The woman he knocked over. The one who hid behind the vending machine.
“ItisCarter, right?” She’s smiling and she holds a tray loaded with small pastries, a muffin, juice, a mug with a teabag label hanging over the rim. She wears a khaki skirt, a loose T-shirt, a floral overshirt, and stubby walking sandals. A sun hat dangles from a cord over her arm—she’s all ready for a tour.
He nods.
“Do you mind if I sit?”
“I guess,” he says.
She slides his mom’s tray aside and sets hers down.
“How do you know my name?”
“Your grandfather mentioned it at the talk last night.” She bites into a pastry.
“He did?”
“Mm-hmm.” She speaks around her mouthful. “Said you and your mom are traveling with him, that you’re eight, and planning to be a detective like him some day.”
His heart picks up. He stops kicking his chair. “I will be.”
“He mentioned your notebook of suspicious things—”
“Happenings.”
“What?”
“Suspicioushappenings, not things.”
“Ah, of course. Sorry.” She sips her tea without removing the bag. “Happenings. Either way, he seemed very proud.”
Carter’s chest fills with joy.
“And I remembered your book on the floor after you knocked me over. I put two and two together, and figured you, Carter Frost, are the grandson of the famous Dr. Marsh. Seriously, though, he is one of my favorite-ever true crime writers. I have every one of his books.”
He sips his chocolate milk. “I’m sorry I knocked you over.”
“I survived.” She grins. “But you did seem scared of that man with the orchid in his lapel.”
His mood sobers. He says nothing.
She bites into another pastry, brushing crumbs away. “You know, Carter, I was behind that corner because I’m very much like you. I love mysteries and investigating suspicious happenings. I was curious about that couple—the orchid man and the red-haired woman.”
“Arrabella.”
Her hands go dead still. Her eyes widen. She lowers her mug. “So you heard her name?”
He nods.
“Did you hear what else they were talking about?”
He glances at his mom, then at the door. Still no Gramps.
He hesitates, then asks, “Are you a spy?”
She smiles. “Nope. Just a wannabe Hercule Poirot. Do you know him?”
“Yeah, he’s a famous fictional detective. Like Sherlock Holmes, Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, and Harry Buttons the Spy.” He considers her a moment. “But you’d make a better Miss Marple than a Poirot. Or maybe a Jessica Fletcher.”
