Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Frozen Hearts Read Online Free Page A

was an untethered crocodile, and then having concluded that that was surely impossible, Wilma mustered up her last scrap of inner strength and peered deep into the depths of the hole where the noise had come from. There it was again! Bending down to get a better look, she reached out with her hand and was surprised to find something a little bit warm and a little bit wet. Suddenly two large brown eyes were looking at her. Wilma stood back, a little startled, but then, sensing that she was in no immediate danger of being eaten, she bent down again. “Come on,” she said gently. “Come out. I won’t hurt you.”
    Out from the murky corner stepped a raggedy and much neglected dog. He was small in stature, as high as Wilma’s knees, and had floppy ears, one of which was crumpled and tatty. His eyes were large and pleading and his mouth downturned, as if he was in a permanent state of melancholy. With his tail between his legs and his head bowed, he crept forward. He was in such a sorry state that as Wilma looked down at him she had to struggle not to cry. Quickly untying her bundle, she extracted the remains of a piece of ham she’d been given for the journey and held it out. The beagle, for that’s what it was, smelling the food, wagged his tail a little and came closer to take it. As he ate he looked up into Wilma’s eyes, and at that moment Wilma knew, for the first time since she was four, that she might have found someone who, at that moment, needed a friend just as much as she did. “What’s your name?” said Wilma, kneeling down to give the dog a stroke. There was a small dull disk hanging from his collar. Wilma took it between two fingers and read it. “Pickle!” she said, smiling. “Your name’s Pickle.”
    Pickle wagged his tail even harder. Sometimes it’s hard to put your finger on the exact moment when lifelong friendships take flight, but as the two of them sat on that dirty mattress in the middle of the cold, damp cellar, there was no doubt that Wilma and Pickle had just become best friends.
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    The errand that Wilma had to run for Mrs. Waldock was a simple one. “I want two muffins—one iced, one with currants, from Mr. Hankley, the baker,” drooled Wilma’s mistress. Having given Pickle a sneaky wash and rubdown in the overgrown garden, Wilma set off from Howling Hall with the dog at her heels and a spring in her step. It was evidently the first time Pickle had been clean since arriving as Mrs. Waldock’s guard dog two years previously—not a job he seemed to have been doing particularly well. In fact, when he first appeared from the cellar beside Wilma, Mrs. Waldock seemed a little startled and less than impressed that the dog was still living with her at all. It was only Wilma’s reassurances that he would make a very handy housegirl’s assistant that persuaded her new mistress to let him stay. Pickle had huffed with relief as Wilma finished cleaning him up, and Wilma had been pleasantly surprised to discover that what she had thought was a gray and dingy-coated mutt was actually a golden-brown hound with white paws and tail tip and a sleek black saddle patch on his back. “Dare I say it,” said Wilma as they walked toward the bakery, “but you’re a very handsome dog!” Pickle looked the other way coyly when Wilma said this, because everyone knows that dogs can’t take compliments.
    During their brief outing two things of significance took place. First, as Wilma ran out through Mrs. Waldock’s gates she bumped into a small man clutching a helmet with a lamp on it.
    â€œI’m very sorry, sir,” Wilma apologized and ran on. That man was named Alan Katzin and he was about to go potholing, but we’ll learn more about him in a minute.
    The second thing that happened was on Wilma’s return. As she and Pickle dashed back toward the house, Wilma skidded to a halt and