Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (9 page)

“I'm fine, really,” said Trixie, clutching her forehead as she was led past them by Malcolm Poppledore. “The knife only went through my sleeve.”

Wilma whipped up her head. Trixie was alive! “Oh!” she cried with relief. “You're not dead!”

Inspector Lemone frowned. “I am going to put my hand up and say that at this juncture I have absolutely no idea what anyone is talking about.”

“I'm not sure that I have either,” confessed Theodore as he patted Wilma reassuringly on the shoulder. “But one thing I do know—we have another body on our hands.” And with that he strode onto the stage and bent down over the knife thrower's prone form.

The anxiety in the auditorium was palpable, a mixture of excitement and worry. “That sign was right!” someone called down from the Upper Dress Circle. “It is a stage of death!” Mutters and mumbles broke out.

“Please remain calm,” Theodore pronounced, holding up a hand. “We will get to the bottom of this as soon as we can!”

“Not soon enough for the Great Sylvester!” shouted a young boy's voice. “Maybe someone else should be put in charge!”

The audience grumbled ambiguously.

“Pipe down!” shouted a thin, reedy-looking man who had stood up in the stalls. “Mr. Goodman is Cooper's most serious and famous detective!”

“Hear, hear!” yelled someone else.

“That he may be,” came the boy's voice again from the shadows, “but there's still a second body on the stage!”

The audience murmured once more.

Wilma, standing in the wings, was aghast. “Why are they turning on Mr. Goodman?” she asked, looking up at the Inspector. “He's done nothing wrong.” “People need someone to blame, I'm afraid,” explained Inspector Lemone. “Don't worry. Goodman won't let it bother him.”

And, as the great detective returned to his companions with a worried frown, up high toward the back of the theatre, Barbu D'Anvers put a hand on Janty's shoulder. “Well done,” he whispered with a small, evil laugh. “And so the game's afoot. Continue to rattle the girl. We'll have Theodore ruined in no time. And another death. Today's shaping up nicely. Very nicely indeed.”

 

“Inspector,” began Theodore with purpose, “I shall need statements from everyone at the theatre. With a second body, we must accelerate our investigations immediately. We are clearly not now looking at an accidental poisoning. Not only that, but whoever is behind this clearly has more than just a personal dislike for Sabbatica the mind reader.”

“Mr. Goodman!” pipedWilma, running to keep up with him. “I was talking to Loranda Links, the lady dressed like a snake's dinner, and she thinks that Cecily Lovely hated Sabbatica and that she'd quite like to be the only person onstage.”

“Then we shall start with her,” said Theodore. “To Cecily Lovely's dressing room!”

Having established that the same stinking, yellowish foam was in the Great Sylvester's throat, pandemonium had broken out backstage and, as Wilma trotted behind Theodore and the Inspector, she couldn't help but notice the looks of panic on people's faces. Mrs. Wanderlip was standing with Claiborne Wordette, the bird impersonator, who was so sad, she was hooting like an owl while being comforted by a ventriloquist dummy, who, Wilma had to assume, was Eric Ohio. And Countess Honey Piccio was so distressed by the turn of events she was absentmindedly tearing paper into the shape of a host of Grim Reapers. Everyone, it would seem, was in pieces.

As they rushed toward Cecily's dressing room, an arm came out and stopped Theodore in his tracks. It was Mrs. Grumbletubs, the laundry mistress, with her son, Geoffrey. “You will find who did it, won't you?” she asked, her face filled with anxiety. “I don't care about myself. But it's my son. He's so young. I don't want anything to happen to him.”

Wilma looked at Geoffrey and smiled. He didn't smile back. He was too busy screwing his face up into a tight ball of embarrassment. “Please don't, Mother,” he whined. “I'm old enough to look after myself!”

Theodore placed a reassuring hand on Mrs. Grumbletubs's shoulder. “I can promise you that I will get to the bottom of this as soon as is possible. But for now remain vigilant. You too, young man. Nobody is too grown up to take a little extra care.”

Geoffrey mustered something approaching a smile, but he was a teenager, so it might have been a trapped burp. When it comes to grumpy boys, it's sometimes very hard to tell.

“I cannot cope!” they could hear Cecily screaming as they approached her dressing room. “And you do nothing! You're hopeless! Get out! Get OUT!”

Gorgeous Muldoon, the comic compère, appeared suddenly in the doorway. “But, Cecily . . .” he was pleading.

“Get OUT!” At which Gorgeous ducked and a large man's shoe flew over his head and landed at Theodore's feet.

The detective bent down to pick it up. “An artistic difference?” he asked with a twitch of his mustache. Gorgeous scowled, put the tossed shoe on his foot, and limped off up the corridor muttering.

Wilma watched him go. “I wonder what's wrong with him?” she wondered out loud. “He's walking awfully strangely.”

Cecily was slumped over her dressing table. She was wearing a gown that was a mass of frills and a hat that anyone in their right mind would call ridiculous. It looked like a three-tiered wedding cake topped with figurines of a pair of pigs dancing.

Inspector Lemone was so startled by it that he had to wipe his eyes and look again. No. They were definitely dancing pigs.

Scraps, Wilma noticed, was standing next to an incredibly ornate silk screen, on top of which were draped various items of clothing. She had her head hung low and looked terribly nervous. Pots of preparations adorned the dressing table and next to them were a small pestle and mortar and a crushed pile of rosemary.

“Miss Lovely,” said Theodore, announcing their entry. “You will be aware that there has been another unfortunate incident. I wonder if I could trouble you with a few questions?”

Something under the heap of frills shuddered. Then, suddenly, like a melodramatic jack-in-the-box, Cecily's head sprang upward only to disappear again as she flung herself backward and let out a wail that was previously thought solely achievable by severely injured cows. “WHHHHHHYYYYYYYYYYY?” she yowled. “WHHHHHHYYYYYYYYYY is this happening to me? To MEEEEEEEEEEEE??!!” Everyone looked at one another. They didn't quite know what to do. Pickle, who always preferred to err on the side of caution, found a hat box and hid behind it.

“She's hysterical,” whispered Inspector Lemone, fingering his collar. “I have no idea how to deal with this. None whatsoever.”

“Hysterical? Of course!” said Wilma, holding a finger aloft. “Leave this to me.” She stepped forward and, much to Miss Lovely's surprise, took her by the shoulders, shook her, shouted, “You are hysterical! Calm down!” and then, with one fulsome swipe, slapped her firmly across the cheek.

The diva gasped and clutched her face while staring at Wilma in openmouthed wonder. “Three S's, shake, shout, slap!” said Wilma with a nod. “Works every time.”

Theodore, shooting Wilma a small but penetrating glance, cleared his throat. “Please excuse my apprentice, Miss Lovely. I'm sure she didn't mean to hit you.”

“Well, I did,” Wilma chipped in proudly. “It's an Academy thing where—”

“Never mind that now, thank you,” interrupted Theodore before Wilma got herself into even deeper waters.

The actress, still glaring at Wilma, released her hand from her cheek. “Scraps,” she whimpered, holding out a beckoning hand. “My handkerchief, if you please. And anoint it with that lavender water you made. I am feeling most weak.”

“Yes, Miss Lovely,” answered the raggedy handmaiden with a small curtsy.

As Scraps turned to prepare the potion, Wilma caught her eye and if she wasn't mistaken she felt sure that she spotted the tiny beginnings of a smile in her direction.

Cecily lifted her other hand to her forehead and positioned herself in front of a particularly flattering light. “The thing is, Mr. Goodman,” she whispered, eyes closed, “how can I perform if I no longer feel safe? This awful, sordid business is threatening the very fabric of my existence and, by association, Cooper itself.”

“That's a bit of an exaggeration, surely?” muttered Wilma, crossing her arms.

Inspector Lemone looked down at her and put his finger to his lips.

“And what is more,” Cecily continued, opening her eyes and staring wildly upward, “you have it wrong! I don't believe it is a poison! I think we are at the mercy of a terrible infection! A plague is upon this house! Do not tell me it's impossible!”

“Well,” began Theodore, shifting on his feet, “I—”

“No, I'm not finished yet. Your cue will come shortly,” snapped Cecily. “Do not tell me that a deadly virus cannot be crawling through every pipe and corridor of this theatre! And what can stop that, Mr. Goodman? A pair of handcuffs? I think not!” She slammed her fist down on her dressing table and collapsed her head into her chest. Nobody spoke. “Now it's your cue,” she added, after a brief silence.

“Well,” Theodore began again, “I suppose that, yes, we could be dealing with a virus. We haven't had results back from Penbert at the lab yet, so, although I suspect it's not, I cannot at this point rule it out.”

“I have my answer!” Cecily yelled, standing up and knocking Scraps, who was trying to hand her the now lavender-laden handkerchief, over in the process. “Then there is only one solution! The theatre must be closed! The show”—Cecily stopped for dramatic effect and then continued—“the show must NOT go on!”

And with that she bundled everyone out of her way and stormed off up the corridor. Theodore, Inspector Lemone, Wilma, and Pickle were stunned. “Hang on,” said Wilma, scratching her head. “We didn't get to ask her one single question . . . How did she manage that?”

“Well,” answered Lemone with a small shrug, “she is a very good actress.”

 

An actress with a notion in her noggin can be as dangerous as an untethered bear, and as Cecily tore through the corridors of the Valiant Vaudeville Theatre to find Baron von Worms, everyone knew to stand well back. Geoffrey Grumbletubs, who was so used to being at the receiving end of one of Cecily Lovely's hurricane tantrums that he had donned a tin helmet, grabbed his beloved potted plants and crammed himself and them into a small tea crate.

“Stop what you are doing!” she was crying as she swept along at speed. “A pestilence has descended! We may all be about to die! Or even worse . . .” she added, slumping suddenly against a wall at the very thought, “we may have to give up being famous! Oh, help me, Scraps! Help me!”

Baron von Worms, who, thanks to Barbu, no longer had an office, had tried to claw back some dignity by setting up shop in a small corridor behind the props room toward the back of the theatre. He had made himself a desk out of two cardboard boxes and an old scenery window. As he sat on an upturned hatbox, wondering what to do with himself, Cecily, closely followed by a tripping Scraps, descended.

“Baron!” she panted, hands on hips. “The theatre must be closed this instant! How I am expected to hit my high notes under these conditions I do not know! The theatre is in the grips of a deadly outbreak! Who is next? A plague strikes at will without regard for beauty or talent! First Sabbatica, now Sylvester! I am in the gravest danger, Baron! Me! Cecily Lovely! Struck down in the prime of her youth!”

Loranda Links, who was standing in the small crowd that had gathered, coughed. “Youth?” she choked out.

“B-but I thought Mr. Goodman told us it was a p-poison?” stuttered the Baron.

“It's highly likely that it
is
a poison, yes,” said Theodore, pushing his way through the gathering. “But Miss Lovely pointed out that it might be a virus and I suppose, until we have definitive results from the lab, that it remains a possibility.”

“The theatre MUST be closed!” screamed Cecily, throwing her arms into the air. “I might DIE! Do you understand?” And with that she slumped onto Scraps and wailed uncontrollably.

Wilma peeped out from behind Inspector Lemone. “Has she gone hysterical again?” she asked. “Shall I—?”

“Do nothing, thank you, Wilma,” Theodore shot back in a flash. “I have to say, although Miss Lovely's assessment is far from likely, it might, in the circumstances, be wise to at least consider closing the theatre.”

“CLOSE the theatre?” snapped Barbu, sweeping through, Tully and Janty fast behind him. “We shall do nothing of the sort. I need to protect my investment. I have put money into this theatre and I expect to make a sizeable return! As long as I am in charge of the Valiant Vaudeville Theatre it will NEVER go dark. In fact, I'm glad everyone is here. Seeing as we've had another death, I am increasing the daily shows from two to four as of Monday.”

A gasp rang out among the theatre's performers.

“You can't do that!” snapped Gorgeous Muldoon. “It goes against every rule in the book!”

“Rules?” scoffed Barbu, knitting his brow. “
I
make the rules! I now control this theatre and I can do what I want. You will all be working twice as hard for half the money. There. Do you understand THAT?”

“This is an outrage!” cried out little Eric Ohio, his puppet head spinning a full 360 degrees.

“He's livid,” whispered Mrs. Wanderlip. “I haven't seen him like this since someone tried to rub his legs together and start a fire.”

Cecily, who was appalled to the point of collapse, glared at Barbu. “I don't know who you think you are,” she began, mustering herself to her full height, “but if you think I'm going on FOUR times a day for HALF the money, you must be out of your tiny mind.”