The Mystery of the Memorial Day Fire Page 6

  “Nick Roberts’s father has been arrested,” Trixie said as she burst in on Honey. “Mart and Brian and I just came from the police station.”

  “Arrested!” Honey let her sewing project drop to her lap. “Oh, Trixie, no! Can they do that?”

  “They did it,” Trixie said grimly. Briefly, she told Honey about the phone call from Nick, the conversation with Pat Murphy, and the intrusiveness of Jane Dix-Strauss. “Pat Murphy handled her beautifully, but Nick was so afraid of talking to her that he waited for us out in the rain. Poor guy - if I’d known, I never would have wasted time visiting his father’s store.”

  “You visited the store?” Honey asked. “I thought it had burned down.”

  “It did. Well, it didn’t burn down exactly. It sort of burned out. The windows and doors are all boarded over, and the alley is filled with rubble. There’s not much to see, really. Oh — except I did find this.” Trixie reached into her pocket, took out the button, and tossed it at Honey, who caught it handily.

  “JDS,” Honey read.

  “Huh-uh, it’s JSD,” Trixie corrected her.

  “No, it isn’t, Trixie. In a monogram, the last initial goes in the middle, in a larger size, and the first two initials go on either side. So the monogram on this button says, ‘JDS.’”

  “Jane Dix-Strauss!’’ Trixie exclaimed. “I’ll bet this button belongs to her.”

  “Those are her initials,” Honey agreed. “They’re probably a lot of other people’s, though.”

  “She has a blazer with gold buttons about this size. She was wearing it the night of the fire. I wasn’t close enough to see if there was a monogram, but — Oh, my gosh!” Trixie’s eyes widened. “Jane Dix-Strauss was wearing a blazer with gold buttons the night of the fire. I found this gold button with her initials on it at the scene of the fire! Honey, do you remember whether she was missing any buttons when she talked to us on Main Street?”

  “I didn’t notice. In fact, I didn’t even notice the gold buttons. I’m not as observant as you are — even if I am a lot more interested in clothes. But, Trixie, you can’t possibly think Jane Dix-Strauss started that fire! She wouldn’t have any reason to. Besides, you just said she was on Main Street when the fire started. So she couldn’t have been in a store off Main Street at the same time.”

  “Mr. Roberts has been arrested for starting that fire, and we saw him before we saw her,” Trixie pointed out.

  “All right. She could have started the fire. But why would she?” Honey asked. “If this is her button, I’m sure she lost it at the scene of the fire doing the same thing you were — investigating.” She held the button out to Trixie.

  “I suppose so,” Trixie admitted, taking the button and dropping it back into her pocket. “I know Brian and Mart would say she’s only doing her job, but she doesn’t seem to care who she hurts while she’s doing it. Well, I can’t talk any more right now. I promised Moms I’d get tons of work done today, and the morning’s already gone. Can we meet at the clubhouse tonight? All the Bob-Whites, I mean? We priced the materials for the summer repairs today, and we need to talk about what to do next.”

  “I don’t have anything planned,” Honey said. “I’m sure Jim doesn’t, either. We’ll check with Miss Trask and let you know.”

  “Super,” Trixie said. “Would you call Dan and Di, too? I’ll be in charge of the snacks, since you brought them last time.”

  With that agreed to, the girls said good-bye. Back home, Trixie quickly told her brothers about the meeting and got their mother’s permission to go. Then she pitched into work. First on the agenda was the garden, where seemingly millions of tiny weeds had poked through the earth since the previous week. Tiny as they were, they had to be pulled, since the plants in the garden were even tinier.

  After the garden was weeded, Trixie scrubbed as much of the dirt from her hands as she could, ate a quick lunch, then took the dust rags into the living room.

  As always, she paused to admire the painting her mother had done years before, of a tree-lined stream in winter. Now she paused, too, before the pen-and-ink drawing of Crabapple Farm that she had bought from Nick Roberts at the art fair. The simple black frame set it off perfectly — which is lucky, Trixie thought, since that’s all I could afford. She marveled again at Nick’s talent and resolved to do everything she could to see that that talent wasn’t swamped by a sea of troubles.

  With the dusting done, Trixie washed the floor of the big country kitchen until it shone. Then she straightened her room and took down a load of dry clothes from the line.

  Finally it was time for supper. Mart found that night an appetite to rival his own. “To what do we owe this gust of gustatory vehemence?” he asked.

  “I’m hungry because I’ve been working hard,” Trixie said. “You ought to try it sometime. On second thought, you’d better not — the way you eat already, we couldn’t afford to fill you up if you did a lot of work.”

  “Our day’s accomplishments may not seem like much compared to yours,” Brian said, “but we weren’t exactly lounging around. We got the garage cleaned out, the basement straightened up, and the driveway edged.”

  “I’m proud of all of you,” Mrs. Belden said. “What about me, Moms?” Bobby said. “Are you proud of me?”

  “Of course,” Helen Belden told her youngest son. “I think I have the four best children in the whole world.”

  “I think they have the best mother,” Peter Belden said. “Certainly they have the mother who makes the best fried chicken and” — he raised his eyebrows in hopeful questioning— “apple pie?”

  “That was supposed to be a surprise,” Mrs. Belden said in mock-despair. “It’s impossible to keep a secret in this family.”

  “It’s impossible to keep a secret that smells as good as that one,” her husband agreed.

  “Well, your guess was right, anyway,” Mrs. Belden said. “I decided to celebrate the coming of summer by baking the last of the apple pies I froze last fall. From now on, we’ll have to rely on fresh produce exclusively!”

  “Yummy yum!” Trixie said. “I might feel sad about the last of the apple pies if I didn’t feel so happy about the strawberry shortcake and blueberry cobbler and cherry pie that are coming!”

  “Let us divest ourselves of the vestiges of the entree so that we might progress to the pastry,” Mart said, rising and beginning to clear the table.

  “We have to progress to the clubhouse pretty soon,” Trixie said. “There will be just enough time to have dessert and do the dishes.”

  In the end, though, it was Mart and Brian Belden who did the dishes, because Trixie was called to the phone just as she finished the last bite of pie.

  “Trixie, this is Nick Roberts,” the solemn voice said. “I just wanted you to know that my father is home. Sergeant Molinson released him without pressing charges — although he made it clear that Dad isn’t really off the hook yet.”

  “Oh, Nick, I’m so glad. About your father’s being released, not about his not being off the hook,” Trixie told him. “I bet he’s glad to be home.”

  “Well,” Nick said slowly, “actually, he doesn’t seem glad about much of anything. He’s really acting as if it’s all over — as if he’ll never be able to get his life back together again.”

  “Oh, Nick, that isn’t true,” Trixie protested. “I know this whole thing is awful, but it can’t last forever.”

  “I know that,” Nick said. “I told Dad we should just keep moving ahead. The insurance company is holding off on paying our claim, of course. But we have lots of inventory in the basement of our house — I told you the store was too small to hold everything. It’s all paid for, and we have enough in savings to buy new equipment. We could rent a new store or work out of the house.” Nick’s voice had gathered enthusiasm as he spoke. The enthusiasm left suddenly, though, as he added, “Dad won’t even talk about the idea. He just doesn’t seem to have the energy to start over.”

  There was a long silence. Trixie cou
ldn’t think of any way to respond.

  “Well,” Nick said, “I shouldn’t be bothering you with all this. I really only called to tell you that Dad is home, and to thank you for your help this morning.”

  “Oh, Nick, you mustn’t think you were bothering me,” Trixie said emphatically, realizing that her silence had been misinterpreted. “I’m bothering me, because I can’t seem to think of anything to do about all this. But I’d feel even worse if I thought you were avoiding talking to me about it.”

  “I really believe you mean that,” Nick said.

  “I do!” Trixie told him.

  “That means a lot, Trixie, it really does.” Nick’s voice suddenly sounded choked. “I’ll keep you posted. Good-bye.”

  Trixie felt tears welling up in her eyes as she hung up the phone. Nick was so grateful for simple friendship, but it was going to take more than friendship to get his family back on track.

  The three Beldens walked to the clubhouse in silence. Trixie told her brothers only that Nick had called and that Mr. Roberts had been released. The rest she wanted to hold back until all of the Bob-Whites were together at the clubhouse.

  Trixie, Mart, and Brian arrived at the clubhouse at exactly the same time as Jim and Honey.

  “Dan and Di can’t make it tonight,” Jim said. “Dan worked so hard today that he’s exhausted. You know how much he and Mr. Maypenny have to do in the spring—clearing paths and shoring up banks that are eroding away and fixing fences.”

  “Di has to baby-sit,” Honey added. “I promised we’d give her a full report tomorrow.”

  “Let’s go inside,” Jim said, opening the door and leading the way. “I want to hear about Nick Roberts and his father.”

  The Bob-Whites trooped into the clubhouse, took cans of soda from the small cooler Mart had carried along, and settled themselves down to discuss the situation.

  “I’m not as concerned about Mr. Roberts’s legal problems as I was this morning—Pat Murphy will take care of those,” Trixie said. “What concerns me is his morale. He just doesn’t seem to have the energy to start over.”

  “It is unfortunate that science has not yet devised a technique that would allow us to reapportion some of our sibling’s vim, vigor, and élan,” Mart observed, looking at Trixie’s shining, ear-nest-looking face.

  “That’s true,” Jim agreed. “Trixie has enough energy to power a locomotive, if there were only some way to harness it.”

  “We all have energy to spare,” Honey said gloomily. “It’s just that there’s no way to pass it along to Mr. Roberts.”

  Trixie had been looking increasingly thoughtful ever since Mart’s first long-winded observation. Now, after a moment of silence, she suddenly bounded to her feet and said, “That’s it! There is!”

  Trixie clenched her hands and jumped up and down. She was afraid that speaking the first word might be like pulling a plug, letting the words pour out in a torrent she couldn’t control. Finally, she took a deep breath and began to speak. “Think about it. Money isn’t Mr. Roberts’s problem — or at least it won’t be, if he can stay in business until the real arsonist is caught and the insurance claim is paid. What he needs is the strength to keep going. We Bob-Whites don’t have any trouble keeping going, but we do have money problems.”

  “So?” Brian asked, still not seeing the connection.

  “S-o-o-o,” Trixie said slowly, “there’s no reason why we can’t work our problems out together. We can sell T-shirts and caps to every softball and baseball team in Sleepyside. Mr. Roberts will stay in business. And the Bob-Whites will be in business as far as our summer repairs are concerned, because we’ll get a commission on all our sales.”

  “The Bob-Whites are supposed to devote their time to having fun and helping others,” Honey said enthusiastically. “This project sounds like a way to do both. Should we put it to a vote and make it official?”

  “Hold on a minute, Sis,” Jim said. “We can’t just elect ourselves into the job. Mr. Roberts has something to say about it. From what Trixie said, he may very well say ‘no.’ I think he’d better be consulted before we vote, anyway.”

  “Oh, woe,” Trixie said, suddenly collapsing into a chair. “I hate it when real life gets in the way of my perfect dreams. You’re right, Jim. Mr. Roberts has the final say over whether or not we go to work for him. He’s going to be the hardest sell of all.”

  “Now, don’t go overboard in the other direction, Trixie. Jim wasn’t trying to tell you the plan won’t work. He just wants you to take things in their proper order. Tomorrow we’ll call Nick and tell him our idea. If he goes for it, we’ll talk to his father. If he goes for it, we’ll have a vote, just to make it official. Okay?” Brian asked.

  “Nope,” Trixie said firmly. “I can’t wait until tomorrow to see whether or not I actually can help Nick Roberts. I’m going back home right this minute to call Nick and tell him our plan. You all wait right here.”

  Before anyone had a chance to object, Trixie was racing out of the clubhouse. Her friends stared at one another in shocked silence as they listened to her feet pounding up the path.

  It was Honey who broke the silence by starting to giggle. As soon as she began to laugh, the three boys did too.

  “Ben Franklin said, ‘A stitch in time saves nine,’” Jim observed. “At the rate she’s going, Trixie will have this deal sewn up in no time.”

  “And if it’s true that only ‘she who hesitates is lost,’ Trixie will never need a compass,” Brian added.

  “There is another saying that seems apropos,” Mart said. “‘Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.’”

  When the sandy-haired teenager burst in through the door a few moments later, she was astonished to find her two brothers and her two friends doubled over with laughter. “Well, I’ll be,” she said. “Here I am, off deciding the future of the Bob-Whites and the Roberts family, and you’re in here having a joke-telling contest.”

  “No, we weren’t, Trixie,” Honey gasped. “Really, we weren’t. We were just — um —” Suddenly realizing that the explanation of what they had been doing wasn’t going to make Trixie feel any better, Honey tactfully changed the subject. “Were you able to reach Nick?”

  Immediately, Trixie’s look of indignation faded and one of excitement took its place. Everyone in the room knew what she was going to say. Still, they waited breathlessly to hear her say it.

  “I talked to Nick. He says it’s a great idea — especially since I explained to him that we really need the commission money for the clubhouse. I mean, it was clear to him that we aren’t offering charity,” Trixie said.

  “What about Mr. Roberts?” Jim asked.

  “Nick said not to worry about his father. Nick will talk him into it, one way or the other. He says if we’ll come over tomorrow, he’ll show us the colors and styles that are available and explain the pricing system.”

  “So it’s really settled?” Honey asked.

  “All we need is the vote,” Trixie answered. “Call the question,” Mart said, using the phrase that meant discussion was ended and a vote must be taken.

  “I don’t recall that an official motion was made,” Jim said with mock-gravity, “let alone seconded. Still, I think that we can dispense with those formalities. Madame Co-Chairperson, would you like to do the honors?”

  “I certainly would,” Trixie said. “All those in favor of the Bob-Whites becoming Mr. Roberts’s summer sales force, so signify by saying ‘aye.’” Five voices chorused, “Aye!”

  “Opposed?” Trixie asked.

  The question was greeted with resounding silence.

  “The motion is carried,” Trixie said.

  “Yippee!” Honey shouted.

  “I had one more idea,” Trixie told her friends. “What do you say we have a little contest? The person who sells the most doesn’t have to lift a finger when we start painting and puttying the clubhouse.”

  “Terrific idea!” Jim exclaimed.

  “All in favor?”
Trixie asked.

  Another chorus of “ayes” told her that the Bob-Whites were, indeed, all in favor of the idea.

  “Okay,” Brian said, “let’s get started.”

  8 * One Clue Lost... One Clue Found

  AT ONE O’CLOCK the next afternoon, all seven of the Bob-Whites were packed into the station wagon heading for Nick’s house. When they pulled into his driveway, Nick was waiting for them at the side door. He held the door open while his friends trooped down the stairs.

  Nick had done a good job of setting up a temporary shop in the basement. The boxes that held the inventory of caps and shirts were stacked neatly along the walls. A card table was set up at one end of the room with pencils, paper, and order forms waiting and ready.

  “I’m going to order a new lettering machine,” Nick said. “I’ll put it over there, in the one remaining open space.”

  Trixie noticed that Nick had said “I,” not “we.” Apparently Mr. Roberts was not yet enthusiastic about the plan. She wondered suddenly if Nick had met them at the door and led them straight to the basement in order to keep them out of his father’s way. It takes a lot of courage to do what Nick is doing, she thought admiringly.

  “Well, let’s get started,” Nick said. “Here is a set of instructions for each of you, along with some order forms. We have four basic colors — red, blue, green, and yellow. We also have two styles of shirts — T’s, with the shorter sleeve, and jerseys, with the longer sleeve. Caps are all one style, and in the same four colors. Prices are noted on your instruction sheets. Now, for the lettering. There are three sizes: one-inch, two-inch, and three-inch. The price is calculated by the letter; the bigger letters cost more, of course. The prices for the various sizes are on the instruction sheets, too. Any questions so far?”

  “You’ve made this so clear that even I understand it, Nick,” Trixie said, scanning her instruction sheet.

  The slender boy smiled appreciatively at Trixie. “Well, you’re pretty understanding, from what I’ve seen,” he said. “For custom work like this, we need ten percent down, at the time you take the orders. That just helps us make sure people are serious about wanting the order. Otherwise, we’d be left with a lot of useless customized merchandise. The balance is C.O.D., which means you get the cash when you deliver the order.”