The Mystery of the Memorial Day Fire Page 7

  “Cash?” Di asked. “Does that mean you won’t take checks?”

  “No, no,” Nick said hurriedly. “Checks are fine. We don’t take credit cards, though. My father doesn’t believe in them.”

  “How’s your father doing, by the way?” Brian asked.

  Nick’s frown contradicted his words: “He’s okay.”

  “Say,” Trixie said, “I’d almost forgotten. The story about his release should have been in this morning’s paper.” Nick’s frown deepened so abruptly that she was immediately sorry she’d spoken.

  “It was there, all right — two paragraphs on page eight,” Nick said.

  “That’s all!” Honey exclaimed sympathetically.

  Nick nodded. “The worst part is that Sergeant Molinson was quoted as saying they released him because they ‘didn’t have enough evidence to press charges.’ That made it sound as though there was some. That got Dad down pretty badly. I suggested that he and Mother go for a drive this afternoon, just to get away from things for a while.”

  “That was a good suggestion,” Brian said. “And speaking of getting away, that’s what we’d better do.”

  “I’ll second that motion,” Dan said. “I have some work to do yet this afternoon. I’ll be able to start selling first thing tomorrow, though — I have all the information I need.”

  “We all do,” Honey agreed. “You did a perfectly perfect job of organizing everything, Nick.”

  “There’s still one thing you need, though — samples,” Nick said. He picked up a box from the floor and opened it to show the Bob-Whites the contents. “There are seven caps and seven T-shirts in here — two each of blue, green, and red, and one yellow. The caps are adjustable, of course. I just guessed at the size of the shirts.”

  “This is wonderful!” Honey said. “We can wear them whenever we’re out selling, so that people will know what the merchandise looks like.”

  “What if we’re selling by phone?” Jim challenged.

  “Then we’ll wear them to give us confidence,” Honey retorted.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t imprint them, but I don’t have the equipment I need yet,” Nick said.

  “We’ll take a rain check on that,” Brian said as he took the cardboard box from Nick.

  “You should make haste in ordering the new equipment, however,” Mart said. “You will soon be inundated with orders for individualized apparel.”

  “You’re going to sell lots of merchandise?” Nick guessed.

  “You’re catching on,” Trixie said, laughing. “We’d better get going. Thanks for everything, Nick.”

  “Thank you,” he said. He made an “after you” gesture to the Bob-Whites, then followed them up the stairs.

  As Jim, who was at the head of the line, opened the side door, the young people heard the sounds of a heated argument coming from the front of the house. The Bob-Whites all hesitated and looked back at Nick, who moved past them and headed for the noise, with the others close behind.

  Everyone froze when they saw, on the front walk, Mr. Slettom and Jane Dix-Strauss in a face-to-face confrontation.

  “You will leave these people alone, you — you scandal-monger!” Mr. Slettom’s face as he yelled was almost as purple as his paisley sports coat.

  “That is not your decision to make,” Jane Dix-Strauss retorted. “If Nicholas Roberts doesn’t want to talk to me, let him tell me so himself.”

  “Will you take my word for it?” Nick asked, walking slowly toward the two. “I’m Nicholas Roberts’s son, and I know he doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “That’s right, Nick,” Mr. Slettom said. “Don’t let this woman do any more harm to your father.”

  “I haven’t harmed your father,” Jane Dix-Strauss retorted. “Circumstances have. I want to hear his side of the story. I want to make sure it gets printed.”

  “Sure,” Nick said, his face suddenly hard. “You can print it on page eight, the way you did the story of his release. Maybe you can even give him three paragraphs, instead of two.”

  “The release story was different — it wasn’t news. An interview with a suspect would be,” Jane Dix-Strauss said heatedly.

  “So you admit you suspect my father,” Nick accused.

  “No!” Jane Dix-Strauss said. “But you have to admit that your father is a suspect.”

  “Thanks to you!” Mr. Slettom told her.

  “Please!” Nick said loudly. “My father isn’t here right now, anyway. Mr. Slettom, I’m sure he’d be happy to talk to you later, if you’d like to call him. Miss Dix-Strauss, I really don’t think that Dad will let you interview him.”

  “All right,” the reporter said. “I’ll just have to get the information some other way.” She turned and went back down the walk.

  Mr. Slettom watched her go, a look of satisfaction on his face. “Good work, Nick,” he said. “I wish I’d been able to chase her off before she disturbed you, though. I’m glad your father wasn’t home.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you missed him,” Nick said. “No problem, no problem,” Mr. Slettom said with a wave of his hand. “I just wanted to stop by and see how he was doing. I can do that another day. So long.”

  Trixie was still staring at Jane Dix-Strauss, who was unlocking the door of a red compact car. That woman! she thought angrily, jamming her clenched fists into the pockets of her jacket. Who does she think she is, anyway? Trixie’s hand touched a small, hard object. The button! she thought. Maybe I can use it to ruffle those smooth feathers of hers. She hurried down the walk and reached the little car just as Jane Dix-Strauss was starting the engine with one hand and rolling down the window with the other.

  “Excuse me,” Trixie said. “I think I have something of yours.” She held the button out on her outstretched palm.

  Jane Dix-Strauss took it. She looked down at it for a moment, then looked up at Trixie, obviously startled. “Where did you find this?”

  “In the alley behind Mr. Roberts’s store. It was under an old brick. Don’t you remember losing it there?” Trixie asked pointedly.

  “No, I don’t.” The woman hesitated for a moment. She seemed to be on the verge of saying something. Then, abruptly, her face resumed its cool and composed look. “Thank you very much,” she said. She dropped the button into the pocket of her blazer and, without giving Trixie another look, put the car into gear and drove away.

  Trixie stood and watched the little red car. Her mouth had dropped open, and her cheeks were flaming red. She took it! My only clue, and she grabbed it right out of my hand and drove off with it! Then Trixie’s jaw tightened as her anger suddenly turned inward. Well, what was 1 expecting her to do? I held the button out to her and told her 1 knew it was hers. I all but invited her to take it! Some detective I am!

  “What was that all about, Trix?”

  Trixie turned at the sound of Jim’s voice and saw that all the Bob-Whites were walking toward her. “Oh, I-I just wanted to ask her something.”

  She hoped the matter would drop there, but Jim asked, “What?”

  “Oh — uh —just one of the figures in one of her stories,” Trixie said hastily. “You remember, Brian and Mart, how she wrote that there’s a billion dollars worth of arson every year? I’ve been wondering if that really was billion — with a b.”

  “And was it?” Jim asked.

  “Jane Dix-Strauss would never write anything that wasn’t true.” She said it in a tone of exaggerated innocence. I hope no one notices I didn’t really answer Jim’s question, she thought.

  “Let’s go, you guys,” Dan Mangan said impatiently. “I have work to do.”

  Saved! Trixie thought, turning quickly away from her curious brothers and walking toward the car.

  Honey hurriedly fell in step with her. “You asked her about the button, didn’t you?” she whispered.

  Trixie nodded. “Boy, was she ever surprised!” she whispered back.

  “Did she admit losing it in the alley?” Honey asked.

  “Not exactly,
” Trixie said. Then, having to be honest with her best friend, she added, “Not at all. She took the button, too. Now there’s no evidence against her.”

  “We’ll find some,” Honey said confidently, linking her arm through Trixie’s. “If Jane Dix-Strauss is guilty of something, we’ll prove it.”

  “What’s all the whispering about?” Jim asked, quickening his pace to overtake them and unlock the car door.

  “We re just figuring out how to sell the most T-shirts and do the least painting,” Trixie said. I’m not really lying, she thought, just teasing.

  “Nick certainly told us everything we need to know,” Honey said.

  “What Nick told us represents only an introduction to the art of solicitation,” Mart said as he climbed into the car. “I intend to take myself to the library tomorrow to get some books on the subject, the better to represent both Mr. Roberts and the Bob-Whites. And the better to avoid the agony of work later this summer.”

  “Can I come along?” Trixie asked impulsively. “What?” Mart asked. “You want to accompany me to a site of mental edification?”

  “Don’t act as if I’d never been to the library before, Mart Belden,” Trixie told him. “If I hadn’t been, Honey and I would never have figured out how to find Regan when he ran away to Saratoga that time. But if you don’t want to be seen with me, I’ll just go by myself.”

  “I would by no means forfeit the opportunity to be seen in your company on this rare — albeit, as you point out, not unique — occasion,” Mart said.

  The subject was changed, and Trixie thought it had been forgotten. That night, however, Brian came into her room. “It really isn’t like you to want to read up on a subject before you plunge into it, Trix,” he said. There was no teasing in his tone, just gentle concern. “How come you’re not in your ‘let’s get started’ mode any more?”

  “Well, there is a lot to learn, as Mart pointed out,” Trixie said. As her oldest brother continued to gaze levelly at her, she confessed, “Oh, Brian, all of a sudden I got cold feet. Seeing Jane Dix-Strauss reminded me that, thanks to her, Mr. Roberts is still suspect number one. I started wondering how people will treat his summer sales force. I guess I’m hoping that doing some reading on the subject of selling will give me some pointers to build up my confidence.”

  “That sounds like an excellent reason for going to the library,” Brian said quietly. “I wish you the best of luck.”

  Since Mart’s junior driver’s license permitted him to drive only when accompanied by an adult, Mart and Trixie had to use their bicycles as their means of transportation into Sleepyside. Neither of the young people minded that, since it was a sunny June day, with just enough breeze to cool them off without slowing them down.

  Inside the library Trixie followed Mart as he took a card tray out of the cabinet and walked over to the table with it.

  “Here is the correct topical notation,” Mart said. “‘Sales.’ There are two appropriate subcategories, as well: ‘Successful Selling’ and ‘Careers in Sales.’”

  “You mean all those books are on selling?” Trixie asked. “Why, that row of cards must be six inches long!”

  “At least,” Mart agreed. “Obviously you have never thought about the crucial role that selling plays in our society. Why, the chair you are sitting on, the table on which your elbows rest, the card file, and the cards themselves, not to mention the books, are in this library solely because someone sold them to someone else.”

  “Gleeps, you’re right,” Trixie said. “I never thought about that before. I just thought that whenever someone needed something, they went out and bought it, the way I do.”

  “Such naiveté,” Mart said. “You ‘just go out and buy it,’ do you? Tell me, to whom do you inquire about prices or alternate styles or colors?”

  Trixie sighed, signaling her defeat. “A salesperson,” she admitted.

  “Precisely. And does that person never suggest that you buy the more expensive item, or buy two while they’re on sale, or buy a pair of stockings to accompany the purchase of a new pair of shoes?” Trixie nodded without speaking, knowing that Mart knew what her answer would be.

  “That is salesmanship. A worthy career and, at its best, an art. That is what we are here to learn. Now,” he said, rising from the table with his list of books in hand, “while I check on the availability of these books, why don’t you look at the periodicals? Some shorter but more current information might be available there.”

  Obediently, Trixie went to the shelf where the volumes of The Readers’ Guide to Periodical Literature were kept. Mart had said he wanted current information from the magazines, so she ignored the fat, hard-bound volumes from earlier years and looked in the paper-bound volumes that represented recent months. She looked under Sales, Selling, and, directed by those two categories, under Marketing as well. Altogether there were five or six promising-sounding articles. Dutifully, she wrote the name of the magazine, its date, the volume, and the page of the article on the preprinted request slips. She brought the slips to the librarian and was told she’d have to wait a few minutes for the magazines.

  Trixie stood impatiently in front of the desk. Feeling that it was rude to be so obviously impatient, she wandered back to the reference table and sat down. She dragged out one of the green volumes of the Readers’ Guide and leafed through it idly. Doing research isn’t really that hard, she thought. Not if the topic is interesting. I guess I can see how Jane Dix-Strauss came up with information on arson so quickly. As she thought that, she turned to the front of the volume and looked up Arson. A month before she might have been surprised at the number of articles under the heading. Now she knew only too well how common a crime it was. Somehow, though, one article caught her eye.

  “‘Anatomy of Arson, by Jane Dix-Strauss,’” Trixie read aloud. “Well, I’ll be!” The magazine in which the article had been published was a well-known one. There was no doubt that the library would have it. Trixie scribbled out another request slip and hurried up to the librarian with it.

  When the magazine came, Trixie hurried off with it, barely remembering in time to come back and get the stack of magazines with salesmanship articles that she’d originally requested. She found a secluded table and turned to the article the new Sun reporter had written two years before.

  It didn’t take Trixie long to feel as though she had read the article before. All of the facts and figures were included in Jane Dix-Strauss’s coverage of the Memorial Day fire.

  Even more exciting to Trixie, the article contained many quotes from interviews Jane Dix-Strauss had conducted with arsonists. Some were in jail, serving time for the fires they had set. Remarkably, other arsonists were confidential sources who admitted they had set fires but had never been caught!

  Trixie gathered up her stack of magazines again and went off to find Mart. He had a huge stack of books on selling on a table in front of him, and he was hurriedly going through them, trying to winnow their number into something he could manage on a bicycle.

  “Mart, look at this!” Trixie said, shoving the magazine in front of his nose.

  Mart read in silence for a moment. “Hmm,” he said, finally. “Very interesting. You have, as usual, been involved in sleuthing. I’d say you’ve done an excellent job of unraveling the mystery of how Jane Dix-Strauss was able to publish so many facts on arson so quickly.”

  “You’re missing the whole point, Mart,” Trixie hissed. “I don’t think this article solves any mysteries. I think it creates some. Look — Jane Dix-Strauss wrote this article that was published in a big national magazine two years ago. Now she comes to work at the dinky little Sleepyside Sun. Why the comedown? Then, even though there’s never been a case of arson in town, weeks after she comes to work here, there is one! Do you think that’s just coincidence?”

  “I certainly do,” Mart said. “What did you find on the more salubrious subject of selling?”

  Trixie slapped the other magazines down on the table in front of Mart.
“Do you have any change?” she asked. “I want to make a copy of this article.” Distractedly, his mind already on the magazine articles on selling, Mart dug a handful of change out of his pocket and handed it to his sister. When she returned with the photocopied article, he had returned most of the books and all of the magazines. What remained he was stuffing into his backpack. “I have selected sufficient data with which to make my start. Shall we proceed homeward?” he said.

  “Absolutely,” Trixie agreed, eager to show her article to the one person in the world who might possibly feel the same way about it.

  9 * Selling and Sleuthing

  “WELL, HONEY?” Trixie asked after her friend had read the article. “Does it seem like a coincidence to you?”

  “N-no,” Honey said. “But, Trixie, it has to be. Otherwise — I mean, you can’t think Jane Dix-Strauss set those fires herself, just to give herself something to write about. Can you?”

  “Wel-l-l.” Now it was Trixie’s turn to hesitate. Her friend’s honest question made Trixie see how farfetched her suspicions sounded.

  “Even if, somehow, it were true, what can we do?” Honey asked.

  Trixie’s answer was not, strictly speaking, to Honey’s question. It was a response to all of the frustrating, unprovable suspicions she’d been having all day. “All we can do is sell T-shirts,” she said grimly.

  To Trixie’s surprise, selling T-shirts soon became an enthralling part of the summer. Brian made the first sale, and it was a good one. The camp where he and Mart had worked as summer counselors ordered two hundred shirts, all printed with the camp name and logo.

  “So,” Brian said, writing up the order on the order pads Nick had given them, “although writing up a sale this big is a strain on the wrist, it’s comforting to know I won’t be overworking it with a paintbrush later this summer.”