Wilma Tenderfoot: The Case of the Fatal Phantom Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Emma Kennedy
Flatelly, stepping forward, “this is a particularly fine specimen. And what do you make of the body’s expression of abject terror? I take it you have all noticed that? Quite disconcerting.” And even as he said it, the room seemed to darken and grow cold. In the distance, a dog howled.
“Don’t worry,” Wilma explained, holding a hand up. “That’s Pickle. I sent him outside. To stop him licking the evidence.”
Abject terror? Are things about to turn positively PETRIFYING? Let’s hope not, eh?
4
A chilling scream rang out behind them.
Wilma spun around and saw a young but plain woman in a pale cream lace dress falling backward into the arms of a raffish-looking fellow in a bright red blazer. “Sorry!” he shouted at them in a jolly fashion. “It’s my sister, Belinda. She screams and swoons at the slightest thing.”
“That must be Tarquin Blackheart,” muttered Wilma under her breath. “Young sons can also be trouble, according to my textbook. Best keep an eye on him. And Belinda Blackheart. She’s the daughter. She may be desperate. I’d better write them in my Likely Suspects list.”
“I can still hear you, Wilma,” hissed Theodore. “Ah. Lord Blackheart,” he added as an elderly gentleman in a hunting jacket strode into the room. He had a napkin stuffed into his collar and was carrying a fork with a large fish on the end of it.
“Middle of breakfast!” Aloysius Blackheart bellowed. “Chap dug up at the bottom of the estate by all accounts! Portious—take this fish. Now then. Where is the nuisance? By golly,” he added, bending to look closer at the body. “Looks like a smoked eel.” Spinning around, he snatched the fish back from the butler Portious and took a bite out of it. Chewing, he stepped toward Theodore and had a good look at him too. “You the detective? Fine mustache. Never trust a man with no facial hair. That’s my tip. Oh. This fellow with you is quite clean-shaven. Hmph! Well, we shan’t be giving
you
anything important to do. And who’s this?” he added, glancing down at Wilma. “Far too short for a police officer. What are you? The mascot?”
“I’m Wilma Tenderfoot,” Wilma replied, bewildered. “I’m Mr. Goodman’s apprentice.”She stuck her thumb behind the silver apprentice badge she wore on her pinafore and pushed it upward.
“Please excuse my husband,” came a smooth, serene voice from the doorway. “He’s impossible until he’s had his breakfast. How do you do?” The woman who’d spoken glided into the room. She had a slight frame, a pinched nose, and hair arranged in a high and intricate heap. As she wafted past, the gentle scent of roses filled the air and Wilma saw that the shawl wrapped about the lady’s shoulders had a few holes in it and looked a bit moth-eaten. The woman extended a soft lily-white hand toward Theodore. “I’m Lady Blackheart. Oh dear,” she added, noticing the body. “Is this the ghastliness Portious was telling us about? Tarquin, do fan your sister, please. You know how she has a tendency to drift.”
“Mr. Goodman,” interrupted the butler gloomily, gesturing toward a small group of people who were gathering behind the family, “here are the rest of the house staff, as you asked: Mrs. Moggins the cook, and Molly and Polly the housemaids.”
Wilma leaned sideways so that she could see them all. Mrs. Moggins was a short, red-faced woman who looked like a steamed pudding, and Molly and Polly were slightly disheveled-looking things wearing headbands that pulled the hair back from their faces. Molly, the pudgier of the two, was blinking a lot, while Polly, who was as skinny as a bone, was chewing her bottom lip and sniffing.
“Likely Suspects …” Wilma muttered to herself. “‘Cooks often harbor terrible grudges,’” she recited, “‘probably because they eat too much salt. And maids can be flibbertigibbets.’ I have no idea what that is, but it sounds painful.”
Wilma looked back at the group
“Don’t worry,” Wilma explained, holding a hand up. “That’s Pickle. I sent him outside. To stop him licking the evidence.”
Abject terror? Are things about to turn positively PETRIFYING? Let’s hope not, eh?
4
A chilling scream rang out behind them.
Wilma spun around and saw a young but plain woman in a pale cream lace dress falling backward into the arms of a raffish-looking fellow in a bright red blazer. “Sorry!” he shouted at them in a jolly fashion. “It’s my sister, Belinda. She screams and swoons at the slightest thing.”
“That must be Tarquin Blackheart,” muttered Wilma under her breath. “Young sons can also be trouble, according to my textbook. Best keep an eye on him. And Belinda Blackheart. She’s the daughter. She may be desperate. I’d better write them in my Likely Suspects list.”
“I can still hear you, Wilma,” hissed Theodore. “Ah. Lord Blackheart,” he added as an elderly gentleman in a hunting jacket strode into the room. He had a napkin stuffed into his collar and was carrying a fork with a large fish on the end of it.
“Middle of breakfast!” Aloysius Blackheart bellowed. “Chap dug up at the bottom of the estate by all accounts! Portious—take this fish. Now then. Where is the nuisance? By golly,” he added, bending to look closer at the body. “Looks like a smoked eel.” Spinning around, he snatched the fish back from the butler Portious and took a bite out of it. Chewing, he stepped toward Theodore and had a good look at him too. “You the detective? Fine mustache. Never trust a man with no facial hair. That’s my tip. Oh. This fellow with you is quite clean-shaven. Hmph! Well, we shan’t be giving
you
anything important to do. And who’s this?” he added, glancing down at Wilma. “Far too short for a police officer. What are you? The mascot?”
“I’m Wilma Tenderfoot,” Wilma replied, bewildered. “I’m Mr. Goodman’s apprentice.”She stuck her thumb behind the silver apprentice badge she wore on her pinafore and pushed it upward.
“Please excuse my husband,” came a smooth, serene voice from the doorway. “He’s impossible until he’s had his breakfast. How do you do?” The woman who’d spoken glided into the room. She had a slight frame, a pinched nose, and hair arranged in a high and intricate heap. As she wafted past, the gentle scent of roses filled the air and Wilma saw that the shawl wrapped about the lady’s shoulders had a few holes in it and looked a bit moth-eaten. The woman extended a soft lily-white hand toward Theodore. “I’m Lady Blackheart. Oh dear,” she added, noticing the body. “Is this the ghastliness Portious was telling us about? Tarquin, do fan your sister, please. You know how she has a tendency to drift.”
“Mr. Goodman,” interrupted the butler gloomily, gesturing toward a small group of people who were gathering behind the family, “here are the rest of the house staff, as you asked: Mrs. Moggins the cook, and Molly and Polly the housemaids.”
Wilma leaned sideways so that she could see them all. Mrs. Moggins was a short, red-faced woman who looked like a steamed pudding, and Molly and Polly were slightly disheveled-looking things wearing headbands that pulled the hair back from their faces. Molly, the pudgier of the two, was blinking a lot, while Polly, who was as skinny as a bone, was chewing her bottom lip and sniffing.
“Likely Suspects …” Wilma muttered to herself. “‘Cooks often harbor terrible grudges,’” she recited, “‘probably because they eat too much salt. And maids can be flibbertigibbets.’ I have no idea what that is, but it sounds painful.”
Wilma looked back at the group