The Mysterious Visitor Page 4

  "But why should he?" Trixie demanded. "It’s not a grown-up party."

  Di sighed. "You don’t know Uncle Monty. He’s used to running things. He was one of the first settlers in the Southwest and practically made Arizona the great state it is today. Tucson would be just a ghost city if it weren’t for Uncle Monty." It was Trixie’s turn to frown. "But that’s not possible, Di," she said. "Last year in school when each one of us was given a state to study up on, I chose Arizona, because there are so many wonderful ranches out there. You remember that, don’t you?"

  Di nodded. "You wrote a very interesting theme about it, Trixie, but what’s your theme on Arizona got to do with my Uncle Monty?"

  "Just this," Trixie said thoughtfully. "The University of Arizona, which is in Tucson, was founded in 1885. Your uncle must be an awfully old man if he had anything to do with that. And Tucson has been a boomtown, for, well, just ages."

  Jim nodded in agreement. "I’ve studied up a lot on Arizona, too, because I thought it might be the best place for my boys’ school. Tucson was the territorial capital of Arizona during the ten years between 1867 and 1877. But, you see, Trixie, Arizona didn’t become the forty-eighth state until 1912. Maybe Di’s uncle had something to do with its being admitted into the Union. Maybe that’s what he meant when he told her he practically made Arizona the great state that it is today." "Maybe," Trixie admitted dubiously. "But he couldn’t have been one of the first settlers. They were mostly all killed off by the Indians before the Revolution."

  "He said he was one of the first settlers," Diana repeated stubbornly. "Maybe he was the only one who wasn’t killed by the Indians."

  Trixie laughed. "Then Uncle Monty must be almost as old as Methuselah."

  "Well, he isn’t," Di stormed. "He’s a lot younger than my grandfather Lynch, who just had his sixtieth birthday." She glared at Trixie. "Are you trying to say that my uncle is a liar?"

  "Oh, Di," Trixie pleaded. "I’m simply trying to say that he must be so old he won’t want to come to your party." She chanted, " ‘On the eighteenth of April, in ’75; Hardly a man is now alive—’ "

  Di covered her face with her hands. "I never can remember dates, especially history dates. You’re right, Trixie. My uncle is a liar."

  "Not necessarily." Honey gently touched Di’s bare arm. "I know a little something about Arizona, too, Trixie. Summer before last Daddy and Mother and I toured the whole state in our trailer. A lot of the cities that used to be ghost towns are boomtowns now on account of the tourists and guest ranches. Tucson is famous for its climate. Almost too many people spend the winters out there. Di’s uncle could have played an important part in the real estate boom, which started not so awfully long ago. I mean, as a young man he could have bought a lot of land when it was cheap, thinking there were mines on it or something, and then, when prices skyrocketed during the years when people got the idea of building dude ranches, he could have sold it at an enormous profit."

  "I guess that’s what he was talking about," Diana said in a mollified tone of voice. "I didn’t listen very carefully after the first hour. You know, it gets kind of stupefying when one person does all the talking."

  Trixie laughed. "I can see why you’re worried about your. party now, Di. You’re afraid your uncle will mon—mon—"

  "—monopolize," Jim supplied.

  "Monopolize the conversation," Trixie finished. "But he probably has a lot of interesting stories to tell," Honey objected. "We met an old prospector in Tombstone, which used to be a ghost town, after it was first a boomtown, and the stories he told for hours on end were simply fascinating. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Di."

  "I’d like to meet him myself," Jim added cheerfully. "He can probably give me some pointers. A ranch in Arizona near some mountains, but with plenty of desert land for long horseback rides, might be just the place for my boys’ school."

  "You’re going to meet him any minute," Di said forlornly. "He telephoned me here yesterday afternoon. I begged him not to, but he said he was going to drive out this morning and inspect the horses." Again she covered her face with her hands. "Oh, I wish he’d go back to Arizona and stay there. If Uncle Monty says you paid too much for Starlight and Susie, Regan will get mad, and —it’s all going to be so embarrassing."

  "I don’t get it," Jim said wonderingly. "Why should your uncle criticize our horses?"

  "That’s the kind of person he is," Di moaned. "He knows everything there is to know about everything. To hear him talk you’d think he was the only broncobuster that ever lived. He pretends to be very nice, but underneath he’s really mean. When I talked to him on the phone yesterday, I told him he mustn’t speak to Regan. I told him how important Regan is. But Uncle Monty will make him mad, all right. Just wait and see."

  No one said anything for several minutes. The idea of anyone criticizing Regan was almost too awful to think about. He might quit and then, because there never could be another Regan, Mr. Wheeler would certainly sell all the horses.

  "He is mean," Di continued. "My uncle, not Regan. He keeps doing things in that sly way of his to make me miserable. Take those silly evening dresses Mother packed in my suitcase. Uncle Monty made her buy them for me just because he knew what I really wanted was some jeans. He’ll think, of some way to ruin my Halloween party, too. I just know he will."

  "He sounds like an awfully mean person." Trixie agreed. "And your mother is so sweet. It must be hard for you to believe that he is her brother." Diana jumped up, her violet eyes blazing. "I see what you’re driving at now, Trixie Belden! You’re insinuating that my uncle is an impostor." Trixie flushed guiltily, because, of course, she had been thinking just that. "I’m sorry, Di," she mumbled. "I was just wondering, that’s all. You did say that your uncle left home when your mother was just a baby. And then he suddenly turned up on Monday night. I couldn’t help sort of suspecting that maybe he isn’t your real uncle. But, of course, he must have had baby pictures of her and all that kind of thing to prove that he really is."

  "Of course he did," Honey said soothingly.

  And then to everyone’s surprise, Di suddenly whirled on Honey. "Of course he didn’t," she cried. "He didn’t have a single solitary thing to prove that he is my mother’s brother."

  Trixie’s mouth fell open with surprise. "Then you think he’s an impostor, Di?"

  "No, I don’t," Di replied. "Because he said all the right things. He told Mother all about the night she was born—he knew the exact hour and date and where they were living then. Besides, he’s been lost—if you want to call it that—for about thirty-five years, so how can you expect him to have saved anything like baby pictures of my mother, even if there were any?"

  "There probably weren’t any." Trixie agreed cheerfully. "Babies in poor families don’t go around having their pictures taken. Please forgive me, Di. I was completely wrong, and I didn’t mean a thing I said."

  Diana smiled. "There’s nothing to forgive, Trix. As a matter of fact, I wish my uncle were an impostor. What I really mean is, I wish he’d go away."

  "Oh, oh," Trixie interrupted. "A limousine just turned into the driveway. Come on, Di. We’ve got to keep your uncle away from Regan. We’ve just got toi"

  Di’s Initiation • 5

  THE LYNCHES’ big, shiny limousine had turned around at the head of the driveway and was parked by the stable when Trixie, followed by Di, Honey, and Jim, got there. A small, thin man, who was wearing a dark suit and light spats, climbed out from behind the wheel. He looked so dressed up for that hour of the morning that Trixie couldn’t help staring at him in surprise.

  Still out of breath from running, Di panted, "Hello, Uncle Monty. This—is—are—Honey Wheeler and Trixie Belden and Jim Frayne."

  A broad smile crinkled Mr. Wilson’s weatherbeaten face. "Howdy, podners," he said. While he Was shaking hands with each one, Regan appeared and was introduced. "Howdy, podner," Mr. Wilson greeted him. "I take it you’re the groom. Came out to give the hosses a look-se
e. Know quite a bit about hossflesh, if I do say so myself, podner."

  "Great," Regan said pleasantly. "We bought a mare and a gelding dirt cheap in August. I’d like to hear what you think of them."

  "Oh, no, Uncle Monty," Diana cried quickly. "You mustn’t take up Regan’s time. He’s really awfully busy today."

  "Yes, that’s right," Honey added. "Some other time, Mr. Wilson, when you’re in riding clothes would be much, much better."

  Before she had finished speaking, Jim said, "You can’t judge a horse properly unless you put it through its gaits."

  And Trixie said, "You must let us show you around the Wheelers’ place, Mr. Wilson. It’s very beautiful at this time of year when the chrysanthemums are blooming and the dahlias and all." "Say, what’s the matter with you kids?" Regan demanded, scratching the back of his head with a puzzled expression on his face. "Since when did you ever worry about taking up my time?" "Why, Regan," Honey said innocently, "we always try to be considerate. You’ve often said so yourself. Why, only yesterday you told Daddy you’d quit if it weren’t for the fact that we keep the horses so well exercised and groomed. Why, you’re forever complaining about how overworked you are, especially in the mornings when there’s so much to do. Why, I wouldn’t think of letting Mr. Wilson disrupt your routine. Why—" "That’s five why’s," Regan interrupted. "Four too many for my money. So I’m always complaining, am I? When I do quit, and you try somebody else, see how long he lasts with five crazy kids always getting involved in mysteries, especially Trixie.’’ He gave them all, especially Trixie, a glare and said to Mr. Wilson, "Come on inside, sir. It isn’t often I get a chance to talk with an expert about horses."

  As soon as the two men were out of sight, Trixie grabbed Honey’s arm. "Say, what’s wrong with you? You’re supposed to be the tactful one. Why on earth did you have to tell Regan he’s always complaining?"

  "Oh, I don’t know," Honey groaned. "I’m just so nervous." They moved slowly back to the porch. "Regan is always complaining, but he doesn t really mean it, and he’s mad now because he knows I know he’s the only groom we’d ever get to stay here and do all the things he does.

  Since school started we haven’t exercised the horses every day, and half the time we’re in such a hurry, we don’t groom them properly. And—" "Never mind; never mind," Jim said dolefully. "We know. But Regan won’t quit on account of what you said, Honey."

  "But he will quit," Di said in a voice that was even more doleful than Jim’s, "on account of what Uncle Monty’s saying right now. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have come out here in the first place. All I’ve done is cause everyone a lot of trouble. You’d better forget about me. I’m going to pack up my things right now and go back home with Uncle Monty."

  "You’ll do nothing of the kind," Honey cried, giving Di an affectionate hug. "We’re all worrying about something that may never happen. I’m not an expert, but I know Starlight and Susie are fine horses. They were real bargains. Weren’t they, Jim?"

  Jim nodded. "Mr. Wilson and Regan are probably getting along fine. As thick as two hoss thieves," he added with a chuckle.

  Jim’s young springer spaniel, Patch, and the Beldens’ harum-scarum Irish setter, Reddy, came bounding up the porch steps.

  Trixie greeted both dogs affectionately and said to Jim, "How are you getting on with Patch’s training? When do you have time for it, anyway?" "Early in the morning and late in the evening," Jim said. "And Patch has learned a lot." Demonstrating, he said, "See? He obeys the commands ‘sit,’ ‘lie,’ and "heel,’ and he’s pretty good about retrieving. But Tom says he’ll never point, although some springers can be taught to. The very word ‘springer’ means ‘one that springs, as a dog flushing game.’ They used to be called springing spaniels, in case you didn’t know."

  "I didn’t know," Trixie said. "I thought all spaniels and setters pointed. Reddy does, but not because anybody wants him to. Just before he dashes across Moms’s flower garden after a rabbit, he sometimes lifts one paw and points his nose at it." She chuckled. "The idea is, I guess, to give Moms and the rabbit fair warning. Reddy is completely hopeless. When we tell him to sit, he lies down. When Brian and Mart tell him to heel, he goes home to his bed on the terrace. When they tell him to go home, he heels. When they tell him to he down, he runs around in circles."

  Jim chuckled. "It’s not Reddy’s fault. The trouble with him is that all of you, including Bobby, tried to train him at the same time. I’m being very stuffy about Patch. I won’t let anybody except myself give him a command—not even Honey."

  "You are being stuffy," Honey said, smiling. "But I can see why. When the duck season opens next month, you boys will want Patch to retrieve ducks, not just any old thing he finds lying around." She turned to Trixie. "Tom’s going to take them shooting in the marshes up the river, you know."

  Tom Delanoy, the Wheelers’ young chauffeur, was very popular with both the boys and girls. He had taught Brian and Mart everything they knew about hunting and fishing. The Beldens had recommended him for the job because, unlike many chauffeurs, Tom did not think that his work began and ended with driving the cars. He was perfectly willing to help Regan with the horses and, in his spare time, to serve as a general handyman on the big estate. He and Regan got on very well together and shared comfortable bachelor quarters above the garage. In a way, Tom, although he had been hired only a short time ago, was almost as important a member of the Wheeler household as Regan was. Regan knew everything worth knowing about horses; Tom knew everything important about cars and gundogs. He was full of fun, too, and very handsome with his black, wavy hair and blue eyes.

  "Tom likes springers all right," Jim was saying, "but his favorite breed is the pointer. If Patch were his dog, I’ll bet he could train him to point. I just haven’t got that much patience."

  "It’s your red hair," Trixie said, grinning.

  Di, who had been sitting forlornly on the edge of the glider, said, "Oh, let’s not talk about red hair. It reminds me of Regan and what Uncle Monty may be saying to him right now."

  Jim quickly changed the subject. "Where are Brian and Mart, Trixie? It’s getting on to the time we set for initiating Di into our club."

  "They’ll be here pretty soon," Trixie told him. "They have to stack all of our junk that’s in the garage into the station wagon. Then Brian’s going to drive it to the clubhouse. Maybe they’re down at the clubhouse now waiting for us."

  "Let’s go," Jim said, leading the way down the sloping lawn to the cottage.

  "What’s my initiation going to be like?" Di asked nervously. "I’m sort of scared."

  "I don’t know," Trixie said. "Honey and I left it up to the boys. What does Di have to do, Jim, to become a member of our club?"

  Jim shrugged. "I left it up to Brian and Mart. We talked about it on the way home from the movies last night, but I couldn’t think of a thing. Except," he added to Di, "make you try to eat a dozen eggs in as many minutes. How would you like that?"

  "Ugh," Honey gulped. "I was in a pie-eating contest at boarding school last year. The girl who won ate five blueberry pies in only thirty minutes. She was awfully sick afterward."

  "I don’t like to eat either eggs or blueberry pie," Di wailed.

  "Never mind," Trixie said. "If my brothers have anything to do with it, it won’t be that kind of initiation. Mart will probably make you walk barefoot on a mile of tacks. Or make you try to put up his pup tent all by yourself. That’s the kind of torturer he is."

  Di shuddered, and Honey quickly tucked her hand through the crook of Di’s arm. "Don’t pay any attention to Trixie," Honey said. "Mart is an awful tease, but he’s really very kindhearted." When they arrived at the cottage, they found that Brian and Mart were already there, neatly stacking the winter sports equipment they had brought from home. To Trixie’s surprise and dismay, Bobby was there, too, "holping," as he proudly told them.

  Trixie put her thumbs in her ears, waggled her fingers, crossed her eyes, and stuck out her t
ongue. "Do we have to have you-know-who here in our clubhouse?" she asked Mart sourly.

  "Whom," Mart corrected her. "And we do, unless you want to go home and play in the sandpile with whom." He moved closer and peered intently at Trixie’s face. "Someday your eyes are going to stay crossed, Sis. And your thumbs will stay in your ears, and your tongue will be permanently stuck out. But I wouldn’t worry if I were you, Sis. Somehow, you look better that way. And think of the money you’ll save. You won’t need a mask for Halloween. Not that you really do, anyway, with the funny face you were born with!"

  "Oh, is that so?" Trixie demanded. "Have you forgotten that we are supposed to look exactly alike except for that weird haircut of yours? And in case you’re interested, I do not have to stay home and play with you-know-whom today. Moms said that, after I did the dishes and the dusting, I could have the rest of the day off. She canned the last of the tomatoes yesterday, so—" "Trae," Mart interrupted, "but because of which, our paternal parent feels that our maternal parent needs a vacation." Holding his thumb and index finger to one eye in the form of a monocle, he said with a very pronounced British accent, "The pater and mater have gone off on a motaw trip, old thing. Thus we are saddled with the younger generation until evening, or at least until late afternoon."

  "We!" Trixie sniffed. "You mean you and Brian are. And, in case you’re interested, you’ve ruined everything. How can we initiate Di with Bob— I mean, you-know-whom—in our hair?"

  "In case you’re interested," Mart said airily, "that is what the initiation ceremony is going to consist of. We thought of blindfolding her and making her walk a plank into the lake. We even went so far, in our fiendish way, of planning that she should pound her thumbs to a pulp while we supervised her as she finished shingling the roof. Then it came to us. What better opportunity could she have of proving that she is worthy of being a member of the brotherly and sisterly secret society known as B.W.G’s than by coping all the rest of the day, alone and absolutely unassisted, with the devil incarnate in the form of young Bobert Belden, Esquire?"