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Danny’s comments about my sexy overalls made me smile when I pulled them over my clothes the following morning. Though I suspected he was fibbing, it still put a spring in my step when I ran downstairs to prepare the dining room for decorating. To my delight Danny had arrived early and prepped the room. When he gave me instructions for the day I listened because he had helped Dad yesterday. Danny’s instructions seemed to involve lots of carrying, waiting and sweeping. Eventually, I could not resist a couple of salutes and sarcastic muttering under my breath. To distract myself from the menial tasks Danny assigned me, I completed some clumsy dance moves to ‘Happy’ while he rolled paint on the wall in time to the music. Heat filled every single space as we worked, and sunshine burst in through the patio doors that were flung open.

‘How long before I can paint the walls myself?’ I shouted above the radio.

‘Not until you finish your apprenticeship and learn not to slop the paint on,’ he said, grinning.

Rolling my eyes, I said, ‘Now my jobs feel like punishment.’

‘Sorry.’ Danny put down the roller. ‘I haven’t got much time and thought it’d be quicker if I got on with it.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘Tea break,’ called Mum from the doorway. ‘And they’re not just any biscuits, if you know what I mean.’

My hair had worked loose from the hairband and Danny pushed the wet strands from my face and secured my cap back in place. His face was covered in beads of sweat, so I dabbed it with kitchen roll, causing his face to light up with a smile. Forget the song, his presence made me happy and enabled me to push worries to one side. Matt would have been appalled at my scruffy decorating clothes. What had I seen in that prat?

We grabbed mugs of tea to join Mum and Dad at the table.

Lovely cup of tea, Mrs B,’ said Danny. ‘Your daughter will finish her apprenticeship soon.’ And with those words, he pushed my baseball cap over my eyes. ‘Doesn’t she look great in her work gear?’

I saluted Danny and took a huge slurp of tea. ‘I need more sugar like a real builder,’ I said. But as I glanced down towards the potting shed, I yearned for Aunt Ada to join us. ‘Aunt Ada would’ve loved this.’ Contents of the letter buzzed in my head. I have to embark on one final adventure in Paris. I hoped she had enjoyed springtime. I may not survive this final adventure… What did she mean? A glimmer of hope was sparked by the fact that her body had not been recovered after the explosion. ‘Forget Paris.’ I blurted out my thoughts, then looked at my dad who was struggling to walk around. ‘I need to cancel the flights.’

Dad studied me for a few moments and said, ‘If you want to go to Paris on a wild goose chase to see if Aunt Ada is there, then do it for your own peace of mind. And don’t worry about me. The doctor said it’s good they found the problem and can monitor it. I’ll have to change a few things, but it looks good for the future. Thanks to Danny, I now know what’s wrong. I owe you a pint, lad. I won’t be able to go to Felix’s posh do tonight.’

‘And neither will I,’ added Mum. ‘I want to be here for your dad. We wondered if Danny would go instead.’ When she looked at me, I was relieved she did not wink.

‘I’d love to,’ said Danny. ‘I’ll have to get home now to cancel a few calls. See you later.’

I kissed Dad on the cheek and then Bronte pushed her way onto Dad’s lap, waiting for him to fuss her. Afterwards, Bronte nudged my hand with her nose until I followed her to the bottom of the garden. ‘What is it, Bronte?’

As I walked towards the bottom of the garden, the signal of my phone became stronger. An email arrived and was probably a reminder of the work I needed to send to my mentor for the start of term. Thoughts of the new job rested in my gut. I hadn’t started preparations yet and wanted to dig into more research about my aunt. Piles of books arrived from publishers to be reviewed, and the shiny new books were also much more tempting than planning lessons. I had also been thinking about writing a story for the Heatherbridge Literary Festival.

Bronte’s tail wagged frantically when I got closer to the shed. She halted at a plant pot and tapped it with her paw.

‘What is it, lass?’ When I lifted up the pot, I revealed a large silver key. Though I expected the shed door to be jammed, the key opened it instantly as if it was in regular use. Inside the potting shed there were stacks and stacks of plastic pots and a heap of potting compost. Gardening tools were attached to the walls, and there were shelves of weed killers and watering cans in all shapes and sizes. Rusty old metal cans and tired terracotta pots sat on top of deckchairs, and there was a huge tangle of red and white bunting. When shifting items, my hand rested on the wooden wall and it moved. I sighed because I didn’t want more repairs. Bronte scratched at the wooden wall with her paws and whimpered. To test the strength of the wall, I pushed it.

Pushing the wall again, I found a panel the size of a door that opened into another room. A huge noticeboard full of newspaper articles dominated a wall. Quickly scanning, I realised the articles were all about Bella Caron and her writing successes. There was a huge burgundy leather chair with a large, modern reading lamp arched over it, and a blue hardback book rested open on the arm. It was an older edition of a Bella Mystery. Inside the front cover, there was an illustration of the Eiffel Tower. The novel was called Paris Secrets . Paris. I thought of the blog post where there was a murder in a Paris apartment. On the inside cover it said, ‘ Will Bella visit Paris again ?’ There was a large circle around a description of a bistro with the words ‘Visit this place’ in large letters. In smaller writing I read ‘Bob’s apartment’ and frowned. What did it mean? I flicked through the novel and stopped at a page about the author and noticed: ‘Bella Caron always visits the setting of a novel to capture the atmosphere. ’

My body fitted perfectly into the worn chair and it seemed to hug me. Bronte settled at my feet and closed her eyes. I tapped my foot on the oak floor and listened to the rhythmic chime of the black and white clock on the wall. Opposite there was a simple log burner and I imagined spending winter evenings in here with my marking. So many people stepped in and out of my aunt’s cottage that this was probably her sanctuary. There was a sink in the corner, a fridge and filing cabinets. I checked the kettle and noticed it was warm. I poured the tepid water onto my hand. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach. Scanning pages of the Bella Mystery, I followed Bella down the long, tree-lined avenues because all the settings were highlighted. And a leaflet used as a bookmark was a map of Paris with areas circled. This confirmed I had to go to Paris. When I opened my phone to search for more information about the missing author, I realised another of my aunt’s blog posts had arrived.

Pages of Other Worlds Blog

Sacré Coeur

15 th April, 2019

I ascended the stone steps of Sacré Coeur as tourists rushed past me. Perched on a wooden pew, I contemplated the days remaining and allowed the sunlight to rest on my face. Sharp whispers echoed. A woman, dressed in a black coat, sat alone and seemed to be talking to the empty seat in front of her. I recognised Bella and sat beside her. I saw her long lashes as she regarded a pile of papers.

‘Come along now. You must forgive him and let the story move on.’ She pointed at the manuscript. ‘I must let you all go your own way and not listen to my agent. I won’t let you down.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ I asked. ‘I am a retired editor.’

‘No,’ she said sharply, fumbling with a diamond pendant on a heavy, glittering necklace. ‘I know someone who can help.’ As if aware of me observing the necklace, she removed a large polka-dot scarf from her bag and arranged it in an elegant design. She picked up her document, then marched towards the door.

She left a page on the pew, so I attempted to run after her and almost knocked over a candle. Bella ran down the steps.

I searched the date on the blog and noted it on a timeline. And then I spied a white piece of paper trapped beneath the filing cabinet in the potting shed. Pulling it out, I noted the title at the top read ‘ Lost Paris Secret’ . There was one sentence on the page that said:

Her black Chanel handbag hid in the flea market for five decades. No one attempted to open the rusty clasp. A knife, compact mirror and the last letter to her lover lurked inside.

The End

Lost Paris Secret must be in the same series as Paris Secret . Was this the ending of Bella’s final mystery? Had my aunt returned with the final page? Ideas were bouncing around, and I needed to get out of the dusty, damp room. Bronte scratched the wooden floor when she eased herself onto her feet and jumped up onto my lap. I could not move her. I closed my eyes for a few seconds and let my thoughts dance around in my head. If I went to Paris, I would begin with the bistro and all the other places I had marked on a map with Mum. I viewed the page again and smoothed my fingers over the sentence. Surely, my aunt would not steal part of a manuscript.

At a loss what to do, I searched for flights to Paris again and bought another no-frills ticket. Danny had emailed links to Paris accommodation, but there were only lots of expensive apartments. Maybe it would be cheaper to find a hotel room. I clicked on my aunt’s blog to check out the area again, giving myself time to think. There were lots of comments from her readers, but no one knew what had happened to her.

Navigating through the colourful blog, I wished I knew the password so that I could contact the readers, hoping maybe someone could offer to put me up in Paris. I hovered over the homepage and noticed another blog had been posted. This hadn’t arrived in my inbox yet.

Pages of Other Worlds Blog

Place du Tertre

Dearest Readers,

‘Ay me! Sad hours seem long.’ Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet.

Here in one of the most romantic cities in the world, I viewed Bella from the Place du Tertre each day, searching for an opportunity to speak with her. From my seat in the square, I pretend to make sketches of the ancient cobbles and bistros hooded with faded canopies. Confidently, I colour in line drawings prepared by my artist friend. Romance surrounds passing couples and compels them to purchase a souvenir of the moment. It is their first visit to Paris, so I reduce the price.

But Bella sits alone with her ancient typewriter in front of the window in her apartment. Cling, clang, ting escapes from the window as she taps away, breathing life into her characters. She often stands outside the door of her apartment with a cigarette and a notebook. She mumbles to herself. No one calls at the apartment.

Should I approach her on behalf of you, dear readers, and assure her we trust her to tell her story? Today, I saw her place a battered briefcase beside her on a bench and a man came along and took it with him.

My aunt invested so much time watching Bella. The constant flow of blogs from my aunt seemed to be telling me something, but I wasn’t sure what exactly. The ring of my mobile phone disrupted my thoughts.

Taxi will arrive at 7pm. I’ll meet you outside. Danny.