Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Frozen Hearts by Emma Kennedy Read Free Book Online Page A

appear you have crushed my snowdrops.”
    â€œI didn’t do it on purpose,” gabbled Wilma. “I’m not lying here because I’m tired. Or because I wanted to ruin your flowers. I was swinging on your window. And I fell off. I think I’ve cut my hand,” added Wilma, holding up a small bloodied finger.
    Mrs. Speckle rolled her eyes. The peppermint tea was quite ruined and, as if that wasn’t bad enough, there were now minor injuries to be dealing with. Pushing herself up as high as she could, given that she was wearing flat knitted Wellington boots, the housekeeper tried to get a look at Wilma’s cut finger, but it was no good. She was too short, and her first and second bobble hats had now slipped so far down her forehead that all she could see was wool. Theodore, noticing that his housekeeper was getting into a heavyset muddle, put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right, Mrs. Speckle,” said he. “I’ll fetch her in. And besides,” he added, looking into the pot in front of him, “that peppermint tea is the wrong side of right. I know it and you know it, but if I never taste it, I shan’t remember it. So if I fix up our young visitor, then you can fix another pot. And a few corn crumbles will do very nicely. Thank you, Mrs. Speckle.”
    Even though this solved all manner of current difficulties, Mrs. Speckle was a stubborn old lady not given to instant acts of forgiving and forgetting, and as she shoved her two bobble hats back up her forehead and set about making another pot of peppermint tea, she mumbled something under her breath that some grown-ups might take exception to. With that in mind, and given that soft eyes are watching, it’s in nobody’s interests to repeat Mrs. Speckle’s words here. Let’s just say she was annoyed and leave it at that.
    As Theodore stepped out into the side garden of Clarissa Cottage, which was the proper name of the house in which he lived, he looked down and saw Wilma still lying in his flower bed and holding her bleeding finger aloft. Next to her was sitting a crumpled-looking beagle. Theodore P. Goodman did not have younglings of his own, as he was not married. He had been engaged once to a dancer named Betty but, well, the less said about that the better. So as the famous detective stared down at the little girl, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. Theodore was used to daily dealings with the island’s Criminal Elements, who were burly fellows with poor personal hygiene and crooked teeth, but when it came to small, cheeky children he had little, if any, experience. “Yes, well,” said Theodore, looking at Wilma over the top of his mighty mustache, “this won’t do. Up you get and follow me.”
    Wilma’s finger was stinging, and if she’d had a mother who had kind eyes and comfy arms she would have cried that very instant, but as she followed the famous detective into Clarissa Cottage, and saw the short, sharp look that Mrs. Speckle gave her, she realized that crying wouldn’t get her anywhere. Besides, Wilma was so thrilled to be actually inside the house of Theodore P. Goodman that her stinging finger was almost forgotten.
    â€œI’ve come from the Institute for Woeful Children. I’m going to be a detective,” said Wilma, trotting to keep up with Theodore, who was striding ahead of her.
    â€œReally?” said Theodore, to be polite.
    â€œI am,” said Wilma. “I’ll probably just solve the larger cases. You know, murders and . . . some more murders.”
    â€œHmmm. In here, please,” said Theodore, gesturing into a large bathroom. Theodore P. Goodman was not a man used to the chitter-chatter of small girls. He wanted to fix this young child’s finger, send her on her way, and sit down to a nice cup of peppermint tea and a plate of corn crumbles. In short, as far as he was concerned, a serious detective and a girl from a