Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (14 page)

 

Wilma didn't know how long she'd been unconscious, but it couldn't have been long, because above her she could still hear Theodore talking to the theatre cast. Pickle was struggling out from under a large burlap sack that had obviously been thrown over him. He emerged, panting, and began licking Wilma's nose.

“Oof,” she spluttered, pushing him off her and raising a hand to her head. “Who did that? Where did they go, Pickle?”

The intrepid hound ran off a little toward the back of the below-stage area and then ran back again. It was clear that whoever had been there was now gone.

Pickle suddenly snorted and pointed his snout toward something trapped under the sandbag that had been thrown at Wilma.

Wilma crawled back toward it. “What is it, Pickle?” she mumbled as she struggled forward. “Looks like a bit of paper.” Pickle yelped affirmatively. Lifting the sandbag with one hand, Wilma reached for the crumpled-up piece of paper with the other.

Must have been dropped in the scuffle, she thought, trying to focus. As she realized what she was holding, her eyes widened, all the pain in her head forgotten.

“Oh my goodness,” she whispered, staring at what was in front of her. “This is the best clue EVER. Pickle! You're a genius. Mr. Goodman will be so pleased with us!”

And, as Wilma grabbed probably the best clue she had ever found and scampered back to the trapdoor, Pickle had to agree. He was a genius. Yes. He really was.

“
I
think she'll live,” said Inspector Lemone, peering at Wilma's bump.

“You don't feel dizzy? Or disorientated?” worried Mr. Goodman.

“No. Don't mind me. I'll be fine.” Wilma shot a quick look over her mentor's shoulder at the assembled cast and crew. “I heard that creak again, Mr. Goodman,” she whispered. “But, better than that, look at what we found! It's an old playbill.” Wilma held it out for her mentor to see. “It's two years old according to the date on the top. But here's the thing, Mr. Goodman. Everyone currently playing at the Valiant is on it. And look—everyone who's been killed has been
crossed off
!”

There was a gasp among the assembled players and staff.

“Blow me down!” muttered Inspector Lemone, peering over Theodore's shoulder. “So they have. You'll be a detective yet, Wilma!”

“It's like a shopping list, Mr. Goodman,” Wilma continued, eyes wide with excitement. “Whoever is behind this is picking people off and deleting them from the list when they're done in and dead.”

“So we're all doomed!” wailed Mrs. Wanderlip's puppet, Eric Ohio, his head spinning.

“This is a significant find, Wilma,” said Theodore, taking the playbill from his apprentice. “Good work. But you must stop trying to pursue things on your own. Your safety is my responsibility, and I can't have you putting yourself at unnecessary risk.”

Wilma nodded, but then she tugged at her mentor's sleeve and gestured at him to bend down closer. “There's more, Mr. Goodman,” she whispered. “I think I might have deducted something vital. Did you notice anyone missing when I was under the stage? Because whoever wasn't here could have been down there with me, with that list . . .”

Theodore's mustache twitched. “I had thought of that, Wilma. But people were still gathering while you were gone. Well done, though; you're thinking like a detective.”

Wilma turned pink with delight as Theodore addressed the cast and crew once more. “Ladies and gentlemen, somehow, someone is administering a poison with fatal consequences. I must therefore ask you to be at your most vigilant. Check that you are not eating anything unusual. Be alert to strange vapors, peculiar odors; in short, anything that seems out of the ordinary. And I think it would be best for all concerned if the theatre was closed immediately.”

“Close the theatre?” said a voice behind them. “Put all these people out of work? Take away one of this island's finest institutions? Perhaps you'd all like us to stop enjoying sunshine and buttercups as well?”

Theodore turned and glared at Barbu, who had come to the stage with another pack of journalists behind him.

“I would much rather everyone was safe, D'Anvers,” he replied sternly. “Not only that, but I cannot conduct a proper investigation while shows are ongoing.”

“You? Conduct a proper investigation?” guffawed the undersized villain. “I hardly think so. A ten-year-old girl is managing to get better results than you!” he added, pointing at the playbill in Theodore's hand. Barbu turned to the scribbling reporters close on his heels. “Perhaps we should put Wilma Tenderfoot in charge of the case?”

“Make sure you spell her name right,” scoffed Janty. “It's two
f
's.”

Wilma, horrified that somehow she might have gotten Theodore into deeper waters, stepped forward to protest. “I didn't mean to make Mr. Goodman look bad. I mean, he doesn't look bad anyway. I just saw a puff of something and went down to check it out. I didn't mean to do it.”

“Stirring things up!” interrupted Inspector Lemone, flushing red. “That's all you're trying to do, D'Anvers!”

“Did you hear that?” whined Barbu. “A veritable libel! When here I am, this theatre's only Angel, striving to get to the bottom of these ghastly, hideous, yet guaranteed to be quite regular, horrors.”

“Very regular, Mr. Barbu,” cut in Tully with a sniff.

“Probably be another one tomorrow,” added Janty, picking a piece of dirt out from under a fingernail.

“This new development,” said a small woman in glasses, holding up a pen. “Do you think it's the breakthrough you need to solve the case? Or should I address that question to your apprentice?”

A snigger rippled through the press pack.

Theodore, frowning, placed the playbill in his inside coat pocket. “We shall investigate everything thoroughly,” he replied in a serious tone. “And we continue with our inquiries. Wilma, Inspector, given this press intrusion
and
D' Anvers's refusal to halt the shows, I suggest we carry on our work back at Clarissa Cottage.”

“Trotting off again,” said Barbu with a theatrical shake of his head as the trio left. “Such a
shame.
He was great once, but I fear”—he paused for dramatic effect—“that Theodore P. Goodman's days are over. You can quote me directly on that. But to show that I am the Angel of this theatre, I shall let the cast have the rest of the day off. Make sure you put that in your paper. Maybe take a picture. I'll just stand on this box. You know, better angle. I'm not short.”

 

The mood back at Clarissa Cottage was a sober one. Wilma, feeling terrible that she had inadvertently caused more trouble, was quietly penitent and instead of bouncing around Theodore's study as she normally did, sat herself in the corner, Pickle at her feet. Not even the arrival of Mrs. Speckle with a tray of peppermint tea and corn crumbles could lift her spirits. She had made Mr. Goodman look bad and she could barely forgive herself for it.

“Come along,” rallied Theodore, seeing that his young apprentice was downcast. “We won't allow Barbu D'Anvers to make us feel gloomy. It's all part of his game-playing. Disrupting the case to protect his investment. He wants the murders to keep happening because it's good for business. Sadly, nothing excites people more than the prospect of ghoulish goings-on. The longer it takes us to solve the case, the more money he makes.”

“The man has absolutely no morals!” blustered the Inspector, thumping his fist down on the arm of his chair.

“Now then, Wilma,” added Theodore, “I've pinned the playbill you found to the Clue Board. Along with our other new findings: the information about the organic compound, thoughts on how the poison may be administered, the wooden finger, and your strange creaks, Wilma. So, let's see what you make of it.”

“But . . .” began Wilma with a swallow, “am I allowed? I got you into so much trouble.”

“We'll hear no more about it,” urged the detective, twiddling his magnifying glass. “We must expect a bit of rough and tumble from time to time. And, as professionals, we roll with the punches. Up you get. You found it, so let me have your thoughts.”

Wilma knew perfectly well that Theodore could work things out by himself, but she was grateful she had a mentor who was so eager to cheer her up. Perhaps she could make amends with a brilliant deduction? So, scampering to the Clue Board and taking a handful of pins and a length of string, Wilma began to make a series of connections.

“Well,” she began, sticking her first pin at the top of the playbill and drawing a piece of string down to a picture of Sabbatica. “Four actors are dead. All of them have been poisoned. By something planty . . . Geoffrey Grumbletubs likes plants . . . but there are flowers everywhere . . . and it still might be that seaweed.”

Wilma added a bit more string down toward a picture of a bucket. “The strange thing is how we can't figure out how the poison is being given. Or how it's being activated, but it must be done quite shortly before they go onstage because everyone seems fine until they start performing.”

Wilma looked at Mr. Goodman to see how she was doing. So far, so good. Encouraged, she grabbed another length of string. “So, for some reason, this murderer hates actors. Which doesn't narrow down
anything,
but using only the power of my eyes and ears I have noticed that Gorgeous Muldoon walks funny, Eric Ohio is VERY temperamental, and Cecily Lovely is a pain in the neck. Oh! And the last thing,” Wilma concluded, “is that all these deaths are making a lot of money. That's it. What do you think?”

The detective, who had gotten out his pipe and lit it while Wilma was so busy, stared at the mass of string and pins on the Clue Board. “Quite good,” he said, giving out a small puff of smoke. “And your strings and pins have made the shape of a large duck. Intriguing.”

Wilma stood back and looked at the Clue Board. So they had.

“Of course, you're missing something quite fundamental,” explained Theodore, walking over to the Clue Board and tapping the playbill with the end of his pipe. “There is something missing here. Look at the very bottom. It has been torn away. What do you think of that?”

Wilma peered closer. “Oh yes,” she said, noticing the playbill's tattered bottom for the first time. “I wonder what was there. Looks like someone's trying to hide something.”

“Exactly,” rep lied Theodore. “This case is filled with torn bits of paper! Somehow we have to find out what was on the bottom of that playbill!”

“If only that dastardly D' Anvers wasn't making the investigation so danged difficult!” piped up Inspector Lemone. “He's making it practically impossible to proceed!”

“Perhaps we should do something wonky?” suggested Wilma with a renewed confidence following her successful deducting.

Theodore's eyes flashed upward. “Perhaps we should, Wilma,” and then, with a determined bite on his pipe, he added, “And the sooner the better . . .”

“
B
usiness is BOOMING!” guffawed Barbu, staring up at the front of the Valiant. “If we carry on like this, I shall be rich beyond my wildest dreams! Canceling the rest of yesterday's shows has made me more popular than ever! They're lining up around the block to get in! Put that sign more to your left, Tully!”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Barbu,” answered the stupid sidekick, wobbling a little on his ladder.

“I like your sign, Janty,” added Barbu with a twirl of his cane. “It has the requisite oomph needed to pull in the people!
Stage Fright Nights!
It's almost brilliant!”

Janty smirked. “We're selling out, Mr. D'Anvers! Even with the extra shows you've put on. If I were you, I'd put on even more. Although we'd need more performers. But we can advertise for those. We could do shows on the hour every hour—we'd make a fortune!”

Barbu shot his charge a fierce stare. “
I'd
make a fortune. Not you. You just get to enjoy the glow of my excessive fabulousness. Hmmm . . .” Barbu's eyes narrowed as he stared upward, his lips pursed. “Something isn't quite right with the front of this theatre and I can't put my finger on it.”

“Is it me, Mr. Barbu?” asked Tully, hanging off the Valiant Vaudeville sign, his ladder having fallen to the floor. “Because I'm not supposed to be here.”

“No, you idiot!” snapped Barbu. “Although now you say that . . . I have it! It's the name of the theatre! The
Valiant
Vaudeville?”

“Named after Edward Valiant, Mr. D' Anvers,” explained Janty. “He was a philanthropist and discovered a cure for blindness.”

“He could cure the blind?” sneered Barbu. “Why would anyone want to remember him? No! This theatre needs to be renamed. From now on it shall be known as the D' Anvers Vaudeville Theatre. See to it, Janty. Oh, and, while you're at it, let's change the word Vaudeville to Vau-DEVIL. I think that strikes the right note.”

“And did you see this, Mr. D' Anvers?” added Janty, pulling a copy of that morning's
Early Worm
out from his back pocket. “Look at the headline. Thought you might like it.”

Barbu flicked open the paper. “GOODMAN FINISHED? Oh. Well, that's perfect. With the money I'm making and Goodman out of favor, I shall have this island in my grip before we know it!” He grinned at Janty. “I think it's time for an evil laugh. Don't you?”

And, throwing back his head, Barbu let out a long, dreadful cackle that chilled the spines of all who heard it. Oh! He is ROTTEN.