!’ Bernice waved with both hands. She looked amazing – she must have been up before the sun to do her hair; it was teased into a huge pile on her head, streaked red, yellow and green with extensions. Her gold nails sparkled as she waved. She pulled Minnie into a tight hug. ‘I’ve got an extra helper, have I? Good. My costume is the best yet, like a parrot fought a glitter factory and won. Today you three are my right-hand girls. Come on, the dress is waiting at the lock-up.’
The lock-ups were down a narrow footpath behind Marsh Road, under the railway tracks. A span of arches had doors set into them, creating workshops and storage spaces, vaults of red brick. As they walked, Bernice kept up an excited commentary. ‘Mind your step, this part is a bit overgrown. Careful of the nettles. I’ve been working on this costume for a month now, every spare minute I get. It’s going to knock the shoes and socks off everyone! Ooh, wasp. I don’t like this path, but the lock-up is so cheap, and it’s dark and cool, perfect for storing costumes. No one can even peek inside. Watch out, this bit’s muddy.’
Finally they were in front of Bernice’s lock-up. The smartly painted blue door, with a polished letter box, was padlocked shut.
Bernice took out a key.
She turned it in the lock.
The door swung inward. Minnie caught a scent like charring before Bernice flicked on the light.
‘No!’ she cried. ‘Oh no!’
Minnie ducked through the small doorway, the twins clambering after her. ‘Bernice? What is it?’
With one look it was obvious what was wrong.
Standing on a dressmaker’s dummy in the middle of the space was the ruin of Bernice’s costume. The base layer of Lycra was in place, but the tatter of feathers surrounding it was hideous. The spines were bald without their fluff, the broken quills ugly as road kill. Whatever had happened to the costume had taken all its grace and beauty and left behind a horror.
‘My costume,’ Bernice whispered. She stepped forward robotically. As she reached to touch the few remaining feathers, they crumbled to dust under the pads of her fingers. Brittle pieces flaked to the ground.
Minnie stepped further into the room, with the twins close behind her. They moved slowly, the way hospital visitors might walk into an intensive care ward.
But it was too late for the costume. It was already dead.
‘What happened to it?’ Sylvie asked. ‘It’s awful.’
‘I . . . I . . . don’t . . .’
Minnie glared at Sylvie. ‘Bernice, I think you need to sit down. Here.’ Minnie grabbed a wheeled chair from beside the desk and pushed it towards Bernice.
‘Wait!’ Flora said suddenly. ‘We shouldn’t move anything.’
Minnie froze. Her hands tightened on the back of the chair. Was Flora suggesting what she thought she was suggesting? ‘You think this is a crime scene?’ Minnie whispered. Could this be a case for the Marsh Road Investigators?
Flora gave a firm nod. ‘Bernice, the costume didn’t look this way when you last saw it?’
Bernice shook her head, whipping her extensions back and forth. ‘No – no way. It was fine last night.’
‘And could this have happened by accident?’
Again, Bernice shook her head. ‘No, child. The temperature is just right. The place is kept dark. There are no insects, or mice, no chemicals or anything that could do this damage. This is no accident.’ Her eyes widened as she realised what she was saying. ‘Someone did this on purpose! Someone doesn’t want me to walk in Carnival!’
‘Who?’ said Sylvie.
‘How ?’ said Flora.
Minnie saw exactly what Flora meant. There were no windows in the lock-up at all. The door was the only way in, and it had definitely been locked.
‘Bernice, who else has a key to the padlock?’ Flora asked.
‘No one. There’s only one key and I’ve had it safe in my purse all night.’
Minnie watched as Flora did what she always thought was one of the most exciting things in the world. She opened her ever-present backpack and took out a pen and a notebook. It was the signal that they were about to begin a new case. They had investigated several crimes before now, and each time the details went into Flora’s notebook – every clue, every witness statement, everything – until there was enough information to help them catch the culprit. They had to do the same for Bernice. No one was going to hurt their friend and get away with it.
‘Bernice,’ Flora asked, ‘does anything look unusual? I mean, apart from the costume?’
Bernice glanced around, taking in the dummy, the clean workbench, the perfectly arranged shelves of bright material. ‘No,’ she said finally, ‘nothing.’ Her voice shook as she spoke. Minnie was horrified to see tears glistening in her eyes.
Bernice turned away and faced the wall. ‘I’m just . . . going to call . . . I have to let people know . . . officials, maybe . . .’
Minnie felt a hand on her arm. It was Flora. ‘She needs a minute,’ Flora said. ‘She’s probably in shock. Let’s help the best way we can, by finding out what happened.’
Minnie knew Flora was right.
Minnie left Bernice to make her calls. She had to concentrate on the clues. Clues could be anything: anything that disrupted the pattern, anything that looked out of place.
Who or what could have ruined a costume inside a vault-like room?
Minnie examined the walls, while Flora looked at the costume on the dummy. Sylvie wandered outside. Had she lost interest already? Typical.
Right. Ignore Sylvie too. Clues.
The walls of the lock-up were filled to the rafters with carefully arranged colour and texture: silks and sequins, taffeta and tulle, in reds and greens and blues and purples. There were ribbons, glitter, tissue paper, craft paper, crepe paper and tracing paper – if it was paper, then Bernice had some, as well as jars of feathers and lace and fringe, arranged according to the colours of the rainbow. Minnie let her eyes wander over it all. Was any of this technicolor craft equipment a clue? It all looked like it belonged.
Flora had moved away from the dummy to look for entrances and exits. She scanned the ceiling, looking for vents, she clattered the letter box to see if she could fit more than her hand through (she couldn’t) and she searched the floor for a trapdoor. ‘The door is definitely the only way in,’ she said finally.
‘What about the costume? Any clues there?’ Minnie asked.
‘I’m not sure. Only the feathers have been affected. But then, the costume is ninety per cent feathers. Bernice has already given us a good idea of the things that damage feathers – insects, mice, chemicals, heat and light.’ She scribbled something in her notebook. ‘Let’s see what Sylvie’s got.’
Sylvie was outside, crouched with her back against the lock-up doors, staring at the ground.
She glanced their way as they climbed out of the doorway. ‘There you are. Have either of you found a clue?’
Flora shook her head.
‘Well, it’s a good job I came along today then. Look at this.’ Sylvie spread her arms to point at the ground at her feet. ‘Careful – don’t stand on them.’
All Minnie could see was dirt. She bent lower.
‘There!’
Minnie could see them now. Tiny square-ish dimples in the dirt. Heel prints? She counted six of them, in a pattern, as though someone in high-heeled shoes had stood still, but changed position a few times.
Rats.
Sylvie had found the first clue.
And her smug smile was infuriating.
Sylvie pulled out her phone and snapped photos.
Just then a huge man with arms and legs like logs lumbered past. He paused, noticing Sylvie taking snapshots of mud. He stopped. Minnie knew him – it was Big Phil. He had a lock-up a few doors down. She managed a smile, but she felt a bit embarrassed. She still remembered the time they’d had him down as a suspect in one of their cases. It had been understandable – after all, he sold fake designer perfumes that smelt of hamster wee, and diet pills that did absolutely nothing, and he wore a leather jacket and an air of menace. But they’d found out that underneath his macho exterior, Big Phil was a teddy bear.
‘Morning,’ he said in a deep voice. ‘Bernice all ready for Carnival, is she?’
‘Not really,’ Sylvie said. ‘Her costume looks like a toddler made it in the middle of a tantrum.’
‘But her costumes are always great,’ Big Phil said, confused. ‘Best in the whole parade. She’s the best designer in town.’
‘Not this time. Something happened to her costume and now it’s ruined. I don’t suppose you know anything about it? Were you here last night?’ Sylvie asked.
Big Phil raised one end of his monobrow. ‘Ruined? Oh, poor Bernice. Is she all right? Is there anything I can do to help?’
‘Yes,’ Sylvie snapped. ‘You can answer the question. Were you here last night? Did you see anything suspicious?’
Big Phil’s face reddened. ‘I was here, as it happens. In my lock-up. I can be there any time I like – there’s no law against it.’
‘Did you see anything? Or hear anything strange?’ Flora asked.
‘Nothing suspicious. But there was something a bit strange. I was bothered by three of the biggest moths you’ve ever seen. No idea how they got in.’ He gave an involuntary shiver. ‘Horrible things. You know they get stuck in your hair?’
Big Phil was entirely bald.
Sylvie rolled her eyes. ‘Moths? Is that it? You didn’t hear any strange sounds? Or notice any unusual visitors?’
Big Phil shrugged. ‘No. Sorry. I had the radio on – I couldn’t hear anything over Soft Rock Classics. Love that show, I do.’ His eyes went a little misty. Then he seemed to remember himself. He squared his shoulders. ‘Well. I can’t stand here talking about sparkly frocks. Tell Bernice I say hello.’ He wandered off in the general direction of his lock-up.
Sylvie put her phone away. ‘Might he be involved? He had the opportunity – he was here last night.’
Flora shrugged. ‘What’s his motive, though? Why would he want to hurt Bernice or her costume? I don’t think he can be a suspect really.’
‘And there are these marks,’ Minnie added. ‘It was probably a woman, don’t you think? Was she standing here in high heels trying to pick the padlock?’
‘Maybe,’ Flora said. ‘But she didn’t succeed.’ Flora tilted the padlock that hung clipped to the door frame and examined it. ‘You can’t pick a lock without scratching the metal, and this lock is clean.’
They went back inside and shut the door behind them. Bernice was off the phone and had made herself a mug of tea. They watched as she spooned in three sugars.
‘It’s not for the shock,’ Minnie whispered. ‘She just likes three sugars.’ Then, a little louder, ‘Do you want me to call my mum, Bernice? She might know what to do about your costume.’
‘There’s nothing that can be done. Someone has ruined it. I won’t walk in the parade. The saboteur has got what they wanted.’ Bernice had stopped looking upset and was looking angry instead.
‘We found some footprints outside,’ Flora said.
‘I found some footprints,’ Sylvie corrected.
‘Yes, Sylvie found them,’ Flora continued. ‘They look like someone in high heels stood outside the door. Do you wear high heels? Or have you had a visitor who does?’
Bernice shook her head. ‘I come here to build. Sensible shoes only until parade day. And no one has visited either – I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise for the people watching the parade.’
Minnie caught Flora’s eye. Who was it who’d been standing outside in heels, if it wasn’t Bernice?
‘Do you have any enemies, Bernice?’ Sylvie asked abruptly.
Bernice stirred her tea, clinking the teaspoon hard against the sides of the china. ‘Enemies? Why would I have enemies? I’m not James Bond, I’m a hairdresser and costume maker! I’d been hoping this would be the year I could finally go full-time as a designer. But I guess that won’t happen now.’
Just then, there was a knock on the door. It opened without waiting for a reply. ‘Bernice! Bernice, sweetie, is it true? Carol heard from Ash, who heard from Billie. Your costume? Gone?’ A tall woman with straight-as-a-die black hair and soft brown skin skipped inside. Her hands gestured wildly as she spoke.
Bernice sighed. ‘Yes, Jasleen, it’s true.’
Jasleen gasped. Then she saw the costume and gasped again. ‘It’s hideous!’ she said.
Jasleen sounded like she was the same sort of friend as Sylvie.
‘Thanks, Jasleen,’ Bernice said softly.
‘You can’t walk the parade in that!’
‘I know.’
Jasleen circled towards the dummy, her lip curled softly. ‘Carol wondered what you’re going to do. She said I should take your place at the front of the line, but I couldn’t do it without seeing you first.’ Jasleen looked down and took a few paces, as though she was thinking carefully about what to say next. She gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Listen, I still have the costume I made for myself last year, if you’d like to wear it? I know I’m not such a well-known costume maker as you, but lots of people admired it.’
‘Your costume? I can’t wear someone else’s work, you know that. A designer who’s wearing someone else’s design? No one would ever employ me again. I would ruin my career. I’d rather not walk than wear a costume I didn’t make.’
Jasleen prickled. ‘Suit yourself. I was only trying to help.’ She dusted some imaginary flecks off her blouse. ‘Right, I can’t stay. My boyfriend is filming the parade for television and if I’m going to be at the front, I want to look my best. Oh, sorry. That was very insensitive. Give me a call if you change your mind about the spare costume.’
Before she walked out of the door, Flora held out her hand to stop her. ‘Jasleen, do you ever wear high heels?’
Jasleen gave a little laugh. ‘Honey pie, I’m six foot two. Of course I never wear high heels.’ Then she was gone.
Flora laid her notebook on the workbench. The details of the crime were written down: Bernice left the lock-up securely padlocked last night. Sometime between then and eight o’clock this morning, someone had broken in, somehow, and ruined the costume. Someone in high heels.
‘What about the moths?’ Minnie asked. ‘The moths that frightened Big Phil.’
‘What about them?’
‘Bernice, didn’t you say that insects damage costumes?’ Minnie asked.
Bernice nodded vigorously. ‘Oh, yes, moths can do terrible damage to clothes. Especially silk and wool and feathers. They eat them!’
‘But,’ Sylvie said, ‘someone would have to get a whole load of moths in here, and then get them back out again without leaving a trace. Bernice, I don’t suppose you were sent a mysterious package yesterday that you left in here unopened, did you?’
‘No,’ Bernice said. ‘There was nothing out of the ordinary.’
Flora wrote: ‘MOTHS??’ in big letters. Then, in smaller letters, ‘Trained moths?’ Then, in even smaller letters, ‘Trained clothes moths???’ Then, with a sigh, she scribbled it all out. ‘Clothes moths are tiny, not like the ones Phil saw. You definitely couldn’t train them. And my pen’s running out,’ she said in a very despondent voice.
Sylvie bent down and handed Flora a stray stick of charcoal. ‘Here.’
Three sharp raps came from the doorway. All four heads inside the lock-up turned to look. An anxious-looking white woman poked her head inside.
‘Amber?’ Bernice said. ‘What are you doing here? Come in. Girls, Amber works for the council. She’s their Community Liaison Officer. Amber, these girls were supposed to be my wardrobe assistants – Minnie, Flora and Sylvie.’
Amber squeaked a hello. ‘I had to come as soon as I heard,’ she said in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper.
‘That’s kind of you.’
‘It’s no problem. Are you all right?’
Bernice gave a tight shrug and gestured towards the ruined costume.
‘I see,’ Amber said, suddenly sounding brighter. ‘I wondered whether you wanted to lodge an official complaint?’
‘Against who?’
Amber opened her briefcase and pulled out a blue sheet of paper. ‘Against the Carnival. Any disturbances associated with the Carnival have to be recorded. They are used to determine whether it should be allowed to continue.’
‘Well, of course it should be allowed to continue!’ Bernice said indignantly.
‘Of course!’ Minnie agreed. She was getting a bad feeling about Amber.
Amber slid the blue form along the workbench. ‘I agree, if the Carnival runs smoothly. But if there are unpleasantnesses, like the terrible vandalism that happened during last year’s parade, then it should be reduced in scale, or stopped altogether.’
‘That wasn’t vandalism! Those trees were yarn bombed with knitted bunting!’
‘Fabric dyes can be very toxic to plants,’ Amber said. ‘It’s getting more and more difficult to control that sort of thing. If there were enough complaints, then the council would have to take my concerns seriously.’
Minnie glanced down at Amber’s feet. She was wearing sensible black shoes, with the laces tied in a double-knot. ‘Do you ever wear high heels?’ Minnie asked.
Amber frowned. ‘No. I don’t know how anyone can walk in them. I wear these, or my vegan boots. Why?’
‘No reason,’ Minnie replied.
Amber tapped the blue form that lay on the workbench. ‘Can I count on your support?’
Bernice didn’t pick it up.
‘I’ll be reporting this incident anyway,’ Amber said. ‘Even without your testimony the council will have to realise that the Carnival brings out the worst in people.’
Bernice glared at Amber. ‘I think you’d better go, don’t you?’
Amber shrugged and tucked the form back in her briefcase. ‘You know where I am if you change your mind.’
They watched her leave in silence.
Well, all except Sylvie. ‘That woman is a witch!’ she said loudly. ‘She turns up here looking all sweet and shy but really she wants to stop Carnival just because she thinks people are having too much fun! Oh! You don’t think she would have ruined your costume, do you? To give Carnival a bad reputation?’
They all looked at the dummy.
‘She is vegan,’ Minnie said. ‘Maybe she hates feathers. When they’re not on birds, I mean.’
‘And she’s always going on about the litter and the noise pollution,’ Bernice said softly.
Flora wrote Amber’s name in her notebook. As she pressed, the charcoal stick snapped in two. A dark line scored its way across the page. ‘Rats!’
Then Flora tilted her head. ‘That’s weird,’ she said. ‘Look at this.’ She held one half of the charcoal and tilted it so that the others could see. The very centre of the charcoal stick was pale wood. It wasn’t singed all the way through, the way that charcoal was supposed to be.
‘It isn’t real charcoal!’ Minnie said. ‘Otherwise it would be burnt all the way through.’
Flora tapped her notebook a few times and watched the dark flakes fall. Then she grinned.
‘I think I know how the costume was ruined,’ she said.
‘How?’ Bernice asked.
‘Sylvie, where did you find this charcoal?’
Sylvie waved vaguely towards the ground. ‘Just there.’
‘Under the letter box?’
‘I guess so, yes.’
‘Is it yours?’ Flora asked Bernice.
Bernice shook her head.
Of course! Minnie saw at once what Flora was getting at. Everything in Bernice’s workshop was neatly ordered! Each object had its place. Even though it was a riot of colour, the riot was organised. It was the same at the salon. Bernice was always tidying, sweeping up locks of hair. There was no way she would leave charcoal lying around. Especially not fake charcoal. The charcoal was the thing that didn’t belong! Which meant it had to be a clue.
Flora moved over to the letter box and pulled up the flap. ‘Imagine you wanted to make the letter box stay open. You might use a stick wedged up like a clothes prop. And, if that stick spent a long time, hours, being heated, then it might get scorched and start to look like charcoal.’
Minnie stepped closer to the letter box too and peered through the rectangle of light. She could see the dirt road and the footpath outside the lock-ups.
‘But what would make a stick that hot?’ Sylvie asked.
‘Burning!’ Minnie said suddenly. ‘That’s what I smelt when you first opened the door. It was burnt feathers! They smell as bad as burnt hair. Bernice, if someone directed a heater into the space, and left it on all night long, what would happen to your outfit?’
Bernice turned to look at the manky creation on the dummy. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘that would happen.’
‘So,’ Sylvie said, ‘someone in high heels stood outside the letter box with a heater?’
Flora shook her head. ‘Not exactly. A really powerful lamp would generate lots of heat, and if you positioned it properly you could focus an intense, boiling-hot spotlight on one place.’
‘And,’ Minnie said with a grin, ‘a really powerful lamp left on overnight would attract some really big moths too! That’s why there were moths in Big Phil’s lock-up!’
‘But who?’ Sylvie said. ‘Who was the lamp-holder in heels? Do you know?’
‘Yes! Because the marks on the ground weren’t high heels at all,’ Flora said. She marched back to the table. Minnie joined her. With half of the fake-charcoal Flora drew six dots on her pad, just like the marks they’d seen outside. She joined three of the dots to form a triangle, then joined the remaining three to form a second triangle.
‘A tripod!’ Minnie said. ‘Like the ones we saw by the stage on Marsh Road! Someone with a strong light on a tripod did this! Someone set it up, but wasn’t happy, so they moved it to get just the right angle. They could have left it there for hours without having to do anything else.’
‘It was Jasleen,’ Flora said. ‘Her and her boyfriend. He works with the filming crew. They use spotlights all the time.’ Flora rolled the charcoal piece along the workbench. ‘This must have dropped inside the letter box, instead of outside, when the crime was done. Jasleen hoped we wouldn’t notice. I think she came back here to try to get it. Remember her looking at the ground? She was hunting for this!’
‘But why did she do it?’ Sylvie asked.
‘She’s a costume maker too,’ Bernice said. ‘She isn’t as good as me, but she’s not bad. If she walks at the front of the parade and I’m nowhere to be seen, then everyone will order their costumes from her next year.’ Bernice caught sight of her own sad, sorry costume and gulped back a sob. ‘My reputation will be as ruined as these feathers.’
‘But how can we prove it?’ Minnie asked. ‘There won’t be any prints on the charcoal now we’ve touched it. And finding any witnesses will be difficult, if not impossible. Big Phil was worse than useless.’
‘Hey!’ a bass voice said. ‘I heard that.’ Big Phil stepped into the room, carrying a huge suitcase.
‘Sorry,’ Minnie said, feeling her cheeks redden.
‘I heard everything. And I don’t think you need to prove she did it,’ Big Phil said, ‘you just need to prove that it doesn’t matter that she did it. You need to show her that you won’t let anything stop you.’
‘But I can’t take part in the parade dressed in that!’ Bernice said, pointing to the wreck on its stand.
Big Phil smiled shyly. ‘I bought this a little while ago.’ He gestured with the suitcase. ‘I was going to say it belonged to Marilyn Monroe and sell it on at a profit, but I thought it might fit you.’ He opened the case and pulled out a red sequined dress, with a huge spray of ostrich feathers at the shoulder. ‘You can alter it, if you want. I don’t mind.’ Big Phil hugged the dress in his huge hands. ‘You can have it. I think you’ll look beautiful in it.’
Bernice took a deep breath. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘No one’s going to rain on my parade. I’ll show Jasleen that she can’t stop me, whatever she does. Pass me the frock. Minnie, fetch my scissors. Twins, we’ll need all the lace you can find. I’ve got three hours to make a showstopper. Thank you, Philip!’
As she took the dress from his hands, she dropped a quick kiss on his cheek. Big Phil blushed redder than the fake Marilyn gown.
At noon precisely, the steel drums launched into their first tune: crackling bass notes first, then trilling top notes and a surging rhythm that made everyone who could hear it start to bob. Minnie grabbed Flora’s hand and lifted it up and down in time to the beat. ‘It’s starting!’
Then the parade swung into view. Dancers led the way, stepping forward and to the side, forward and back, repeating the pattern in time to the music. Like butterflies, like flowers, like birds of paradise, the colour and sound moved closer.
There was Bernice! Looking wonderful in red ostrich feathers reaching to the sky, gold paint on her neck and arms, and a smile spread like warm butter from ear to ear.
And keeping pace with her in the crowd was Big Phil, looking pleased as punch.
But where was Jasleen?
Minnie raised herself on tiptoe.
There!
Right at the back of the line. With no one looking at her, or smiling, or dancing at her side.
‘I guess everyone has heard what she did,’ Flora said. ‘I don’t suppose anyone will be ordering their costume from Jasleen again.’
‘And moany Amber has nothing she can complain about,’ Sylvie said.
Minnie forced the shadow that Jasleen had tried to create from her mind. ‘Doesn’t Bernice look wonderful?’ she asked.
‘Big Phil certainly thinks so,’ Sylvie replied.
As the drums gave way to a brass ensemble, the pace of the bobbing grew more insistent. Minnie found her feet moving whether she wanted them to or not, her hands clapping. She was dancing in the street, like a proper performer! Other hands joined in. Flora, Sylvie, the people beyond them, all dancing in time.
And it seemed to Minnie that in that moment everyone in the parade, in the audience, everyone in the whole world maybe, was full of fireworks.
*
Read more about Minnie, Flora and Sylvie in the Marsh Road Mysteries series! Available from Bloomsbury now.
