Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (16 page)

“He's at the end of his tether, Inspector,” explained the ventriloquist as Eric's eyes popped out on stalks. “But this is our job. And we have to eat. We've got no choice. The show must go on. It's worrying but . . . what choice do we have?”

“Worrying?” screamed Eric Ohio, his hat shooting upward. “We're going to DIE and all you can say is that it's worrying?”

Wilma, who had been staring at Eric's missing finger, sensed an opportunity. “What happened to your hand, Eric?” she said, pointing as nonchalantly as she could.

“Vandalized! Abused!” screamed the dummy, his head rotating. “It's a warning, I tell you! We're next!”

“Actually,” whispered Mrs. Wanderlip, patting Eric on the forearm, “I don't know what happened. I left him alone in our dressing room, came back, it was gone.”

Wilma twitched her nose. She needed to be careful not to reveal her thoughts, like Mr. Goodman had taught her. Could she believe Mrs. Wanderlip? Had someone stolen Eric's finger? Mr. Goodman did seem to think that the murderer was trying to frame people. Perhaps this was another clue? She'd have to think about that later.

“Mrs. Wanderlip,” said Wilma, continuing with her questioning. “Have a look at the playbill. There's a bit at the bottom that's been ripped off. Can you remember what might have been there?”

She shook her head. “It was so long ago . . .” she began. “Playbills just list the acts that are on that night.”

“That must be it!” Wilma's eyes widened. “There must have been someone else on the bill! Another act! Think, Mrs. Wanderlip! Who else was onstage that night?”

“Good question,” said the Inspector, reaching for a fourth biscuit. “Wish I'd thought of it.”

“Wait,” began Mrs. Wanderlip, forehead condensing with frown lines. “Now that I think about it . . . I can't seem to . . .”

“Shut up!” chipped in Eric Ohio, her irascible dummy. “Leave this to me! I remember. There was a novelty act on that night. Can't remember what exactly, but it was odd, unusual. Wore a mask. Anyway, it all failed. It was horrendous. Got laughed off the stage. Made the show look terrible. Made us all look terrible! We were outraged. Especially Cecily.”

“And can you remember the act's name?” pressed Wilma, urging the dummy on.

Eric's head rattled a little around his collar. “Mysterious Mezmo!” he announced, legs flipping upward. “That was it! Mysterious Mezmo!”

“Oh my goodness,” said Wilma gulping. “We've found a proper clue, Inspector Lemone. All on our own.”

“I know,” said the Inspector, reaching for a handkerchief to wipe his forehead. “It's all a little overwhelming.”

“'Scuse me, 'scuse me,” said the cleaner, appearing suddenly from the shadows and pushing his way past them. “It's all change here. Mark my words! All change!”

“Be off with you!” snapped the Inspector, spitting crumbs. “We're conducting proper detective business!”

The cleaner pulled down his cap and shuffled off, muttering.

“And can you tell us what Mezmo looked like?” Wilma went on, ignoring the interruption.

“Have you got cloth for ears?” snapped Eric Ohio, his head rotating. “I just told you! Mezmo wore a mask!”

Wilma excitedly reached for her apprentice detective notebook. “I'm writing this ALL down, Inspector. I think it might be very important.”

Inspector Lemone, flushed with their small success, stuck his chest out and cleared his throat. “And this Mezmo . . . happen to know where they are now?”

Mrs. Wanderlip shook her head. “No. Never saw or heard of the act again.”

“So maybe
that's
why the name's been ripped off, Wilma,” opined Inspector Lemone, tapping his hands behind his back. “No need to bump someone off if they're not still around.”

“Hmm,” pondered Wilma, “you might be right. Or . . .”

But just then the creak she had heard twice before in such incriminating circumstances sounded behind them. Wilma swung around and gasped. It was Gorgeous Muldoon. He was walking toward them, face contorted, and with every step there was the telltale creak.

“You all right?” asked Inspector Lemone, seeing that the comedian was in some discomfort.

“New shoes,” Gorgeous muttered as he sloughed past. “They're agony.”

Wilma looked down at Pickle, her eyes wide with excitement. Was Gorgeous Muldoon the killer after all? Was he? If Wilma was going to find out, she had to come up with a plan. And fast.

“
I
t was definitely the same creak, Inspector!” Wilma urged as they made their way to the foyer. “The same one I heard before Sylvester died AND before I got hit on the noggin! Maybe you're right and the Mysterious Mezmo thing is just a wild-duck chase?”

“Goose chase,” corrected the Inspector. “Or is it chicken? No. Wait. It is goose. As you were.”

“Maybe it's like the Case of the Gargling Gardener? When Mr. Goodman realized that he was chasing the wrong man? We mustn't make that mistake. It's important for me to show I'm learning. It has to be Gorgeous Muldoon!” continued Wilma. “He's probably doing it for Cecily! Just like Loranda said! I really think we should do that thing that detectives do.”

“Yes, we should!” the Inspector declared, before adding, “Sorry . . . remind me. What is that exactly?”

“You know!” replied Wilma, jumping up and down. “When they make their inquiries go all concentrated! It's in my Academy textbook! You follow one suspect about. It's called tightening the net!”

“Oh!” declared Inspector Lemone with considerable relief. “Tightening the net! Yes. I have actually heard of that. So that's good. Though is that a real net? I'm terribly bad at sewing.”

“No. A detective's net. Which is invisible. Hang on. I'll find the bit we need . . .” Wilma reached into her pinafore pocket.

Wilma tucked her book away once more, her face deep in thought. “Perhaps we could go undercover, Pickle? As a cat? Or a rat?”

Pickle shot Wilma a dismissive glance. There was no way he was being a cat. No way, no how.

“All right then,” said Inspector Lemone with a small gulp. “I'll follow Gorgeous around a bit. Keep a tight eye on him. Maybe you should go back to the cottage? Ask Mrs. Speckle to make some sandwiches. We might be here for a while. In fact, yes, that's best. We're in this for the long haul. So off you go. And maybe bring a few pies as well. And a sponge cake . . . just to be safe.”

As she ran off, Wilma was filled with a sense of purpose. Here they were, on their own and on the verge of cracking a case, just like Mr. Goodman! Her mind was whirring. She'd run back to Clarissa Cottage, get the sandwiches and—

Wilma stopped in her tracks. There, hanging above the entrance of the theatre was a new sign being hung in place by Janty.

“D'Anvers Vau-Devil?” she scoffed, squinting upward. “I can't believe it. He's named the theatre after himself!”

“And why shouldn't he?” retorted Janty, jumping down from his ladder. “He is in charge. It's nice having a boss who knows what he's doing. Oh . . . but then I'm forgetting . . . you wouldn't know what
that
was like.”

“Mr. Goodman knows what he's doing more than anyone I've ever met,” snapped Wilma, determined to defend her mentor.

“Really?” answered Janty, looking about him in an exaggerated manner. “Then where is he? Afraid to show his face, I expect.”

Wilma bit her lip. Her insides were boiling with rage. She knew that she ought to rise above it, like Mr. Goodman would want her to, but this was more than she could bear. Janty, seeing that he'd upset her, sneered with pleasure. But his face suddenly changed to one of horror. He looked down at his leg. Pickle, who had had just about enough of this young boy, had taken matters into his own paws, cocked his leg, and peed into Janty's sock.

“Sorry,” said Wilma with a small shrug. “I think he was desperate.”

Janty hopped off in disgust, and Wilma added, “I suppose I should be angry with you for that, Pickle.” They turned and walked away. “But for some reason I can't bring myself to. Can you believe that boy? He's getting worse by the day. And can you believe Barbu is advertising for new acts? But hang on! That's it,” she said, snapping her fingers. “That's how we can catch Gorgeous! I'll go undercover as a new vaudeville act! Using a disguise can sometimes be cunning! That's one of the top tips, remember? And actually, Pickle, we should keep it quiet from the Inspector. That way we can really keep things secret. And, besides, it might be a bit dangerous, and you know how the Inspector hates me doing anything like that.”

Pickle snorted. He didn't much care for doing dangerous things either.

Keeping Inspector Lemone in the dark was going to be a risk. But, as much as she respected him, Wilma knew that the Inspector had a tendency to be clumsy and she couldn't afford to have her cover blown by one small accidental comment. Instead, she would give instructions to Mrs. Speckle to tell the Inspector that she had gone off to see if Penbert had any more results. That way, her secret would be safe.

 

“I'm going to be Maude Muddle and her Amazing Cat Pizzazz. Pickle's going to be the cat. Aren't you, Pickle?” said Wilma, explaining her new plan to Mrs. Speckle, having arrived back at Clarissa Cottage. Pickle, who was enduring having some triangular pieces of toast stuck to the top of his head, was in no mood to respond. “Those will be his cat ears,” continuedWilma, pointing. “Although they need to be less toasty and more furry.”

Mrs. Speckle, who hadn't really been herself since Theodore's departure and seemed to be spending all her time knitting a pipe “to remember him by,” glanced up. “What's your act?” she asked, clearing her throat a little. “You can't just have a name. You need to have an act.”

“Oh,” said Wilma, inadvertently eating one of Pickle's ears. “I don't really know. If it helps, Pickle can't sing. And neither can I. At least I don't think I can . . .”

Wilma stood up, closed her eyes, and let rip. “A braaiiin! Braaaain! Braaaaiiiin! It makes meeeeeethaaaaaaaane!'Cuz it's a braaaaaaain!”

Mrs. Speckle blinked. “No,” she said finally. “You definitely can't.”

“Hmm,” sighed Wilma. “I wonder what we can do.”

Mrs. Speckle took off her knitted spectacles and looked down at Wilma. “Not a lot of people know this,” she began with a small swallow, “but in my younger days I did a little vaudeville myself.”

Wilma's eyes widened. “Did you?” she asked, suitably surprised.

“I was in a dance troupe. But they moved into tap dancing and my knitted boots didn't really fit the bill. Still! That's behind me now! All the same, I can teach you everything you need to know about vaudeville.”

Wilma beamed. “Really? What shall we start with?”

“Basic Grins and Grimaces,” said Mrs. Speckle, rolling up her cardigan sleeves. “And then we shall progress to Theatrical Flimflam!”

“Thank you!” said Wilma, readying herself for her lesson. “The open auditions are tomorrow morning, so we need to get a move on. I just hope we can work something out in time. You know, so Mr. Goodman would be pleased.”

Mrs. Speckle, who was not known for her kindness, especially where small, determined girls and their cheeky dogs were concerned, took a deep breath. “Yes,” she mumbled gruffly. “Seeing as it's for Mr. Goodman.” Mrs. Speckle adjusted her double bobble hats. She may present a grumpy aspect. But she's all right really.

 

Wilma and Pickle were up all night, during which Wilma had discovered, quite by accident, that Pickle could dance. “Who knew?” she said as, with the help of Mrs. Speckle, a dance routine was whipped into shape. They were exhausted and aching but when dawn finally arrived, they were ready.

“Now don't forget!” shouted Mrs. Speckle as Wilma and Pickle set off for the auditions. “Kick, turn, spin, kick, shimmy, shimmy, jazz hands!”

“We won't!” yelled back Wilma, throwing a bag with their costumes over her shoulder.

Because Wilma knew the Inspector would be on his way to the cottage for his breakfast, she and Pickle had to carry their costumes away from the house to a quiet spot to get changed before arriving at the theatre. A couple of streets away, in an empty alley, Wilma quickly laced Pickle into a pink tutu and finished the outfit with a small coned hat, on either side of which sat his toast ears. Wilma was to be dressed as a clown using a baggy, polka-dot pair of dungarees sewn to an old shirt that Mrs. Speckle had cut to size and finished off the collar with a frilly trim. She had crocheted Wilma a red wig too and completed the outfit with a large pair of white padded garden gloves. Now, to make her disguise even more cunning, Wilma made herself a false red nose from putty and smeared thick greasepaint, a special actor's makeup, over her face. She was totally unrecognizable.

“Remember, Pickle, you're a cat. So put on a few airs and graces and don't look pleased to see anybody.”