Wilma Tenderfoot: The Case of the Fatal Phantom by Emma Kennedy Page B

see if he has some we can use, please, Wilma?”
    “Now then, is everyone ready?” Twenty minutes later, the great detective brushed down his mustache and straightened up from a final fiddle with his shoes.
    Inspector Lemone, trussed to within an inch of his life in winter coats, nodded. “Ready as ever!” he shouted through three scarves.
    “I know they’re for table tennis, but they’re going to have to do, Pickle,” said Wilma, tying the small battered paddles to her despairing hound’s feet. “Portious didn’t have snowshoes small enough for you. And I can’t carry youall the way to Dr. Flatelly’s office. And he only had two, so I’ll put this tea strainer and cheese grater on your front paws. How’s that?” Wilma stood back and admired her makeshift weather gear for dogs. Pickle gazed up at her with the sort of woebegone expression of defeat that only a beagle can muster. He looked like an idiot and he knew it.
    “Good,” said Theodore. “This shouldn’t take long. Dr. Flatelly’s temporary office is only a short walk from the main house. We need to take the path that goes around the ornamental gardens.”
    “But where is the path?” asked Inspector Lemone, shielding his eyes from the onslaught of snow as they stepped out of the door. “Can barely see a thing. Hang on …” he added, peering into the distance. “Is that someone coming?”
    Wilma turned and looked. A hunched figure was trudging toward them carrying what looked to be a tray. “It can’t be!” she gasped, eyes widening.
    The woolly figure, covered in snow, shoved its second bobble hat upward. “Mr. Goodman,”began the woman revealed beneath, narrowly avoiding skidding over in her knitted Wellingtons, “I thought I’d bring you some peppermint tea and a few corn crumbles. I’ve kept the tea in a hot-water bottle, so it should be fine. The corn crumbles have frozen solid on the way here, but stick them in your armpits and they’ll be edible again in about half an hour.”
    “Mrs. Speckle,” said an appalled Theodore, extending a chivalrous arm to stop her from slipping again. “You didn’t need to come. The weather is atrocious.”
    “All the same,” wheezed the no-nonsense housekeeper, “your mid-afternoon snacks are my responsibility, and I’ll not have anyone else giving you substandard biscuits.”
    Inspector Lemone, who as we all know was always romantically overwhelmed in Mrs. Speckle’s presence, gulped and took one of the biscuits from the ice-covered tray. Still staring at her, and without thinking, he put the rock-solid corn crumble to his lips and bit down. His face contorted. “Think I’ve broken a tooth,” hewhimpered. “And the biscuit’s stuck to my lip,” he added, giving it a tug to no avail. “Can’t seem to get it off.”
    “You shall have to stay at the Hoo until this weather improves,” said Mr. Goodman as he helped his housekeeper up the icy stone steps. “I’m sure Mrs. Moggins the cook can accommodate you.”
    “Mrs. Moggins?” Mrs. Speckle snapped. “
Miranda
Moggins? She can’t even make a decent pea soup! And her corn crumbles! Well, the less said about
them
the better. Thank goodness I’m here. This is more serious than I thought.” Inspector Lemone, biscuit still stuck to his bottom lip, watched awestruck as Mrs. Speckle slid sideways through the front doors of the Hoo. She had come to save him. He just
knew
it.
    The walk to Irascimus Flatelly’s shack was a struggle despite its short distance. The wind was howling and the snow was still falling in thick, soft flakes. As they finally stood at his door untying their snowshoes, Wilma stared upward. Thesky was heavy and low. She shivered. There were so many things to think about: the mummy, the treasure, the fake spook and psychic, and now Barbu, up to no good as usual, and yet…She felt as if there was something more. Something obvious that she wasn’t putting her finger on. This was what her textbook meant about