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

the gallery. It was impossible to see where it had gone.
    â€œWe must find that shard!” shouted Theodore. “Everyone tread very carefully!”
    Wilma couldn’t have been more thrilled. If she put her mind to it, she might actually be able to help with a case. She looked down at Pickle. “Come on,” she whispered, “get sniffing. We need to find it!”
    â€œNothing over here!” cried out the Inspector.
    â€œI’m seeing nothing,” yelled Captain Brock. “Light! We must have light!”
    Wilma, who still had the skates around her neck, suddenly remembered something. “When Mr. Goodman solved the Case of the Unlit Match,” she whispered to Pickle, who had his nose firmly to the ground, “he found a silver doorknob by bouncing light off his magnifying glass. Light is always attracted to light, Pickle!” With that, she unhooked the silver skates from her shoulders and held them out in front of her. At first, she saw nothing, but suddenly, as she waved the skates around and down to her left, they seemed to pick out the smallest of glimmers. Wilma nudged Pickle and pointed toward the tiny twinkle. Pickle, snaffling up every smell in the vicinity, gave a small but definite yelp, turned, and bounced on his front paws. Following Pickle’s encouragement, Wilma got down onto her knees and reached her hand into the dark gap between two of the display cases. Feeling with her fingertips, she touched something cold and sharp.
    â€œI’ve got it!” she yelled, jumping up. “Look! I’ve found it!” Wilma held the shard in her fingertips and looked at it. It so reminded her of caramel that she couldn’t resist raising it to her mouth. “What’s the point of taking it all the way back to Mr. Goodman’s house just to find out if it’s sugar? I’ll eat it now! I’ll be able to tell you if it is!” Wilma shut her eyes and lifted the shard to her lips, but as she did so she felt a hand dashing it from her fingers.
    â€œNo, Wilma!” shouted Theodore. “It may be poisoned!”
    â€œBut you said it was just s-s-sugar, Mr. Goodman!” stuttered Wilma shakily.
    â€œSugar that might have been dipped in a chemical compound,” said Theodore with a stern frown. “Though I can’t work out why—if it was meant to have disappeared completely. An insurance policy perhaps . . . Still, smell the edges.” He lifted up the broken shard in his hand. Wilma leaned toward it and sniffed. A foul, pungent smell flooded her nostrils and she recoiled.
    The Curator had heard enough. “The Katzin Stone stolen. Two people murdered. A young girl almost poisoned. Who could be so despicable as to do such a thing?”
    Theodore stared hard at the empty display case. “I don’t know, Mr. Curator. But I’m going to find out.”
    â€œProbably someone with very bad manners, I expect,” opined Wilma with a nod; a deduction that everyone could agree with.

11
    B arbu D’Anvers was a very bad man: short fellow, russet suit, golden waistcoat, and a heart as black as evil. If you lived next door to him, you’d move. He had no friends and no one ever sent him birthday cards. Everyone who ever met him hated him, even nuns. And they like everyone. That’s how bad he was. Like all very bad men, Barbu had an evil lair. And like all dreadful dens, Barbu’s was situated at the top of a malevolent-looking crag. His crag was called Rascal Rock and it protruded from the main island like a stuck-out thumb. For anyone intending to devote their life to wrongdoing, it’s very important to adhere to the following golden rule: “Location, location, location,” and Barbu, of all the island’s Criminal Elements, had the very best spot from which to manage his mischief. At the top of Rascal Rock, Barbu’s house was perched like a black crow ready to peck out the eyes of anyone who came