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

Inspector, the train does run on the hour,” said Theodore, taking the seat at the front, “but it is now just past the hour, so we would have to wait fifty-seven minutes for the next one to come along. Therefore, we ride on the tandem. Put this protective hat on and tuck your trousers into your socks.”
    Theodore tossed over a scuffed green hard hat, which the Inspector caught and stared at unimpressed. “Green doesn’t suit me,” he said, looking up at Theodore, who was holding a far more thrilling black hat.
    â€œWell,” said Theodore, understanding perfectly what the Inspector was getting at and ignoring it, “it is a difficult color.”
    There is nothing worse than having to wear something you don’t like, and the Inspector was quite anxious that a certain housekeeper didn’t see him wearing the horrible green hat. “We’re not riding anywhere near your clothesline, are we, Goodman?” he asked, looking about with some anxiety.
    Theodore raised an eyebrow and said nothing. If he had been a flighty man stirring the pot of romance stew, then it might have been different. But he wasn’t. He was a famous and serious detective, so he looked at the Inspector and said, “The National Museum, Inspector. Time is of the essence.”
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    â€œShhhhhhh!” whispered Wilma to Pickle as they crept into Mrs. Waldock’s back kitchen. “We mustn’t wake her up.” Mrs. Waldock, having enjoyed her mid-morning double-muffin snack, was slumped in a chair and snoring. Somehow, Wilma had to get to the Museum as quickly as possible. But how?
    Wilma, despite always being determined to make the best of things, had been forced to conclude that life at the Waldock residence was not as rosy as it might have been. First, there was the damp and smelly cellar; second, there was the house itself: dusty, dark, and brooding; and third, there was the bizarre manner in which Mrs. Waldock communicated Wilma’s instructions for the day. Every morning since Wilma had arrived, a letter had landed on the doormat addressed to her. She had never received a proper letter in her life and she couldn’t help wondering, as she carefully opened the first envelope, whether it was something exciting, like an invitation to go kite flying or a wild-card entry into that year’s Lantha Championships. Sadly it was not. The letter was from Mrs. Waldock and it outlined her chores for the day:
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    Today you will do the following:
    1. Pluck the hairs from my chin
    2. Scrape the scabs from my elbows
    3. Remove the boogies from my nostrils
    4. Muddy the windows and smear the floors
    5. Chop wood (but under no circumstances light a fire)
    6. Sharpen the knives (in case of intruders)
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    Every day for the last three days a new letter had arrived, and each morning Wilma had found herself with a list of revolting and maddening chores. It was something of a mystery that Mrs. Waldock should be so miserable and contrary. After all, thought Wilma, she was a Farsider, for whom life should be an endless burst of sunbeams, but here she was shut up in the gloom and stuffing herself with the very worst that Cooper cuisine had to offer. What Wilma didn’t know, of course, was that there was a reason for Mrs. Waldock’s cantankerous nature. It is a universal truth that ladies who stop pulling up their socks and start growing a mustache have generally given up on things. The root cause—an unspeakable letdown of a romantic nature that leaves the rest of one’s life as joyless as a crate of broken eggs. Someone, somewhere, had once broken Mrs. Waldock’s heart, but as to who, or why, there was very little to go on.
    The only clue to Mrs. Waldock’s past was a large leather traveling chest that sat gathering dust in one of the upstairs bedrooms. On Wilma’s second day at Howling Hall, one of her chores had been to sweep up all the half-bitten toenails from the bedroom