The Indian Burial Ground Mystery Read online

  Honey was sitting quietly in the window seat. “I hope she can work it out,” she said with a shake of her head. “If Trixie can’t work on the dig, I won’t either.”

  “Brian and I can’t help it if we arrange our lives properly,” Mart called after Trixie. “We just have a knack for living well, I guess.”

  A faint Bronx cheer came from the hall, followed by the sound of the phone being dialed.

  “She’ll work it out,” Brian said quietly. “All Beldens have a knack for living well.”

  “Perhaps,” Mart sniffed loftily, “but some of us have a more developed sense of—”

  “The ridiculous,” Honey finished. “Trust Trixie to fix this one. Mrs. Beales always liked her best of all the candy stripers. By the way, Jim isn’t changing his plans. He’s still going to work at camp this summer. He says he wants the experience.”

  “But he has higher goals than we do,” Mart said seriously. “After all, if he’s going to start a home for orphaned boys after he gets out of college, he’s going to need all the practice he can get.”

  Jim Frayne was Honey’s adopted brother. The orphaned nephew of James Winthrop Frayne, he had been adopted by the Wheelers after Trixie and Honey had helped solve the mystery of his inheritance. That was the summer that Honey had moved to Sleepyside.

  When Honey first came to Sleepyside she had been painfully shy and frail. But after being friends with Trixie for a summer, she was healthy and outgoing. Honey had convinced her parents to let her go to public school with all her new friends. The Wheelers were so pleased with the change in their daughter, they’d happily agreed.

  Trixie, Jim, Honey, Mart, and Brian had formed a semisecret club—the Bob-Whites of the Glen. Jim had taught the Bob-Whites a special secret whistle. It was the bobwhite birdcall, and it had inspired their club’s name. The club was devoted to helping others and to having fun. Diana Lynch and Dan Mangan were also members.

  Di Lynch came from a wealthy family who lived in a mansion not far from Crabapple Farm. She was known as the prettiest girl in school, with her long, black hair and large violet eyes. Like Honey, Di had been very lonely until she was befriended by Trixie and the Bob-Whites.

  Dan Mangan, the newest Bob-White, was the nephew of Bill Regan, the Wheelers’ groom. He worked as an assistant to the Wheelers’ gamekeeper, Mr. Maypenny, and lived with Mr. Maypenny in a cottage on the preserve.

  Trixie and Honey were very special friends. They both wanted to be detectives, and they planned to open the Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency someday. The two girls made a good pair because they complemented each other. Trixie was quick-tempered and impulsive, while Honey was naturally cautious. Together, they had already solved several mysteries.

  “Well, Di’s excited about the dig,” said Honey. “Her parents said she had to watch her twin brothers and sisters for only half a day. But Dan can’t make it, so it’s not so bad if Trixie and I can’t, either. Since not all the Bob-Whites will be participating, it can’t be a club activity.”

  “That sounds like a rationalization to me,” Mart said.

  Suddenly a whoop of triumph was heard from the hall, and Trixie came back into the living room seconds later.

  “Mrs. Beales said we could work half a day,” she shrieked happily. “We just have to start early—at 8 o’clock—and work until 1 o’clock. Whoopee! A whole half day for the dig!”

  “Oh, I’m so glad,” Honey said excitedly. “Great!” Mart exclaimed, hauling himself out of the chair. “Which reminds me, I haven’t eaten for at least an hour. Food!”

  “How can he eat all the time and still look like a bag of bones,” Trixie mused as she watched Mart amble off to the kitchen.

  “His basal metabolism is out of whack,” Brian snorted.

  “That’s not the only thing that’s out of whack,” Trixie chuckled happily. “But enough about him. Where’s Dad?”

  “Enjoying a few moments of peace with his wife out in the backyard,” Brian answered. “But he left the newspaper, so I think I’ll try to catch up on current events, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind,” Trixie said, playfully snatching the paper off the coffee table. “May I have a look first? Miss Wilson, one of the kindergarten teachers in the elementary school, asked me to do her a favor and cut out pictures of food that she can use for her class.”

  “She wants them to eat newspaper?” Mart Belden asked, incredulous. He had come back into the room munching on a hamburger.

  “No, silly,” Trixie said. “She wants them to make a collage of the basic food groups.”

  “Ah, yes,” Mart said. “The five basic food groups—fast food, sweet food, carbonated food, pizza, and hamburgers.”

  Trixie didn’t laugh, and continued to read intently. Mart’s expression changed from one of devilish glee to pained annoyance.

  “Nobody listens to me around here,” he griped.

  “Hey, guys,” Trixie said slowly, “listen to this—‘Gang Robs Westchester Mansions.’ This news article says there’s a gang of thieves hitting all the big mansions and estates in the area. The police don’t have any clues or leads yet.”

  “Sergeant Molinson will catch them,” Honey said firmly.

  “That’s right,” Mart added between mouthfuls. “He always gets his man. Or rather, Trixie always gets his man.”

  Mart was referring to the fact that Trixie had managed to solve a few cases that had stumped Sergeant Molinson and the Sleepy-side police department. The sergeant didn’t like her interference, but even he had to admit that the clever fourteen-year-old had a nose for crime.

  “I wonder…” Trixie mused.

  “Uh-oh,” Brian said with a chuckle. “Here it comes.”

  “I wonder about that Charles Miller,” Trixie continued, oblivious to her older brother’s remark. She turned to Honey. “The way he was looking at all the things in your living room. Why, he even asked if the Renoir was real.”

  “Oh, Trixie,” Honey said calmly. “Everyone asks that question.”

  “I know that,” Trixie said thoughtfully, “but he was prowling all over, looking at everything so carefully. Don’t you think that was a little odd?”

  “For once in your life, Trixie, you have the opportunity to work on a mystery with redeeming social value,” Mart began in his usual pompous way. “You are going to delve into the mystery of prehistory. Hey, did you hear that? I’m a poet! The mystery of prehistory.”

  “Oh, Mart,” Trixie moaned irritably, “be serious for once in your life.”

  “I am serious,” Mart answered quickly, looking a little hurt. “Why, I could join the ranks of the great and the near-great. Just think of it—Shakespeare, Wordsworth... me!

  Delighted with his own wit, Mart giggled merrily, then turned and headed back to the kitchen.

  “I must have more food,” he announced. “Great art cannot flourish in a vacuum.”

  By now, Honey was doubled over with laughter. Trixie started to laugh, too.

  “Well, maybe I was making a mountain out of a molehill,” Trixie finally said. “But I’m not going to give up.”

  “I feel much safer now,” Brian put in as he followed Mart into the kitchen. “Knowing that Trixie is around eases a lot of my irrational fears.”

  Trixie didn’t like being teased by her older brothers, and it was with great self-control that she managed not to throw the pillow she was holding at Brian.

  “Come over to our house for supper,” Honey said. “At least we Wheelers appreciate you.”

  “I’ll go ask Moms.”

  As Trixie and Honey wandered out into the backyard to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Belden, they ran into Bobby. His face was smudged with long streaks of dirt, and he was waving something triumphantly in his hand.

  “I’m an arpyologist, too,” came his happy voice. “Look, Trixie, I found a real, genuine Indian arrowhead. Dad said so!”

  Trixie looked at the little piece of sharpened stone that Bobby held in his hand.

  “Why
, Bobby, you did find an arrowhead,” she gasped in delight. “Honey, take a look at this.”

  Honey turned the beautifully shaped piece of flint over in her hands, marveling at its loveliness. “We could show Professor Conroy this arrowhead,” she said.

  Bobby reached out and snatched his possession from Honey’s hand.

  “No!” he said. “Don’t give it to anyone.”

  “Don’t worry, darling,” Mrs. Belden said soothingly. “They wouldn’t give away your arrowhead. I’m sure Professor Conroy will be able to find one of his own. But it is interesting.”

  “The fact that Bobby can find an arrowhead right in our backyard shows that there must have been Indians in this area years ago,” Mr. Belden said.

  “Professor Conroy is very smart,” Trixie told her father. “He’s obviously chosen the right place for this dig.”

  “I’m putting my arrowhead away in a special place,” Bobby said, and he ran into the house.

  “Will you be working on the dig?” Trixie’s father asked.

  “Yes, Dad. I arranged it with Mrs. Beales at the hospital.”

  “Isn’t it neat,” Honey said happily. “A real Indian burial ground, right on the game preserve.”

  “That’s right,” Trixie said. Then she had a thought. “Neat—but creepy, too. What if there are ghosts?”

  “Ghosts?” Honey laughed. “Don’t be silly. There’s no such thing!”

  “Ooooeeeeooo,” Trixie howled eerily. “We’ll soon see, won’t we?”

  The two girls burst out laughing, and then Trixie asked permission to have supper with the Wheelers. Mr. and Mrs. Belden agreed. Then they watched the two girls hurry off down the footpath that connected Crabapple Farm with the Manor House.

  “Well, I’m certainly glad they have something interesting to keep them occupied this summer,” Helen Belden said when the girls were out of earshot.

  “Maybe we can get through a whole two months without a mystery,” chuckled Mr. Belden.

  “Don’t count on it, dear. After all, you know our Trixie. If there isn’t a mystery brewing today, she’ll make sure one starts tomorrow!”

  3 * The Dig

  The last days of school flew by, and Trixie didn’t fail the math final, after all. Monday morning, Mrs. Belden dropped the girls at the hospital to pick up their candy striper uniforms and attend the first-day orientation meeting. The information was familiar to Trixie, but the new faces she saw in the group made her realize how important it was to know exactly what a candy striper should, and should not, do.

  “All right, girls,” Mrs. Beales was concluding, “tomorrow morning, bright and early. If any of you have any questions about the work, come up to the front of the room and I’ll try to answer them.”

  “Quick,” Trixie whispered to Honey. “Let’s go to the preserve. I’ll bet we’ve missed practically everything!”

  “Don’t be silly, Trixie,” Honey said with a laugh as she followed her impetuous friend out of the building. “How could we have missed everything if they just started setting up this morning?”

  “Because,” Trixie said, “we’re not even there yet. We have to change out of our uniforms, have some lunch— Oh gosh, I can’t bear the thought of missing even the littlest part! Don’t you feel the same way?”

  “I guess I do,” Honey answered. “But it isn’t driving me batty.”

  Mrs. Belden was waiting for them outside the hospital in the Belden station wagon. Bobby was firmly belted into the backseat and complaining loudly.

  “I wanna sit way in the back,” Bobby whined peevishly, “where you put the packages. It’s more fun! Nobody would arrest a six-year-old for not wearing a seat belt. I think it’s dumb. So there!”

  “It’s not dumb, Bobby,” Honey said sweetly. “Look, I’m wearing my seat belt, and so is Trixie, and so is your mom. Smart people always wear their seat belts, and you’re one of the smartest little people I know.”

  Bobby threw a grateful smile at Honey. Then, mollified, he settled down. The car drove swiftly along Glen Road. Mrs. Belden dropped Honey at the foot of the driveway to the Manor House, and then pulled into Crab-apple Farm. The moment the car stopped, Trixie bolted out the door and ran into the house.

  “There are sandwiches on the kitchen table,” Mrs. Belden called after her. By the time she had gotten Bobby and the groceries out of the car, Trixie had changed into shorts and a halter top, and was racing down the porch steps with a tomato-and-cheese sandwich in each hand.

  “See you later, Moms,” she called merrily as she jumped on her bike.

  Trixie rode across the yard, and down the wooded path that led to the Manor House. Honey was there, waiting on the veranda steps with her bike and her sandwich. They quickly made their way along a dirt road to the part of the preserve where the dig site was located. A truck rumbled past them, kicking up clouds of dust.

  “I bet it’s a delivery,” Trixie said. “Let’s hurry.”

  Hot and out of breath, Honey and Trixie finally came to the clearing. It was a hive of busy activity. They could see tents being set up around the edge of the small meadow. Young people dressed in colorful shirts and shorts were carrying boxes, chairs, and stacks of books. Professor Conroy was moving tables and opening cartons.

  “Brian,” Trixie called out, catching sight of her brother. “Did we miss anything?”

  Brian turned. Charles Miller was standing with him. They both had relaxed, happy expressions on their faces. Trixie wondered briefly why Charles appeared so nice when talking to her brother, and so prickly when talking to her.

  Brian ambled over. “Don’t worry, Trix,” he said. “Professor Conroy is giving the opening lecture in about fifteen minutes. All you missed was the hard part.”

  “Good,” the girls said, relieved.

  “Hey,” Trixie said to Brian, “what did you think of Charles Miller? He’s a little odd, isn’t he?”

  “Not at all,” Brian replied. “Charles is extremely smart, and a real archaeologist. You wouldn’t believe how much that guy knows about this area. When he heard I worked as a guard at the Historical Society, he immediately asked to see the archives. Charles says there’s a wealth of original source material there—diaries, letters, all kinds of stuff. I’m going to take him down there as soon as he has some free time.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” Honey said, “but where is Professor Conroy going to give the opening lecture?”

  “Oooh, that’s right,” Trixie said, her eyes sparkling with interest. “We should try and get front-row seats!”

  “There are no front-row seats, silly,” Brian said with a chuckle. “We’ll probably all just sit around under a tree.”

  Suddenly the three young people heard a sharp noise. Turning, they saw Professor Conroy blowing comically on a little silver whistle. He was holding a sheaf of notebook paper in one hand.

  With a wave he indicated that everyone should join him under a group of shade trees at the edge of the clearing. Mart emerged from behind a stack of boxes and dashed across the clearing to join Trixie, Honey, and Brian. They quickly joined the group of ruddy-faced students. Trixie listened with rapt attention as Professor Conroy started to speak.

  “Most people think an archaeologist spends all his time in remote regions of the world surrounded by missing links, dangling skeletons, and ancient, mysterious civilizations. Well, an archaeological site usually isn’t as glamorous as people expect, but it can still fill one with awe. Here is where people actually lived their lives hundreds, or even thousands, of years ago.

  “Archaeology is really the science of garbage—that’s right, garbage. By going through the abandoned rubbish heaps of ancient civilizations, we can learn a great deal about them. We can find out how our predecessors lived, played, and worked.”

  Trixie looked around her. Suddenly the preserve that she knew so well came alive. She could almost see the Indians who once lived there.

  The professor continued. “The Algonquin and Iroquois tribes move
d around in the Hudson Valley for hundreds of years. We are presently standing on what I believe is an Algonquin burial ground. Burial grounds are important because, in most tribes, a person’s ritual objects were buried with him upon his death. Most of these things, such as baskets and deerskin clothing, have disintegrated over the years. But other things hold up better. These include knives, bowls, and pipes. Most of them were made of durable materials, such as bone, stone, or fired clay.

  “It is these objects we are most interested in. Each tribe had specific ways of decorating their belongings. By comparing the decorative markings, we can try to determine the tribe’s movements. On this dig, we’re concerned with the tribes that moved along the eastern seaboard.

  “Tobacco was grown and traded extensively in this region of the country. Much religious significance was placed on tobacco and its use, so the decorative markings on pipe heads were more formal and symbolic.”

  As Professor Conroy continued to talk about Indian rituals, Trixie listened, fascinated. When he was finished and began assigning tasks to each student, Trixie could barely contain her enthusiasm.

  “Gleeps,” Trixie sighed. “This is even more exciting than I thought it would be.”

  “Now, don’t get too excited,” Brian said reasonably, trying to calm Trixie down. “I doubt that they’re going to let the high-school volunteers do the important work. After all, this dig is supposed to be for the graduate students. We’ll probably be assigned to only the boring stuff.”

  “Nothing about archaeology could be boring,” Trixie said in a rush. “Why, it’s just like detective work. Sometimes the smallest, most insignificant clue is the one that solves the whole mystery! I almost think I’d rather be an archaeologist. What could be more exciting than uncovering the mysteries of the ancient past?”

  “Well, you’ll meet a better class of people,” Mart put in. They were standing in front of a folding table, waiting to be assigned jobs. “No crooks, robbers, or madmen here. After an exciting life like yours, do you think you could stand the boredom?”