By Alan Bradley
Within the hamlet of Bishop's Lacey, the insidiously shrewdpermanent and unflappable eleven-year-old sleuth Flavia de Luce had requested a Gypsy girl to inform her fortune--never looking forward to to later stumble around the negative soul, bludgeoned nearly to demise within the wee hours in her personal caravan. used to be this an act of retribution by way of these confident that the soothsayer kidnapped a neighborhood baby years in the past? definitely Flavia knows the bliss of settling rankings; revenge is a pleasant hobby whilst one has odious older sisters. yet how might this crime be hooked up to the lacking child? because the pink herrings pile up, Flavia needs to style via clues fishy and foul to untangle darkish deeds and unsafe secrets.
BONUS: This version comprises an excerpt from Alan Bradley's I Am Half-Sick of Shadows.
Read Online or Download A Red Herring Without Mustard (Flavia de Luce Mysteries, Book 3) PDF
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Additional info for A Red Herring Without Mustard (Flavia de Luce Mysteries, Book 3)
I just need—” “No, she’s working, and she doesn’t know any more than I do. But there’s—” She crossed her arms, rolled her head back, and went all teenager cagey. ” She went inside, reached up next to the door, and came out with a set of keys on a ring. She held up the one marked with a blue rubber rim. “These are the new keys. ” I reached for the ring and nearly had my arm severed by the force of the slamming door. It was, indeed, the blue key that unlocked the front door. I flipped on the overhead light and beheld the empty space.
It was possible it would always be there, forever burned into my consciousness by the hot blast of adrenaline that had accompanied it. We were in Harvey’s office. Special Agent Eric Ling of the FBI sat across from me with his laptop balanced across his knees. The tea service Harvey and Rachel had shared that morning was between us: two delicate china cups on saucers, the pot, two spoons, and a bowl of sugar. One of the cups had lipstick on it. Rachel hadn’t even taken time to wash the dishes. Ling was tall for an Asian man—I guessed Chinese—and though he was wearing traditional FBI garb, his black eyes and smooth, shaved head reminded me of a lynx—coiled and dark, with a propensity for slinking about gracefully.
I stop at the front of the airplane, in the section that we have reserved for ourselves to pray. Then I go back through the curtains, and when they look at me, they know. By the way I hold the Kalashnikov or by the way I stand or by the way I look at them. Something tells them I am there to finish it. But I’ve never killed anyone before. I’ve dreamed of it. I lied about it to be part of this operation, but I have never done it before. I level the rifle. The first one gets down on the floor between the seats and curls into a ball.