Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison Read Free Page B

But there was no entrance to be seen. It was just another blank wall.
    â€œNothing here!” Wilma yelled, throwing her arms up in the air. “Oh, wait—there’s a small plaque.”

REAR OF BUILDING NO DELIVERIES, THANK YOU
    â€œOh, what’s the point! This is crazy!”
    Pickle, who had always held an odd affection for alleys and backs of buildings, lifted his nose and had a good sniff. In his experience, in places like this there was usually an overflowing garbage can to be found or a heap of tasty scraps. Wilma leaned against the Academy wall with her arms crossed. Heaving a sigh, she scuffed at the floor with the end of her sandal. The beagle, convinced he could smell an old chicken bone, wandered off to the far end of the alley. With his nose to the ground, Pickle’s sharp sense of smell led him, not to a delicious chewy bone, but to a rather revolting soggy sock. All the same, he was a bit peckish . . .
    â€œThere must be another clue here somewhere,” said Wilma, following Pickle to the end of the alleyway. “Oh no, Pickle! How many times do I have to tell you!” she cried, reaching down. “Don’t chew other people’s lost socks!” Grabbing hold of the stinking sock, Wilma pulled it from Pickle’s lips and flung it with some disgust toward the wall to her right. But as the revolting item hit the side of the Academy the wall’s surface bent in on itself and, to Wilma’s surprise, the sock bounced straight back and hit her in the mouth.
    If you have ever had a stinking, wet sock that’s been on who knows whose foot hit you full in the face, then you will know that as the dripping, smelly toe end slimed its way over Wilma’s tongue, our young heroine experienced a disgust so complete that all she could do for the next five minutes was spin on the spot with her tongue out while trying to rub at it frantically with the end of her pinafore. Pickle just sat and stared at her. Stinking socks were lovely. She didn’t know what she was missing.
    Panting and satisfied that the last dregs of sock juice were expelled from her mouth, Wilma looked back at the wall where the sock had struck. “That sock shouldn’t have bounced back,” she said, peering a little closer.
    She pressed her fingertips against the wall’s surface, and suddenly realized that it was made from nothing more than a tightly drawn piece of material that had been painted to match its surroundings.
    â€œIt’s just cloth!” Wilma exclaimed, eyes shining with excitement. “It’s a secret covering! We must have to break through it! But how?” she added, tapping her foot. “Ah-ha!” she declared with a snap of her fingers. “I’ve got a safety pin in my pocket! I can use that!”
    Taking the pin from her pinafore pocket, Wilma opened it out and stabbed at the camouflaged surface. The wall made a popping noise as the tension left it. Dragging the pin downward, Wilma made a hole large enough to fit both her hands. Reaching in, she grabbed either side of the cloth, tore with all her might, and poked her head in through the gap. “Oh my goodness,” she panted. “It’s not a door. It’s a hidden recess. And there’s a statue in here!”
    The statue was standing on a platform that was a little taller than Wilma. It was of a man, tall and noble-looking. In one hand he was holding a magnifying glass aloft and in the other a small plate that seemed to be covered in what Wilma could only assume were carved stone corn crumbles. “Biscuits AND a magnifying glass?” she thought out loud. “He must be a detective. Yes, look! There’s another plaque here.”

ANTHONY AMBER, FOUNDER OF THE ACADEMY OF DETECTION AND ESPIONAGE
    â€œThat’s it! He’s the founder! All buildings depend on their foundations. A foundation can be a beginning! It’s just like Mr. Goodman says. He’s always using