Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (21 page)

Wilma shook her head. “But . . .”

“Mr. Muldoon's shoes did creak, Wilma, you are entirely correct,” interjected Theodore, at which Wilma shot Gorgeous a smug glance. “But it was not Mr. Muldoon who was wearing them at the time of your attack.”

Wilma did a double take. “But,” she began, “if he wasn't wearing them, then who was?”

“I found those shoes”—he paused dramatically to point—“in the dressing room of Cecily Lovely!”

A ripple of shock passed through the audience. So great was the surprise that several gentlemen fainted and one woman near the front punched another woman in a flouncy hat.

Cecily shook her head a little and blinked. “D-don't be ridiculous,” she stuttered. “I can't even walk if I'm not in a sufficient heel.”

“Precisely so,” added Theodore, “so why would a lady require a gentleman's shoes?”

“Gentleman's shoes?” blustered Cecily, fanning herself suddenly. “I never saw . . . I mean . . . sometimes I like to throw things . . . Perhaps they were there for that . . . Gorgeous! Help me!”

“I know why the shoes were there,” said Gorgeous, stepping forward to take Cecily in his arms. “I left them there because I wanted them polished and stretched. Cecily had nothing to do with it. They were there to be dealt with by her dresser. Nothing improper.”

“And so,” Theodore intoned, “we return to the most crucial and decisive clue of all, the playbill. Two years ago, all of you here present were already at the Valiant Vaudeville Theatre!”

“D'Anvers Vau-Devil!” shouted Barbu in protest. “It's got a new name! NEW name!”

But Theodore powered on. “One name was missing from this playbill, torn from the bottom of the page.”

“You have to look for what's not there!” shouted Wilma, recalling Theodore's first cryptic clue. “You wanted me to find out about the missing name on the playbill!”

“A name that the killer wanted to remain forgotten.” Theodore nodded. “Mysterious Mezmo, specializing, I found out from a theatrical review of that night's show that I found in the
Early Worm
archives, in a strange light show. A light show that dealt with phosphorescence.”

“Thank Cooper for critics!” exclaimed Cecily. “I've always loved them!”

“Ooh,” whispered Wilma, giving Pickle a nudge. “Now it's the foss . . . I mean, phosphorous bit.”

“But Mezmo was masked, nobody saw the illusionist's face, and, what was more, every single illusion went wrong. There was an explosion, during which Mezmo lost a finger. A finger that I can only presume was replaced with a wooden one later. The performer was booed offstage, not just by the audience but by all of you here. Mezmo, humiliated, disappeared. But the humiliation felt that night cut a wound so deep that the first seeds of a desire for revenge were sown.”

“I love this bit, but I can't bear the tension!” cried out Inspector Lemone, clutching his hands together.

“Mysterious Mezmo was never seen again,” carried on Theodore as everyone stood rapt. “But the person behind the mask returned and that person is here now.”

Wilma glanced frantically about the assembled cast and crew. Who could it be?

“Revenge was the motive!” declared Theodore dramatically. “Mezmo wanted to be in the bright lights! But was shunned and banned from doing so! Mezmo had died onstage! And was determined that everyone else at the Valiant would do the same—literally!”

“But who is it?” screamed Eric, unable to bear it any longer. “WHO?”

“Who had access to all these other people's rooms?” Theodore cried with passion. “Who was trusted enough by the Baron to be allowed into his office? To help Malcolm with the greasepaints? To help Gorgeous with his shoes? Who was it who operated the single light in the theatre that emitted a phosphorescence, thus activating the poison?” Theodore suddenly and without warning ran to the front of the stage, picked up one of the footlights, and, turning to face the audience, he swung it upward toward the scaffolding, where he pointed the beam straight into a squinting face above them all. “It was you! The person who was everyone's dogsbody! It was your job to clean out Countess Honey Piccio's trash can, you who tidied the Baron's office, you who wore Gorgeous Muldoon's shoes to stretch them out, you who prepared Cecily Lovely's plant-based potions, and you who operated the deadly spotlight! It was you, Scraps! You were Mysterious Mezmo and you are the killer!”

“Scraps!” gasped Wilma, grabbing on to Pickle with the shock. “It can't be!”

“Now, I didn't know that!” mumbled Eric Ohio, shaking his head.

 

Yes. It was Scraps. Of course it was. It's ALWAYS the quiet ones who are the worst. Everyone knows THAT.

E
veryone stared up at the scrawny, scruffy girl being held by the arms by a man in a smart uniform. “Bring her down, Captain Brock!” shouted Theodore at his colleague of old.

Captain Brock was the head of the island's 2nd Hawks Brigade. Whenever anything needed watching very carefully, he was your man. He also excelled at capturing and restraining, which was why Theodore, who knew his nuts and bolts, had called him in for the case's big ending.

Wilma looked down at Pickle. He was just as surprised as she was. The killer was Scraps! Wilma felt a sharp pang of sadness and regret. Scraps had been her friend. She had tried to help her. She'd even asked Scraps to be her Man on the Inside. If Wilma wanted to be a detective, she was going to have to do better than this.

Walking over to her mentor, she tugged at his trouser leg. “I could have sworn it was Gorgeous Muldoon, Mr. Goodman,” she said, looking up at him. “Because he was always so weird and miserable.”

“He's a comedian, Wilma,” explained Theodore, sticking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. “They're always weird and miserable. And don't be too hard on yourself, Wilma. I know you were fond of Scraps. But villains often mask their true identities. You had all the right clues. You just let them go off in the wrong direction.”

Scraps was led onto the stage by Captain Brock, her head hanging low. “This is an outrage,” she muttered, shooting a sharp upward glance in the great detective's direction. “You've got nothing on me. Of course I'm allowed to go everywhere! I work here! I'm not Mezmo!”

“He's got the wrong man!” yelled Eric, panicking. “I mean woman! The killer's still on the loose!”

“There were two final things that led me to Scraps,” answered Theodore, ignoring Eric's outburst. “First, I remembered that all of Cecily's facial treatments were uniquely prepared.”

“I have very sensitive skin,” Cecily announced self-importantly.

“You, Scraps, were making all her ointments using plants from lavender . . . to seaweed. Only you had the knowledge required to make the poisonous greasepaints. That's why the bucket with seawater and seaweed was in the Baron's office and then Cecily's dressing room, where Gorgeous saw it and thought he would use it for his blisters.”

“That's right!” chipped in the grumpy comedian. “I did!”

“Second, there is the matter of the wooden finger that was found at Filthy Cove. Well done, Wilma. Your find has proved decisive. You were right. Someone other than Eric Ohio did have a wooden finger. Someone who never wanted their hands to be seen . . .”

“Scraps always wears gloves!” Wilma burst out. “She told me it was because she was allergic to boot polish and greasepaint!”

“Well,” said Theodore, nodding, “it was very important that she didn't come into contact with the poisonous greasepaint. Especially as she was operating the phosphorescent light. But the gloves were mainly to hide the one thing that would have revealed her true identity. Captain Brock! Remove the gloves, if you please!”

“Certainly will!” barked Captain Brock, reaching for Scraps's hands. “Well, well!” he exclaimed, pulling the gloves off. “There it is! Bold as brass! A wooden finger on the right hand!”

“That's mine!” wailed Eric Ohio, arms flailing. “She's got my finger!”

Wilma, who was still very shocked, stepped forward, serious and somber. “You were my friend, Scraps. I know there is good in you somewhere. But what you've done is terrible. Why did you do it?”

Scraps, who had always seemed so quiet and shy, slowly raised her head to glare at them all fiercely. “My life was ruined that night! All I ever dreamed of was being onstage! And you all destroyed me. Especially you, Cecily! I swore that I would have my revenge! One by one I was going to kill you all! You would all die onstage! Just like I did! It took me a while to work out how I could do it, but I knew a deadly greasepaint was the perfect answer. None of you would suspect a thing! The greasepaint was quite safe until the poison was activated! The poison was phospho-sensitive. All I had to do was replace the theatre's old spotlight with my specially designed one and the poison would be triggered! Your lives were in my hands! My only regret is that I chose to kill you last of all, Cecily! You were to be my final victim. I wanted you to watch everyone around you fall one by one so that you would be half crazy with anxiety. I knew you would never leave the theatre. Your ego would never allow it!”

“You were going to kill me?” yelled Cecily, appalled. “ME? How dare you! Well, I hope you're not expecting a reference!”

“Thankfully we have stopped you before you could complete your grim task,” said Theodore sadly. “Revenge consumed you. You lost sight of the good, decent girl you once were. But you have committed terrible crimes, and for that you must be punished. Inspector Lemone, help Captain Brock take her away.”

Wilma stood with Mr. Goodman watching Scraps being led to the steps down from the stage. It was always a somber moment to see someone being brought to justice, but there was satisfaction that another case had been successfully solved. Given that Wilma had thought of Scraps as her friend, the success was particularly bittersweet and she experienced a sadness that someone's life could have been so altered that she was driven to unspeakable deeds.

“Oh, and, Cecily,” Scraps said, turning just as she was about to descend, “you know that pampas-grass ointment that I've been putting on your face for the last year?”

“The one that rejuvenates AND lifts?” replied Cecily. “Yes. What about it?”

“Actually, it's an ageing cream,” snapped Scraps triumphantly. “It GIVES you wrinkles.”

“Oh . . . oh . . . OHHHHHHHHHHHH!” screamed Cecily before fainting dead away.

“Someone pick her up,” groaned Barbu, who had had just about enough of all this nonsense. Turning to the audience, he held his hands out. “Don't worry! The killer may have been caught, but I can guarantee that standards at the Vau-DEVIL will not slip!”

“Excuse me,” said a small, neatly presented woman approaching the stage from the back of the auditorium. She had flame-red hair scraped into a tight ponytail and a distinctive lumpy mole on her left cheek. “Are you Barbu D' Anvers?”

“Yes,” replied Barbu dismissively. “But I'm not doing autographs now. Speak to my assistant, Janty. He'll sort you out.”

“I'm afraid you've misunderstood,” answered the woman, pulling out a clipboard and tapping it with a perfectly sharpened pencil. “My name is Swinnerton. I'm the Health and Safety Officer for all public buildings on Cooper. And it's come to my attention that four people have been killed here while at work.”

“Yes, so?” snapped Barbu, stepping to the edge of the stage and sneering down at her.

“Then I am afraid that under Regulation four-five-seven-D subsection sixty-three, you, as the manager of this theatre, are financially liable. As such, you are required to pay the following sum of money.” She took a small slip of paper and handed it up to Barbu. He grabbed it and snorted.

“This is a joke, yes?” he spluttered. “Three hundred thousand and ninety-four ginorma-grogs? Don't be ridiculous. That's more than I've taken at the theatre. That's more money than I could possibly EVER make. If I had to give you that, I'd be ruined! As if! Tully! Make her go away!”

“Oh, I already have the money,” retorted Officer Swinnerton with a short sniff. “I seized it from your accounts an hour ago. I'm merely here as a courtesy to tell you I've done it. Here's a copy of your bank account statement,” she added, handing up a second piece of paper.

Barbu took it, stared, then blinked. “My bank account is empty?” he whispered. “EMPTY? After being stuck in this flea pit for a week? Tully! Do something! Punch someone! Break something! Janty! Destroy her! Quickly! I have nothing in my bank account! NOTHING!”

“And here,” continued Officer Swinnerton, ignoring Barbu completely, “is a note of
my
fee. I should draw your attention to the extra grogs at the bottom. That's because I was called out on my day off. I will take cash. If it's easier.”

Barbu was so shell-shocked, he looked as if he'd been dropped on his head. “You want me to PAY you for taking all my money?” he screamed, bending down to stare at her, wild-eyed.

“Yes please, Mr. D' Anvers,” replied Officer Swinnerton calmly. “If you don't have cash, which clearly you don't, then we can always go to your home and I can seize property to the value of the debt. As I say, whatever is easiest.”

Barbu screwed his lips into a tight ball. His face had turned a deep crimson and he looked as if he was about to explode. “SEIZE my property?” he hissed.

“Well, to be honest,” continued the woman with marked efficiency, “we have already. I just thought I'd stagger the bad news. So, in a nutshell, we've cleared out your bank account and we have seized all your property at Rascal Rock. Here's a bankruptcy form, which you may want to fill in. Obviously we were concerned that you are now homeless, so we've arranged for the three of you to be put up.”