Free Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Frozen Hearts by Emma Kennedy

Curator, thumping his cane on the floor. “A disaster!”
    Theodore twitched his mustache and pondered. The Harlequin Gallery was on the fifth floor of the Museum. It was a round room with no windows, but the gloom was punctuated by three illuminated display cases containing the greatest treasures of Cooper. In the case to Theodore’s left there was a large golden egg, in the display case to his right there was an ancient alabaster Lantha board set with azure-blue pieces, a five-sided dice, and intricately carved playing squares, and in the center of the room the case where the Katzin Stone should have been stood bare. “Greed,” began Theodore, leaning in to look at the empty display case, “is a dangerous mistress.”
    â€œQuite right,” answered the Curator with a solemn nod. “Even the greatest of men can be turned by its charms.”
    â€œSuccumbing to charm is man’s fatal weakness,” said a lady clad in black, sashaying toward them. She was a striking woman: dark hair tied up in a tight bun, with one wayward curl creeping down her cheek, deep brown eyes that smoldered below a sharp line of hair that swept across her forehead, and lips as red as tomatoes.
    â€œAhh, Miss Pagne!” said the Curator, gesturing toward her. “I don’t think you’ve met. Theodore, this is my new assistant. Started last week.”
    â€œA fine time to be joining the Museum, Miss Pagne,” said the great detective, holding out his hand. “Theodore P. Goodman. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
    The fingers of Miss Pagne’s hand curled around the detective’s, her crimson nails flashing in the dim light of the displays. “No need for introductions, Mr. Goodman,” she purred, fixing Theodore with a wry smile. “Your reputation precedes you.”
    â€œI’m a Lemone,” said the Inspector, holding out his hand, only to have Miss Pagne ignore it. “I mean I’m an inspector. Inspector Lemone. Not an actual lemon. Yes. That’s who I am.”
    Miss Pagne turned her velvet-brown eyes toward him and mustered a weak smile.
    â€œNow then, Mr. Curator,” continued Theodore, ignoring his friend, “I would like to look at the box in which the Katzin Stone was stored.”
    â€œI have it,” said Captain Brock, handing over the silver container. “I’ve been staring at it for hours. There’s no secret panel. Nothing.”
    â€œInteresting,” muttered Theodore, taking the box and peering inside it. “Hmmm. Slight odor. Just as I thought. Captain Brock, are you quite sure that you saw the Katzin Stone inside it?”
    â€œIf any other man asked me that question I would strike him down!” blustered Captain Brock, bristling. “When I say I have seen something, there can be no doubt that I have seen it. To suggest otherwise is slander, sir.”
    â€œForgive me, Captain Brock,” said Theodore with a small bow. “I should have phrased my question with greater care. I have no doubt that you saw what you thought was the Katzin Stone, but my question is this: Was it ever the real Katzin Stone?” Captain Brock looked more puzzled than an undone jigsaw.
    â€œWhat are you getting at, Goodman?” asked the Curator, placing both hands over the top of his cane.
    â€œI mean, Mr. Curator, that the stone that was transported to the Museum under Captain Brock’s care may have been a fake. And that the real Katzin Stone was already gone.”
    â€œHow do you come by that, Goodman?” said Inspector Lemone, having to wipe his brow with the effort of thinking.
    â€œIf the real Katzin Stone had been in this box upon its collection, then I suspect Alan Katzin and his aunt would still be alive. They needed to be out of the way to allow access to the stone. The man who took the stone was dressed exactly like Alan. He would have needed his clothes and the pass into the vault.