Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Frozen Hearts (23 page)

“Oh!” screamed Barbu, livid. “That is so sneaky! If you're going to be evil,” he shouted in the Curator's direction, “at least be honest about it!”

“Well, blow me down!” said Inspector Lemone, scratching his head. “If you haven't done it again, Goodman!”

“Yes, well,” replied Theodore with a small, satisfied twiddle of his mustache. “It took me quite a while to work out that code. But as soon as I had, everything fell into place. And I must say, we have Wilma to thank for bringing it to me. Credit where it's due and all that.”

“Hear, hear!” echoed the Inspector with a grin. “Yes, well,” he added, suddenly becoming quite stern, “I suppose that leaves me to conclude the official business. Take the Curator to jail, Captain Brock. Dressing up like an innocent woman indeed. Stealing stones. Killing aunts. I'll be surprised if you ever see the light of day again!”

“You've not heard the last of me, Inspector!” yelled the Curator as he was dragged away. “One day I shall own all the treasures on the island! I'm the greatest criminal mind on Cooper!”

“No!” barked Barbu, seething with rage. “I think you'll find that's ME! Any old hootenanny can hide a jewel on the end of a stick! Think yourself lucky you're going to jail! If I'd got to you first it would be a VERY different story! And as for you, Theodore P. Goodman, you may have won this time, but I shall be back! You can depend on it! Tully! Janty!” And with the usual sweep of his cloak, Barbu and his two companions vanished into the fog.

Wilma watched with concern as Janty disappeared from view. “I'm sure there's good in that boy,” she said with a small shake of her head. “He just needs to get away from that awful Barbu D'Anvers. Speaking of which, shouldn't we try and catch him or something?” she continued, looking puzzled. “He's SUCH a dreadful man.”

“The day for dealing with Barbu D'Anvers will come soon enough, Wilma,” answered Theodore, scooping the little girl up. “Now then, Inspector Lemone, I'd be grateful if you could escort Miss Pagne home. I'm only sorry,” he said, turning to the secretary, “that you had to go through this.”

“Yes,” mumbled the Inspector, looking very contrite. “Sorry for calling you a poisoned pip and everything.”

“That's all right,” replied Miss Pagne, wrapping her shawl tighter around her. “I can see why you thought it was me. Especially when he was in disguise. Although I'd like to think I have much better ankles.”

“Well, that's that,” said Theodore. “That concludes the case. I think we should get this young lady back to Clarissa Cottage and a warm bath.”

“And some corn crumbles, Goodman?” asked Inspector Lemone.

“Capital idea!” answered Theodore. “And maybe even a good game of Lantha!”

“Well, prepare to be beaten,” added Wilma as she was carried away, “because I am VERY determined.” And Pickle barked his agreement.

 

The Curator, eh? Let that be a lesson to you all. NEVER trust a fat man with a cane.

“
A
ll right,” said Wilma, holding Visser's order book open, “I'll explain it the way Mr. Goodman explained it to me. But if you don't get it this time, Pickle, then I'm afraid you'll have to give up. So in the picture at the top, there are two sculptures of cats. Two cats. Made out of stone. So that's cats in stone. Katzin Stone. Get it? Then comes the name. Here's the picture of the animal hide. That's FUR. Then there's the picture of the beaker with the vapor coming out of it. So that's GAS. Then the square of bricks. Obviously that's WALL. And what do you need when you sting your hand with a nettle? No need to answer. I'll tell you. It's a dock leaf. So that's FUR-GAS WALL-DOCK. Then there are the numbers. And if you take the alphabet and give every letter a numerical value with one starting at Z and working backward to A, which is twenty-six, then it spells out . . . Can you guess it, Pickle? It's FERGUS WALDOCK. So that's how he knew it was him. Simple really.”

It took Wilma two days to recover from her ordeal, and despite being weakened and under the weather it was the happiest she had ever been. Tucked into a large marshmallow bed and leaning up against soft feather pillows, Wilma was waited on hand and foot. Mrs. Speckle brought her meals on a tray, Detective Goodman popped in every day at corn-crumble time to check on his young friend, and Pickle, exhausted by their joint efforts, never left her side. It was lazy and restful—exactly what the pair of them needed, and as the sun streamed in through the bedroom window Wilma could only marvel at how perfect everything seemed to be.

“Knock, knock!” said a familiar voice at the bedroom door. Inspector Lemone poked his head into view. “Thought I'd come and see the patient! How are you?”

Wilma grinned. “Hello, Inspector Lemone,” she said. “Much better, thank you. I might even get up today.”

“So,” said the Inspector, sitting down on the edge of Wilma's bed, “I thought you'd like to see something. Something you might like to put on that Clue Ring of yours.”

“Something for my Clue Ring?” asked Wilma, excited. “What is it?”

“Why don't you have a look for yourself?” said the Inspector with a wink. Reaching into the pocket of his overcoat, he pulled out the late-morning newspaper and tore out an article. “There you go,” he added, handing it to Wilma. “Have a read of that.”

Wilma took the paper, unfolded it and read, “ ‘The Case of the Frozen Hearts—final analysis'? But that's the case I worked on!” Wilma stared up at the Inspector, her eyes wide and bright. “It's in the paper! Like all the other things on my Clue Ring!”

“That's right!” laughed Inspector Lemone, slapping his knee. “And look there! A picture of you and Pickle!”

Wilma couldn't believe her eyes. “But only great detectives like Mr. Goodman get their pictures in the paper!” she said, mouth agape.

“Well, there you are,” insisted the Inspector, tapping the paper with his finger. “I guess that must mean you're a great detective!”

“Don't be silly,” said Wilma, shoving the Inspector in the arm. “Not yet! But perhaps one day I will be. Now that I've had my picture in the paper and everything.”

“Perhaps one day you will.” Inspector Lemone nodded. “Ooooh, is that a plate of corn crumbles? Mind if I have one?”

Wilma stared at the news clipping in front of her and smiled. She had never felt so proud in her life. Making a little hole in its top right-hand corner, she took her Clue Ring and slipped it on. “Imagine that, Pickle,” she whispered, giving her beagle a little rub around the ears. “You and me actually on the Clue Ring! Things don't get better than that.”

 

You might be thinking that this would be a good place to finish the story because the case has been solved, the villain caught, and Wilma isn't dead. In fact, it's safe to say that everything seems to have turned out positively rosy. Under normal circumstances this would be an excellent place to just say “The End,” and everyone could go about their business, but we're all forgetting one thing: Madam Skratch. Wilma, lest we forget, only days ago escaped from the Institute for Woeful Children, thus breaking just about every rule in that establishment's book. And as Wilma was enjoying her small moment of triumph, Madam Skratch was pulling up in her blackened cart outside Clarissa Cottage for the second and last time.

Mrs. Speckle, who had answered the door, because that was her job, was wringing water out of a knitted tea towel and looking out from underneath the brim of her bobble hats. “Can I help you?” she asked as Madam Skratch stood scowling on the front porch. “Because we don't need any sponges or cleaning cloths, so if you're selling, I'm not interested.”

Madam Skratch looked down her nose at the woolen-clad housekeeper and sucked in her cheeks. “How dare you! I am the matron of the Institute for Woeful Children! As you well know! Anyway, I read in the paper that Wilma Tenderfoot is back here. And she is my property. So I have come for her. I should have known she'd end up back here when that annoying detective man came looking for her the day she escaped,” she said in a pinched tone. “Please tell her to get her things immediately.”

Mrs. Speckle, who was not known for her impeccable manners, clacked her lips and thought about that. She was quite tempted to say something very rude indeed to the unwelcome guest standing on the porch of Clarissa Cottage, but sadly, everyone had been painfully aware that this moment was inevitable. Without an apprenticeship or a job to go to on the Farside, Wilma would have to go back and that was that. And Wilma most definitely did NOT have an apprenticeship—Detective Theodore P. Goodman wasn't even in to say good-bye.

 

Wilma, who had very little to call her own, was, after she had gotten dressed and tucked her few bits and pieces into her pinafore pocket, ready to return to her former miserable life. As she approached Madam Skratch's cart at the gate, she gave a last look over her shoulder in case anyone special was returning just in time to save her—but there was no one there. So she bent down and held on to Pickle for the longest time. “I love you, Pickle,” she whispered, at which point Inspector Lemone, who had been gulping nonstop from the moment he'd clapped eyes on Madam Skratch, had to turn away and pretend he'd gotten a considerable amount of dust in his eyes. Pickle gazed mournfully at his friend from whom he was about to be parted and did what a dog sometimes has to do: He howled.

As the little girl heaved herself onto the back of the cart, Mrs. Speckle stepped forward and pressed a small box into Wilma's hands. “Just a few corn crumbles,” she said with a nod, “because I know you like them and, well . . .” But even Mrs. Speckle couldn't finish her sentence, and she too had to lower her head and think very hard about something that wasn't remotely heartbreaking.

“Thank you,” Wilma whispered. With one last glance at the empty path she gave a sad smile, then turned and put a hand on the Inspector's shoulder. “Inspector Lemone,” she said, looking into his eyes when he raised his tear-stained gaze, “I just wanted to say that I think you're one of the kindest, bravest men I could ever hope to know. I'm very glad I met you.”

“And I'm very glad I met you too,” answered the Inspector, eyes filling up again. “Actually, I don't think I'll bother with the gulping now, if that's all right with you.” And he got his handkerchief out and gave way to a heaving sob.

“Driver!” barked Madam Skratch, who had also gotten back into the cart. “Return us to the Institute. Quick as you can!”

Wilma spun around and grabbed the matron's forearm. “Please,” she begged, “can't we stay just a little longer? I haven't said good-bye to Detective Goodman!”

“Yes,” piped up Inspector Lemone, wiping his eyes. “Where is the fellow?”

“I am here, Inspector,” called out Theodore, who was running toward the cart from up the road. “And I have with me a piece of paper that I'd like Madam Skratch to take a look at!”

“Oh, what now?” said the cheerless matron, rolling her eyes. “I really don't have time for any more of this nonsense.”

“This isn't nonsense, Madam Skratch,” said Theodore with a wry smile. “I think you'll find this is very serious indeed.” Reaching into his overcoat pocket, Theodore pulled out an official-looking document. “Have a read of that, Matron! I think it changes everything.”

Madam Skratch took the paper. Muttering and mumbling about inconveniences and time wasting, she began to read. “But this can't be,” she said, after a moment looking up. “Are you quite crazy?”

“Not in the least, Madam,” answered Theodore, getting out his pipe and popping it into his mouth.

“Well, what is it?” wailed the Inspector. “I can't bear the tension!”

“It's a Contract of Apprenticeship,” Madam Skratch said with a stunned expression. “Detective Goodman has taken Wilma as his apprentice.”

Wilma's mouth fell open and her eyes grew as large as saucers. “B-b-but . . .” she stuttered, shaking her head in disbelief, “that can't be true ... it's too good to be true ... is it true? Am I dreaming? I get to stay? And make deductions every day?”

“It is true, Wilma!” laughed Theodore, reaching up and lifting the little girl out of the cart. “And you'll live here at Clarissa Cottage with me and Mrs. Speckle.”

“That's just . . . lovely . . .” sobbed the Inspector, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“I can't believe it,” said Wilma, surrounded by her friends. “I never belonged anywhere and I never had a family. And now, I sort of have.”

Madam Skratch, who was quietly livid that the girl had gotten her own way, arched her back. “Actually,” she sneered, “that's not quite true. There is a member of Wilma's family still alive.”

The words fell like a bombshell. Wilma turned, her eyes widened in disbelief.
“Because they gone,”
she whispered, fumbling in her pinafore pocket for the luggage tag. “But who is it?” she asked, gripping Madam Skratch's arm. “And where are they?”

“How should I know?” Madam Skratch barked, swatting Wilma's hand from her black sleeve. “All I know is that I got money to keep you about! What do I care where your family are? That's something you'll have to find out for yourself. Driver, the Institute!”

 

As Madam Skratch rattled away in her jet-black cart, Wilma, Pickle, Detective Theodore P. Goodman, Inspector Lemone, and Mrs. Speckle could do nothing but stand in shock. Somewhere Wilma had a relative. They were all so baffled that it was a few moments before anyone spoke. “Well!” said Mrs. Speckle finally, shoving up the sleeves of her woolen cardigan. “That was a surprise. And the best thing I know for sudden moments is a pot of peppermint tea and a plate of corn crumbles!”