The Mystery of the Memorial Day Fire Page 8

  Trixie was just opening her mouth to retort — although she hadn’t yet decided what she’d say — when the phone rang. Saved by the bell, she thought as she went to answer it.

  “Hi, it’s me,” Jim said. He was so jubilant that Trixie had no doubts about what he was going to say. “I got an order! The Big Wheels ordered thirty shirts with matching hats. Not bad, huh?”

  “Not bad,” Trixie agreed reluctantly. “But who are the Big Wheels?”

  “They’re the softball team my father sponsors,”

  Jim said. “Matthew Wheeler’s Big Wheels — get the joke?”

  “I get the joke,” Trixie said wearily.

  “And I got the order,” Jim told her again. “Mustn’t rest on my laurels, though. One order won’t be enough to get me out of painting this summer.”

  Trixie went back into the living room to tell her brothers about Jim’s good news. “But,” she said, “I don’t think it’s fair. Jim’s order and yours, Brian, were from personal friends. That shouldn’t count.”

  “Why in the world not?” Brian asked.

  “Well, because — then it’s more charity than real salesmanship that makes people place the order,” Trixie said.

  “You think the people at camp bought two hundred T-shirts they didn’t need just because I used to work there as a junior counselor? Come on, Trix!” Brian chided her.

  “Personal rapport with the prospect is one of the cardinal rules of the profession,” Mart said. “In fact, it’s the primary rule given in many of the books I read. They advise that the novice seller sit down and make a list of everyone he or she knows. That includes people in the same clubs, people from the same neighborhood, even — or maybe especially — people from whom you buy things. Insurance salespeople will call on their car dealers, and car dealers will call on the people who sold them their homes, and so forth.”

  “Well, I don’t have a car or a house or any insurance, so how does your selling theory help me? I don’t know anybody,” Trixie said.

  “Oh, come on,” Brian retorted. “Supersleuth Trixie? You know more people than the rest of us put together. I think you’re just scared of selling.”

  “Scared? Me?” Trixie asked indignantly. Then her shoulders fell forward and she said, “You’re right. I am a little scared. I keep thinking that people will hang up on me or laugh at me.”

  “Well, they won’t,” Brian said. “You know what I think your problem is? You’re not keeping your eye on the ball.”

  “Huh?” Trixie wrinkled her nose and squinted at her oldest brother. She had accepted that advice from him in softball and golf. But what did it have to do with selling?

  “In this case,” Brian explained, “the ball is the product— Nick’s T-shirts and caps. Do you think they’re good products?”

  “Of course!” Trixie said.

  “Do you think they’re reasonably priced?” Brian asked.

  “Yes, certainly,” Trixie said.

  “Do you believe Nick will deliver the product on time?” Brian continued.

  “Absolutely!” Trixie said.

  “Well, if you call and offer people a well-made, reasonably priced item that they can get when they need it, why would those people hang up on you?” Brian concluded. “That’s what I mean by taking your eye off the ball. You’ll only get scared if you’re thinking too much about yourself and not enough about what you’re trying to sell.’’

  “I get it, Brian. Thanks!” Trixie turned and marched back to the phone, picked up the receiver before she could stop to think, and dialed a familiar number.

  Within a few minutes, she was back, a beaming smile on her face. “Well, that’s it — I got my first order,” she said.

  “Great, Trixie,” Brian said sincerely. “Who is it from?”

  “Bruce Becker at Dad’s bank,” Trixie said. “He’s captain of their softball team. I noticed last year that their uniforms were a little ragged-looking. When I called to ask if he wanted to order new T-shirts, he was positively grateful! Selling is easy!”

  Trixie looked at her brothers for further approval, but they looked more irritated than proud.

  “Our sister the shamus has unraveled the mysteries of salesmanship,” Mart said. “No prospect will be safe from her clutches hereafter.”

  “Me and my big mouth,” Brian said. “I just wish I’d waited to explain the secrets of selling until after I’d called Bruce Becker. He was on my list.”

  “Oh, Brian, I’m sorry,” Trixie said. “I should have asked you before I called the bank. Would you like to write up the order?”

  “No, Trixie. You made the sale; you write up the order. All’s fair in sales and war,” Brian reassured her. “Don’t tell anyone whom you’re going to call. We should all tell one another whom we have called, though — we don’t want to drive anyone to distraction with calls about T-shirts.”

  “Whatever you say,” Trixie told him cheerfully as she sat down at the table to write up the order.

  The Bob-Whites wrote up many orders in the following days. Using Mart’s selling tip, they all were able to think of lots of people who were in need of their product.

  “Part of it is that we timed it just about right,” Trixie told Nick one night when she was phoning in the day’s orders. “All the sports teams are just starting up, and they’ve just noticed how crummy their uniforms look. I don’t think that’s all of it, though. I think lots of people are ordering from us because they want to help your father. Just about all the people I talk to ask how he is and say they’re glad the fire didn’t knock him out of business.”

  “People are being really good to us,” Nick agreed. “We’re getting direct calls for products, too. Even Mr. Slettom ordered shirts for the softball team his appliance store sponsors.”

  “Isn’t that great?” Trixie asked. Without waiting for an answer, she added, “How is your father doing, Nick?”

  “He’s better, I think,” Nick said. “The caring and concern is the best medicine he could have. Besides, all these orders are spurring his work ethic. He’s too worried about letting his customers down to worry about his own problems.”

  “That’s just what we’d hoped, isn’t it?” Trixie said. “Well, I’d better not tie up the phone lines any longer. We’ve probably missed orders for hundreds of shirts already!” Trixie could hear Nick chuckling as she hung up the phone.

  She turned and started away, then turned back as the phone began to ring. She picked it up and said, “Hello?”

  “Hello?” a voice on the other end of the line responded. “Are you the people who are selling T-shirts?”

  “Yes, we are,” Trixie said promptly.

  “Well, I’d like to order thirty shirts that say ‘Carlson Classic Invitational Horseshoe Tournament’ on the back. Can I have them by the Fourth ofJuly?”

  “Gleeps!” Trixie said. “Do you know how much that’s going to cost?”

  “Why, n-no,” said the voice. “That’s why I called you!’

  Trixie hesitated. A fine salesperson she had turned out to be! Now, any price was going to sound expensive to the caller, because she had assured him it would be! She cleared her throat nervously and did some rapid calculations. The resulting amount did seem astronomical, and when she told the caller what it was, he agreed.

  “Doggone it,” he said. “I really did want something to make this year’s tournament special. But I can’t afford to pay that much. It’s just a family event.”

  Hearing the genuine concern in her caller’s voice, Trixie forgot her nervousness. “There must be something we can do,” she said. “How about caps? They’re less expensive.”

  “I wanted something that could be imprinted, though,” the caller said.

  “The caps can be imprinted,” Trixie told him.

  “Not with ‘Carlson Classic Invitational Horseshoe Tournament,’” the caller pointed out.

  “Well, no,” Trixie admitted. “But we could just use an abbreviation, like ‘CC,’ and the year. The p
eople at the tournament will know what it means, and when they wear the cap afterward, people will ask and they can explain.”

  “That sounds good,” the caller said enthusiastically. “Write it up.”

  “Right you are!” Trixie said joyfully.

  Trixie told Honey the story that evening as they biked into Sleepyside. “It’s just like Brian said the first day,” she concluded. “If I keep my mind on the customers’ problems and how my product can help solve them, I’m not nervous at all!”

  “Still, though, it was really clever of you to suggest the caps after the T-shirts were too expensive,” Honey said.

  “You must be the clever one,” Trixie said. “You’re ahead in the contest so far!”

  “That’s been mostly luck,” Honey said modestly. “I started out calling everyone from school that I could think of who was on a summer sports team. But what really put me ahead was the woman ordering seventy-five T-shirts for her family reunion. They all are to say, ‘Proud to be a Bartikowski,’ and all that lettering is enough to put anyone ahead!”

  “Gosh,” Trixie said, “I hope nobody at the reunion is a size small — there won’t be room for all that on a T-shirt. They’ll have to put the extra letters on a hankie that they can carry along!”

  That thought made the two girls start laughing so hard that they had to pull their bikes over to the side of the road. When they were finally on their way again, Trixie said, “I think it’s going to seem real to me tonight for the first time. When we go to Nick’s, I’ll really see my very first order. Then I’ll get to make my very first delivery”

  “The way it’s worked out is perfectly perfect,” Honey added. “I think it was wonderful of Bruce Becker to make the new shirts a surprise and ask us to deliver them to the softball diamond just before the game.”

  Trixie and Honey had to hurry to get to Nick’s house, pick up the shirts, and get to the softball diamond in time, but they made it. They handed the two big bags over to Bruce Becker, who called his team together and, with a flourish, pulled out one of the shirts and held it up.

  A cheer went up from the team, and everyone grabbed for the shirts at once. There was a lot of trading back and forth until everyone found the right size. Then the old shirts were peeled off, and the new shirts were pulled on.

  Within a few minutes, the whole team was arrayed in vivid blue.

  “Well, Trixie, if we play as well as we look, we can’t lose,” Bruce Becker told her.

  Trixie and Honey stayed to watch the game. Sure enough, the Sleepyside Bankers beat the opposing team easily. Afterward, the Bankers sent up a shout of “T-shirts, T-shirts, T-shirts!” that had Trixie and Honey clutching their sides with laughter once again.

  “Well, that’s that,” Trixie said as they pedaled home. “My first sale, my first delivery, and my first satisfied customers.”

  “If they’d all be that good, we’d never want to stop selling,” Honey said.

  The girls rode slowly back through town toward Glen Road. The evening was pleasantly warm and there was almost no breeze at all.

  Suddenly Trixie sat up straight on her bike. “Honey, I just thought of something. You haven’t seen Mr. Roberts’s store since the fire. Let’s ride past it now on our way home.”

  “Do you really think that’s a good idea, Trixie?” Honey asked. “It’s starting to get dark, and that store isn’t in a very good part of town.”

  “It isn’t that dark,” Trixie said. “It won’t take a minute.”

  “Wel-l-l,” Honey drawled. She was curious, and she was also unable to resist her best friend’s wishes for very long. “All right,” she said finally.

  A few minutes later, the two girls stood looking at the burned-out building. “It looks so little to have held such a big explosion,” Honey said.

  “It caused such big problems, too,” Trixie added. She shook her head. “When I was here before, Brian said the fire takes some getting used to. But I just can’t. It keeps seeming more unreal and more ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous?” Honey echoed. “That’s a funny word to use.”

  “I don’t mean that the fire itself was ridiculous,” Trixie said. “I just mean the setting of it was. This building is too small to be worth much in insurance. It’s in too shabby a neighborhood to be worth remodeling. It’s too ordinary to inspire revenge in anybody. Why bother to burn it down?”

  “I don’t know,” Honey admitted. Seeing Trixie get off her bike and push the kickstand down with her foot, she added, “What are you doing?”

  “I’m just going to take another look around,” Trixie said. “You said if there was any more evidence against Jane Dix-Strauss, we’d find it. How can we find it if we don’t look?”

  “But you said we wouldn’t stay long,” Honey reminded her friend. “It’s getting darker by the minute. Nick said they had mice even when there were people in the building. Now that it’s abandoned, there are probably rats — maybe even bats,” Honey added with a shudder. “Come on, Trixie. We can come back tomorrow when it’s light out.”

  “That’s silly, Honey,” Trixie said. “It’s a long bike ride to get here. Besides, our days are too busy already with the sales and the regular chores. We’d never find time to get back. I just want to walk around the building one more time. Do you want to come along or wait here?”

  Honey frowned. “I don’t want to do either,” she said. “I want to go home.”

  “We will,” Trixie said. “We’ll be on our way in ten minutes — no more, I promise. Do you want to come along?”

  “No,” Honey said. She sounded both frightened and angry at the stubbornness of her friend.

  Trixie heard the anger, but she couldn’t let it stop her. Something irresistible was drawing her toward the deserted, boarded-up building. “I’ll be right back,” she said as reassuringly as she could.

  Cautiously, Trixie made her way to the alley in the back of the building. She started around the corner, then froze, her blood turning cold, when she saw two figures standing in the alley.

  Trixie pulled herself back into the shadow of the building and stared at the two people. They were standing face-to-face, obviously talking, although Trixie could not hear what they were saying. The person on the left was a man — a big one, both tall and broad. He was wearing a short jacket, with the collar turned up around his face.

  The person on the right was a woman. Trixie gasped when she recognized who it was. She strained her eyes through the deepening gloom to be sure.

  There could be no doubt. The woman standing here behind Mr. Roberts’s store was Jane Dix-Strauss!

  10 * Was It a Payoff?

  TRIXIE SQUEEZED HER EYES SHUT for a second, then opened them and looked again. Now she was sure. Even in the dim light, the reporter’s slim figure and dark, curly hair were easy to recognize.

  Before Trixie had time to wonder what to do, Jane Dix-Strauss’s voice was suddenly raised, carrying across the distance to where Trixie was hiding. “All right,” she said. “That’s it, then. If I need anything else, I’ll call.” As she spoke, the reporter reached into the pocket of her blazer and pulled out something. A folded piece of paper, Trixie thought, or maybe — yes, that’s it — an envelope.

  The man muttered something. Because his back was turned, Trixie could pick up only the sound of his voice, not the words. He took the envelope and tucked it into an inside pocket of his coat.

  Trixie watched what was happening as if it were a scene on stage. Gradually, she began to realize that this was not play-acting. It was real life, which meant that she was eavesdropping. She should clear her throat or make some noise to let the two people in the alley know she was there. That somehow seemed the fairest thing to do. But as Trixie thought about her previous encounters with Jane Dix-Strauss, the idea of the brusque young woman appreciating the fairness seemed ridiculous. More likely, she’d yell at Trixie for peeping. Maybe she’d demand to know how long Trixie had been standing there and what she’d heard.


  Or maybe she’d offer to pay me off, too, Trixie thought. The thought startled her. Some part of her mind had put the white envelope together with the idea of a payoff. Is that what it is? she asked herself. Is Jane Dix-Strauss paying that man off for something? For what?

  The thought distracted Trixie, momentarily, from her worries about whether or not to let her presence be known. And suddenly the problem was taken out of her hands.

  “Trixie!” Honey’s voice floated back, not loudly but quite clearly, from the sidewalk in front of the building. “Trixie, it’s getting dark! Let’s go!”

  Trixie froze, her ears listening to Honey’s call, her eyes glued to Jane Dix-Strauss and the mysterious man.

  “What’s that?” the woman asked.

  Trixie waited just long enough to see the two begin to turn in her direction. That was it — she couldn’t hope to find out anything more by waiting around. In a moment, she’d be found out herself. She started walking back to the sidewalk as quickly and quietly as she could.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” she told Honey. She grabbed her bike and kicked at the kickstand clumsily, needing three tries to get it out of the way of the pedal.

  “What happened?” Honey asked.

  “I can’t explain now,” Trixie said as she threw her leg over the seat of the bike and pushed down on the pedal. “Just hurry — let’s get out of here.” Honey didn’t ask any more questions. In a split second, she was on her bike. The two girls pedaled furiously, their bodies bent low over the handlebars to increase their speed.

  Trixie led her friend to Main Street and headed out on Glen Road. By now it was almost dark. For the sake of safety, Honey hung back so that both girls could stay well off the road. It was the right thing to do, Trixie knew — but she wished that Honey would ignore safety, just this once. She was bursting to tell her best friend what had happened behind Mr. Roberts’s store.

  The girls rode directly to Crabapple Farm. They ran up the stairs hoping that they wouldn’t be waylaid by Mart, Brian, or Bobby. Soon, however, they were safely behind Trixie’s closed door.