The next morning dawned bright and clear, the sort of day that ought to have been spent climbing trees or cycling through the village lanes. But for the Midnight Mystery Club, mysteries always came first, and this case was getting more tangled by the minute.
Clara gathered the others in the fairground field, now quiet after the festival's bustle. "Remember," she said, her voice low and serious, "we've got to stay alert. One slip-up and our thief could vanish completely."
"Don't worry," Max said, munching on a bag of churros he'd smuggled in from the food stalls. "My eyes are sharp. My stomach's sharper."
"Your teeth will be sharper if you don't stop crunching while Clara's talking," Tom muttered.
Biscuit wagged his tail and gazed hopefully at Max's churros, which, unfortunately for him, weren't being shared.
...
Ivy drifted toward the stage area, her notebook tucked beneath her arm. Ivy was good at being invisible - which came in pretty handy for detective work. Just then, she spotted Mr. Hargrove standing near the edge of the empty platform, muttering to himself.
She leaned closer, pretending to examine the ground. She caught his words, muttered and angry.
"...finally getting what I deserve. They won't laugh at me this time."
Ivy's pencil nearly snapped with excitement. What did Hargrove mean? Deserve what? She scribbled the words down quickly, heart thumping, then hurried back to Clara.
"He's hiding something," she whispered, eyes shining. "He sounded angry—like someone who's been cheated."
Clara frowned. "That could mean anything, Ivy. But it does make him sound like a man with a grudge."
...
Meanwhile, Max was doing what Max did best—wandering about with food in hand. He had a gift for finding the tastiest stall in any festival, and today he'd discovered churros dusted with cinnamon.
But it wasn't the churros that caught his attention this time. As he licked sugar from his fingers, he noticed Mrs. Belcroft—the woman famous for her flashy velvet gowns—hovering by a set of trunks near her tent, returning from the hospital. She kept glancing around nervously, adjusting the padlock on one of them, her hands shaking.
Max's grin faded. "Hmm. Velvet gowns, nervous luggage, secret padlocks. If that isn't suspicious, then I'm a salad eater."
He popped another churro into his mouth thoughtfully, then darted back to tell Clara.
...
Tom, meanwhile, was patrolling the food stalls with Biscuit. His sharp eyes fell on a greasy-fingered vendor selling roasted nuts. The man had a bulging pocket that clinked faintly as he moved.
"That's it!" Tom thought. "He's stolen the Stradivarius and hidden the key in his pocket!"
Without waiting for Clara, he marched up to the stall. "What've you got in there?" he demanded, pointing to the man's pocket.
The vendor blinked in surprise. "Eh? My change, lad. Pennies and shillings." He pulled out a handful of coins with an offended sniff.
Tom turned scarlet. "Oh. Er. Right. Sorry."
Clara arrived just in time to rescue him, Biscuit trotting at her heels. "Tom! We can't go around accusing people without proof," she scolded.
The vendor muttered something cross under his breath, and Tom hung his head, feeling about two inches tall.
"Sorry," he mumbled. "I thought I was being clever."
Clara softened a little. "You were being brave, Tom. Just... a little too brave. Save the heroics for when we're sure."
...
Biscuit suddenly pricked his ears and dashed toward a collapsed tent pole nearby. He sniffed furiously, tail wagging. The children hurried after him.
"Good boy, Biscuit! What've you found?" Tom asked eagerly.
The golden retriever pawed at the ground, then tugged something from the grass. It was a torn scrap of crimson velvet, soft and rich to the touch.
Clara held it up, her eyes gleaming. "Velvet," she murmured. "Mrs. Belcroft always wears gowns of velvet. This could be from her dress—or her luggage."
"Velvet!" Max exclaimed, licking sugar from his fingers again. "Not only suspicious but terribly impractical for summer."
Ivy's eyes were wide. "Do you think she's the thief?"
Clara didn't answer at once. She studied the fabric, then tucked it safely into Ivy's notebook. "It points to her, yes. But remember—sometimes the first clue is just a red herring."
...
As the lamp flickered shadows on the walls, they sat cross-legged in their clubhouse that evening. Ivy lay out her notes, which included Tom's embarrassing slip-up, Biscuit's velvet discovery, Hargrove's mutterings, and Max's observation of the anxious Mrs. Belcroft.
"It all leans toward Belcroft," Ivy said, tapping her notes. "Velvet, nervous trunks, and she had the chance during the blackout."
"But Hargrove's words sounded guilty, too," Tom pointed out. "And is Belcroft still a suspect? She's vanished entirely."
Max stretched out on the floorboards, Biscuit's head resting on his stomach. "I say we search Belcroft's luggage. That'll settle it. Besides, if it's just socks in there, at least I'll know what velvet socks feel like."
Clara shook her head. "We can't just snoop. Not yet. We need proof first, or we'll look like fools. Remember Tom's vendor mistake?"
Tom groaned.
"But we're getting closer," Clara continued, her voice low. "Every clue brings us nearer. Hargrove has a grudge. Belcroft has velvet. And somewhere out there, the red-scarfed stranger is hiding. The thief is among them—I can feel it."
Their faces were covered in deep shadows as the lantern broke. As if he could feel the weight of the mystery, Biscuit let out a quiet moan.
"Tomorrow," Clara said firmly, "we follow the velvet trail. But mind—don't be fooled. Mysteries love to hide behind red herrings."
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To be continued