“I think I’ll go for a swim now,” I said loudly. “Are you coming, Graham?”
Graham hesitated, but I gave him such an intense glare that he took the hint and scurried away to collect his trunks. I was feeling suddenly uncomfortable, and wasn’t entirely sure why. The sight of grown-ups ogling each other was always stomach churning but there was more to it than that. Leaving Mum to talk about planting plans with Toby, I grabbed my things and took Graham with me for a good, long think.
We couldn’t cross the courtyard – it was full of police crawling over the flagstones looking for hairs, bits of fabric, anything that might help in the case against Len Radstock. Instead we edged around the guest wing and along the front of the house. From here we could see the grounds spread out below us. They were lovely, I thought, just right for the dry heat of California. There was something excessively lavish about the idea of transforming it all into a soggy, damp corner of England.
“Why didn’t Baby Sugarcandy just move back to Britain if she wanted an English garden?” I said crossly.
“What?” said Graham.
“All this irrigation and stuff Mum’s planning… It doesn’t seem a very environmentally friendly thing to do. I thought Toby was supposed to be an eco-warrior.”
“He’s upset about his mother,” Graham replied. “I read somewhere that grief can make people behave in all sorts of uncharacteristic ways. I suppose he’s not thinking very logically. Hey! I thought we were going for a swim?”
I was leading him in the opposite direction – away from the pool and down the long drive towards the iron gates.
There were two armed police officers guarding the entrance but they barely noticed us approach. They carried on their conversation, which we caught snatches of as we got nearer.
“Poor Toby!” the policewoman said. Clearly she was as smitten with him as Mum was. “I feel sorry for the guy. It’s tough, coming back to all this.”
Her companion – a stocky, grumpy-looking cop – replied sarcastically, “Yeah, it’s real hard coming back to a mansion that size. I wish I had luck that bad.”
“I don’t think he cares about the house,” the policewoman said. “He told me he was going to sell it right after the funeral.”
My eyebrows shot up. “That’s not what he said to Mum just now,” I muttered to Graham.
“Like I said, his mind must be addled with grief. He’s not thinking straight,” Graham defended him.
“Maybe. Or maybe he’s just really good at telling people what they want to hear.”
The policewoman continued. “Yeah. He wants to buy a chunk of rainforest. Protect it from the loggers. Use the money to do something useful, he said.”
“The guy’s a regular saint,” scoffed the grumpy-looking cop.
“Give him a break, will you? He’s nice. One of the good guys.”
“A good guy? In Hollywood? We should have him stuffed and donated to the museum!”
“Excuse me,” I said.
They both looked at us, slightly startled, as if we’d appeared out of thin air. “Hey! You’re the gardener’s kid, aren’t you?” said the man. “What can we do for you?”
“Can we go out please? We want a walk.”
“Sorry kids,” replied the cop. “You’ve got to stay here. Lieutenant Weinburger’s orders. He wants to keep you safe until we have Len Radstock locked up.”
“Oh,” I said. “OK. Well, we’ll just go to the pool then.”
I turned, but before we walked back up the drive I glanced over my shoulder at the road beyond the gates. There was the bend where Sylvia had braked for the raccoon. She’d done it so hard that tyre tracks still marked the surface.
My stomach gave an unexpected lurch. There was something significant: something I’d missed. What was it?
I started to walk, but instead of going along the drive I headed off sideways towards the shade of a copse of trees. Graham followed. When we got there we sat down, and I leant against the rough bark of a pine and closed my eyes. Graham said nothing.
I thought back to when we’d first arrived. I’d been asleep in the car. Fast asleep, not even dreaming. Then when Sylvia braked I’d banged my head. The Sat Nav had kept spouting that address and she’d got really flustered trying to switch the thing off.
Then there was the raccoon. Mum hadn’t seen it, but then she never seemed to see anything. Which was unusual, I thought, because generally speaking she is pretty observant. I hadn’t spotted it either; neither had Graham. And even though Sylvia had told us the grounds were full of them, we’d only seen one last night when Sylvia had been killed.
Last night… In the dark… The bandit-masked creature blinking as if it didn’t like the bright lights…
It hit me with the force of a bomb blast. “They’re nocturnal!” I exclaimed.
“What are?” asked Graham.
“Raccoons!”
He shrugged. “I know.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” I demanded.
“You never asked,” he replied.
I was up on my feet, pacing. “Mum didn’t see that raccoon when Sylvia braked because there wasn’t one to see! There couldn’t have been, not in broad daylight, because they only come out at night. Sylvia lied. Why did she do that? Why did she brake so hard? There must have been some reason.”
“I suppose what we have to consider is what it achieved,” said Graham. “What was the end result of her actions?”
“OK. What happened? I woke up. Was that what Sylvia wanted? She was watching me really closely afterwards when we’d driven through the gates. Why?” The answer plopped into my head, clear and cool as a drop of iced water. “So I’d get a good look at Len Radstock. Which meant she already knew he was there!”
I thought back carefully over everything Sylvia had said and done since we’d arrived in America. “I was suspicious of her right from the start, but then she was killed. That was what confused me. Let’s pretend for a minute that she didn’t die.”
“You don’t think Sylvia might have been behind everything?”
“It’s just a theory,” I said. “Come on Graham, let’s give it a go. Suppose Sylvia was the one who let Len Radstock in?”
“Why would she have done that?”
“Maybe it was so that he’d get the blame for everything. He looked really scared when I saw him. And upset too – not like he’d just deliberately killed his ex-wife in cold blood. Suppose Baby Sugarcandy was already dead by the time he showed up?”
“It’s theoretically possible,” agreed Graham.
I remembered something else. “There was that address, wasn’t there – the one the Sat Nav kept blurting out? She didn’t want us to hear that – she got really stressed over it. It was the only time I saw her flustered. I wish I could remember what it said.”
“1171 Orangeblossom Boulevard,” Graham answered promptly. “I made sure I remembered it. It’s about a mile from here.”
I was impressed. “How do you know that?”
“I paid close attention to the street names when Lieutenant Weinburger drove us back yesterday,” Graham replied. “It’s a habit, I suppose. But what does that address have to do with anything?”
“Well Sylvia organized our flights and everything, didn’t she? If she was planning on framing Len for the murder maybe she was the one who invited him over here. Suppose she organized his flights too? She could have collected him from the airport and taken him to Orangeblossom Boulevard – that would be why the address was on the Sat Nav and why she was so bothered when it went bonkers like that. Then maybe she gave him a key to get in to the estate? It could have all been a set-up!”
Graham shook his head. “I agree that Sylvia could have killed Baby Sugarcandy and then gone off to collect us from the airport. But then when Judy died Sylvia saw Len. He must have killed Judy.”
“Not necessarily. No one else saw him, did they? We were right near there and we didn’t. Not even my Mum saw him, and she was walking around on t
he terraces all morning. Suppose it was like the raccoon? Suppose none of us saw Len because he wasn’t there to see? Sylvia could have taken the drink to Judy, lured her to the side of the pool and then strangled her. She’d said she was on her way to the pool, but she could just as easily have been coming back.”
“I can see it could have happened like that.” Graham was nodding like a toy dog on a car shelf. “But if that was the case, what was her motive?”
I chewed my lip. There had to be something! I remembered Sylvia’s face on the night she’d died – that slick of lipstick, the dress, the radiant smile… And then I spoke aloud as an idea came to me. “Not something… Someone.” She’d done it for someone. And her reward was to be killed by the very person she’d tried to please. “Who benefits?” I said slowly. “We asked that right at the beginning. There’s only one answer to that. There always has been!” I balled my hands into fists and pressed them to my eyes in sudden fury. “How could I have been so stupid?”
Graham tried to catch up. “You mean it’s not the puppeteer?”
“Oh, the murderer’s a puppeteer all right. But it’s not the Punch and Judy man,” I snarled angrily. This killer didn’t work with wooden dolls, but with real life human marionettes. “He’s been treating everybody – including us – as if we’re puppets. He’s put us on a stage and got us dancing just the way he wants. He’s been pulling our strings all along.” I gritted my teeth when I saw how completely I’d been taken in: I’d played my part perfectly; I’d done exactly what he wanted. Well, not any more.
“I don’t understand,” said Graham. “Who…?”
“Toby,” I growled.
Graham’s eyes almost popped out of his head. “But he’s so nice,” he protested.
“No he’s not. He’s a very good actor. Don’t you see? He’s going to get the whole estate. He must have been planning this for years.”
Graham paled. “So what do we do? Tell Lieutenant Weinburger?”
“No. It took enough time to persuade him it was the Punch and Judy man in the first place. It’ll take too long to convince him it’s Toby. We’ve got to get to Orangeblossom Boulevard right now.”
“Why?”
“Because if we don’t another murder will be committed!”
over the wall
I didn’t like leaving Mum walking around Baby Sugarcandy’s grounds with a murderer, believe me, but I didn’t have much choice. If Toby knew that I’d worked out what he’d been up to we’d all be done for. Plus I knew from experience that once Mum started talking about gardens she’d be at it all morning. If we were lucky she’d keep Toby fully occupied while Graham and I:
a) found Len Radstock;
b) warned him he was in danger; and
c) persuaded Lieutenant Weinburger that Len Radstock had been framed.
But first we had to escape from the grounds. The police cordon around Baby Sugarcandy’s estate was there to stop the murderer from getting in. I reckoned they wouldn’t be looking quite so hard for two kids getting out.
I could see the two cops on the gate were still talking. We crept along the boundary looking for an exit route. The wall was high, but if we could find a tree that was close enough we could use it to climb up and over. Just over the brow of the hill, out of sight of the cops, we found it – a slender, sloping pine with a branch that reached out across the wall. I started to scale the tree, arms and legs wrapped tightly around the trunk as if it were a thick rope. Once I reached the branch I clasped it and swung myself along, hand over hand, until I was dangling on the far side of the wall. The ground was about three metres below. It was a long drop, but I curled into a ball on impact and rolled sideways to soften the blow. I was dirty, but uninjured. Graham dropped down after me, white-faced and shaking, but doing his level best to keep up. The road to Baby’s estate crossed the hill in zigzags but we went straight down, slipping and sliding over scree and stones, weaving between trees and bushes, until we reached the bottom. As soon as we were on level ground I began to run, my feet pounding hard on the dry earth, Graham staggering along a few paces behind.
I’m a good runner – I’ve won medals for it at school – but by the time we reached Orangeblossom Boulevard my heart was pounding so hard that it was bruising my ribs from the inside; my lungs were threatening to burst; and I had a stitch that was practically bending me double. Poor Graham looked as if he was about to die. We paused at the end of the street just long enough to recover.
“1171’s over there,” Graham wheezed.
“Right,” I huffed back. “I’ll go in and see if I can find Len Radstock. We need to get him out of there. You stick around out here. Keep an eye on the door, OK? If anything happens, shout for help.”
I took a few deep breaths and calmed myself. Then I set off along the street. I reached 1171 and studied the door. The smart apartment block had fifteen buzzers in a column. None of them had the name “Radstock”, but then that was hardly surprising.
How was I going to find him? Once more I read the list of names next to the buzzers. They were all neatly printed and perfectly legible apart from one. The flat at the top had a label that was scuffed and the ink had run so badly that the name couldn’t be read by anyone: not pizza delivery guys, not the postman, not friends. Either it was empty, or whoever was staying there didn’t expect any visitors. Following my hunch, I pressed the buzzer. No reply. I pressed it again. Nothing.
But then he wasn’t going to answer, was he? For all he knew, I could be the police … or the murderer. I’d have to find another way of getting in.
I pressed the buzzer below and a voice barked through the intercom, “Yeah?”
It was nearly lunchtime. Worth a try. “Pizza delivery!” I yelled.
“I didn’t order no pizza.”
“Sorry, wrong buzzer.”
A stream of rude words crackled back at me, making me wince. I tried the next one down.
This time the offer of food was rewarded with, “That was quick! Come on up.”
There was a click from the lock as the person on the other end of the intercom pressed the button to release it. Pushing hard against the heavy front door, I slipped quietly into the building.
I opted for the lift, but it moved achingly slowly. I jiggled nervously on the spot as it rose through the levels, stopping at each one, finally pinging to a complete halt on the fifteenth floor.
This was it. I was here. I stepped into the narrow hallway. The stairs leading back down were to my right. Opposite me was the front door to the apartment Len Radstock was staying in. Or might be. I hoped I’d got it right. Swallowing nervously, I crossed the hall and knocked on the door. Not loud enough, I thought. I banged harder. No one came to answer, but I heard something inside – the faintest movement, as if someone had been startled, but had now frozen into silence. I banged again. Nothing.
So I cleared my throat and called, “Mr Radstock? My name’s Poppy. You don’t know me, but I think I can help.”
There was definite movement now. I heard footsteps approaching on the other side of the door, but it still didn’t open.
“Please, Mr Radstock,” I tried again. “I know you didn’t do it. Kill Miss Sugarcandy, I mean. You have to get out of there. You’re in terrible danger.”
No answer. Just the sound of someone’s breathing – short and hard as if they’d had a shock.
“Let me in, Mr Radstock. I know who did it. I’ve worked it all out.”
At last the door creaked open and a deep, warm, American voice drawled, “You do, huh? Like I said, you’re one smart cookie.”
And as I was seized by the arm and yanked inside my eyes widened with horror. Because the man who had answered the door wasn’t Len Radstock.
It was Toby.
fighting the devil
“You know what my mother used to say to me when I was a kid?” asked Toby calmly as he tied me to a chair. Len Radstock was lying on the floor nearby, his thinning hair crusted with scarlet. He wasn’t moving.
“‘Toby,’ she used to say, ‘You’re so sharp that one day you’re going to cut yourself.’ I never understood what she meant. I never thought it was possible for a person to be too smart. But then I met you, Poppy Fields, and now I get it. You’re so sharp you’re going to get yourself killed. Seems a pity when you were doing so well on my behalf, but there you go.”
“How did you get here before me?” I demanded, desperately playing for time.
“I could see from your face you weren’t planning to go for a swim. I figured you might work it out. So I made my excuses to your mother and drove straight here to finish the job. And now I’m almost through.”
“You don’t need to kill me,” I protested.
“Oh yes, I do,” said Toby. “Because if I don’t you’ll go blabbing to the police, I’ll get arrested and the whole beautiful plan will crumble into nothing. And I can’t allow that, Poppy, really I can’t. I’ve been working on this too long to see it fall apart now.”
“Was Sylvia part of the plan?” I asked. “You knew her, didn’t you? You were lying when you said you’d never met her.”
“Sylvia! What a sweetheart! She was so obliging: believed everything I told her so easily. She went off to work for my mother without a murmur just so I could keep an eye on Judy. You see, when my dear little sister moved back in and started spending my mother’s money I knew she had to go. And then I thought, well, why not kill them both? But I couldn’t see a way to do it. Not until Len wrote that cute little note to my mother saying he still loved her, and could they start over? I wasn’t going to allow her to squander her fortune on some old guy. But it worked out real well in the end. As soon as Sylvia told me he was a Punch and Judy man, I knew I had the perfect fall guy. She made all the arrangements for him to come and see my mother. Heck, she even booked this apartment for him to stay in. If there’s one thing I can say about Sylvia it’s that she was efficient.”
“So why kill her? She thought you two were getting married.”