“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.”