Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (17 page)

Pickle just snorted. He would do anything Wilma asked of him but, lest we forget, our favorite noble hound was dressed in a ballet outfit and had to pretend to be a cat. He was putting on a brave face, but by golly, he was
dying
inside.

 

To Wilma's surprise, the line for the auditions snaked out from the foyer and down the street. There were barrel jumpers, harpists, a man with a harmonica hidden inside a sandwich, roller skaters, gun spinners, trick cyclists, whip experts, and a man in swimming trunks claiming he could hold his breath underwater for five whole minutes. “Goodness,” said Wilma as she surveyed the scene. “I can't believe there are so many people here. Especially as there's a killer on the loose in the theatre. Still, some people will do anything to be in show business! We're going to have to give this our all, Pickle. Don't forget the jazz hands. Mrs. Speckle says they're crucial.”

Baron von Worms, who seemed a little overwhelmed by the numbers of auditioners, was standing on the theatre steps with a clipboard. Since being ousted as manager he had been forced by Barbu to do all kinds of menial jobs.

“No! I'm sorry!” he was saying to a tall woman dressed like a carrot. “We already have a paper tearer! No thank you! Next!”

Wilma, thinking that this would be a perfect way to test out their disguise, walked past the line and approached him.

“Helloo,” she said, throwing in an accent for extra cunning. “Me cat 'n' I would like to try out for the show!”

The Baron looked down at them over the top of his clipboard. “Name?” he said without batting an eyelid.

Wilma trilled inwardly. Her disguise was working! “I'm Maude Muddle,” she explained. “And this heere's me cat. He's deeefinitely a cat. His name's Pizzazz. So that's me, Maude Muddle, and me amaaazin' dog, I mean cat, Pizzazz!”

“Very large for a cat, isn't he?” commented the Baron, eyeing Pickle up and down.

“That's 'cuz he doesn't eat mice,” answered Wilma, thinking on her feet, “he eats raats!”

“Hmph.” Baron von Worms shrugged, scribbling on his clipboard. “Well, that would explain it. There are rats the size of pigs around the back of the Valiant.”

“D'Anvers! Not Valiant!” corrected Barbu sharply as he swept past them. “Do try and get it right, Mr. von Worms!”

“It's Baron . . .” muttered the set-upon manager. But it was too late. The tiny rotter was already gone.

“Send the first one in, would you?” said Janty, sauntering up the front steps. He stopped and stared at Wilma. His eyes narrowed. Wilma's heart thumped. If she was discovered now, the plan would be in shreds! “I like your wig,” he said eventually with a wonky grin and then, stuffing his hands into his pockets, he followed his master into the theatre. She had done it! If she could fool Janty, she could fool anyone!

“Well, he approves!” sniffed the Baron, handing Wilma a scrap of paper. “Which is a start. In fact,” he added, twirling his pen, “you can go in first! Best to keep D' Anvers and his crew in a good mood. Off you go. Up the stairs, turn left, into the stalls, pop up onto the stage.”

“Thank you!” called out Wilma as she and Pickle scampered off.

“And be good!” shouted the Baron, watching them go. “Or they'll make my life even more of a misery. Right, then. Next!”

 

Barbu, Tully, and Janty were all sitting on the stage behind a long table, goblets of water before them. The old man that Wilma had seen the previous day was sweeping up around their feet while Geoffrey was on his hands and knees painting a large X on the floor in front of the judges' table. Malcolm Poppledore, the props boy, was standing at the foot of the stage and on seeing Wilma, he took the slip of paper she'd been given at the entrance, cleared his throat, and shouted up, “First contestant, Mr. D'Anvers. Maude Muddle and her Amazing Cat Pizzazz!”

“Ugh,” moaned Barbu, giving Tully a nudge. “Animal act.”

“I quite like animals, Mr. Barbu,” replied the stupid henchman. “They don't think much.”

“Figures,” sneered the evil villain. “So! Maude Muddle! Up onto the stage, please. Stand on the X. And, in your own time, blah, blah, blah, tell us about yourself!”

Wilma looked down at Pickle and whispered behind her hand, “Now for the theatrical flimflam! Just follow my lead and look a bit miserable.” Turning to the judges, she clutched her hands together, just as Mrs. Speckle had taught her, and took a small step forward. “Me and me cat,” she began in a quiet hush, “'ave bin through goood times. But we also been through baaad. Especially Pizzazz. He 'ad a twin who loved to dance. But one day his twin was walking past an orphanage on fire. With no thought for his own personal safety, his twin went into that fire and saved every laaaaast orphan in there.”

“Amazing,” muttered Tully, hanging on to Wilma's every word.

“But the thing was,” Wilma continued, letting her head hang low, “on his last trip in, he was struck by a flaming beam and he went lame. He would never daaance again.”

“Oh no!” whispered Tully, his hand rushing to his mouth.

“And Pizzazz here,” Wilma added, gesturing down to Pickle, who was, rather brilliantly, lying on the floor with his paws over his eyes, “swore that he would learn to dance for his lame brother. And that's why we're here today.”

Wilma looked up dramatically as Mrs. Speckle had shown her. All the judges were staring at her, openmouthed and silent. Tully was in tears, Janty was frowning, and even Barbu, the hardesthearted man on Cooper Island, was looking a little choked up. Eventually, he spoke.

“That's quite a story, Maude Muddle,” he said softly. “Well, let's see this dance. And let's see if Pizzazz can honor his lame hero brother.”

This was it. The moment for which they had worked tirelessly through the night. Wilma handed her sheet music to the pianist and, taking up position, she waited for the first notes to begin. Side by side, Wilma and Pickle began to nod their heads in time to the music. Then Wilma, snapping her fingers, slid sideways and struck a pose as Pickle shimmied his rear end and took center stage, his twinkling tutu catching the light magnificently. To the amazement of the judges, the grooving cat kicked his back legs out, spun around, shook his rear end toward them as if his life depended on it, rolled onto his back and pedaled his paws upward in time to the music. At this point, Wilma jumped in the air, then, jiggling like jelly, pulled a large knitted mouse out of her pocket. Tossing it over to Pickle, who caught it, patted it, and then tore it to shreds, Wilma got down on all fours and crawled forward. Pickle, who was trying his best to twitch his tail just like the cat they had saved from the pear tree, jumped, in one startling springing movement, onto Wilma's shoulders. With his head directly above Wilma's they rolled their necks and turned left, then right and then in one snappy move they both looked upward at the same time. Pickle jumped down and Wilma leaped up. In perfect time, they kicked their legs, turned, spun, kicked again, and then shimmied their shoulders forward, and finally, in one fabulous movement, Pickle stood up on his hind legs and as Wilma shook her hands from side to side, Pickle did the same with his front paws.

“Oh!” said Barbu, practically breathless. “Jazz hands! I LOVE them!”

The routine was over. It had been a triumph. Wilma smiled down at Pickle, who, even though he was dressed like a cat, was experiencing the sweet rush of adrenaline that dancing brings. Surely they would get through! Surely!

“Well,” began Janty, “I think the routine needs a little sharpening through the midsection, but . . . I loved it. It's a yes from me.”

Wilma looked toward Tully. He was clapping and crying simultaneously. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” he bawled. “One million percent yes!”

It was looking good. But they needed Barbu to agree. Without his say-so, the plan was dead in the water. The tiny villain sat back in his chair and sucked his cheeks in thought. “Do you know what?” he said eventually. “It's . . . three yeses! You're in!”

Wilma and Pickle had done it! Let the choir of angels sing!

“
T
his is your dressing room,” bustled Malcolm Poppledore, opening a door into a tiny, cramped space. “You did well. They didn't hire a single other act today. So you're the only new one on the bill. The next show starts in an hour. Running order will be stage left. Do you have any props I need to organize?”

“No thank you,” replied Wilma, turning up the gaslights around the mirror. “Although a bowl of water for Pizzazz might be nice.”

“Water?” answered Malcolm, staring down at Pickle. “That's a bit mean. Don't cats prefer milk?”

“Yes. Okay,” blurted Wilma, backtracking. “Must be all the excitement of getting the job. In that case, make it creamy! Ah-ha-ha. Ha.”

Pickle rolled his eyes. He hated milk. It made him bloaty and, to be honest, even though he slightly loathed his tutu, he still wanted to look good in it.

“All right then,” said Malcolm, who was in too much of a rush to notice anything properly. “I'll bring around fresh greasepaints in half an hour.”

A large thud sounded against the wall behind the mirror, followed by the muffled yells of Cecily Lovely.

Malcolm sighed. “Cecily's off again,” he muttered. “That dresser of hers deserves a medal. You'll soon find out. What with being next door to her dressing room and everything. My advice—keep out of her way. Unless you want something thrown at you too.”

As Malcolm left, Wilma looked around the dressing room. There were two mirrors, two chairs, and a few threadbare posters on the walls. In the corner there was a rack to hang costumes on and a pile of discarded pots of greasepaint remover. “Not very comfy, is it, Pickle?” commented Wilma. “Still, so far so good. Our undercover plan is working brilliantly. What we need to do now is track down Gorgeous Muldoon and follow him around a bit. In case he gets more suspicious. And, if he does, collect clues and make a net out of them. Or something.”

“Are you Maude Muddle?” said a voice from the doorway. It was Mrs. Grumbletubs, the laundry mistress. She looked anxious and a little distracted.

“Yes,” replied Wilma with a grin. “And this is my amaaazing cat Pizzazz. He's amaaazing.”

Mrs. Grumbletubs cast a glance at Pickle, who, at that precise moment, was trying to eat a slightly moldy apple core that he'd found on the dressing table. “Do you have any costumes you need washing or ironing?” she asked, pressing on. “Can't really stop. Mind so full. Terrible deaths. Washing and ironing. Always washing and ironing. So awful. Wish I hadn't seen it. But I have. But I can't tell! I've my son to think about!”

Wilma, sensing that Mrs. Grumbletubs was in something of a state, stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on her forearm. “Are you all right?” she asked, giving her false nose a twitch. “Do you know something about the deaths?”

“Fizzing and frothing! No! Said too much. Mustn't tell. Not safe! No one's safe!” mumbled the laundry mistress, wringing her hands together.

“Frothing?” asked Wilma, a small surge of excitement shooting through her. “Do you mean the poison? Do you know how it works? Do you know where it's coming from?”

The door to Wilma's dressing room was slightly ajar and at that moment Pickle looked up from his very dissatisfying snack to see a shadow moving across the door frame. Leaping off his chair he stood, stiff as a board and paw aloft, and barked at the shadow.

Mrs. Grumbletubs frowned. “I thought you said he was a cat?”

“He is,” explained Wilma quickly, a little irritated at her beagle's interruption. “But he can do dog impressions. I told you he was amaaazing. Anyway, never mind that—the poison—you said you knew something!”

Pickle barked again. He had to make Wilma understand! He turned, pawed at her leg, and then barked again in the direction of the shadow. At last Wilma followed his gaze and she saw it. A dark shape lingering behind the half-closed door.

“Gorgeous Muldoon,” she whispered, and lunging for the door handle she pulled it toward her! “Caught you!” she yelled as the door flung open.

“Oh!” said Scraps, jumping. “Sorry! Didn't mean to startle you! I've got a pile of costumes for Mrs. Grumbletubs,” she added, gesturing with her nose to the huge heap of clothes in her arms. “Thought I'd wait till you were done. So as not to be rude. I'm Scraps. I work for Miss Lovely.”

“Oh!” said Wilma with a sigh of relief. “I thought you were . . . Well, never mind that now. I'm Maude Muddle. This is Pizzazz. He's a caaat, but sometimes he pretends to be a dog. Can I help with those? They look quite heavy!”

“Thank you, yes,” answered Scraps with a weak smile. “Miss Lovely does have an awful lot of clothes. And she likes to change her outfit every thirty minutes to stay fashionable, so, you know.”

As Wilma helped the poor dresser put the sequined outfits and flowing frocks into Mrs. Grumbletubs's laundry basket, the troubled washerwoman was still muttering under her breath.

“All done, Mrs. Grumbletubs,” said Wilma as the last feather boa was stuffed in with the rest of the laundry. “Perhaps I'll come and see you later. We can finish that chat we were having.”

But Mrs. Grumbletubs was already making for the door, basket in her arms and shaking her head as she went. “Terrible times! Said too much! Too much!” And with that she was gone.

“Mrs. Grumbletubs seems very upset,” observed Scraps, dusting a loose feather from her dungarees. “But then we all are. It's been a trying time. What was she saying?”