Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (18 page)

“Oh, nothing much,” said Wilma quickly with a shrug. Detectives always save what they're thinking till last, of course, and it certainly wouldn't do for Wilma to start spouting on about potential clues. An awkward silence filled the room. You may have noticed grown-ups have a lot of these. Especially when gentlemen have made improper comments about ladies' new hairdos. In these circumstances it is vital to change the subject, and fast, which is exactly what Wilma did now.

“Do you mind me asking?” she said, staring at Scraps's hands. “I couldn't help noticing. Everyone's alwaaays wearing gloves. Is it a theatre thing?”

“Oh!” replied Scraps with a small raise of her eyebrows. “Most people wear them because the place is so dusty, but I have to wear them because I can't touch greasepaint. Bad luck, I know! I work in a theatre and I'm allergic to actor's makeup! And boot polish. In fact I'm allergic to practically everything! Which is a pain because I'm always having to make up Miss Lovely's beauty preparations.”

“SCRAAAAAAAAAAPS!” came a yell from the adjacent dressing room.

“I'd better go,” Scraps said softly. “Miss Lovely wants me. But it was nice to meet you. And your cat.”

Wilma blinked. When she had read the chapter in her book about going undercover, there had been a paragraph about establishing confidences and working with people with insider know-how. Scraps might be perfect! She was always with Miss Lovely, and Gorgeous Muldoon was always hanging around
her
! Besides, Wilma liked Scraps and considered her a friend. She was sure it was something Theodore P. Goodman would do. In fact, he'd sort of suggested as much when he asked Wilma to quiz Scraps about Cecily. Whichever way she looked at it, it was a flawless idea.

“Um, Scraps,” she began, reaching out and stopping the dresser from leaving. “The thing is . . .” she added, dropping her accent, “we've met before.”

Scraps spun around. “I don't think we have,” she replied stiffly. “I'm sure I'd remember—I remember everyone I've met. You must have me mistaken for someone else. Please excuse me. I have to clean out the Countess's bins.”

“No, Scraps!” urged Wilma, her eyes widening. “It's me! Wilma Tenderfoot. And that's not Pizzazz! It's Pickle! He's just pretending to be a cat. Look! He's got toast for ears! I'm wearing a false nose!” She gave her putty nose a tweak. “I'm undercover. On official apprentice detective business! Nobody knows it's me!”

Scraps looked slightly taken aback. A small, troubled expression flitted across her face. “But . . .” she began, “if you're in disguise, why are you telling me?”

“You can help me!” enthused the ten-year-old. “You can be my Man on the Inside! That's the proper term. I read about it in my book. Although you're not a man. But then, it didn't say you had to be. And you have got insider know-how! You can look out for fishy goings-on and help me make a net of clues!”

“I'm just a d-dresser,” stuttered Scraps, backing toward the door. “I'm not sure I'm the right person.”

“You are! You're perfect!” encouraged Wilma. “Here's the thing. Oh, hang on. Before I tell you anything, you sort of have to promise not to say a word. Put your finger on my apprentice badge and swear it. It's here, hidden under this knitted daffodil.”

Scraps placed a finger gingerly on the small, shiny badge. “All right, I promise. What . . . what do you know?”

“Here's the thing. Two times I heard a strange creaky noise. And then I found out that it was coming from Gorgeous Muldoon's new shoes!”

Scraps bit her lip nervously.

“There are lots of other clues too, but Gorgeous is definitely the Prime Suspect. Now we just have to catch him doing something so suspicious that Inspector Lemone can arrest him and Mr. Goodman can come back from his hiding place.”

“Theodore P. Goodman has gone into hiding?” gasped Scraps. “I wondered where he was . . .”

“Don't worry. I've sort of been left in charge. This case will be solved in no time!”

Scraps blinked. She was staring at a ten-year-old dressed as a clown whose red putty nose was now veering dangerously to the left. Detectives are supposed to exude an authoritative air. Scraps could have said quite a lot at that precise moment, but instead she said nothing. Sometimes, if you can't say anything nice, it's best not to say anything at all.

“Gorgeous is always hanging around Cecily, so you can watch him and tell me if he says or does anything that might be a bit strange. Oh! And don't forget to think wonkily, because sometimes that helps!”

“All right,” said Scraps with a small nod. “I'll do my best.”

“SCRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPS!” came another scream from the next room.

“I'd better go. And, Wilma . . .” Scraps paused in the doorway. “Be careful.”

Wilma followed Scraps to the door and gave her a silent thumbs-up as she disappeared into Cecily Lovely's dressing room. She took a deep breath. Going undercover was extremely thrilling, and with her new Man on the Inside she was confident that the case would be within solving distance before she knew it. She only wished she could see Mr. Goodman and tell him about all her adventures without him. But it would have to wait. She turned to go back into her dressing room and yelped. Standing in front of her was the old cleaner, huddled over his broom.

“A theatre is full of ears and tongues,” he hissed from under his beard. “Now then. Rubbish! Any rubbish? Rubbish tells you all you need to know!” And off he went, having collected the discarded greasepaint-remover pots from her room.

Wilma pursed her lips. There was something about that old man she didn't like. But she had far more important things to think about. Like performing in the show that night. And keeping the rest of the cast alive. And catching a killer. So not much, then.

“
R
ighto,” said Inspector Lemone, closing his eyes and grimacing. “I think I've got it . . . No . . . no, I haven't. You're going to have to explain it to me again.”

Penbert shoved her glasses to the top of her nose and tried for the tenth time. “So Wilma gave me a seaweed sample . . .”

“Yes, I remember that bit.” The Inspector nodded, his eyes shut tight with concentration. “Where's Wilma? Thought she'd be here. Oh, never mind that. Seaweed. Right. Why was there seaweed again?”

“Because there was some seaweed in a bucket in Baron von Worms's office.”

“Nice place. Bit cluttered. Costume in the shape of an owl. So far totally with you.” Inspector Lemone nodded furiously.

Penbert rolled her eyes. “So I analyzed the seaweed and have discovered that, when certain conditions preside, it can become toxic.”

“Errrr . . .”

“Because this seaweed,” said Penbert, battling on, “has bobbles. And inside the bobbles is an enzyme . . .”

“Ooooooh,” burbled Inspector Lemone.

“An enzyme,” plowed on Penbert, “that is activated by phosphorous light.”

“Phospho-what?” cried out Inspector Lemone.

“Phosphorous!” yelled Penbert in exasperation. “It's stuff that shines in the dark. When this particular seaweed comes into contact with this particular light, it becomes poisonous!”

“I can't see! Is there some sort of blinding light in my eyes?” yelled the Inspector, grabbing at the air in front of him. “Very hot! Confused! Seaweed!”

“Calm down, Inspector!” boomed Dr. Kooks, taking the Inspector by the shoulders. “You're being blinded by science. It's only temporary. The feeling will pass in a few moments. Try to relax. I know Penbert can be a bit intense, but facts are facts and it's her job to tell you them.”

“Here,” suggested Penbert, pulling up a chair. “Sit down and I'll draw some non-threatening shapes on the blackboard instead.”

“Yes, yes,” gulped Inspector Lemone, dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief. “Sorry, Kooks. It's all a little bit overwhelming.”

“Don't worry,” answered Dr. Kooks, giving his friend a firm pat on the shoulder. “We see this all the time. Although the reactions aren't usually quite as severe as yours. Still, never mind. Plan B, Penbert. Blackboard!”

Penbert was already standing, chalk in hand, at a small blackboard that she had wheeled over in front of the Inspector. Clearing her throat and in as soft a voice as she could muster, she began, “So this shape is like a seaweed. And look,” she added, drawing an upward curve, “it's smiling. But hang on! Here comes a naughty shape . . .”

“Looks like a squid,” said the Inspector, pointing.

“Good man,” said Dr. Kooks with another pat. “You can get through this.”

“It's the phosphorus! And oh no!” said Penbert, her voice rising a little. “It's made the seaweed shape sad. And VERY dangerous! VERY, VERY dangerous!” Penbert, seizing the moment, quickly drew an enormous pair of fangs with some blood dripping from them on the seaweed, finished off the scene with a quick skull and crossbones, underlined it all with a flourish, and turned to face the Inspector. “Now do you get it?” she asked, panting slightly.

Inspector Lemone, whose face looked as if it had slipped sideways in the confusion, gulped and wiped his forehead. “I think . . .” he began slowly, “that I do. I do! I get it!”

“Oh, thank Cooper for that!” said Penbert, slumping over the blackboard.

“So that's the theory! Whoever is perpetrating these foul deeds is extremely clever. Now all we have to do is find the poison that's made from the seaweed. It's hidden in something!” shouted Dr. Kooks, thrusting a finger into the air. “And, not only that, but we need to discover who has access to phosphorous light and where it's coming from!”

“But how are we going to do that?” whimpered Inspector Lemone, biting his lip.

“By returning to the theatre, Inspector!” bellowed the forensic scientist triumphantly. “Goodman has gone! Dire times call for dire measures! Pack the bags, Penbert!” he continued, reaching for a large syringe. “We're going on a field trip!”

“Oh good,” muttered Penbert weakly. Because after the day she'd just had, a field trip would be great. Just great.

T
he cry rang through the theatre, dreadful and despairing. “Oh no!” it sounded. “My mother! Help me! Someone help me!”

Lying on the floor of the laundry room was Mrs. Grumbletubs, looking as dead as a doornail, her mouth frothing with foam.

The killer had struck again.

Poor Geoffrey, who was in a terrible state, was led away by Malcolm Poppledore as the rest of the cast and crew gathered in the doorway. Wilma, who had heard the screams and come running, was straining to see through the crowd.

“Out of my way,” yelled Barbu, waving his cane as he swept up behind them. “What's happened now?”

“It's Mrs. Grumbletubs,” said Eric Ohio, shaking. “Dead! DEAD!”

“Yes, I can see that,” snapped Barbu, bending down over her body. “What a terrible waste,” he added with a small shake of his head. “No one paid to see her die.”

“Hang on,” chipped in Janty, who was peering over his master's shoulder. “What's that pinned to her apron?” He reached down and unhooked the attached note. It was made from cut-out letters, just like the other one Wilma had seen. “It's from the killer!” he announced, holding it out for everyone to see.

A terrified gasp rippled through the assembled throng.

“Oh well,” retorted Barbu, brightening. “That's something, I suppose. Put another poster up, Janty! And if any of you DO die—make sure it's onstage! Be professional about it! Is that too much to ask?”

“You're a monster, Barbu D'Anvers!” heaved Cecily Lovely, gripping the door frame for support.

“Thanks!” replied Barbu. “I do my best. Janty! Tully! Let's go! We have an audience to cram in!”

“Hang on a minute!” wailed Eric Ohio, throwing his arms into the air. “Why are we even going on? What are we thinking? This is madness! MADNESS!”

Cecily shot the diminutive dummy a sharp glance. “Don't be ridiculous, Eric!” she wailed. “We are actors! There is an audience! The show MUST go on!”

“It's true,” said Mrs. Wanderlip with a sigh, “it really must.”

“Don't worry, Cecily,” said Gorgeous Muldoon, stepping forward to put an arm around the stricken diva. “Nothing will happen to you. I will make sure of it.”

Wilma's eyes widened and she gave Pickle a nudge. “Did you hear that?” she whispered. “He's going to make sure nothing happens to her! Well, of course he is! He's not going to bump off his girlfriend, is he? Maybe that's it! Maybe he's so insanely jealous he wants her all to himself? That's quite a good motive. I'd better write that down.
And
I bet he made that note as well. Maybe we can sneak around later. See if there are any scissors or glue in his dressing room.”

Ducking into a dark corner in the corridor, Wilma got out her notebook and thought hard. Mrs. Grumbletubs's death seemed to throw some of her theories skyward. She wasn't listed on the playbill, nor was her death onstage, like the others. But she had seemed very agitated when she had spoken to her earlier. Mrs. Grumbletubs must have known something! And, somehow, the killer had gotten wind of it. Wilma felt a surge of regret. Perhaps she could have done something sooner and prevented this ghastly incident . . . And poor Geoffrey . . . he was an orphan now, like her.

“I think this,” she whispered to Pickle as she scribbled, “is what my textbook refers to as a ‘rubbing out of a witness.' Gorgeous Muldoon is getting desperate. We need to nail him down once and for all!”