The Mystery of the Missing Heiress Read online

  “Say, that’s a good deal!” Mart said and ruffled Bobby’s hair. “I wish I’d thought it up.”

  “You thought up plenty at his age,” his mother reminded him. “Trixie, I had to leave the breakfast dishes for you to do; then there’s the dusting. And, boys, how about the lawn? I’d advise you to finish it before your father comes home from the bank.”

  “We’re on our way, Moms.” Mart went to get the can of gasoline for the mower. Then he called through the screen door, “When your slaves get all this work done, they’re going to ride over to Mrs. Vanderpoel’s house. Is that okay? Moms, don’t race the motor when you start the car. You’ll scare Strawberry and Susie and Lady.”

  “I learned to drive before you were born,” his mother called. “And I learned to ride and not to scare horses long before Brian was born. It’s all right for you to go to Mrs. Vanderpoel’s house, but you’ll have to take Bobby.”

  Bobby clapped his hands. “I’ll go to see Old Brom while you’re at Mrs. Vanderpoel’s, Trixie, so you can quit frownin’. I’d rather go there, anyway. Course, I’U stop long enough to get some cookies at Mrs. Vanderpoel’s house.”

  “I can count on that, all right,” Trixie said as she tied a coverall apron around her waist and ran hot water into the sink. “I wish we had a dishwasher!”

  “Moms thinks she has—you!” Brian said and dodged out the door to escape a shower of soapy water. “Gosh, here comes Di now, and she has her little twin brothers riding up in front of her. What chance do we have with three monsters?”

  “Larry and Terry can come with me to visit Old Brom,” Bobby said, jumping from one foot to another. “Hell tell us some whoppers. Remember the one he told us about No-mah-ka-ta, the witch who lives on top of the highest Catskill? You know, that first time I ever met him.”

  “I sure do remember,” Trixie said, smiling. “Every time it’s rained since that time, you tell us it’s the old witch spinning clouds and sending the winds racing to the four comers of the earth.”

  “Well, I like Old Brom. He’s my friend.”

  “You’re right. He doesn’t seem to want many friends—just you and Mrs. Vanderpoel. He’s a hermit. He’d rather be alone. He won’t be alone today, with you three young hood!—”

  “He likes boys—little boys—’cause they don’t interr...”

  “Interrupt.”

  “That’s right. Today maybe he’ll tell us about The Flying Dutchman. Do you s’pose he piloted a jet?”

  Jim arrived in time to hear Bobby’s question. “Not a chance, fella,” he told the little boy.

  They only had sailing ships in those days. Captain Marryat told us about The Flying Dutchman in his book The Phantom Ship. See if Trix will read it to you.”

  ”Will you, Trixie?” Bobby asked. “Hi, Terry! Hi, Larry! Were going to Old Brom’s house!”

  Trixie sent the little boys out in the yard to play till the Bob-Whites were ready to leave. With the help of Diana and Honey, she made quick work of the dusting and dishes.

  Under Mart’s guidance, the power mower zoomed around the large lawn. Brian followed with the clippers and Jim with the broom. It wasn’t long till everything was shipshape, inside and out, and they were off for the brick house in the woods.

  Each big boy took a little boy in front of him on his saddle. They entered the woods far down Glen Road, for the brick cottage was just on the fringe of the game preserve.

  When they knocked at her door, Mrs. Vanderpoel turned from the oven of the old-fashioned stove which filled a comer of her kitchen.

  “I just knew I’d be having visitors,” she said, pushing her gray curls back from her plump, heat-reddened face. “I never was so glad to see anyone. And the little boys, too!” She lifted a comer of her blue checked apron and wiped the perspiration from her chin. “Bobby, could you boys eat a nice, warm windmill cookie?”

  “Yes, ma’am!We re going to call on Old Brom.”

  “Now, that will really please him. You can'take him some fresh cookies, too.”

  “If he can find his mouth behind his bushy whiskers,” Bobby said, giggling, his mouth full of crumbled cookie. “Wait till you see those whiskers!” he told the Lynch twins. “They’re just like Rip Van Winkle s. Is this the bag for Old Brom?” Without waiting for an answer, he scooped up a handful of cookies, shouted his thanks, and disappeared down the footpath, with the Lynch boys scurrying to keep up.

  “Well, now, that’s that!” Mrs. Vanderpoel said. “If you’ll bring the jug of cool milk out of the well house, Trixie, we can all sit down here at the table. Where’s Dan?”

  “He couldn’t come with us today. Mr. Maypenny had work that had to be done right away. Anyway, this is a business call, Mrs. Vanderpoel,” Trixie explained. “Mmmm, this milk is good.”

  “Did you fill all the mugs?” Mrs. Vanderpoel asked anxiously and peered around. “That’s right!” She heaped the cookie plate again, then settled into the big captain’s chair at the head of the table. She blew on her glasses, wiped them clear with her apron, then asked, “Business you say, Trixie? A business call?”

  “Yes. You know everyone who has ever lived around Sleepyside, Mrs. Vanderpoel, particularly the old Dutch families. Did you ever hear the name Betje Maasden?”

  Mrs. Vanderpoel thought. “I’ve known several Betjes. There was Betje Van Bronck, Betje Schimmel, Betje— Why, Jim, your own mother’s sister was Betje—Betje Vanderheiden! Seems to me I remember she went to Holland to live when she married. That was a long time ago, Jim. She married a big blond giant of a man... Wilhelm... Wilhelm.... I can't remember his last name.”

  “Was it Maasden?” Trixie asked anxiously.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know. Let me see.... I should remember; I saw a picture of her not long ago.”

  “Can you remember where?” Trixie prodded. Mrs. Vanderpoel closed her eyes, thinking. “It wasn’t in an album. I remember holding it in my hand....”

  In that tin box, maybe?” Trixie asked, jumping to her feet in her excitement. “The one you have in your desk?”

  “Maybe if you’d give her a chance to think, Trixie, instead of dancing around her and making her nervous...” Mart suggested.

  “I’m sorry,” Trixie said, then added, “Is it in that box, maybe, Mrs. Vanderpoel?”

  She couldn’t understand why everyone, even Mrs. Vanderpoel, laughed.

  “Take it easy, Trix!” Mart chuckled. “You’re as nervous as a cat.”

  “Never mind, child,” Mrs. Vanderpoel said kindly, “I’m not at all sure it’s in the tin box in my desk, but bring it to me, and we’ll see.”

  Trixie brought the box. Then, with superhuman control, she sat quietly across the table from the kindly Dutch woman and watched as she took out the old Kodak pictures, looked at each one carefully, and set it aside.

  Some of them almost brought tears, and Mrs. Vanderpoel apologized. “I don’t know why I hold on to all these old pictures. They always make me sad. Oh, well, some of them make me glad, too, and that evens everything up. Here we are, Jim! Your Aunt Betje and her husband and their little girl.”

  She passed the faded picture across to Jim, and Trixie, looking over his shoulder, asked quickly, “Where are they now?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Vanderpoel,” Jim asked soberly, “and why didn’t you ever show me this picture before? I thought I hadn’t a relative in the world.”

  “You haven’t, Jim.” Mrs. Vanderpoel’s voice was sad. “That’s why I never showed you the picture before. A very tragic thing happened to all of them. The automobile in which they were riding went off the road and into a canal. They were drowned.

  No one said a word. Even Trixie was silenced. She just sat, holding the picture in her hand, turning it this way and that.

  “There’s something written on the back,” Honey said, breaking the silence.

  Trixie turned the little picture over, then handed it to Jim.

  “Betje and Wilhelm Maasden,” Jim read, “and Juliana. Sixteen Seestrasse
, The Hague.”

  “There’s your Betje Maasden,” Jim said quietly to Trixie. “And I never saw her in all my life.”

  “It happened so many years ago,” Mrs. Vanderpoel reminded him. “All of fifteen years, I’d say. It’s too bad the date of the picture isn’t written on the back. People should always record the date. If I’m not being too curious, why all this interest in someone called Betje?”

  Then they told her of the marshland, of the story in the newspaper, of the title to the land, and of the search being made to find Betje Maasden.

  “It’s a wonder nobody thought of asking me before this,” Mrs. Vanderpoel said. “Someone from the library calls me about once a month to ask about old families in this part of Westchester County. There wasn’t any other kin to Betje Maasden but your mother, Jim. I guess, since she’s gone and your Aunt Betje is gone, that means the land properly belongs in your name.”

  “I guess so,” Jim answered, shaking his head sadly. “For a while I hoped maybe you’d turned up someone related to me.”

  Honey, sitting on the other side of Jim, put her hand on her adopted brother’s arm to comfort him. He smiled at her and said, “I guess that’s that.”

  “Except that you’ll have to have some more information for the office of deeds at the courthouse,” Brian said. “Don’t forget that strip of land is valued at one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It seems as though it will be yours, Jim.”

  “If it is, it’ll go for a special dormitory for my orphan boys, and I’ll call it—”

  “The Betje Maasden Dormitory!” Trixie cried excitedly. “We’d better take this picture to the courthouse in Sleepyside.”

  “They’ll want to write a letter to The Hague and try to get some more information about the Maasden family,” Brian said.

  “I’ll write, too,” Trixie said, “just as soon as we collect the little boys and take the horses back to the stable.”

  “For pete’s sake, why do you think you have to write a letter?” Mart asked. “I’d say your detective parade went up an alley this time. You’ll have to find another mystery, Trix, you and Honey.”

  “Oh, no, I won’t,” Trixie said—with a smile that Mart knew only too well. “I’m going to write a letter to The Hague myself, because I know Jim wants as much information as he can get, don’t you, Jim?” ‘Yes, and it’s good of you to do it, Trixie. I’m no good at writing to strangers. I just hope there’s someone who knew my aunt and uncle and cousin. It was a long time ago.”

  You didn’t have that Cheshire cat look on your face just because you were going to write a letter,” Mart told Trixie. “I mean the look you had when I told you no more mystery.’ ”

  “No, I didn’t, Mart Belden,” Trixie said firmly. “You haven’t forgotten that mysterious voice that asked about Betje Maasden over the telephone. And you haven’t forgotten that mysterious man who was asking questions when we were down at the marsh, have you, hmmm?”

  “Oh, no!” Mart said and hid his face in his arms in mock agony. “I should have known. I should have known!”

  Practice for the Turf Show • 4

  WHEN THE BOB-WHITES took the picture of Betje Maasden to the courthouse, the man in the office of deeds promised Trixie he would get a letter of inquiry off to Holland the next morning. Her own letter to The Hague also was mailed the next morning. Then the waiting period began for the impatient Trixie.

  Routine activity helped—work at the hospital with other Candy Stripers and helping with late-summer canning at home. There was swimming, too, in the big Wheeler lake, and tennis, riding, exercising the horses, and jumping, in preparation for the Turf Show. How Trixie loved the little black mare Susie!

  Regan had been more than ordinarily demanding about the Turf Show coming up in the fall. He wanted the Bob-Whites to be perfectly trained for every event they entered. He knew his horses had a fine chance of winning in the conformation competition and various walking contests. It was jumping that concerned him most. It took constant practice. So, when he found the Bob-Whites with a day free just for jumping practice, he was glad.

  “Some of you can use a lot of polishing,” he told the Bob-Whites assembled around him at the Wheeler stable.

  “He looked right at me,” Trixie whispered to Honey. “I don t really blame him. I’ve had so many things on my mind, I haven’t had time to try to jump. It s a wonder he hasn’t been after me before this. Heavens, do you realize we have a booth to get ready for that show, too-all those handmade articles to be sold?”

  “We still have plenty of time to work on the booth. It’s the show itself—riding—that’s the most important thing.”

  “I know that, and I’ll never be the jumper you are, no matter how I try. It scares me.”

  “It’s the only thing I’ve ever known that frightened you,” Jim said, laughing. “If you lived at Manor House, you’d soon jump over the moon. Regan sure keeps after Honey and me. You haven t done so badly on Susie, Trixie. Jupiter really takes tight handling. Hey-don’t you know any better than that?”

  Trixie had crossed back of the big black gelding and he had kicked out at her, startling her out of her wits.

  “I know, I know,” she said, her voice shaking. “I shouldn’t have walked back of him-just around him-and I should have kept talking to him all the time. I’ve heard Regan often enough on the subject. I’m glad Susie isn’t so temperamental.”

  “Any startled horse will kick—even gentle Susie; remember that, Trixie,” Regan said tersely.

  “Just so you don’t start the day off mad at me, Regan,” Trixie answered meekly. “Jupiter s such a big show-off.”

  “I hope he shows off at the Turf Club next month,” Jim said. “Don’t forget that Dad took a blue with him this summer at the International Show.”

  The stable was large, neat, and comfortable, and fragrant with well-soaped leather and good hay. Regan was justly proud of it and proud of the ribbons and the posted record of horse-handling. He would have liked it if the Wheeler horses could have entered every show in a four-county area around Sleepyside. He realized, however, that Mr. Wheeler’s first interest was in recreation for his son and daughter and their friends. When they did compete, though, Regan wanted them to reflect credit on his training.

  “Here comes Dan now,” Mart said, “with Di. I wonder what they’re laughing about.’’

  “Do you know what Dan just told me?” Diana said a few minutes later as she reined in Sunny and slid out of the saddle. “You’d never guess in a hundred years. He said Spartan can dance!”

  “He can,” Dan insisted to the hooting Bob-Whites. “The man Mr. Wheeler bought him from said he used to be in a circus. I forgot about that till this morning. I had to get up real early to look over some traps for Mr. Maypenny. I took my transistor along—”

  “And went to sleep and dreamed Spartan was dancing,” Mart broke in.

  Dan just ignored him. “I had the ‘Whispering Strings’ on. You know that trio that’s playing at the hotel in White Plains? Well, I was just riding along listening. All at once I noticed that Spartan was doing some fancy wriggling. I thought maybe he’d stepped in a rabbit hole, but it wasn’t that. He was waltzing! He threw out his left back leg, then picked up his front right and—”

  “Waltzing!” Trixie cried. “Spartan?“

  “Yeah... three-quarter time!” Dan said and patted Spartan’s shoulder. “Want to see him do it?”

  “This is one I’ve got to see,” Regan said.

  “I brought my radio with me. Watch. I’ll turn it on.” Dan dialed for the music. “Spartan’s a real ham,” he added proudly. “Watch him!”

  The handsome old roan really did dance, awkwardly and a little shakily but unmistakably in time to the music. He didn’t even seem to mind when the Bob-Whites took up the rhythm and clapped out the beat. He just danced faster.

  Regan pushed his cap back on his head. “Now I’ve seen everything. Say, this gives me an idea. We can dress Spartan up and use him for the
clown at the horse show—” He broke off at sight of Dan’s frowning face.

  Dan jumped off the old horse, backed him up, and turned him around to face the group. “Spartan’s no down!” he said in a resentful tone. “He’s smarter than any other horse around here. Just because he’s old and maybe not a Thoroughbred—”

  “Oh, come off it,” Regan told his nephew. “Nobody’s running down your horse. There’s Arabian blood in him, too, Dan, even if it is tired blood after twenty-five years. He has more Arabian blood than any of these other horses, except Susie.”

  Dan perked up, but he still thrust out his lip.

  He’s no clown, anyway.”

  “What’s wrong with being the down?” Mart asked.

  “Yeah,” Brian added. “The clown horse is always the hit of the whole show. Any well-trained horse can go through all the paces: walking, trotting, galloping, cantering, even jumping. It takes a real star to clown.”

  “Brian s right,” Honey said. “But Spartan doesn’t have to be a clown to do his dance. He would look cute, though, dressed up....”

  “With a tutu around his tummy,” Trixie added excitedly, “and a wreath of flowers on his head.”

  “Spartan s no girl horse, Trixie,” Dan said and kicked the gravel in disgust. “I’d rather he’d be the clown than that. He does kinda like the limelight, and if you think it would add to the show....”

  “It’ll make the show.” Regan s face lit up. “Will you do it, Dan?”

  Dan nodded. “If Spartan will.”

  “Then let’s get on with the jumping,” Regan said. “Trixie, bring Susie in from the pasture and saddle her. Jupiter’s the only horse I kept in the stable this morning. Jim will have to let him run for a while before he saddles him. He’s too high-spirited right now.”

  Humming “The Blue Danube,” Dan tied Spartan in one of the stalls and went out to the pasture to help Regan set up the jumps.

  The other Bob-Whites scattered. Diana intended only to watch the practice, because Sunny was not a jumper. There were only three other palominos in the county, and all they would do in the show would be to march and look beautiful.