Down the Rabbit Hole (An Echo Falls Mystery)
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Welcome to Echo Falls, home of a thousand secrets.
Ingrid is in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or at least her shoes are. And getting them back will mean getting tangled up in a murder investigation as complicated as the mysteries solved by her idol, Sherlock Holmes. With soccer practice, schoolwork, and the lead role in her town's production of Alice in Wonderland, Ingrid is swamped. But as things in Echo Falls keep getting curiouser and curiouser, Ingrid realizes she must solve the murder on her own -- before it's too late!
saying I cheated?” “I’m not saying anything,” Ms. Groome said. “I’m asking.” “I didn’t cheat,” Ingrid said. Her face got hotter and hotter, probably making her look guilty when she wasn’t the least bit guilty. “Mia is a very good math student,” Ms. Groome said. “On last Monday’s homework she got only one wrong, number thirty-seven. You got only one wrong as well, which rarely happens, even when you complete the assignment. The exact same problem, thirty-seven, the exact same error.” Ingrid
The town was coming together, the neighborhoods and streets taking shape in her mind, clearer and clearer every day. You just had to keep your eyes open. Vincent glanced at her. “You know your way around,” he said. She noticed he’d put on driving gloves, kind of like golf gloves with open fingers and little holes; she’d never seen anyone wear driving gloves before. “It’s a hobby of mine,” she said. “Learning the town. I got the idea from Sherlock Holmes—the way he knows London.” It was dark
pounded his fist on the desk, much harder than she’d have thought him capable of, hard enough to raise a puff cloud of dust. “Damn prop three,” he said. “What’s prop three?” “Prop three? You don’t know prop three? That’s how all the selfish empty nesters capped property taxes in Echo Falls, why the school board’s starving for cash, why there’s no pool at Echo High, no gifted program, and now no paper at Ferrand Middle. It’s an absolute disgrace.” He scribbled furiously in his notebook. After a
everyone? Ingrid paid the driver—five dollars plus a fifty-cent tip, which was possibly not quite enough, but wouldn’t a whole dollar have been too much?—and got out. The taxi drove off. Ingrid walked over to a bench on the sidelines and sat down. Cold rain soaked her hair, her shoulders, her back. A thought came, a little late, like maybe she should have stayed in the taxi and had the driver take her home. What was the route from soccer to her house, 99 Maple Lane? Through the line of trees at
she told herself, willing strength and confidence back into her eyes. How about a cup of tea? She started downstairs. And why not with honey, since it was on her mind. A little strange, Vincent remembering Barbara Stanwyck spooning honey into tea and Wally saying it hadn’t happened. Both of them movie buffs, so— There was a knock at the front door. Ingrid, in the front hall, turning toward the kitchen, froze. Another knock, harder. A voice called from the other side of the door. “Ingrid?” It