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sick. Brown Owl reacted like greased lightning, whipping out a paper bag and clamping it to the unfortunate girl’s mouth. But in doing so she caught Zara’s elbow and the box of cockroaches went flying.
    Fifteen large cockroaches landed on the heads of fifteen small Brownies. The girls leapt hysterically off the benches, flapping at their hair and flicking the insects to the floor. The poor bewildered cockroaches scuttled in all directions. Zara tried frantically to retrieve them, but she didn’t have enough hands to scoop up more than one or two before the Brownies stampeded from the yurt. When the last of the yellow-clad squealers had fled across the lawn, she looked ready to burst into tears. It was too good an opportunity to miss.
    “Do you want some help?” I asked.
    “Oh yes, please,” Zara said gratefully.
    So Zara, Graham and I spent the next twenty minutes rounding up hissing cockroaches.
    There’s something bonding about hunting creepy-crawlies, and we got quite friendly as we crawled under the benches together. Miraculously we managed to locate all fifteen, although I have to say that one or two looked suspiciously like common-or-garden pests rather than their exotic cousins. After they’d been safely returned to their box, Zara rewarded our efforts by buying us another Coke in the Ballroom Café.
    “What a day!” she said. “And it won’t be over until nearly midnight. I’m supposed to be a teddy bear at the staff party tonight. I’m entertaining the kids – and some of them are hideous.” She looked at us, suddenly aghast. “Oh, whoops – your parents don’t work here, do they?”
    “No,” I assured her. “We’re visitors.”
    “Oh, right. Didn’t I see you two first thing this morning?” she asked, opening her drink.
    “Yes,” I said, adding pointedly, “when you were in the tiger suit.”
    “That suit!” she exclaimed, banging her can down on the table so that the Coke frothed out. “That was so strange. Where did it come from? That’s what I want to know.”
    “Do you?” I said as casually as I could manage.
    Graham asked neutrally, “Why were you wearing it?”
    Zara’s brow furrowed. “It was in my office this morning with a memo from April – Mr Monkton’s secretary – saying it was a replacement for the bear outfit. I have to dress as a teddy when we get big crowds in. It keeps the toddlers amused, you see.”
    “Right.”
    “But then April said she didn’t write any memo. So someone must be playing a stupid practical joke,” she said miserably. “Laughing at the new girl. I suppose they think it’s funny.”
    “Any idea who?” I asked.
    “No,” Zara replied, sniffing. “It might be one of the keepers. Some of them have a very odd sense of humour.”
    “Maybe it was the same person who sprayed the graffiti on the wall?” I suggested.
    “Do you think so? But I didn’t understand that either. Who’s S.M.?” Zara looked puzzled.
    “We presume that he was the keeper who died last year: Sandy Milford,” said Graham.
    “Sandy Milford?” Zara echoed. “Is
that
who it’s about?” She sat back in her chair and sighed. “I’ve heard people talking about him. His sister’s one of the keepers.”
    “Kylie?”
    “Yes, that’s right. And Charlie Bales – Kylie’s boyfriend – is his wife’s cousin, I think.”
    “Really?”
    “Oh yeah – and apparently his wife used to work here too, before she had kids. They all seem ever so close. That accident must have been really traumatic for everybody.” Zara sounded wistful. Lonely. An outsider excluded from the pack. She finished her drink. “Better get back to work,” she said. “I’ve got a session with the Cubs in a minute. I hope they’re better behaved than the Brownies!” She flashed us an anxious grin and left, but her words hung in the air.
    “Traumatic for everybody,” Graham repeated thoughtfully.
    “Yes,” I said. “But is one of them traumatized enough to take revenge?”

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