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Temperance Collins at the gallery won’t exhibit any of her work, and won’t represent her to the Tyne and Wear Arts Council in Newcastle. Just about broke Naomi’s heart, that did.”
    As far as Michael was concerned, the work Temperance did exhibit was rubbish—but then, she’d made it clear that video and anime art was beneath her notice.
    Dylan ran his hands through his hair, so that it stoodon end like ginger-colored antennae. He pointed toward an open door at one side of the kitchen. “I thought I heard someone legging it down the steps as I came in the front. But when I looked out, the yard was empty.”
    Michael eyed a steep stairway leading down into a concrete yard dark with shadow. “We’ll have to ask the other tenants if they saw anyone, although with the festival underway, I doubt anyone’s here.”
    â€œLiam and Holly McKenna certainly aren’t,” said Molly. When Michael and Dylan regarded her with confusion she said, “Didn’t you see the poster downstairs advertising Holly’s fortune-telling sessions and seances? The number given is the apartment right below this one.”
    â€œI’ll talk to them. I’ll talk to everyone in town if I have to.” Dylan plucked a yellowed copy of the Blackpool Journal from the kitchen table and threw it on the floor. Beside his thick shoes, a headline read, “Henry Humboldt Passes Away. Norrington Reveals Ownership of the Magic Lantern Theatre.”
    That was an old newspaper, Michael thought. Archie Norrington had owned the theatre ever since he and Molly had lived in Blackpool.
    â€œSo who trashed the place?” Molly peered into a small closet that held little more than a broom and a dustpan, themselves in need of a cleaning. “A burglar searching for valuables in all the wrong places?”
    â€œWillie himself,” suggested Michael, “packing up in a rush? No offense, Dylan, but if you tried to mop the cobblestones with me, I’d be getting out of town.”
    â€œWillie’s not afraid of me. Not so much as he should be, leastways.”
    â€œWas it Naomi?” asked Molly. “Maybe she was trying to get back at Willie for causing her trouble.”
    â€œShe went looking for trouble.” Dylan braced himselfagainst the sink, his muscular shoulders quivering like jelly.
    â€œMaybe we should call the police,” suggested Molly.
    Dylan shook his head. “We don’t know that this isn’t exactly the way Willie left his flat. As for Naomi…I don’t think they’d be overly concerned for her…. Our best bet is finding Willie.”
    Sharing a sympathetic glance, Michael and Molly left him to collect himself and went back into the living room. “If only we had an idea what to look for,” she said. “Neither Naomi or Willie left a forwarding address.”
    â€œNot as such, no.” Michael walked on into the bedroom. He considered the unmade bed, the gaping wardrobe, a chair loaded with clothes. Surely if Willie was planning to leave town, with or without Naomi, he’d have packed a suitcase.
    Michael peered under the bed and saw nothing but dust kittens accumulating into dust lions. He inspected the wardrobe and found only odd bits of clothing and a jumbled pile of shoes. Perhaps Willie had packed a suitcase, then. Or a duffel or rucksack.
    Dylan’s heavy tread crossed the room. His voice steady, he asked, “Anything?”
    â€œHis shoes,” Michael began.
    Molly’s voice came from the living room. “Michael, I think I’ve got something.”
    â€œHold on, Molly.” Michael pulled out two athletic trainers and placed them side by side, then set two leather shoes next to each other, trying to ignore their smell. There was one bit of footwear left over, a wellie boot, its green rubber sides so battered it might have come out of a rubbish bin or even washed up on the beach. “Why