The Mystery of the Uninvited Ghost Page 6

  Trixie was not used to sharing the limelight, and she didn’t quite know how to make room for her cousin in this fun time. She sensed that this was also true for Di and Honey.

  All summer, Bobby had been trying to learn to play his father’s ukulele. Mr. Belden placed the small boy’s pudgy fingers on the instrument and set him to strumming.

  Honey asked Bobby if he could play “Good Night, Ladies.” He couldn’t, but he tried mightily. Honey sang as sweetly as if he had not missed a note, then hugged him to say thank you.

  When the guests had gone, Trixie went to the kitchen to set the drop-leaf table. Hallie followed. She slapped her brow when she saw Trixie’s actions. “We’re not eating again!”

  “I’m setting the table for breakfast. I have to pick berries with the boys in the morning.”

  “I'll help.”

  Trixie stared at Hallie’s long, bare legs and arms. Hallie answered the look. “I’ll wear Cap’s grubbies.”

  Trixie realized that Hallie was trying to make amends for a day gone wrong in many small ways. She appreciated the gesture and extended her own olive branch. “We better unpack them tonight. We’ll get up pretty early tomorrow so we can finish our picking before it gets too hot.”

  The next morning, the bushes were moist with dew when Brian, Mart, Hallie, and Trixie set to work. “Just call us the ‘Early Kids/ ” Hallie quipped.

  Mart laughed. Trixie turned to stare at this cousin who looked like a teen-age model and worked like a field hand. The fight seemed to have gone out of their relationship this morning, but Trixie wasn’t in tune with Hallie’s brand of humor. Not yet. Hallie herself was as warily polite with Trixie as Trixie was with her. Only with the boys was Hallie completely at ease.

  Trixie sighed. If only she looked like Hallie.... What she wouldn’t give to be long-legged, slim, and darkly beautiful!

  She heard Mart grumbling about suckers sprouting several feet from the raspberry stalks. Hallie countered that the pickers might be the “suckers” for having left their beds so early. Brian’s long hands moved swiftly. It was in Belden blood to love the land, but only Mart planned to make farming his life’s work. He was picking berries because he enjoyed being close to the soil. Brian was there to serve the family. Trixie was there because her mother had given an order.

  Why, Trixie wondered, was Hallie there? Looking like the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz in Cap Beldens camp grubbies, she worked steadily. Each time she took her rack of cartons to the cooler, Mart and Brian were right there beside her, their cartons heaped high with berries. If Trixie happened to have hers full, she went with them. If she didn’t, she just enjoyed the cool morning till the three came back to the job.

  A robin decided that pickings were easy in her carton, and he helped himself. She muttered, “Thief,” but let him feed. Suddenly she burst out with, “Early! Kids! Those were the words on the crumpled paper in Di’s fireplace!”

  Brian raised his dark head to grin at her. “I wondered how long it would take you to get that.”

  Trixie threw a fat berry toward him. Brian caught it and stuck it in his mouth. He said, “I think we all agree that those words are a direct order from the boss man to his crew.”

  Trixie’s sandy curls bobbed as she nodded. “Sergeant Molinson agrees, too, or he wouldn’t have talked to a reporter about it. The order came from the country club. I saw the same kind of note pad by the telephone there. So the boss was an employee, or a board member, or a guest—”

  “—or a tradesman, or a salesman, or a deliveryman,” Mart took up the chant.

  “Thieves don’t have bosses. They want to do it themselves,” Hallie objected.

  Brian told her, “Some of them couldn’t work without direction.”

  “You mean they’re stupid,” Trixie said.

  “Why else would they be thieves?” Brian countered. “Well, they did drop the wad of paper that practically left their boss’s forwarding address,” Trixie said. “If I were that boss, I think I’d get out of there fast.” Her eyes grew round. “Maybe—he—did! Mr. Lynch said that comic with the funny name quit!”

  “Ill wager—” As his round blue eyes opened wider, Mart looked so much like Trixie that both Brian and Hallie laughed. “Cease the hilarity!” he ordered. “I have a theory to propound!”

  “I’ve pounded it first!” Trixie shouted. “That man was right there where he could get the names and addresses of all those people whose houses were crammed with stuff he could resell! I’m going to call Sergeant Molinson!” Leaving her berries, Trixie raced to the house. She returned within minutes. “Detective Belden scored again!” Mart whooped. “No!” Trixie snapped. “I was scooped.”

  “Molinson beat you to it?” Brian asked.

  “It’s in the morning paper. Dad was sitting on the steps reading all about it. The police are sure Oliver Tolliver was involved in the robberies, but he’s disappeared. It seems he’s been under suspicion for some time. He always works country clubs. He studies the members to see who looks worth robbing, then learns their names and addresses. He knows who isn’t home because they’re sitting right there laughing at him. While they’re laughing, he catches them off guard. They let him know which house has a dog, or—”

  “He overlooked Manchu—the dog in the house on Bowling Green!” Mart put in.

  “We can’t all be perfect,” Brian said dryly.

  “Anyway, that’s how Sergeant Molinson sums up the boss’s modus operandi,” Trixie concluded.

  Hallie sighed loudly. “Now you’re doing it, Trixie! It’ll be so good to talk with Cap when I get home. He wouldn’t recognize a three-syllable word if he tripped over it.”

  “It would seem that our amazing mentalist had good cause to go underground,” Mart declared.

  “Maybe...,” Trixie mused, feeling her excitement grow.

  “Hey!” Mart objected. “No sleuthing allowed till after the wedding.”

  At that moment, Trixie was facing the house. She saw Bobby leave the kitchen and sidle past his father. When he reached Mrs. Beldens bed of prize dahlias, he seemed to consider himself well hidden. He pulled a package from under his shirt and headed for the gate that opened on the woods path. Almost at once, she heard a clumsy imitation of a birdcall. What kind of game was Bobby playing this morning? With Bobby, one never knew.

  Before Trixie could pursue further her speculations about Oliver Tolliver, the amazing mentalist, Mrs. Belden tapped the gong that hung on the back porch. The berry pickers rinsed their hands at the garden tap and raced to the kitchen. Bobby beat them to the door and slid into his chair at the table.

  Mart sniffed the air and crowed, “Did ever a mortal smell a more delectable odor than com muffins and bacon?”

  “Odor, yes, but without much substance,” Mrs. Belden said. “We're short of bacon this morning. I was sure I had an extra two-pound package, but if it’s in the refrigerator, I can’t find it.”

  Mart was always hungry, and he didn’t hide his disappointment. Bobby said quickly, “Mart can have my share, Moms.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Mart said in honest astonishment. “Thanks, Bobby!”

  Bobby squirmed, then busily smeared butter on a muffin.

  By ten o’clock, the berries were stored in the cooler, and Mrs. Belden declared a holiday. “You’ve all earned it.”

  Freshly showered, Trixie called Honey, who told her, “We have to exercise the horses.” Trixie promised help at once.

  Usually Bobby howled to be included, but not today. “What’s on your agenda?” Brian asked him.

  Bobby was doubtful. “I don’t know if I have a gender.”

  “An outline.A plan.”

  “Oh. ’ Bobby put on his angel face. “Maybe I got a club meeting. Maybe.” He seemed to argue with himself and win. “Anyway, it’s portant.”

  Brian hugged Bobby’s sturdy shoulders. “Being important—that’s important!” But Bobby thought it was hard.

  “What’s so hard about playing in th
e woods?” Trixie asked. Bobby turned abruptly and left the room as a puzzled Trixie stared after him.

  When the Beldens reached the stable, Trixie called, “Where are Honey and Jim?”

  Regan, the red-haired groom, motioned toward the inside of the stables, then went back to stacking baled straw in the wide dirt-floored alleyway. Honey called from the tack room, “Here!”

  Hallie stopped in the doorway. She looked at the concrete-floored tack room with its cabinets and workbenches. Saddles and bridles were racked on two walls, and blankets were neatly folded on a wide shelf. Having greeted Honey and Jim, she took a second slow look around the room. “Anything we use has to be cleaned up and put back where it belongs, right?”

  “Right,” said Trixie as she reached for Susie’s saddle. “Well, what’s wrong with riding bareback?” Hallie demanded. “We wouldn’t have to mess around cleaning tack, and we’d have more time for just plain fun.” Giggling, Honey agreed.

  “Hold it!” Regan called. “I heard that! The Turf Show—”

  “I know, I know, Regan,” Honey called back. “But who needs the exercise? Horses or riders?”

  Regan stamped down the alleyway. “Both!”

  “Just this once, please, Regan?” Honey coaxed. “These kids have been picking raspberries all morning. They could use some fun. So could Jim and I.”

  “All right,” Regan agreed. “I give up. Bareback it is. At least it’ll give the horses a chance to associate with riders.”

  In the happy confusion of bridling the sleek animals, Regan came forward to meet Hallie. Regan was a friend and confidant of long standing, totally in charge of the stable all the time and of young people when they stepped into his domain. Suddenly Trixie realized it was important that Regan like Hallie. Did he?

  Hallie grinned at Regan and said, “Howdy.”

  Regan grinned back, and Trixie relaxed. Hallie had not added “pard” to her “howdy.” She had definitely passed the test.

  Ashes From a Bonfire • 7

  WHEN THE RIDERS reached Mr. Maypenny s cottage, Dan greeted them and quickly got Spartan bridled. Hallie had been happy to ride double with Mart on Strawberry, but she willingly changed horses, if not in the middle of a stream, at least in the middle of a path. With her long arms barely touching Dan s waist for balance, Hallie rode easily.

  The group formed a line, with Dan and Hallie ahead of Jim, who was on Jupiter, followed by Trixie on Susie and Honey on Lady. Dan said he had been riding Manor House land all day.

  “Why do you call your home Manor House?” Hallie asked Jim.

  “Because these cloves and kills were first settled by the Dutch,” he began.

  “Cloves and kills?” Hallie repeated.

  “The gullies are cloves, and the streams are kills,” Jim went on. “There are about forty kills in the Catskills. See? That’s part of the name. The Dutch West India Company parceled out land, especially on the east bank of the Hudson. Those parcels were called patroonships, or manors. Our land, for instance, has been cultivated since 1700. Colonial settlers, Indians, Revolutionary patriots, British soldiers, slaves, wild animals, and ghosts have all walked here.”

  “Wow!” Hallie exclaimed. “That makes Idaho a Johnny-come-lately.” Then she added more softly, “Like me.”

  Totally relaxed, Trixie listened to the conversation and enjoyed the ride. Suddenly she shook herself awake. Something was different, but what was it?

  A quick glance told her that nothing about the riders and their mounts had changed. It had to be something in the scene itself. She looked at leaf mold, evergreen needles, old cones, wild shrubbery, and the healthy boles of a variety of trees—fir, spruce, and white pine. With the stirring of a faint breeze came an odor she recognized—damp ashes. Someone had doused a fire recently.

  “Have we had poachers?” she asked.

  No one answered.

  “A trespasser?” Trixie persisted.

  “Not that I know of,” Jim finally replied. He looked at Dan, whose job it was to ride these forest trails. Dan wore the boxed-in expression he had brought from the streets of New York. If Dan knew anything, he was keeping it to himself.

  “We can’t afford a forest fire,” Trixie warned. “Besides the game preserve, there are a lot of homes that would bum if a fire spread. Ours would!”

  “I thought of that!” Dan flared. He made himself calm down, but his dark face remained flushed. “I thought of a lot of things. Don’t worry, Trix. I put out the fire myself. Taking care of-things—is my job, you know.”

  Hans and Juliana were just coming back from a long walk when the riders returned to the stable. Juliana made a fist with her left hand and waggled her wrist at Dan. “See? I haven’t lost my ring yet, Dan.”

  “Be sure that you don’t,” he told her. “See you later.” Back at Crabapple Farm, after the kitchen work in preparation for dinner was done, Trixie went to her room. Hallie followed but didn’t enter until Trixie asked her in.

  Nothing had been said about wheelchairs since the blowup in the parking lot. Still, the puzzle of Bobby’s story remained. Standing at the window overlooking the lane, Trixie muttered, “There has to be an explanation, and I’m going to find it.”

  Hallie left the room and came back with Cap’s binoculars. She gave them to Trixie. Frustrated, Trixie complained, “I can’t see a thing with these that

  I can’t see with my own two eyes. The only difference is that I can see everything more clearly.” Hallie was prowling the room. “If you have something to say, say it!” Trixie demanded.

  “Bobby didn’t say he stayed at that window.”

  “No... he didn’t,” Trixie agreed.

  “Well?”

  Trixie ran to the window by her desk. “With our house sitting down here in a bowl, we get a worm’s-eye view of Glen Road.” She was silent while she looked, then said, “There. I do see a mailbox, but I don’t know whose it is. I see it through the trees.” She ran to the hall and reached for the telephone.

  “Who are you calling?” Hallie asked.

  “Jim,” Trixie said. When she heard his voice on the line, Trixie immediately asked, “Will you do something for me, Jim?”

  “Silly question,” Hallie whispered.

  “Jim, will you drive down Glen Road, almost to town, then turn around and come back here? And each time you pass a mailbox, will you look at your watch and write down the time? There are such a few that it won’t take long. Let’s synchronize your watch and my desk clock. Okay?”

  When Jim agreed, Trixie hung up. She told Hallie, “Once and for all, we’ll know where Bobby saw that wheelchair.” Until Hallie smiled, Trixie didn’t realize that she’d said “we.” She blushed self-consciously but allowed the word to stand. She was beginning to include Hallie Belden.

  Trixie stood at the window, and Hallie faced the clock, armed with pencil and note pad. While they gave Jim time to reach the mailbox, they talked about their horseback ride.

  “I couldn’t keep track of where we rode,” Hallie commented. “I’d hate to get lost in those woods.” Trixie nodded. “Up where those firs grow, it’s pretty high and rugged. If there’d been a straight trail, we could have ridden to the stable behind the Manor House in just a few minutes. There is a footpath through that part of the woods. Sometimes we ride bicycles on it down the hill from the stable. Except for crossing Glen Road, the path’s all on private land. In fact, it goes all the way to the inn.”

  Trixie snapped to attention. “I see Jim’s car, and now—he’s going in front of that mailbox. What time is it?”

  “It’s exactly four thirty-five,” Hallie answered as she wrote it down.

  The girls waited for Jim in the yard. Before he came to a full stop, he called, “I can’t stay. Mother says we have to be on time for dinner. Juliana’s making something special to prove to Hans that she can cook.” Trixie interrupted. “Where were you at four thirty-five?”

  “In front of Di’s mailbox. Why?”

  “That’s when
we saw you with the binoculars.”

  “Well, that’s where the action is,” Hallie said. “Bobby must have seen Di’s invitation being stolen. But why would anyone steal an invitation?”

  “Because he was lonesome?” Jim teased. “Curiosity?” Trixie offered.

  “Information,” Jim said, turning sober. “When you think of it, there’s quite a lot of information on a wedding invitation—the place, the date, and the exact time when a lot of people will be sitting in one spot together. It tells who’s involved and why. It gives the exact names of two generations of people.” Round-eyed, Trixie declared, “You’d make a good crook, Jim Frayne! That’s exactly how Oliver Tolliver, the mentalist, operates in the country clubs. Do you suppose he stole the wheelchair and the invitation before he disappeared?”

  “But why would he want the wheelchair?” Hallie asked.

  “If we knew that, there wouldn’t be any mystery,” Trixie said, stirred with inner excitement. That something unusual was going on, she had no doubt.

  After Jim had gone home, Trixie said, “That comic’s disappeared. But—if we can find that wheelchair, maybe it’ll lead to him.”

  “If he stole it,” Hallie added.

  Trixie snapped her fingers. “The hospital supply company! Remember? Hattie mentioned it.”

  “It’s almost closing time in an office,” Hallie said.

  At the telephone, Trixie handed the directory to Hallie. “Read the number for me. I haven’t time to waste dialing the wrong one.”

  Almost at once, a voice answered, “White Plains Hospital Supply. May I help you?”

  “I’m calling about the wheelchair that disappeared on Glen Road.” Trixie crossed her fingers.

  “Miss Parker will speak to you. One moment.” When Miss Parker answered, Trixie repeated her words. “Oh, yes,” said Miss Parker. “There was a mistake about the delivery address. I’m sorry. Is there some change about your present order to deliver the chair to Glen Road Inn?”

  Trixie gulped. She stammered, “I—I—”

  Miss Parker misinterpreted Trixie’s hesitation. “Room two-fourteen. Right?”