opened my body language book, and Graham opened his
Guiness World Records
. Neither of us read a word, there was too much going on for that. But the books were a useful screen to hide behind while we had a hasty, whispered conversation.
“Are you sure she was murdered?” muttered Graham nervously. “It looked like an accident to me. The police won’t be amused if you’re wrong.”
“Her hair was wet,” I replied. “And it smelt funny. Like she’d been bleaching it.”
“So? Maybe she had,” said Graham.
“With that posh dress on?” I said. “I don’t think so.”
Graham looked perplexed as if the mysteries of hairdressing were utterly beyond his comprehension. “Well, you wear clothes to go to the hairdresser don’t you? And if you go to a posh salon you’d wear posh clothes, wouldn’t you? I don’t think that’s necessarily significant.”
I considered. I hoped he wasn’t right. I mean, I’d only been to a salon once. Most of the time Mum was happy to trim my fringe with a pair of kitchen scissors but she’d made me go and have a proper haircut just before she’d won that prize at the Chelsea Flower Show. They had basins that you tipped your head back into while someone else washed it. “She was at home, Graham, not the hairdressers.”
“She’s a star. She might have an army of stylists in the house for all we know. Probably got a whole salon upstairs.”
I was beginning to suspect that Graham might be right, in which case I would be arrested for wasting police time. Oh dear. “OK,” I said reluctantly. “But why would she have been walking around with wet hair? When I went with my mum we had our hair blow-dried.” I shuddered. I’d hated every second of it.
“Perhaps she got interrupted,” suggested Graham. “The phone could have rung, or someone could have come to the door…”
“Mmmmm, maybe.” I didn’t want to let go of my hunch that things weren’t right. But I’d had hunches before that had turned out to be mistakes. Fighting a sinking feeling, I shut my eyes and recalled exactly how Baby Sugarcandy had looked. The soggy hair. The diamonds. “That’s it!” I hissed. “Got it. I know what was wrong. Even if she’d been in the middle of having her hair washed, surely she would have taken her earrings off first?”
“That would seem to be the logical thing to do,” Graham agreed.
At that point the kettle screamed to announce it was boiling and Mum dashed to take it off the heat. She was intercepted by Sylvia, who said with a contorted smile, “You’re a guest here. I’ll make the tea.”
“Oh, I’d rather—” protested Mum.
“I know what you’re thinking. It’s what all you British assume: Americans can’t make proper tea?”
Mum blushed.
“You’re forgetting Miss Sugarcandy’s English,” Sylvia said. And then she corrected herself. “
Was
English. At any rate, she had me well trained. She was fond of her tea. I do know how to make a ‘proper cuppa’.”
She did too. A few minutes later Sylvia placed two cups next to me and Graham and, with slightly shaking hands, poured in a dash of milk, then the tea: boiling hot, not too strong. Then she dropped in three lumps of sugar each. “Good for shock,” she said, patting me awkwardly on the arm before going off to pour tea for Mum. I appreciated the thought but I didn’t really need the sugar: I wasn’t particularly shocked. Surprised, yes. A little excited, perhaps, but mostly absolutely riveted.
After a long time in which Sylvia and Mum struggled to make polite conversation and Judy maintained a frosty silence, the kitchen door crashed open and a man who looked just like Friar Tuck in a suit walked in. He was so wide around the middle that he reminded me of a toy I’d once had that bounced back upright no matter how hard and how often I pushed it over. But despite his cuddly appearance there was a glint of steel in his eyes that said he wasn’t someone to mess with. He was the kind of
Guiness World Records
. Neither of us read a word, there was too much going on for that. But the books were a useful screen to hide behind while we had a hasty, whispered conversation.
“Are you sure she was murdered?” muttered Graham nervously. “It looked like an accident to me. The police won’t be amused if you’re wrong.”
“Her hair was wet,” I replied. “And it smelt funny. Like she’d been bleaching it.”
“So? Maybe she had,” said Graham.
“With that posh dress on?” I said. “I don’t think so.”
Graham looked perplexed as if the mysteries of hairdressing were utterly beyond his comprehension. “Well, you wear clothes to go to the hairdresser don’t you? And if you go to a posh salon you’d wear posh clothes, wouldn’t you? I don’t think that’s necessarily significant.”
I considered. I hoped he wasn’t right. I mean, I’d only been to a salon once. Most of the time Mum was happy to trim my fringe with a pair of kitchen scissors but she’d made me go and have a proper haircut just before she’d won that prize at the Chelsea Flower Show. They had basins that you tipped your head back into while someone else washed it. “She was at home, Graham, not the hairdressers.”
“She’s a star. She might have an army of stylists in the house for all we know. Probably got a whole salon upstairs.”
I was beginning to suspect that Graham might be right, in which case I would be arrested for wasting police time. Oh dear. “OK,” I said reluctantly. “But why would she have been walking around with wet hair? When I went with my mum we had our hair blow-dried.” I shuddered. I’d hated every second of it.
“Perhaps she got interrupted,” suggested Graham. “The phone could have rung, or someone could have come to the door…”
“Mmmmm, maybe.” I didn’t want to let go of my hunch that things weren’t right. But I’d had hunches before that had turned out to be mistakes. Fighting a sinking feeling, I shut my eyes and recalled exactly how Baby Sugarcandy had looked. The soggy hair. The diamonds. “That’s it!” I hissed. “Got it. I know what was wrong. Even if she’d been in the middle of having her hair washed, surely she would have taken her earrings off first?”
“That would seem to be the logical thing to do,” Graham agreed.
At that point the kettle screamed to announce it was boiling and Mum dashed to take it off the heat. She was intercepted by Sylvia, who said with a contorted smile, “You’re a guest here. I’ll make the tea.”
“Oh, I’d rather—” protested Mum.
“I know what you’re thinking. It’s what all you British assume: Americans can’t make proper tea?”
Mum blushed.
“You’re forgetting Miss Sugarcandy’s English,” Sylvia said. And then she corrected herself. “
Was
English. At any rate, she had me well trained. She was fond of her tea. I do know how to make a ‘proper cuppa’.”
She did too. A few minutes later Sylvia placed two cups next to me and Graham and, with slightly shaking hands, poured in a dash of milk, then the tea: boiling hot, not too strong. Then she dropped in three lumps of sugar each. “Good for shock,” she said, patting me awkwardly on the arm before going off to pour tea for Mum. I appreciated the thought but I didn’t really need the sugar: I wasn’t particularly shocked. Surprised, yes. A little excited, perhaps, but mostly absolutely riveted.
After a long time in which Sylvia and Mum struggled to make polite conversation and Judy maintained a frosty silence, the kitchen door crashed open and a man who looked just like Friar Tuck in a suit walked in. He was so wide around the middle that he reminded me of a toy I’d once had that bounced back upright no matter how hard and how often I pushed it over. But despite his cuddly appearance there was a glint of steel in his eyes that said he wasn’t someone to mess with. He was the kind of
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