The Mystery off Old Telegraph Road Page 5

  The Beldens all bowed their heads while Brian said a short prayer of thanks. Trixie listened with her head lowered, thinking how mature her oldest brother’s voice was beginning to sound. It was easy to imagine him as a doctor, giving people all sorts of sound medical advice in that quiet, confident voice, she thought.

  As soon as the family said “amen,” a distinctly immature voice was heard. “Pass me the vegetables first, please,” Bobby piped.

  Bobby’s mother and his brothers looked at him in astonishment as Trixie, straight-faced, handed him the vegetables.

  “To what may we attribute young Robert Belden’s sudden conversion to vegetarianism?” Mart asked, looking at Trixie suspiciously.

  “I just explained how healthful and nutritious they are, Mart,” Trixie said teasingly.

  “Huh-uh, Trixie,” Bobby said helpfully. “That’s not what you ’splained. You ’splained that if I would eat a whole cooked carrot, you would give me a s’prise after dinner. And I asked for the vegetables first ’cause I want the very smallest carrot.”

  Brian, Mart, and Mrs. Belden burst into laughter, and Trixie joined in, while Bobby looked from one to the other, trying to understand what was so funny.

  After dinner, Trixie kept her promise and gave the piece of paper to Bobby.

  “What is it, Trixie?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, Bobby,” she said. “It’s just a funny-looking piece of paper.”

  “May I see it, Bobby?” Brian asked. “I’ll give it right back.” He took the piece of paper and looked at it.

  Mart looked at the paper over Brian’s shoulder and said immediately, “That funny-looking piece of paper is in fact a fifty-deutsche-mark note.”

  “D-Doich what?” Trixie asked.

  “Deutsche mark, Trixie,” Brian said. “That’s the basic unit of German currency. It’s sort of like our dollar. One deutsche mark is worth about fifty cents in United States’ money.

  “That piece of paper is therefore worth approximately twenty-five dollars, although I doubt whether you could find anyone who would redeem such a damaged specimen.”

  “It isn’t a specimen,” Bobby protested. “It’s a s’prise, and it’s mine. Trixie gave it to me. May I be ’scused so I can go put my s’prise in with my collection, Moms?”

  Mrs. Belden turned to Trixie, who looked stunned by the news that her funny-looking piece of paper was worth twenty-five dollars.

  Trixie looked at her mother, smiled, and shrugged.

  “You may be excused, Bobby,” Mrs. Belden said. When he had left the room, she told Trixie, “I’m sure that once the ’s’prise’ wears off, Bobby will be willing to try to redeem the money and give you half of it as a finder’s fee.”

  “Maybe,” Trixie said ruefully. “But even if he doesn’t, I haven’t really lost anything, since I probably would have just thrown it away.” She turned to her older brothers. “How did both of you happen to know what it was?”

  “Elementary, my dear Trixie,” Mart said smugly. “Actually, Trixie, I saw a picture of a fifty-deutsche-mark note just recently,” Brian said. “It was in one of Dad’s banking magazines. Unfortunately, I didn’t read the article that went with the picture, and I couldn’t begin to tell you which magazine it was.”

  “Perhaps your father will remember when he gets home on Wednesday,” Mrs. Belden said. “Meanwhile, there are dishes to be done. Trixie—”

  “I know,” Trixie said. “It’s Mart’s turn to help, but he helped set the table, so I—”

  “Should kindly volunteer to take my turn with dishes,” Mart concluded, getting up from the table. “Thanks, Sis.”

  While she was drying the dishes, Trixie thought about the bank note, wondering how a piece of German money had wound up blown against a hedge on Old Telegraph Road. The Sleepyside Sun, like most small-town newspapers, kept careful track of local comings and goings, and if someone in the area had taken a tour of Germany, the paper would certainly have reported it. Trixie couldn’t remember any mention of such a trip.

  Of course, I might not have paid any attention to the article at the time, Trixie thought as she folded her dish towel. Maybe Honey would know.

  Trixie walked to the phone and picked up the receiver before she remembered the bad feeling that had surfaced between her and her best friend.

  Gleeps, she thought. Tm so used to confiding everything in Honey that it’s impossible to remember that— She felt a sinking feeling in her stomach as she realized what she’d been thinking—that she and Honey might, in fact, not be best friends anymore.

  She stared at the dial for a few seconds, wondering if she should try to call Honey anyway. Hanging up the telephone, she thought, I can’t do it—not tonight. I guess I’m just a coward after all. I can’t stand the idea of calling and having Honey refuse to speak to me—or still be as angry as she was this morning.

  Trixie hung up the phone and wandered upstairs to her room. Trying to find something to occupy her restless mind, she leafed through some magazines, tried to get interested in a book, and finally went to her dresser and began cleaning out the drawers.

  A few moments later, Mart wandered by and saw Trixie neatly refolding sweaters and arranging them in the top drawer. He knocked on the already-open door and came into the room.

  “I deduce,” he said, “that my younger sister is in the throes of a peculiar psychological condition, which seems to manifest itself in trying to achieve order in the chaos that is her room. To what, might I ask, may we attribute this odd—albeit welcome— situation?”

  “Oh, Mart,” Trixie moaned, “what am I going to do?” She told Mart all about her fight that morning with Honey, including Honey’s charge that Trixie was more interested in getting attention for herself than in helping others.

  To Trixie’s surprise, her usually quarrelsome brother listened patiently and, when she had finished, responded soberly.

  “I’m really sorry, Trix,” he said. “It seems to me that everything has gone topsy-turvy since that Ben Riker came to Sleepyside. I know this sounds cruel, but I wish he’d either straighten up or do something really bad, so that he’d be sent away.”

  Mart scowled, and Trixie found the comers of her mouth turning up in a smile as she realized that his face was probably the image of the way her own had looked all evening. Mart and Trixie looked enough alike to be taken for twins.

  “Anyway,” Mart continued, “as for what Honey said about you— Well, Trixie, it’s true, at least in part. Everybody wants praise and encouragement from others. That’s just human nature. It explains why Ben and his crowd make trouble: They get encouragement and praise from each other for it. The difference is that your acts are intended to help others, and that, my dear sister, is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Trixie looked at the floor as tears welled up in her eyes at Mart’s gentle words.

  Mart stood up and walked toward the door. “Don’t worry about your spat with Honey,” he said. “I have a feeling it won’t last. You two girls are too close for that ’Night.”

  “Good night, Mart,” Trixie said. “And thanks.” Mart is wonderful, Trixie thought. For all his teasing, he’s not afraid to show he cares about me when I need to know it. And he’s right. The fight between Honey and me wont last, because I won’t let it. Tomorrow morning on the bus I’ll walk right up to her and apologize.

  Posters and Apologies • 7

  THE NEXT MORNING, Trixie was waiting eagerly at the bus stop at the foot of the driveway when the school bus arrived. She felt a sinking feeling of disappointment when the bus passed the stop at Manor House and neither Honey nor Jim got on. She slumped down into her seat, wondering if the Wheelers had not taken the bus because they were deliberately avoiding her. Don’t be silly, she told herself. There are lots of times when we don’t take the bus for one reason or another. Still, she felt uneasy and nervous, and she looked enviously at Mart and Brian, who were kidding with a group of classmates at the front of the bus.

  On her way
to her first class, Trixie saw Nick Roberts coming down the hall. He seemed to be looking right at her, but he turned suddenly and started to walk down another corridor before she could speak. I guess he didn’t see me after all, she thought, hurrying to catch up with him.

  “Nick,” she called out as she ran up alongside him. The young artist took a couple more steps, then stopped, but he still didn’t turn to face her.

  “I’m sorry if I distracted you from what you were thinking about,” Trixie said apologetically. “I was just wondering when you can work on the posters. I want to arrange for a sign-up booth after school, and I—”

  “Forget it,” Nick said.

  Trixie thought at first that he meant she should forget about apologizing, but as Nick continued to stare at the floor, she wasn’t so sure. “Forget what?” she asked.

  “Forget the whole thing—the whole stupid bikeathon idea,” Nick said angrily. “I don’t have time to waste doing a bunch of stupid posters and pledge cards for a bunch of do-gooders. It’s a dumb idea, anyway. You probably won t raise any money, and if you do, the school board will just use that as an excuse to cut the art department s budget back even more. We’ll be right back where we started.”

  “Oh, Nick, I don’t think so—” Trixie began to reassure him.

  “Well, I do,” Nick retorted. “And I’m the one who’s in the art department, so I ought to know. Just forget the whole thing, would you?” With that, Nick pushed his way past Trixie and walked quickly off down the hallway.

  Trixie looked at his retreating figure, too stunned to move. Nick hadn’t been exactly enthusiastic about the bikeathon when she’d described her plans the day before, but there certainly had been nothing in his manner to indicate that he was going to decide against the entire project.

  Trixie felt a strong temptation to take Nick’s advice and abandon the whole idea of helping the art department. So far, she had to admit, it had caused her nothing but trouble and hurt feelings. But, remembering the disappointed looks on the faces of the other young students at the art fair, Trixie felt her resolve returning.

  The principal offered us his full cooperation, Trixie thought. That means it can’t be such a bad idea. As long as we’ve gone this far, we might as well continue. I’ll go talk to the art teacher during my study hall.

  To Trixie’s relief, the young art teacher, whose name was Mr. Crider, was very friendly and welcomed Trixie’s offer to help. He listened closely as

  Trixie explained the arrangements that the Bob-Whites had made so far and nodded agreeably when Trixie explained the need for posters and pledge cards.

  “I have two classes of first-year art students,” Mr. Crider said. “I can give them the posters and pledge cards to do as an assignment. Actually, it will be very good experience for them to do something like this. It will teach them how to take a basic piece of communication and turn it into something attractive. If any of them decide to go into commercial art, that will be a valuable thing for them to know.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Crider,” Trixie said. “If you’ll just let me know when they’re ready, I’ll come back to pick them up.” She started toward the door.

  “Hold on a minute,” Mr. Crider said, chuckling. “My students can’t communicate your message very effectively if they don’t know what it is. I need to know the date, the time, the place, and what you think is most important to say—what will grab people’s attention.”

  “Of course,” Trixie said. “I’m sorry. I have a bad habit of assuming that other people know all the details of things I’m involved in, just because I spend all my time thinking about them.”

  “That’s a fairly common habit with us human beings, Trixie,” Mr. Crider assured her. He handed her a piece of paper and a pencil. “That’s why someone invented the writer’s rough.”

  Mr. Crider explained that Trixie should make a rough sketch of what she thought the posters and pledge cards should look like, printing out the information and indicating where any special artwork should go.

  “Let’s see... Trixie thought for a moment, then wrote a headline, “Come Along for the Ride,” and filled in the information about the time and starting point for the bikeathon, as well as the fact that the money raised would be used to help buy supplies and equipment for the art department. “I think we should have a map, too,” Trixie said, “so that people who look at the poster will see right away that the route goes through the Wheelers’ game preserve. Lots of kids will sign up just to get a chance to tour the preserve.” She sketched the map on the paper, then added, “Oh, yes! There’s an important line I left out.” On the paper, she lettered, free refreshments well be served.

  Trixie then did another writer’s rough for the pledge cards and handed the two pieces of paper to Mr. Crider.

  The art teacher looked them over and said, “These look fine, Trixie. I’ll give them to the first-year students this afternoon, and you should be able to pick up the posters and pledge cards about this time on Wednesday morning.”

  Trixie thanked him and started to leave, then hesitated. “Mr. Crider, I’m not trying to pry, but I was wondering about Nick Roberts. I don’t know him well. Actually, I don’t think I know him at all. I was just wondering why he always seems so— well, so troubled. He has so much talent that I’m sure he’ll be very successful someday, and he’s very attractive, but he always seems so gloomy.”

  Mr. Crider sighed. “I don’t know Nick well either, Trixie, despite the fact that he spends all of his free time in this department. I do know that he’s had some unfortunate experiences. Nick and his family moved to Sleepyside just last year from New York City. His mother’s health isn’t very good, and her doctor suggested it might improve if she were away from the pollution of the city.

  “Nick’s father is a master engraver, and he was in demand in the city, but there isn’t much call for his talents in a small town like Sleepyside. He has a little shop downtown, where he sells engraved trophies and plaques and such, but there isn’t much money in it. And, although Mrs. Roberts’s health has improved since they moved here, the medical bills that they ran up have put them pretty deeply in debt.

  “Nick tries to help out by working evenings and weekends as a sign painter, and he does make enough money to pay for his expenses and help out a little with the bills at home. Still, he resents having to take so much time away from his serious work, and, understandably, he’s a little bit bitter. I’ve tried to draw him out since he’s been in my classes, but it doesn’t seem to work. He’s a very unhappy young man, and that’s too bad, since, as you said, he does have a lot going for him and will probably succeed eventually—if the chip on his shoulder doesn’t stand between him and success.” Trixie nodded soberly. “I understand him a lot better now, Mr. Crider. I’m glad you told me about Nick’s background. He must feel as though he’s carrying the weight of the whole world around on his shoulders. Still, that’s when a person needs friends most.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more, Trixie,” Mr. Crider said. “I hope you’ll keep trying to be friends with Nick. Just don’t take it too personally if he’s not always very open with you.”

  Trixie thanked Mr. Crider again for his help, and, promising to come back on Wednesday to pick up the posters and pledge cards, she returned to her study hall. On the way, she thought about what the art teacher had said about Nick Roberts.

  She realized that Nick had his own artwork to do, and sign painting besides, so it was probably true that he didn’t have time to help with the bikeathon. But she couldn’t see why he hadn’t just explained that to her, instead of getting so angry.

  It occurred to her that Nick might have been worrying about something else when she called out to him, and he might have taken out his worry by speaking angrily to her. Or, she guessed, he might have felt guilty because he knew he’d get what he needed out of the bikeathon, but he didn’t have time to help.

  One thing I know for sure, Trixie concluded. It’s easier to find missing necklaces
and lost trailers than it is to figure out why people act the way they do sometimes.

  When Trixie boarded the school bus that afternoon, she saw Honey sitting alone in one of the double seats at the back of the bus. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, Trixie quickly walked the length of the bus and sat down in the vacant seat next to Honey.

  “Hi,” Trixie said. “I got Mr. Crider, the art teacher, to help out with the artwork we need. He says we can pick up the posters and pledge cards Wednesday, so we might as well ask the principal if we can have our sign-up booth right after school Wednesday.” Trixie faltered when she saw that Honey’s face was set in an unfriendly expression. “I—I guess I should ask if you’re still interested in helping with the bikeathon.”

  “I certainly am interested in the bikeathon,” Honey replied icily. “Someone has to make sure that nothing else goes wrong.”

  “Has something gone wrong, Honey?” Trixie asked. “Did your father withdraw his permission to use the clearing, or—”

  “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about, Trixie Belden,” Honey interrupted. “I went over to the clubhouse last night after we got home from the city. I wanted to see how far you’d gotten on the direction arrows.

  “What I found was that you’d left the brush unwashed and the window open, and the jar of red paint had tipped over and spilled all over the table and the top poster. It took me half an hour to clean up the mess, and there’s still a red stain on the table.”

  Trixie stared at Honey open-mouthed. She tried to remember her actions of the day before. Trixie didn’t think she’d left the supplies sitting out, but she couldn’t remember putting them away, either. She didn’t even remember opening the window in the clubhouse, let alone closing it. She finally had to admit to herself that she must have left everything sitting out when she decided to go for the bike ride.

  “I’m sorry, Honey,” she said in a low voice, not daring to look her friend in the eye. “I must have left the mess that you had to clean up. I didn’t do it on purpose. It’s just that I was so upset about our fight. That’s all I thought about yesterday, all day long. I kept wondering whether we’d ever be friends again, and about what I’d do if we weren’t. I guess that’s why I forgot to put things away.” Trixie felt tears welling in her eyes, and her voice choked as she said, “I’m sorry you had to clean up the mess, and I’m sorry I said such awful things to you yesterday, Honey.”