across the marble floor as she teetered towards her mother and said, “Oh, for pity’s sake!” She looked down at the broken body. “Sylvia, you’d better carry her up to her room. And then I guess you should call a doctor.”
“I think it’s a little late for that—” Sylvia began.
“I can see that,” Judy said waspishly. “But he’ll need to sign a death certificate or something, won’t he? Go on, pick her up.”
“You mustn’t!” I protested. “Don’t touch anything.”
Judy looked at me and her eyes narrowed into snake-like slits. “And who the hell are you?”
“This is Poppy. Her mother, Ms Fields, is doing some work for Miss Sugarcandy, or at least she was…” said Sylvia.
“First I’ve heard of it,” snarled Judy.
Mum stepped in front of me then as if to defend me from the savagery of Judy’s glare. I took advantage of it by slipping a hand into Mum’s pocket and pulling out her mobile phone.
Then Graham and I edged casually back towards the front door and stepped outside. I dialled 999.
It didn’t work.
“You’re dialling the wrong number,” said Graham. “It’s 911 over here. And you probably need the country code too.”
So, thankful for Graham’s nerdiness once again, I dialled the numbers he told me to and this time got through to the police.
“I’m at Miss Sugarcandy’s house,” I explained quickly. “And she’s dead. It looks like an accident but I don’t think it is—”
“Sure, honey,” said a crisp voice at the other end. “Now hang up so people in real trouble can get through.”
“I’m not joking,” I said.
“Yeah, right.”
“No, really. It looks like she’s fallen down the stairs. Her neck’s broken.”
The person on the other end sighed and said, “OK, sugar, but you’d better not be kidding. I’ll get a car up there right now. Don’t touch anything, and don’t let anybody leave the premises.”
We went back into the house.
Mum was saying quietly, “Surely the authorities ought to be told? In England if there’s a sudden death—”
“There’ll be no cops,” Judy barked.
“But—” said Mum and Sylvia together.
“She had a fall,” Judy said firmly. “Anyone can see that. Sylvia, pick her up. And you.” She fixed Mum with a fierce look. “Whoever you are and whatever you think you’re doing here, you can go right back to wherever you came from.”
“I don’t think we can actually,” I said. “The police say we have to stay here.”
“You called the cops?!” shrieked Judy.
“Yes. They’re on their way.”
As if to back me up, the sound of sirens drifted in through the mansion doors, faintly distant, but growing louder.
“Great!” sneered Judy. “That’s all I need. I’m going to my room.”
“You can’t,” I told her. “We’ve all got to stay exactly where we are until they arrive. We’re witnesses, you see.”
“Witnesses?” Judy screamed, her face growing as red as her lipstick. She glared at me. “To what? An old lady whose heel snapped? An old lady who took a tumble and broke her own neck?”
“No,” I said, swallowing nervously but staring straight back at her. “Witnesses to murder.”
was it murder?
Tea was the only solution. When the police arrived we were confined to the vast kitchen while they examined the scene of the crime. Baby Sugarcandy’s furniture, fixtures and fittings looked like they had been magically transported from an old-fashioned English farmhouse, which was quite a surprise among all that steel and glass. Finding a copper kettle, Mum filled it and set it on the Aga to boil. Judy sat at the long pine table, picking off her scarlet nail polish and looking furious.
Sylvia stood in the middle of the slate-tiled floor, her hands knotting and unknotting themselves, uncertain about what to do with herself.
Graham and I retired to the far corner, where a warm, floral-scented breeze was blowing through an open window. Perching on high stools by the counter, I
“I think it’s a little late for that—” Sylvia began.
“I can see that,” Judy said waspishly. “But he’ll need to sign a death certificate or something, won’t he? Go on, pick her up.”
“You mustn’t!” I protested. “Don’t touch anything.”
Judy looked at me and her eyes narrowed into snake-like slits. “And who the hell are you?”
“This is Poppy. Her mother, Ms Fields, is doing some work for Miss Sugarcandy, or at least she was…” said Sylvia.
“First I’ve heard of it,” snarled Judy.
Mum stepped in front of me then as if to defend me from the savagery of Judy’s glare. I took advantage of it by slipping a hand into Mum’s pocket and pulling out her mobile phone.
Then Graham and I edged casually back towards the front door and stepped outside. I dialled 999.
It didn’t work.
“You’re dialling the wrong number,” said Graham. “It’s 911 over here. And you probably need the country code too.”
So, thankful for Graham’s nerdiness once again, I dialled the numbers he told me to and this time got through to the police.
“I’m at Miss Sugarcandy’s house,” I explained quickly. “And she’s dead. It looks like an accident but I don’t think it is—”
“Sure, honey,” said a crisp voice at the other end. “Now hang up so people in real trouble can get through.”
“I’m not joking,” I said.
“Yeah, right.”
“No, really. It looks like she’s fallen down the stairs. Her neck’s broken.”
The person on the other end sighed and said, “OK, sugar, but you’d better not be kidding. I’ll get a car up there right now. Don’t touch anything, and don’t let anybody leave the premises.”
We went back into the house.
Mum was saying quietly, “Surely the authorities ought to be told? In England if there’s a sudden death—”
“There’ll be no cops,” Judy barked.
“But—” said Mum and Sylvia together.
“She had a fall,” Judy said firmly. “Anyone can see that. Sylvia, pick her up. And you.” She fixed Mum with a fierce look. “Whoever you are and whatever you think you’re doing here, you can go right back to wherever you came from.”
“I don’t think we can actually,” I said. “The police say we have to stay here.”
“You called the cops?!” shrieked Judy.
“Yes. They’re on their way.”
As if to back me up, the sound of sirens drifted in through the mansion doors, faintly distant, but growing louder.
“Great!” sneered Judy. “That’s all I need. I’m going to my room.”
“You can’t,” I told her. “We’ve all got to stay exactly where we are until they arrive. We’re witnesses, you see.”
“Witnesses?” Judy screamed, her face growing as red as her lipstick. She glared at me. “To what? An old lady whose heel snapped? An old lady who took a tumble and broke her own neck?”
“No,” I said, swallowing nervously but staring straight back at her. “Witnesses to murder.”
was it murder?
Tea was the only solution. When the police arrived we were confined to the vast kitchen while they examined the scene of the crime. Baby Sugarcandy’s furniture, fixtures and fittings looked like they had been magically transported from an old-fashioned English farmhouse, which was quite a surprise among all that steel and glass. Finding a copper kettle, Mum filled it and set it on the Aga to boil. Judy sat at the long pine table, picking off her scarlet nail polish and looking furious.
Sylvia stood in the middle of the slate-tiled floor, her hands knotting and unknotting themselves, uncertain about what to do with herself.
Graham and I retired to the far corner, where a warm, floral-scented breeze was blowing through an open window. Perching on high stools by the counter, I
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