Then—what was this horseshoe doing in the middle of the path?
Concerned, Trixie picked the shoe up. This was a bicycle trail as well as a bridle path. An obstacle like that could cause a bad spill if one were going full speed down the hill. And, when coming down this hill from the Wheeler stables, there were only two bicycle speeds—fast and faster. Who would have been so careless?
Trixie was still carrying the mud-caked shoe as she neared the Wheeler stables, continuing her search for clues. She could hear men’s voices and the movement and whickering of animals being fed. Regan always got an early start in his conscientious grooming of the horses. As Trixie got closer, she caught sight through a window of a red head bent over some early-morning task. Up here on the hill lived three red-haired men: Matthew Wheeler himself, Jim Frayne, and Regan. Trixie hoped that was Jim she saw.
It was. Trixie forgot that her sneakered feet would give Jim no warning of her presence. She was only a few feet away from him when he noticed her and immediately dropped the towel he’d been wiping his hands on.
“Yikes!” he exclaimed. “Where’d you come from? And what brings you here so early?”
“Hi!” Trixie blurted. Then she saw the clock near the tack room door. “Oh, jeepers, I lost track of the time. Gotta go!” She tossed the iron horseshoe onto a shelf and started racing back down the hill.
A minute later, Jim came whizzing behind her on his bicycle. As he caught up, he called, “Even though I’m not wild about your entrances and exits this morning, I’ll give you a ride home if you give me breakfast.”
“It’s a deal,” Trixie agreed.
Balancing on Jim’s handlebars, Trixie enjoyed the cool morning air that struck her face. As Jim coasted down the steep, twisting path, trees and boulders flashed by. They came to the spot where she had picked up the horseshoe. Had Jim hit it at this speed, they would have had a terrible accident. She pointed with her head and said, “That’s where I found it.”
Jim leaned forward. “Found what?”
“The horseshoe. Who lost it? Not Susie, I hope.” Susie was the small black mare Trixie loved to ride, even though the beautiful animal really belonged to Miss Trask.
“All our horses’ shoes are on tight this morning,” answered Jim. “I checked them myself.” “I’ve been searching the path for clues about Moses’ arrival,” Trixie explained.
“Have you considered that he might have been brought on a motorcycle?” Jim inquired.
Trixie was thoughtful. “You’re right—the baby could have ridden in the sidecar.”
“The only thing is, we haven’t seen any tire marks,” said Jim, bringing the bike to a halt as they came near the gate behind the doghouse.
Inside the Belden house, the day had already begun. Mrs. Belden was bustling about the kitchen, which was filled with the good smells of bacon and coffee. She greeted Trixie with a look of amusement.
“The baby seems to have gotten everyone up on the early side this morning,” chuckled Mrs. Belden. “Even my daughter.” She called to Bobby, “Set another plate. Jim is having breakfast with us.” With a welcoming twinkle at Jim, she asked, “You are, aren’t you?” She turned back to Trixie. “Mart’s on cloud nine. He’s so positive you’re fast asleep that he’s taking charge of the baby.”
“That double crosser,” fumed Trixie.
“Mart didn’t drop him, or stick him with pins, or anything bad,” Bobby declared. “Yet,” he added darkly.
Trixie rushed into the guest room to see for herself. She found Mart in full control, so intent on dressing Moses that he was not aware Trixie had come in until she spoke.
At the sight of the child, Trixie forgot her petty irritation. “He’s so little, so thin,” she whispered tenderly.
“I know,” her brother answered soberly. “Last night, I thought he was just very young and very small, but this morning...”
“He looks like a half-starved little bird!” Trixie winked back tears.
During the previous night’s excitement, no one had really studied the tired baby. In the early morning sunlight, Trixie was shocked to see that Moses was smaller than the doll she used to hang by ribbon straps beside her dressing table. A little fuzz of dark hair grew above his ears and on the top of his head, but it was worn to the skin on the back of his head.
“Oh, my gosh, Mart!” Trixie cried softly. “He— he has bruises! And his hands—they’re just like little bird claws,” she moaned.
Bobby entered the room and announced, “His feet, too. And you know what, Trixie? One foot is dirty, and Mart can’t get it clean.”
“Tar,” Mart said briefly. “And some kind of machine oil, but I got that off.” Carefully he moved Moses’ bony legs. “See these abrasions? Brian thinks he must have had a fall several days ago, but I don’t think he fell. Look—the bruises are just under his arms and on his stomach.” Trixie sank down on the bed, weak with sudden anger. “Oh, Mart, do you think someone has actually b-battered Moses?”
“Batter is pancakes,” said Bobby, puzzled.
“Batter also means to beat more than once,” his brother explained quietly. “Violent abuse and neglect are now the largest causes of death among American children.”
Bobby released a shivering sigh. “Then I’m glad somebody quit battering up Moses and stuck him in our doghouse.”
“What can be done, legally, about child abuse?” Trixie asked her brother.
Mart was the family clown, but he had a well-stocked mind. It didn’t surprise Trixie that he was able to tell her about the laws that required certain professionals to report abuse and encouraged citizens to report suspected neglect.
Trixie clenched her hands. “I simply have to find the—the so-called person who let these things happen to Moses.”
“I’ll help you,” Mart said simply. Usually he teased Trixie mercilessly about her mysteries, but this case had obviously aroused his sympathetic concern.
“Has Moms started the laundry?” Trixie asked abruptly.
“Not that I know of.”
Trixie hurried to the laundry room. She took a second look at the pitifully small heap of dirty clothing that had been tossed into the hamper. This time she noticed that the diaper had been fashioned from a T-shirt. It felt as if it had been washed without soap. The blanket and knitted shirt were soft, but both were dirt-smudged. When she turned the shirt inside out to check once more for a tag, she found a dried leaf she had missed before. She’d have to ask Mart, the future agriculturist, to identify it. She placed the baby clothing back in the hamper and headed once more toward the guest room. She knew her mother wouldn’t wash the things until Sergeant Molinson had examined them.
By now, Brian was trying to take command of the guest-room nursery, but it was Mart who cradled Moses in his arms and gave the baby the feeding he had promised. Trixie didn’t try to interfere. She watched, her thoughts racing.
She was familiar with the nursery routine in the Lynch mansion. Although they were no longer infants, Trixie remembered how those privileged Lynch babies had squirmed with energy. They had kicked and snatched and howled.
Moses did none of those things. He moved feebly. Plainly he was hungry, but sucking seemed to tire his throat and tongue. He rested Often, fretted, and tried again. Once his eyes focused on Trixie. They seemed sad and filled with pain.
“Is he sick, Brian? ” Trixie faltered.
“Just weak, I think. Moms is going to ask the investigator to see about a thorough checkup.”
Moses dozed off without finishing his bottle. Mart covered him up, Brian left the door ajar, and the group returned to the kitchen. Trixie showed Mart the leaf she had found.
“Alfalfa,” Mart informed her.
“That’s no help,” muttered Trixie. Alfalfa meant Moses could have come from the country, and tar and machine oil meant he could have come from the city. How would she ever be able to narrow down the field?
As the Belden family and Jim were finishing breakfast, Sergeant Molinson
.tapped on the door and called through the screen, “Can you spare a cup of that good-smelling brew?”
“Come on in, Sergeant,” Mr. Belden invited. After the burly policeman had taken a sip of Mrs. Belden’s coffee, he said gruffly, “This sure beats station-house ink, believe me.”
“What have you turned up about the baby?” asked Brian.
The sergeant accepted a piece of buttered toast and replied, “South of here, a couple of boys are missing. I’m going to run over there this morning and see what’s going on. I’ll get a picture of them.” He requested that all of them relate what they knew about the baby, then he cast a shrewd look at Trixie. “I presume you’ve made a thorough search for clues concerning the baby’s identity?”
“Yes, sir,” Trixie answered.
“Any objections if I go over the place again?”
Trixie reddened but shook her head. As if he thinks he’s going to find something I missed, she fumed silently.
The sergeant opened a notebook and ambled into the yard, where he spent a long time pacing around and examining possible routes. Trixie looked smug when he, too, theorized that the woods path had been used.
“I found hoofprints and a horseshoe on the path,” she told him.
The sergeant shrugged. “Who walks around here when it’s just as easy to straddle a horse?” He closed his notebook with a snap. “I’ll check the path to Glen Road Inn before I go to Saw Mill River.”
SawMill River, Trixie thought. Where have I heard that recently?
After the sergeant had gone, Mary Goodley, a social worker from the county, arrived with her long list of questions. Mr. Belden had left for work, but everyone else stood in an interested circle while she examined Moses. Miss Goodley, a tall blond woman, agreed that Moses was pitifully thin. “I’ll have a doctor sent out as soon as possible to check him over,” she informed them.
He’ll want to have a look at those abrasions, of course, but I notice that baby oil and an antiseptic have already been applied. Good thinking on someone’s part.”
Brian smiled faintly.
After inspecting the guest room, Miss Goodley sat down at the desk, by the window overlooking the rose garden Grandma Belden had planted years ago, to fill out her report.
“Sex, male. Name, unknown,” she said aloud.
“Wrong,” Bobby said. “His name’s Moses Bob-White.”
Miss Goodley fluttered a slim hand. “But I thought—”
“We named him, Miss Goodley,” Trixie explained quickly.
“Moses Bob-White, you say?” Miss Goodley shook her long blond hair. Trixie was standing close enough to the social worker to see that she was careful to write the name with both quotation marks and question marks.
Miss Goodley looked over the rest of the house and talked to Mrs. Belden about feeding schedules, sunshine, and rest. “I’d limit his playtime till he’s stronger,” she decided. “But he obviously feels loved here, and that’s the best medicine. I’m sure I can get approval for you to keep him another day or two, until the police have more leads about his identity.”
Then she was gone, and the Belden family breathed a sigh of relief.
Jim was about to leave to finish his stable chores, when Honey burst in upon the group in the kitchen. “You’re leaving me out!” she accused breathlessly.
“Since when do you get up at this hour, Sis?” Jim inquired.
“I wanted to see the baby being fed,” Honey wailed.
“That was a long time ago. He’s asleep again,” Bobby told her. “Moses sleeps an awful lot.”
“Look who’s talking,” Mart put in. “And, speaking of the passage of time, isn’t it time that you ’tire yourself in suitable raiment for the exigencies of the day?”
I’m not tired,” Bobby said sturdily.
“I think he means get dressed,” Trixie told Bobby, who needed just as much help as she did with Mart’s outlandish language.
Honey begged for a peek at Moses, and Trixie led her to the guest room. The baby whimpered and moved restlessly in his sleep, kicking off the light coverlet.
“How did he get his stomach so dirty?” Honey whispered.
“Those are bruises,” Trixie told her.
“Oh, no!” Honey looked horrified.
“Oh, yes!” Trixie said fiercely. “We simply have to find that baby’s parents, Honey.”
“But the police—” Honey began.
Trixie’s blue eyes rounded with determination. “I’m going to give this case all my time.” When Honey said nothing, Trixie amended, “Well, as much time as I can spare from helping with Moses, and of course, helping Moms, and keeping track of Bobby... and feeding the chickens—oh, jeepers! Do you realize there are forty old biddies out there cackling their heads off because I haven’t fed them?”
“Come on, I’ll help,” said Honey, giving her friend a push.
“Gleeps, Honey,” said Trixie as they were welcomed by the hungry chickens, “for someone who has a jillion servants and is as beautiful as you are, it’s sure weird that you don’t mind doing farm tasks.”
Honey giggled. “Oh, Trixie, you’re exaggerating again,” she said. “I’m not beautiful, and I don’t have a jillion servants. Besides, I’m sure even beautiful people like to help their friends.”
That was certainly true in Honey’s case, Trixie thought fondly. She’d earned her nickname for her golden brown hair and melting brown eyes, as well as for the genuine sweetness of her disposition. Honey and Di were both very pretty, but Honey was more practical.
Trixie knew herself to be both like and unlike Honey and Di. She was more impetuous than Honey, outdoorsy and healthy-looking rather than beautiful, and more practical than either of her wealthier friends. Trixie’s grades were not as good as Honey’s, but Di considered her a “brain.” Trixie worked hard, not because she really liked to get her hands dirty, but because that was how it was, being a Belden of Crabapple Farm. She liked people and had an insatiable curiosity about the tangled lives they led.
Honey was very familiar with Trixie’s curiosity. “What’s our next step in finding Moses’ parents?” she asked. “I’m sure you’ve got something up your sleeve.”
“You’ll see,” promised Trixie.
One Iron Nail ● 4
TRIXIE AND HONEY returned to the house after feeding the chickens to find Mrs. Belden sorting the laundry.
“I’ll finish in here,” she told Trixie, “while you make up the beds. Let’s see... by that time, Moses will be awake. Bobby will be glad to just sit and talk to that baby. Oh, Di called to say she’ll take the two o’clock feeding. Now, -I we’ll have sandwiches for lunch, and everyone will make his own. My goodness,” she sighed. “The day’s just begun, and already I feel like it’s slipping through my fingers!”
“You know you have all of our fingers to help you,” said Trixie with more enthusiasm than she really felt. She was impatient to get to work on her new case, but she knew her chores came first. “When do I get to feed Moses?” Honey asked. “We’ll take six o’clock,” Trixie said hastily. “Now, let’s get at those beds.”
Trixie had no idea what clues she might find in the woods, but she had a feeling they’d be on that path. It was obvious that Moses would be cared for. Di would arrive well before two, of that Trixie was sure. Di loved children and never missed the chance to help with her own twin brothers and sisters. Trixie felt that she and Honey could give their best service by solving the mystery of Moses’ identity.
While they worked, Trixie filled Honey in on the news of the morning. “All we really have to go on is that horseshoe,” she finished.
‘That’s not much,” Honey pointed out. “Are we done here?”
Yes, believe it or not. Let’s go!”
The woods were still wet, but the leaves were drying fast. Trixie and Honey saw at once that the sergeant had walked beside the path, not on it. The ground was cut by meandering rivulets.
In the low spots, water still moved sluggishly. Trixie was re
lieved to see that the sergeant didn’t seem to have stooped to pick up any possible clues. He hadn’t altered his steady pace alongside the trail.
“What are we looking for?” Honey asked. “Whatever we find,” Trixie said. “Was Moses brought to the doghouse by horseback? Or by someone on foot or on a motorcycle? How was he transported?”
“Now you sound like Mart,” Honey teased. “Please do not insult me like that,” said Trixie haughtily.
Eventually, the girls reached the wide curve of the path opposite the intersection of Louis Road with Glen Road. Through the clearing, Trixie could see the woodsy tunnel of the little-used Louis Road on its way to the crumbling high bluffs that loomed above the Hudson River.
“Nobody could have climbed those bluffs with a baby,” decided Trixie. “That means that Moses had to come from the east, north, or south.” Looking as bewildered as she felt, Honey said, “Oh, my. Where do we start looking for clues?”
“Right here!” Trixie ran down the very middle of the path.
Looking where Trixie was pointing, Honey shrugged. “Hoofprints. So what?”
“So—there were hoofprints most of the way from our gate to your stables, and here are some more. Honey, it could be the same horse. We’re on the right trail!”
Honey looked thoughtful but unconvinced. Suddenly Trixie pounced. “And here’s something to prove it!” She held up a nail. Made of wrought iron, it was thin at the point, with a wedge-shaped head. It was bent from use.
“All that proves is that a nail came out of some horse’s shoe,” maintained Honey.
Trixie put the nail in her pocket. “Don’t you see, Honey? That shoe was loose all the way from here to the rock where I found it. That’s why the trail is so chopped.”
The Mystery of the Castaway Children Page 3