Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Frozen Hearts (16 page)

 

Twenty minutes later both cart and carriage had arrived on the Lowside at the village of Under Welmed. Wilma and Pickle slipped down, still wearing their sacks, and positioned themselves behind a water barrel. Dusk was drawing in, and with dark clouds gathering on the horizon, Janty led Barbu and Tully through a graveyard on the edge of the village. The low evening sun was casting a bruised light and, as they picked their way through the tombstones, the three of them were at one with the shadows. They were heading for an abandoned windmill just north of the village, where no one but the crows gathered in the twilight. Wilma, poking her head over the top of a gravestone, peered through the holes in her sack. “They're going into that crumbly building, Pickle,” she whispered. “That's interesting. When Mr. Goodman solved the Case of the Melted Motor, he said that, as a general rule, anyone heading into disused places was generally up to no good. We must creep very carefully. I think we might be on the verge of another clue.”

Pickle, who was struggling to track the villains from inside an oversized potato sack, tried to shake his head to show he'd understood, but all he succeeded in doing was getting one of his ears stuck in an eye hole. This was going to be a very long evening.

As Janty led Barbu and Tully in through the broken door of the windmill, he felt the sharp pang that goes hand in hand with being somewhere filled with memories. Everything around him seemed familiar yet distant, as if he were looking at his former life down the wrong end of a telescope. The milling room was a decrepit version of its former self: A large stone spur wheel was propped up against one wall, a broken grain hopper dangled from the bin floor above them, and the ground was strewn with rusted tools. In a corner there was a heavy oak table, collapsed on one leg, and above it, on the wall, a few dusty pictures and ornaments. Barbu took in the room with a sneer and raised a hand to his nose. “Ugh,” he sniffed. “So dirty. And I can't be around wheat. Terribly bad for the complexion.”

“This was our hiding place, Mr. D' Anvers,” said Janty, picking up a broom handle and tossing it across the room. “No one comes here. Good meeting place too. For people who wanted to place orders in private.”

“Yes, well. Speaking of that. Your father's book, Janty,” said Barbu, flicking his cloak behind him as he stood close to the boy's shoulder. “Fetch it for me.”

“I hid my father's order book in our cleverest place. I designed it myself.” Janty walked toward the wall. On it hung a framed picture of a fish about to bite a worm on a hook. “The fish thinks he's the hunter,” said Janty, looking back over his shoulder, “but he's not. He's the hunted. It's a lesson my father taught me. When we think we are the hunters, sometimes we are the hunted. And because of that, everything must be protected.” Janty looked back at the painting and felt its surface with his fingertips. The hook that seemed so flat and lifeless rose up at Janty's touch and there was a popping noise as the fish slid out from the wall to reveal a small rectangular tray. Janty put his hand into the drawer and pulled out a battered-looking book. He held it up. “Here you are, Mr. D' Anvers. My father's order book.”

Barbu strode forward and snatched it from the boy's hand. Triumphant, he waved it in the air. “We have it, Tully!” he declared, eyes aflame. “And with it we shall find out who ordered the fake Katzin Stone! And when we know that, the real one will be ours!”

“It'll never be yours!” yelled Wilma, leaping in through a tumbledown window and pulling off her potato sack. “That order book is official evidence and must be handed over in accordance with . . . Hang on a minute,” she added, stopping to frantically thumb through her Clue Ring. “The law! Yes! In accordance with the law! Pickle, get up! I know it's all gone precarious, but now isn't the time to lie down!”

Sometimes it might seem like a good idea to jump out on a known and wicked criminal, but for slightly untidy ten-year-old girls with no one except a small beagle struggling inside a sack to help them, leaping out on people completely lacking in morals is generally a bad idea. A very bad idea indeed.

Barbu fixed his eyes on the little girl in her pinafore standing in front of him and with an incredulous guffaw turned to Tully and said matter-of-factly, “Well, if it isn't our little eavesdropper, Wilma Tenderfoot. Kill her, Tully. And her dog too.” Starting for the door, he flung one corner of his cloak over his shoulder and said, “Come along, Janty. No need for us to get our hands dirtier than they are already.”

“You mustn't give him the book, Janty!” Wilma cried out. “He's a very bad man. Help me! Together we can get the book!”

“Why would I want to help you?” asked Janty, frowning. “You're just a stupid goody-goody girl. I want to know who killed my father. And he's going to find out.”

“But—”

“Yes, I am.” Barbu smirked. “Thus I win. Tully—get on with it.”

Tully lunged forward to grab at Wilma's dress, but as he did so, Pickle, who had finally managed to wriggle his way out of the potato sack, leaped growling at the thug's hefty forearm and bit down hard. Letting out a yowl of pain, the henchman fell backward into the stone spur wheel, sending it rocking toward Barbu and Janty. Wilma, sensing an opportunity, threw herself against the edge of the wheel too and heaved with all her might, sending the heavy stone structure crashing down on top of the villain and his young charge. As Barbu fell to the floor, the order book flew from his hand, rotated in the air, and then fell downward to land with a thud and skid across the windmill floor. Unable to move, Barbu shrieked at his sidekick, “There, Tully! Grab the book! Forget the dog! Grab the book!”

Wilma, diving after the sliding book, had just gotten a hand to it when a thick fist came from nowhere and knocked her sideways. Dazed and thrown across the room, Wilma looked up once more to see Tully in possession of the order book. Pickle was still bravely attached to Tully's forearm, but the henchman was now spinning in a circle to rid himself of the determined hound, Pickle's legs and ears flapping as they went. Barbu was screaming orders and Janty was trying to wriggle free of the heavy milling wheel. He had almost gotten himself out. Wilma had to act quickly. She had landed at the base of a heap of old rusted tools and pans in a corner of the room and reaching up, she felt her hand hit a heavy iron pot. Pushing herself up from the floor she grabbed it and ran at Tully. As she ran she raised the pot above her head by its handle. Then with one almighty swing she thwacked him over the head. Tully stopped in mid-twirl, turned to see what had hit him, and, with eyes rolling, slumped to the floor. Wilma, grabbing the order book from his hand, shouted at Pickle, “Come on! I've got it! Not so stupid now, am I?” she added in Janty's direction as the boy stared after her with a curious look in his eye. She reached the door with the high-pitched screams of a livid Barbu D'Anvers ringing in her ears. “If it's the last thing I do!” he wailed. “I'll get you, Wilma Tenderfoot! I'LL GET YOU!”

 

And Wilma had no reason whatsoever not to believe him. Which was worrying.

“
T
op tip number five!” yelledWilma as they ran at full speed. “When escaping, be circuitous! I'm not quite sure what that means. Hang on. I'll look it up!” Pulling the dictionary out of her pinafore pocket as she ran, she quickly flipped the pages. “It's an awfully big word!” she shouted back toward Pickle, who was hard on her heels. “Circuitous! Taking the longer way around in order to avoid bumping into anyone who might want to kill you! That sounds like a good idea. Let's get on with it!”

The plucky pair scampered down side alleys, hopped over fences, and zigzagged across fields. With Cooper's very worst villain on their tails, being circuitous seemed their best option. Having been circuitous for the best part of thirty minutes, Wilma and Pickle careered toward the brick wall that separated the two sides of the island. Wilma took a peek toward the Border Control station. Trevor's booth was empty. The coast was clear. Somehow they had to get back to the Farside—and to Mr. Goodman—but with the border now closed for the night they were in grave danger of being trapped. “I need to think circuitously,” whispered Wilma, tapping her bottom lip with her index finger. “We have to get across the border but not in a way that anyone would expect.”

Pickle pawed at Wilma's elbow and pointed his nose upward. Wilma looked. There was a ladder hanging on a hook above them. “Of course!” she said, giving the beagle a quick rub on the head. “We can go over!” Wilma reached up and fetched the ladder. Leaning it in position, she took the ends of her pinafore and tied them around her neck so that the bottom of her dress formed a sort of sling. Then, lifting Pickle, she said, “Don't wriggle,” and placed him inside the makeshift pouch. “No licking either. It tickles.”

Steadily Wilma ascended the ladder, and Pickle, who was quietly enjoying the toasty confines of the makeshift sling, yawned a bit and allowed his thoughts to wander to bones and biscuits. Dogs, whenever they find themselves in a toasty environment, will immediately forget what it is they are supposed to be concentrating on. This is why they should never be left in warm rooms in charge of heavy machinery. And why Pickle didn't notice until too late that his cozy sling was gradually slipping lower and lower. For the knot at the back of Wilma's neck wasn't quite done up tight enough and, at the top of the ladder, as Wilma put one hand on the tiled ledge of the wall, it finally came undone. The cradle, which had seemed so safe, gave way. “Pickle!” yelled Wilma as the yelping hound fell downward. She knew she had but a moment to save her faithful friend. Thinking quickly, she stuck her leg out, just catching his collar on the buckle of her sandal. She heaved a sigh of relief as Pickle, gently swaying on the end of her foot, tried not to look as startled as he felt. It was a lucky escape, but their troubles were far from over, for as Wilma lunged to catch Pickle she had lost her footing on the ladder, sending it clattering to the floor. The pair were dangling helplessly by her one hand from the top of the wall. “Now what are we going to do?” wailed Wilma. “This is hopeless! Like when Mr. Goodman solved the Case of the Shattered Spleen! He had to swing an anvil onto a rocky outcrop. If only I had an anvil! Or some sort of weight!” Pickle, still hanging by his collar, gave a short but significant snort. “Hang on!” yelled Wilma, looking down. “I've got you! If I use you as a weight, Pickle, I can swing you off the end of my shoe and onto the wall-ledge and then you can help pull me up! I can't think of anything else, can you?” And with that she swung her leg once, twice, and then on the third swing up she flicked Pickle, who flew, ears akimbo, through the air and landed on the ledge above her. “Now take hold of my sleeve and pull, Pickle, pull!” Wilma shouted, blinking upward at her dog. Pickle, still a little startled from his flight, gave his head a quick shake and then sunk his teeth into Wilma's shirtsleeve. As he pulled backward, Wilma was able to get her other hand hooked over the ledge and between them, somehow, she scrabbled her way up onto the wall. “Blimey,” she said, panting. “Being circuitous isn't as easy as it sounds.”

 

“What about,” said Inspector Lemone, holding a finger in the air, “if we had a snooze, you know, forty winks or so, because I read somewhere, can't think where, that sometimes people have their best ideas when they're asleep. I think they're called power naps or some such. Perhaps we could get Mrs. Speckle to bake us a pie ... you know . . . to help with the snoozing? And it is awfully late . . .”

Theodore P. Goodman, the world's greatest and most serious detective, was thumbing through a book, looking for the section on Blow Darts, and was paying little attention to the Inspector. “Ahh,” he said at last, tapping the relevant page. “I thought as much! As I recall, the feather on that dart was a violet blue crisscrossed with gold. And the only bird with that coloration is ...” The detective reached for another hefty book on his desk and opened it with a thump. “Here! The Pippin Warbler! And where does it nest, Lemone?” he added triumphantly.

“Umm, in a tree?” answered the Inspector, who had already started his snooze and was lying on the chaise longue with one eye open.

“Not just any tree, Inspector!” declared Theodore, standing up. “The Cynta tree! The same tree whose poison was on that shard! And I'll bet, when we talk to forensics, the same tree whose poison killed Visser.” He began to scribble on his Clue Board.

“So it was a tree who stole the Katzin Stone?” mumbled the Inspector, who now had both eyes closed and was starting to dream of a land made of pies.

“No!” said Theodore, striding up and down. “But it means that the person who made the dart also touched the fake Katzin Stone. As I suspected, they are one and the same, Lemone! Hmmm. There's only one Cynta tree on Cooper Island, and if I remember correctly,” he added, reaching for a large book of newspaper clippings, “it's at the Hilbottom arboretum!”