The Mystery off Old Telegraph Road Page 3

  “It’s perfect!” Trixie said, jumping out of the car. “This clearing is plenty big enough, and it’s just the right distance from Sleepyside for the first rest stop. Since nobody lives here, we won’t have to worry about disturbing anybody if we use it!”

  “Hold on, Trixie,” Brian said. “Just because nobody lives here doesn’t mean we wouldn’t be disturbing anyone. Somebody has to own the place, and we’ll have to get permission to use the clearing.”

  “Brian’s right,” Jim agreed. “Sergeant Molinson will probably know who the owner is. I’ll ask him about it at the same time I ask for a police escort. We can probably persuade the owner to let us use the clearing if we assure him that we’ll clean it up after the bikeathon. Now it’s getting dark. Let’s all go home. Tomorrow’s Saturday, so everybody will have time to carry out their assignments. I hereby invite everyone over to the

  Wheeler boathouse tomorrow evening for a picnic lunch, at which time we will all report our progress.”

  With shouts of “aye, aye” from Brian and Mart, the Bob-Whites got back into the station wagon for the drive home.

  A Ruined Picnic • 4

  ASSOON AS TRIXIE awoke the next morning, she thought about calling Nick Roberts to ask for his help with the artwork for the bikeathon. She raced to the phone, looked up the number, and was about to dial when she realized that it was only eight o’clock. It was too early on a Saturday morning to call someone she hardly knew, she decided. Not everyone had the same busy weekend schedule as the Beldens! Trixie wrinkled her nose as she put the receiver back in its cradle. Busy was hardly the word for it. Mrs. Belden managed to run the bustling household without any outside help. That meant not only feeding and clothing the four children and looking after the mischievous Bobby, but also tending a huge garden in the summer and turning the harvest into canned and frozen fruits and vegetables that the family ate all winter.

  Mrs. Belden never complained about the amount of work she had to do, and she was generally understanding when Brian, Mart, and Trixie got involved in projects that made them neglect their chores. After all, she felt, her children were enjoying themselves while helping others; that was hardly something to complain about.

  But on Saturdays, Mrs. Belden demanded—and got—the full cooperation of her three oldest children in tackling the major chores that had to be done around the house.

  This particular Saturday was busier than most, since the week’s fair weather signaled the beginning of spring-cleaning. After breakfast, Brian and Mart went outside to begin cultivating the huge garden behind the house, while Trixie helped her mother clean the inside of the house and tried to keep an eye on her rambunctious younger brother.

  “All right, Moms,” Trixie said. “The breakfast dishes are done, and the kitchen is spick-and-span. What next?”

  “Next,” her mother replied, “you should try to call your friend Nick. And after that....” Her mother held out a handful of rags and a bottle of furniture polish.

  “I know,” Trixie said, “dust. But, jeepers, thanks for reminding me to call Nick. It had already slipped through my sievelike mind.”

  She dialed the number and waited for several rings, but no one answered. “Guess I’ll have to try later,” she said to herself.

  She began polishing the living room furniture, humming to herself as she worked. Trixie always complained about having to do housework, but once she began, she found she didn’t mind it. At least you can see the results of your work right away, getting rid of the dust and seeing the furniture begin to shine, she thought. It’s not like a math problem, where you struggle to get the answer and then have to wait till class the next day to find out if it’s right or wrong.

  Finishing the furniture, Trixie began to dust the frames on the pictures hanging in the living room. She paused in front of a landscape that showed a narrow stream lined with bare-branched willow trees. She’d dusted it every week of her life for years. She’d always noticed the signature, Helen Johnson, which was her mother’s maiden name, and the date. But today she found herself really looking at it for the first time.

  The sky was cloudy with just a hint of chilly-looking sunlight breaking through, and the water in the stream had the same muted, cloudy look to it. The trees were slender, but their trunks seemed well rounded, sturdy but supple. It’s quite good, Trixie thought. Moms must have had a lot of talent as an artist. And then she had to drop it for lack of money. Well, I’m not going to let that happen to Nick Roberts or any of the other gifted kids at Sleepyside. Not if I can help it. Speaking of Nick....

  Trixie tried again to get hold of the young artist, but once again there was no answer.

  Even though she interrupted her housework several times to phone, Trixie found that the chores were over and she still hadn’t been able to talk to Nick.

  “I only hope,” Trixie said to her brothers as they walked to the boathouse that afternoon, “that everyone else’s missions weren’t as impossible as mine.”

  At the Wheelers’, the other Bob-Whites did, indeed, have success to report.

  “I called the principal at home,” Brian said. “He really likes our idea. He says he knows the art department needs help, but it’s a matter of trying to spread too little money over too many activities. This seems like a great solution to him. He says we can have a sign-up booth after school, announcements over the public address system, and whatever else we need.”

  “Mr. Maypenny’s with us, too,” Dan reported. “Of course, he had to do some grumbling first, about how easy life is for kids these days, and how if they need money for supplies they should go out and earn it.” Dan imitated Mr. Maypenny’s scowl as the other Bob-Whites chuckled, recognizing the show of toughness Mr. Maypenny always used to hide his soft heart.

  “But finally, after all that grumbling,” Dan continued, “he said we could use his clearing, and he asked if he should make up a big batch of his hunter’s stew—enough to feed the whole crowd!”

  “Yummy-yum!” Di Lynch crowed. “Mr. Maypenny’s hunter’s stew is simply divine—turnips and parsnips and potatoes and beans and corn—”

  “And onions and cabbage and tomatoes, all spiced up with garlic and basil and thyme,” Trixie added. “And cooked outdoors. Nobody will drop out of the bikeathon when they know that’s the reward!”

  “Indeed,” Mart said. “But have you pondered the predicament of those unfortunate cyclists who overload their alimentary systems with the succulent comestibles and find themselves unable to persevere in their endeavor?”

  “If you mean the riders will eat too much to ride back to Sleepyside and finish the route, I think you’ve got it backward,” Honey Wheeler told Mart. “After a huge bowl of hunter’s stew, you have to work it all off! Anyway, now we know that Dan and Brian completed their assignments. I have success to report, too. Mrs. Vanderpoel will be happy to have the bikers stop at her house, and she will also provide refreshments. Nothing so wonderful as hunter’s stew, of course—just her own fresh-baked cookies!”

  “Gleeps!” Trixie exclaimed. “Mrs. Vanderpoel makes the best cookies in the world! We may have the first bikeathon in history where the bikers will gain weight!”

  “Ahem.” Jim interrupted the Bob-Whites’ laughter by clearing his throat importantly. “I have a couple of minor triumphs of my own to report, if you don’t mind.”

  The Bob-Whites turned to Jim expectantly, and he continued. “First of all, Sergeant Molinson was helpful, as always, and he has agreed to provide a police escort for the length of the bikeathon route. He also told me who owns the abandoned house on Old Telegraph Road. It’s a gentleman by the name of Mr. Matthew Wheeler.”

  “Daddy owns the house?” Honey Wheeler’s question rose above her friends’ astonished gasps. “But how, Jim? When did he buy it?”

  “It seems that the house belonged to a small farm that bordered the game preserve. About a year ago, Dad found out that the owners wanted to retire from the farm and move to town. Of course, he bought the f
arm immediately, since he’d been wanting to extend his property all the way to the road.

  “Needless to say, we have Dad’s permission to use the clearing. I asked him about it this afternoon. He doesn’t want to open the house, since he’s had it boarded up carefully to discourage vandals. But he will supply the refreshments to be served at the first rest stop in the clearing. He’s also volunteered to let us have Tom Delanoy s help, and the big car, to pick up any cyclists who get tired or have bike trouble along the route.”

  “Oh, this whole thing is going to be just perfectly perfect!” Honey said. “Isn’t it wonderful how it’s all working out?”

  “Except that I didn’t get hold of Nick,” Trixie said gloomily. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to try again tomorrow.”

  “There’s still plenty of time, Trix,” Jim reassured her. “And speaking of time, I’d say it’s time to start our picnic!”

  “Second the motion!” exclaimed the always-hungry Mart.

  “Wait till you see all the food Miss Trask had the cook pack for us,” Honey said. “I told her anybody would think there were going to be eighty people at this picnic, instead of eight.”

  “Your math is as bad as ever, Honey,” Trixie told her friend. “There are only seven Bob-Whites, remember?”

  Honey hesitated a moment before she explained. “I invited Ben to join us, Trix. I told him to come down about half an hour after we did so we’d have time to finish our meeting.”

  Trixie tried not to let her dislike for Ben Riker show in her face. After all, it was Honey and Jim’s picnic.

  “The more the merrier, I always say,” Brian said cheerfully. “Let’s see all that food, Honey.” Trixie was happy to be able to busy herself with unpacking the huge picnic hamper, so that she didn’t have to worry about whether Ben Riker would manage to spoil the fun of the picnic.

  Miss Trask had in fact provided a huge picnic supper. There was a gallon of freshly squeezed lemonade, a huge bowl of raw vegetables and a carton of dip for munching, two packages of fresh buns, three large hamburger patties ready to be cooked for each of the picnickers, and a chocolate cake for dessert.

  While Jim started the fire in the fire bowl that the Bob-Whites had made for their cookouts,

  Trixie, Honey, and Di set the paper plates and plastic “silverware” out on the table. Then Dan and Mart tended the hamburgers while the others waited, crunching their way through the raw vegetables.

  “This raw cauliflower is delicious,” Trixie said. “Moms always cooks it with a cheese sauce, and that’s good, too, but I’ve never eaten it this way.”

  “Isn’t it yummy?” Honey picked out a carrot stick and took a bite. “Miss Trask says raw vegetables like these are a much better ’crunchy’ food than all those snacks that are fried in oil.”

  “They don’t have as many calories, either,” Di Lynch said. Di was the prettiest of the three girls. She had dark, almost blue-black hair that fell to her shoulders and large violet eyes. She was aware of her good looks, and she was far more concerned with watching her figure than Honey and Trixie were with watching theirs.

  Dan Mangan deposited a plateful of hamburger patties on the table. “Now that you’ve saved all those calories on your raw vegetables, you can spend them on these tasty morsels,” he said in a teasing way.

  Di’s talk of low-calorie food was forgotten as she grabbed a hamburger bun, put one of the delicious-looking hamburgers on it, and loaded it down with catsup, mustard, and relish. Trixie,

  Honey, and Dan followed suit, and Brian took his turn tending the remaining hamburgers while they finished cooking.

  For a few minutes, the only conversation among the young people consisted of mumbled requests for more lemonade or another hamburger and bun.

  Just as Brian put the last of the cooked patties on the table and started to construct a hamburger for himself, Ben Riker sauntered up to the table.

  “Hi, guys,” he drawled. “These eats look good.” He helped himself to Brian’s hamburger. “Thanks for fixing my burger for me, buddy.”

  Typical, Trixie thought, for Ben Riker to show up after all the work is done, when there’s nothing left to do except for the easy part—eating. She looked around at the others in the group. Honey’s eyes were lowered to avoid looking at any of her friends. Mart was looking at Ben with thinly concealed outrage. The other Bob-Whites were suddenly concentrating very hard on their food.

  Jim broke the silence by telling Ben that the bikeathon looked like a sure thing, thanks to all the cooperation they were getting. Jim said he felt that it was bound to be a big success. “Would you like to ride in the bikeathon, Ben?” he asked.

  Ben chewed slowly on a bite of his hamburger for a moment and washed it down with a swallow of lemonade. “I might go along for the ride if it’s a nice day. To tell you the truth, though, I’m not very concerned with raising money for your beloved art department. For one thing, I hope to bid good-bye to the sleepy little town of Sleepyside long before school starts next year. And for another thing, I wouldn’t knock myself out for any art department. Art students are all just a bunch of dabblers, anyway.”

  Across the table, Trixie could see her brother Brian giving her a steady, piercing look that meant, “Calm down, Trix, and back off.” But it was too late to stop her temper from flaring.

  “You can’t really believe that, Ben Riker. It’s so far from the truth that nobody could say something like that and mean it. I think the truth is that you just don’t have the talent or the ability to work hard that it takes to be an artist. So you hide behind saying that artists are ’dabblers.’ ”

  Ben Riker looked startled for a moment after Trixie finished her tirade. He opened his mouth as if to answer, then closed it and fixed it in a snide grin. Instead of speaking, he just waved one hand in the same gesture that he would use to brush away a bothersome insect.

  Ben’s response—or lack of it—made Trixie angrier still, and she probably would have begun another outburst if her brother Brian hadn’t interrupted. He yawned broadly and said, “I guess the rest of you didn’t spend the whole day in the fresh air plowing up a garden. Mart and I did, and we’re tired. I think the Beldens should call it a night.” Mart looked more surprised than tired while Brian was speaking, but then he glanced quickly from Trixie, who looked angry, to Honey and Jim, who looked embarrassed, and realized what his brother was trying to do. He quickly stood up, yawning and stretching, and said, “Indubitably, my dear brother. Your idea is apropos, as always. Coming, Beatrix?”

  Trixie rose quickly, muttered a good-night under her breath, and started off toward home.

  Her brothers said more lengthy good-bye’s and thank-you’s, then hurried after her. Brian caught up with Trixie first and threw his arm around her shoulder. “Good old Trixie,” he said. “Predictably unpredictable, as usual. When are you going to learn to control your temper?”

  “Well, that Ben Riker deserved it!” Trixie said. “He-”

  Mart interrupted. “He may have deserved it, Trixie. I think he deserves a lot worse than a tongue-lashing. The point is, do Honey and Jim deserve it? Do they deserve to be embarrassed and hurt at their own party? I don’t think so. It’s not worth trying to get even with Ben Riker if it endangers our friendship with Honey and Jim.

  And little outbursts like yours do endanger the friendship.”

  “Oh, Mart, you’re right,” Trixie moaned. “I couldn’t bear it if the Wheelers and the Beldens weren’t best friends, especially if I was the cause of it. Nothing Ben Riker could say or do could be worse than losing Jim and Honey. I’ll try to remember that. And, Brian, thanks for getting me out of there before I lost my temper some more.” The Beldens walked the rest of the way to their house in silence. Trixie looked at her brothers. I don’t know what they’re thinking, but I’m thinking that there’s big trouble ahead for the Bob-Whites if Ben Riker stays in Sleepyside.

  Depression ● 5

  RIGHT AFTER BREAKFAST the next morning, Trixie went to
the telephone and dialed Nick Roberts’s number. She was thinking, with a chuckle, that she’d already memorized his number without ever actually speaking to him on the telephone, when she heard Nick’s voice saying “Hello” on the other end of the line.

  “There you are!” Trixie blurted. “I had begun to think that you and your whole family had left town!”

  “Who is this?” Nick said. His voice sounded annoyed.

  Gleeps! thought Trixie. There I go again, not using the telephone manners that Moms has tried so hard to drum into my thick skull. A caller should always identify himself first thing. Now Nick’s upset, and I can’t say that I blame him.

  Aloud Trixie said, Tm sorry, Nick. This is Trixie Belden. I met you at the art fair the other day, remember?”

  “Sure. Your friend broke Amy Morrisey’s vase,” Nick said, his voice still chilly.

  I can’t seem to win, thought Trixie. The other Bob-Whites are mad at me because I’m not Ben Riker’s friend. Now Nick is acting angry because he thinks I am.

  “Well, I didn’t call to talk about Ben Riker,” Trixie told Nick. “I called to tell you that we have a plan to help the art department raise money. Would you like to hear about it?”

  “Sure,” Nick replied. His tone implied that he doubted whether the plan would be much help.

  Trixie drew a deep breath and tried to recall her earlier enthusiasm. Somehow, Nick’s attitude was causing her to have doubts, too. Nevertheless, she related the Bob-Whites’ plan for the bikeathon to Nick, telling him about all of the people they’d already contacted and including the big surprise— that Mr. Wheeler was the owner of the house where the Bob-Whites planned to have the first rest stop. When she finished, she waited breathlessly for Nick’s response.

  There was a long pause before Nick replied. “It sounds as if you have the whole thing worked out,” he said finally. “Where do I fit in?”