Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (13 page)

Complex sums you can explain!

And tells your bum to make methane!

That's a brain! A braaaaaaaaaain!”

 

Dr. Kooks, down on one knee, arms outstretched, opened one eye and looked up at his assistant. “Well, what do you think? I'm writing a musical about body parts. Think it might go down very well at the Valiant.”

“Capital tune, Titus!” announced Theodore, standing in the doorway.

“I liked the bit about methane best,” added Wilma. “Because it's true.”

Pickle snorted in agreement. He loved everything to do with methane.

Penbert, slightly relieved that she wasn't going to have to pass judgment on her employer's woeful warbling, shoved her glasses firmly to the top of her nose and quickly signed everybody in, including Pickle. “Here are your visitor badges,” she said, handing them all out. “You can return them when you're leaving. They're sort of new. So don't cover them in jam. Or use them as drinks coasters. Or poke holes in them and—”

“Penbert!” snapped Dr. Kooks, rolling his eyes. “That will do. Glad you liked the song, Goodman. I've been trying to write one about kidneys. But the only thing I can think of that rhymes with kidneys is Sidney's. And I don't know anyone named Sidney. Anyway! Results! You have come for results!”

“That we have, Titus!” replied Theodore with a smile. “Tell me everything you have discovered.”

“Well,” began Dr. Kooks, picking up a chemical beaker with some half-drunk tea in it. “We dissected the bodies. Although I say ‘we,' actually Penbert did it. I was busy making this brainhat. Bit worried it looks like a misshapen potato, though. Might trim some off the back.”

“It's definitely a poison, Mr. Goodman,” said Penbert, stepping in and reaching for her clipboard. “I'm not quite sure of the source yet. It's an unusual organic compound.”

“Organic?” asked Wilma. “Like a carrot?”

“In a way, yes,” replied Theodore. “Penbert means the poison has come from a natural source. Like a plant.”

“Or a carrot?” asked Wilma, pulling out her notebook.

“There are no known poisons that can be extracted from a carrot,” stated Penbert with some force. “Sabbatica was not killed by a carrot. Let's nix that rumor from the start.”

Realizing that Penbert looked quite agitated, Wilma decided she'd try a bit of encouraging. After all, everyone settles down with a kind word or two. “Not killed by a carrot!”Wilma declared, scribbling in her notebook. “At last we're making progress. Well done, Penbert. Please carry on.”

Theodore shot a sideways glance at his young assistant and twitched his mustache. “So the poison has been extracted from a plant.” He turned back to Penbert. “Do you know what plant?”

“Not yet, Mr. Goodman,” said Penbert with a shake of her head. “The tricky thing is that the extract seems to be inert in its natural state.”

“I have no idea what that means,” said Wilma brightly.

“Don't worry,” added Inspector Lemone, who had just found a forgotten muffin in his top pocket, “neither do I.”

“It means that on its own it isn't dangerous. It needs something else to make it poisonous,” Dr. Kooks explained.

“Fascinating,” murmured Theodore, tapping his magnifying glass.

“Umm . . .” piped up Wilma, reaching for the long length of seaweed in her pocket. “It might be nothing, but there was seaweed in the Baron's office and so I thought I should go dotty with some
t
's and get cross with an
i
.”

Inspector Lemone frowned.

“Dot the
i
's and cross the
t
's, Wilma,” corrected Theodore. “It means to make sure you have everything covered.”

“Yes, I know. I read about it in my textbook,” replied Wilma, handing the seaweed to Penbert. “So maybe you'd like to cross and dot that.”

Penbert took the seaweed from Wilma using a large pair of tongs and placed it in a beaker. “Well, all right,” she agreed reluctantly. “But just to be thorough.”

“How does the poison work, please?” asked Wilma, who had gotten out her textbook and was looking at a page headed “Poisons and What Makes Them so Rotten.”

“It attacks the lungs,” explained Penbert, going over to a diagram of a human body hanging above her desk, “creating a stinking foam that causes asphyxiation.”

“Ass-fixy-what?” asked Wilma, screwing her face up.

“Asphyxiation,” explained Penbert. “It means they can't breathe. In a sense, whatever we are dealing with is strangling the victims from the inside out.”

“Absolutely ghastly,” said Dr. Kooks with a shiver.

“And there's no evidence yet of how this poison is being administered?” asked Theodore, looking very serious.

“Unfortunately not, Goodman!” bellowed Dr. Kooks, tapping his sizeable stomach. “If we knew that, we'd have this case done and dusted!”

“Oh!” cried out Penbert suddenly. “No! Your beagle!”

Everyone turned and looked at Pickle. He had something in his mouth and the floor around him was covered in tiny bits of wood.

“My matchstick chicken!” moaned Penbert. “I've been making it for months.”

“Oh, Pickle!” chided Wilma, rescuing the half-mangled model from her naughty dog's jaws. “How many times have I told you? Don't chew other people's matchstick chickens! Sorry, Penbert. Here. I think that's a beak. Or something.”

“This will have to go in the incident register, of course,” whispered Penbert, staring at the floor and biting her lip. “And I think I'll have my visitor badges back now, if you don't mind.”

 

Strangled from the inside out? What a revolting turn of events.

“
N
ot a dime,” said Inspector Lemone the following day, shaking his head. “Went to the Cooper Bank first thing this morning. The Baron's account is empty.”

“I see,” answered Theodore as he tucked a copy of the post-lunch
Early Worm
under his armpit. “The fact he has no money in the bank may not be definitive. Money can be hidden in many places. And we're still awash with suspects. We need to find out how the poison is being administered. That's the key!”

“What about . . .” Wilma suggested as they all paced into the Valiant to catch the end of the Monday matinee, “if the poison was hidden in Cecily Lovely's perfume? She could spray it onto anyone. And she does keep going on about being top of the bill and everything.”

“It's not impossible,” commented Theodore, taking a quick glance at his pocket watch.

“That seaweed,” Wilma continued, on a roll. “Do you think it's important now, Mr. Goodman?”

“Possibly,” replied the great detective, his brow furrowed with concentration. “But then, it's not the only plant we've seen at the theatre; the place is full of bunches of flowers.”

“And potted plants, Mr. Goodman,” added Wilma, wanting to be useful. “Geoffrey Grumbletubs has loads.”

Theodore looked pensive, but as the detective's team strode through the foyer, screams began to ring out from the auditorium. A double door ahead of them swung open and a woman, half collapsed, was being carried out. Wilma shot a quick look past her. The auditorium was surprisingly packed. “Two at once!” the woman wailed as she was dragged past. “The Stage of Death has struck again!”

“Looks like whoever sent that cut-up note means business, Goodman!” said Inspector Lemone with a troubled frown.

Theodore shot an urgent glance toward his companions and set his jaw with purpose. “Precisely! We must accelerate our efforts immediately. Inspector, you come with me to the stage. Wilma, I want you to ask everyone to meet me there. It's time I addressed the ensemble.”

 

Two more people killed at the Valiant? Oh dear. Oh very, very dear.

 

“She's been passing out repeatedly since the killer struck again,” explained Scraps, her face drawn with exhaustion. Cecily Lovely, her demanding mistress, was draped across a daybed, eyes wet with tears and a crumpled handkerchief clutched to her bosom. Scraps, Wilma noticed, looked terrible. She was covered in smudges, her gloves were gray and grubby, and she had no shoes on, just a pair of oversized socks. Wilma was about to offer her the remains of a corn crumble that she had in her pinafore pocket when Cecily began to come around again.

“Something . . .” the diva whispered, one hand shielding her eyes, “must be done. My nerves are in SHREDS!”

“Miss Lovely,” began Scraps, wringing her gloved hands together, “Wilma's here because, if it's all right with you . . . your presence is required onstage. Mr. Goodman's got everyone there.”

Cecily threw a shoe at Scraps, knocking her glasses to the floor. “No! Why should I do as he asks?” she screamed. “Have you not seen the papers? He hasn't the first clue what he's doing!”

Wilma bristled and tightened her lips. It made her feel a bit hot between the ears when anyone criticized Mr. Goodman, but, remembering what he'd said about “rising above it,” she left the dressing room wordlessly, walking on her tiptoes.

“Technically speaking,” Wilma said to Pickle, who was trotting at her heel, “she was hysterical. But seeing as she was so rude about Mr. Goodman I decided not to cure her. She'll just have to bubble in her own froth! Poor Scraps. I'd hate to work for someone like that, wouldn't you?”

Pickle had to agree. There is
nothing
worse than a technically hysterical woman with an overblown sense of her own capabilities.

 

The bodies of Claiborne Wordette, the bird impressionist, and Loranda Links, the contortionist, were being carried offstage. Sadly, their plan to go onstage together thinking there would be safety in numbers was woefully mistaken. The safety curtain had been brought down and as Wilma made her way toward Mr. Goodman and Inspector Lemone she could hear members of the audience calling out from the other side of it as they left the theatre. “Sack Goodman!” one man was yelling. “He's lost it!” shouted another. Clearly the stories in the
EarlyWorm
were beginning to have an effect.

“It's the same foam, Wilma,” said Theodore, ignoring the protests. “It's now completely clear that, whoever this putrid poisoner is, he has got it in for everyone at this theatre. Have you asked everyone to gather on the stage?”

“I have, Mr. Goodman,” answered Wilma. “But I don't think Cecily Lovely is coming. She's got herself into another tizzy-whizz.”

Behind them, in the wings, the rest of the Valiant's cast and crew were gathering. Theodore's eyes narrowed as he gazed over at them, deep in thought. Wilma, remembering to look and learn, immediately tried to adopt a similar pose while also sneaking a good look at Mrs. Wanderlip and her dummy. She gasped. Tugging at her mentor's sleeve, she cupped a hand about her mouth and whispered, “Look at Eric Ohio's right hand, Mr. Goodman! There's a finger missing!”

“I know,” whispered Theodore back. “Reveal nothing, Wilma. Remember your top tips.”

Wilma nodded. All the same, this was a very exciting development. She nudged Pickle with her foot so he could take a look as well. But Pickle was distracted and staring at something on the floor. Wilma followed his eye line. There was a small gap in the stage boards a few inches in front of them and, as Wilma watched, a plume of dust puffed out of it. Wilma blinked. What could that have been? She stepped closer to take a better look. Another cloud of dust shot upward. Wilma blinked again. She knew that all stages have gaps underneath them but, in the circumstances, that puff of dust could be a clue! Perhaps there was a device that was administering the poison! Perhaps there was more than one person doing the poisoning! Over breakfast she had read the chapter in her textbook entitled “Criminals in Cahoots.” They'd all been looking for one person. But what if there were two? She had to get under the stage and investigate!

Gesturing quietly to Pickle, Wilma crept off to a trapdoor in the wings that she had seen Geoffrey Grumbletubs using for storage and special entrances. Thinking detectively, Sabbatica must have used the other trapdoor, center stage, to come up through the floor on the night she died. Wilma, keen to show Mr. Goodman that she was advancing her detective techniques and making progress, tapped her notebook with her finger. “I know that I'm in a bit of doubt and the Golden Rules say I should stand quite still and do nothing, but top tip number three, Pickle,” she whispered, “means I'm sometimes allowed to creep around after suspects. We can do that
and,
if we're lucky, catch someone doing some poison administering.”

Lifting the brass circle of the trapdoor handle as gently and as silently as she could, Wilma lowered herself into the dusty blackened space. Pickle jumped in after her. Crouching to get her bearings, Wilma peered into the gloom. The under-stage area was packed with bits of broken scenery: there were window frames, a small tree lying on its side, and various painted panels, torn and dirty. Upright beams went from floor to stage at intervals, making the space seem mazelike and cramped. There were lots of places to hide, so Wilma knew she needed to be careful and cunning.

Being quite small (though very determined), Wilma was just able to walk upright without banging her head. Squeezing past a pyramid of greasepaint tubs, she began to creep toward the center of the stage. Suddenly, she heard a creak somewhere to her left. It was the same strange creak that she'd heard before the Great Sylvester died! She spun around quickly, Pickle barked, and from nowhere a sandbag swung into Wilma's face and she slumped to the floor.