Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (15 page)

Wilma had scrunched the morning paper into a ball and thrown it into the nearest trash can. “What a load of rubbish, Pickle!” she moaned.

“They don't know what they're talking about! This hullabaloo is out of control. Everyone's gone hysterical and I haven't the time or enough hands to shake, shout at, or slap them all!” She sighed and uncrossed her arms. Climbing out of bed, she wandered over to the open sack she had picked up from Madam Skratch.

Taking the box from the sack, she emptied its contents onto the floor. Pickle, who was dealing with a deep and persistent itch in his left ear, had yet to give everything a good sniff. Now that he was an apprentice detective's dog, he had duties too, but right at that precise moment, with his foot stuck in his ear, he couldn't quite be as useful as he might be.

Wilma crouched down onto the back of her heels and stared at the letters in front of her. They were addressed to Madam Skratch and all had the same mysterious heading: With regard to Child 472.

“Child four seventy-two?” Wilma whispered, pursing her lips together in thought. “I suppose that must be me.” She picked up the letter nearest to her and read, “ ‘Madam Skratch, enclosed three grogs. Upkeep. June. Yours sincerely' ... Can't quite make out the name,” Wilma added, turning the letter sideways and squinting. “But someone cared enough to cover my upkeep.”

Pickle scratched on. It really was a relentless itch.

 

It's at this point that the Cooper monetary system should be explained. Most countries have their own currency. In the United Kingdom, for example, the citizens carry notes and coins called pounds and pence. Sometimes, grown-ups will hand children pence or, if they are very lucky, pounds and encourage them to stuff these into pottery pigs. On Cooper, the citizens have neither coins nor notes. Instead they have a pebble system called grogs and groggles. So there are seventy-six groggles to a grog, eighty-two grogs to a mega-grog, and thirty-one mega-grogs to a ginorma-grog. There is nothing bigger than a ginorma-grog, which is a good thing, as they are extremely difficult to carry. Cooper adults also encourage their children to stuff grogs into pigs. But on Cooper the pigs are real, which inevitably leads to enormous vet bills. At present there are no exchange rates for grogs and groggles. But this is because no one has ever been to Cooper. And no one from Cooper has ever left. So that's that explained. Let's get back to the story.

 

“Most of these letters just say the same thing,” explained Wilma to Pickle, who was now rubbing his ear up against the leg of Wilma's bed. “It's always three grogs, but for loads of different months.”

As Wilma began to pile the letters into date order, Pickle, with some relief, finally managed to dispatch the itch. It had been caused by a rather tenacious earwig that had crawled into Pickle's ear and knitted itself a nest out of dog hair. Still, he'd managed to dislodge it and send the insect packing. Finally he could turn his thoughts to a loftier plain: namely, smelling stuff.

And something on the floor in front of Wilma was
fascinating
him. It was a thick, meaty odor, the sort of smell that a small beagle could be driven wild by. With his nose to the ground he snuffled through the still-to-be-sorted letters. No, it wasn't there. Perhaps it was coming from the top of Wilma's half-scrunched sock? No. Not there either. And then, turning his head sharply to his left, a deep, penetrating stink wafted up Pickle's nostrils. Oh heaven! Whatever it was, it was wonderfully awful and it was coming from the strange piece of material that Wilma had found in with her letters. He
had
to roll in it.

“Pickle!” cried out Wilma as her naughty beagle dived toward the dirty white piece of material, scattering her already sorted letters everywhere. With his legs in the air and his tongue lolling out, Pickle rolled as if his life depended on it.

Wilma stared down at the small scene of devastation. “I'm quite cross with you,” she chided as Pickle eventually allowed himself to be pulled up and off. “I am trying to be methodical. And you're not helping.”

But Pickle didn't care. He stank too now. And he was full of himself.

“Ewww!” said Wilma suddenly as she picked up the mysterious scrap of material that Pickle had just vacated. “That stinks!” The smell, Wilma discovered, was emanating from a dark, indefinable smear on the square cloth. There was also a picture in one of the corners of a pair of crossed meat chops. “Such a strange fabric for a baby blanket!” she added as she held it at arm's length. “It's so thin. It can't have been warm. Perhaps if we send some of it to Penbert she can analyze it for results? What do you think, Pickle?”

He didn't answer. He was still lost in an odorbased reverie.

After cutting out a small square from the stained piece of material and putting it into a Clue Bag, Wilma returned to her original task. All the letters seemed the same and the name of the sender was always indecipherable, but then, just as she was about to give up and go down for breakfast, her hand fell upon a lone letter that was written in a different handwriting and had no reference to Child 472 on it.

“This must be the letter that Madam Skratch told me about,” Wilma whispered. “The one she was sent just before I left the Institute . . .” As she began to read, her heart started to thump faster.

Wilma turned the paper over to read the rest, but the back page was blank. “Oh no,” she said, frantically searching through the remaining letters. “Madam Skratch was right. The burned second page means there's no address and no signature. It's just like the case we're investigating with Mr. Goodman. Another missing bit of paper!”

Wilma's mind whirred with possibilities. Someone had been looking for her. Was the sister the letter spoke of her mother? Was the letter from an aunt or uncle? And who had sent the other letters? And why? The money had stopped being sent when she left the Institute. Someone somewhere was watching her! But who? And where from? Somehow she had to find out! The door to her room was flung open. It was Mrs. Speckle.

“Wilma!” she exclaimed, sounding a little choked. “Something terrible has happened.” The housekeeper wiped something from her face. Then, with a deep sniff, she looked back up at Wilma and said, “Mr. Goodman is gone.”

“Gone?” Wilma asked. “Up to the Valiant? Or to the lab? Or to see Inspector Lemone?”

“No,” answered Mrs. Speckle, getting out her knitted handkerchief and blowing into it. “He has gone. Hounded away! Chased off! He went in the night. Left me a note. There's one for you too. Here.”

Her hand shaking, Wilma reached for the folded paper with her name on it.

The note fell from Wilma's hand.

 

A detective vanished in the night? Four people dead and a ten-year-old left in charge? Does anyone else think that's a good idea? No? Didn't think so.

“
B
ut I always ride in the back,” said Inspector Lemone anxiously. “What I mean to say is Goodman did the steering. Perhaps we should walk?”

“Or run,” suggested Wilma. “We could do that.”

Inspector Lemone looked down at the ten-year-old and blinked hard. “Run? Don't be ridiculous.”

Wilma, realizing that Inspector Lemone was even more confused than she was, thought again. “Well, you could go in the cart at the back of the tandem. Pickle and I could ride it. Although, having said that, I'm not sure his paws will reach the pedals. Or I could sit in Mr. Goodman's seat in the front. But, to be honest, my sense of direction isn't that brilliant . . .”

“This is a fine mess,” declared the Inspector, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. “Goodman vanishes. Tandem needs riding. Well, there's nothing for it. I shall have to sit in Goodman's seat after all. Have we got enough food? In case of emergencies?”

“I've given you a box of twenty corn crumbles, Inspector,” said Mrs. Speckle, handing him a small knapsack. “And a flask of peppermint tea. Just in case.”

The Inspector's face softened. Experiencing the sweet flush of devotion that coursed through him whenever Mrs. Speckle was near, he stared down at the floor and gulped.

Wilma rolled her eyes. “The Valiant is only a quarter of a mile away, Inspector Lemone. I think we'll be all right,” she said, climbing onto the back seat of the tandem. “We must press on. It's what Mr. Goodman would have wanted.”

The Inspector gave himself a brisk shake at the sound of his missing friend's name. “You're right, Wilma. We must proceed as he would want us to. Ought to get on. Okay. Front seat. What's that? Ooooh! Bell. Best leave that alone. The Valiant! Here we come!”

The Inspector and Wilma began pedaling as fast as they could, but mysteriously they weren't actually moving. After a quick think, Wilma stood up on her pedals and tapped the Inspector on the shoulder.

“Strangest thing!” he shouted, glancing back. “Can't figure it out!”

“Hand brake,” she answered, pointing down.

“So it is,” replied the Inspector, a little embarrassed. And, with a swift release, off they shot.

 

Thankfully for all concerned, the road to the Valiant was an easy one. Wilma was able to stop on the way and mail a package with the scrap of fabric in it to Penbert and, despite a small incident with one of the Sugarcane Swizzle dispensing taps, the journey proved relatively successful. Pickle, whose goggles, as a result of this slight collision, were full of Sugarcane Swizzle fizz, was less pleased with the journey than his companions, but that wasn't surprising, given the sticky circumstances.

“Quite out of breath,” panted Inspector Lemone as he dismounted at last. “Still, at least we got here in one piece.”

The tandem had pulled up just outside the stage door to the rear of the Valiant and as Wilma helped Pickle out of the cart and emptied his goggles of fizz an old man with a broom appeared. He was wearing a torn pair of trousers, a grubby striped shirt covered by a knitted waistcoat full of holes, and a cap so large that his face was virtually hidden except for an enormous gray-flecked beard that hung almost to the center of his chest. “Can't park that there,” he muttered, wagging a finger. “No, no!”

Inspector Lemone turned and frowned. “Of course we can leave it here,” he blustered. “We always leave it here.”

“And you can't stay here either!” added the old man, pushing his broom toward them. “Mr. D' Anvers likes the place tidy!”

“Well, you can tell Mr. D' Anvers that we are here on official business and we shall make the place as untidy as we see fit!” retorted Inspector Lemone, pushing his chest out.

“'Scuse me, 'scuse me,” the old man went on, sweeping around their feet as he pushed past them to the stage door. “If you want to clean up properly,” he added, bending low as he reached for the handle, “you have to look even for what's not there!” And into the Valiant he vanished.

Inspector Lemone blinked. “Silly old fool,” he muttered. “Just the sort of fellow Barbu D' Anvers would have working for him! Now then. Let's think. We're here. And we've got to do stuff . . . and then . . . hmm.”

Wilma looked up at her friend. He was blinking a lot, which she knew meant his brain was in a spin. “I think I might need a few of those emergency corn crumbles,” he mumbled. “They are very good during moments of stress.”

“I'm trying to work out what Mr. Goodman would do,” said Wilma, passing him the knapsack of biscuits. “Thinking about that playbill, he'd probably want to work out what, and where, the missing bit is. So I think we should investigate that first.”

The Inspector, shoving three corn crumbles into his mouth at once, nodded. “Capital idea,” he answered. “I'll start with that ventriloquist, Mrs. Wanderlip. Leave it to me! I'm very good at calm questioning under dire circumstances . . .”

 

“DIE!” screamed Eric Ohio, arms flapping, five minutes later. “We're going to DIE! And she's letting him make us go on!”

“There, there,” spluttered Inspector Lemone desperately as he was being sprayed with jetting tears. “I must say you seem to be taking this a lot better than your . . . um . . . dummy, Mrs. Wanderlip.”