Follow the brilliant Bridget Vanderpuff on another action-packed adventure as she sets off for Paris in this middle grade novel perfect for fans of The Great British Baking Show and Beth Lincoln! Someone has stolen Mr. Vanderpuff’s golden whisk! If Bridget and her new friend Stacy don’t find it by midnight, the world’s best baker will never mix again. And as the girls chase a chain of impossible puzzles through the secrets and shadows of Paris, Tom and Pascal find trouble in Belle-on-Sea… Can Bridget and her friends crack the case and save the bakeshop in time? "Bridget’s antics are livelier than ever...Riotous fun." — Kirkus Reviews Martin Stewart (he/him) is an award-winning Scottish author and former secondary school English teacher who likes to eat a lot of cake. David Habben (he/him) is an illustrator and fine artist based in Salt Lake City, Utah. 1 Hot Pursuit new case * car chase * cliff face Bridget braced the bakery bicycle. “It’s no use!” cried Tom, gripping her waist. “Hungry Horace Harris is getting away!” “Not if I’ve got anything to do with it!” shouted Bridget, as the getaway van skidded from the square. “Hold on!” She bounced the bike through knots of shrieking villagers. “ Ug-ug-ug-ug-ug-ug-ug-ug! ” wobbled Tom, his face a cobble-shaken blur. “That’s the spirit!” said Bridget, sliding onto Union and Main. She sat back and rummaged in her chef whites. “What are you doing?” screamed Tom. “Looking for my goggles.” “But . . . but . . . but . . .” spluttered Tom, “ you’re not holding on to the handlebars !” The bike hopped over a speed bump, rendering the children briefly airborne. Its wheels shook as they rattled over scattered stones, cobwebs flying from the rusty brakes. “There!” Bridget grinned, snapping a pair of pilot’s goggles over her eyes. “ Now we can speed up.” “Speed up?” Bridget leaned forward, pedaling until the chain squealed and her hair—­vast, red, teeming with self-made inventions—­billowed like a vengeful flame. Her curls smothered Tom’s screams as the van—­black smoke belching from its exhaust—­appeared on the horizon. “It’s no use, Harris!” she shouted. “ Nobody steals cakes in Belle-on-Sea!” Hungry Horace Harris cut through a gap in the hedge. Bridget swung after him, tires hissing through the long, wet grass. Seagulls pinwheeled overhead, eyes fixed on the pastry in Tom’s pocket. Bridget rolled her eyes. “Is that another Apple Turnoverandover?” she said. “Poffibwy,” managed Tom, cheeks bulging. “No wonder the seagulls follow you everywhere,” she yelled. “You’re a picnic on legs!” The van’s rear doors burst open. Hungry Horace Harris, the world’s most notorious cake thief, leered from the loading bay. “Who’s driving the van?” gasped Tom. “Nobody,” said Bridget. The sea hovered into view. Tom bit his lip. “Bridget Vanderpuff!” growled Harris, stolen sweet treats spilling free of the van. “I might’ve known! Clear off—­unless you wants trouble!” “Clearing off now!” shouted Tom. “Sorry to have bothered you!” Bridget dug him in the ribs. The van had crested the rise and was heading downhill—­straight for the Cliffs of Belle. “It’s you who’s in trouble, Harris!” she called, wind whipping her face. “You’re running out of land—­ and luck!” “Gah!” roared Harris, spinning a Splendiferous Pastrycase at the children like a crisp, delicious Frisbee. The Pastrycase spluffed Bridget with fruit and cream. “That was for Ms. French!” she yelled. “ And the world’s fartiest poodle!” Harris bowled bake after bake from the careening van, Swirls and Buns and Bing Bongs soaring through the coastal air. Bridget ate custard as she ducked and wove, the rickety bike groaning under her and Tom’s weight. “Mr. Constantine’s Caramagnificent Donuts!” she gasped. Splaff! “Mr. Pringle’s Butterunctuous Crunches!” Sploff! “The mayor’s Deelites!” Spleeff! “Time’s up, Harris!” shouted Bridget, her face a mask of twice-whipped cream. The van burst through the final gate before the cliffs. Harris took a bite from a Fabanananana Swirl, then grinned. “Never!” he bellowed. And jumped. The thief’s bulbous frame struck Bridget’s front tire, launching Tom—­still in his seated, waist-gripping position—­straight into the van. “Tom!” cried Bridget. “Bridget!” screamed Tom. Bridget pedaled like lightning as Harris rolled free. “Are you hurt?” she panted. “No!” yelled Tom from the back of the van. “Luckily, I landed on a Trillionaire’s Trifle!” “Thank goodness! We don’t have much— Will you stop eating the trifle?! ” Tom—­his entire face smeared with caramel—­shook as though waking from a dream. “I’m sorry!” he wailed. “It’s just so delicious!” White-tipped waves loomed ahead, bright in the morning sun. Bridget craned her neck. The field had an unnerving, cutoff look. “Listen to me very carefully!” she shouted, hopping over a mound of turf. “And do exactly as I say!” Tom ate another scoop of trifle. “All right!” “Good! Now, when I say jump—