“One of the reasons I’m glad is that I know you’re glad,” Trixie said with a giggle. “It’s nice to know that people care about me. And it’s also nice to care about others. It keeps me from thinking about myself too much.”
It keeps me from worrying about things I can’t do anything about, too, she thought to herself as she left the kitchen. Getting busy with chores that afternoon had helped her to keep from wondering what the meeting at Mr. Lytell’s store really was all about. Now, the busy schedule at
Crabapple Farm in August would help to keep her from wondering about Mart and Anthony Ramsey—and Jim.
Bobby Belden appeared out of nowhere, standing at his sister’s side, eagerly tugging at her hand. “Please read me a story, Trixie,” he begged, sounding as if he’d already asked a dozen times and been refused. In a sense he had. Bobby had an ongoing struggle to get time and attention from the older Beldens.
“Sure, Bobby,” Trixie replied, stopping her brother in his tracks.
“Sure?” he repeated, as if unable to believe his ears.
Trixie laughed and swung him around with his feet in the air. “Sure!” she said again, enthusiastically. Reading a story to Bobby was a sure way to prevent further thinking about her problems. Bobby didn’t just sit quietly and listen to a story. He asked a hundred questions about the words and the pictures—and about things that occurred to him for no apparent reason at all.
Trixie followed Bobby to his room and sat on the bed while he pulled one book after another off the shelf, trying to decide which story he wanted to hear.
“This one!” he exclaimed suddenly, thrusting a book insistently into Trixie’s face.
Trixie took the book and moved it back from her face to a comfortable reading distance. “Snow White,” she said. “That was one of my favorites, too.”
“Who read Snow White to you?” Bobby asked.
“Moms did, and Daddy did, too, sometimes,” Trixie told him as she leafed through the familiar pages of the book.
“Didn’t Mart and Brian read to you?” Bobby asked.
“Nope,” Trixie told him. “At least, not very much.”
“Why not?” Bobby asked.
“Because I learned to read almost as soon as they did,” Trixie explained.
“Oh,” Bobby said. He was silent for a moment as he thought over the answer, and Trixie took advantage of the silence to open the book and start reading. Otherwise, Bobby’s questions could go on and on, and the book never would get read.
The little boy listened in relative quiet for a while, stopping Trixie only to rattle off the names of all seven dwarfs and point at their pictures. Then, after Trixie had read another page or two, he suddenly asked, “Were the seven dwarfs like a club?”
“In a way, I guess they were,” Trixie said. “What makes you ask that?”
“Well,” Bobby said slowly, “there were seven dwarfs, and they helped Snow White. And there are seven Bob-Whites, and they help all kinds of people. And the Bob-Whites are a club. So I just wondered if the dwarfs were a club, too.”
Trixie chuckled, surprised, as always, by Bobby’s strange but often accurate logic. “I guess the seven Bob-Whites are kind of like the seven dwarfs, at that, Bobby,” she said. She smiled to herself as she started reading where she’d left off, but the smile slowly faded as she glanced at the picture of Snow White. The slender, elegant figure of Snow White suddenly reminded her of Laura Ramsey, and she felt another pang of jealousy as she remembered that Snow White’s story ended with her rescue by a handsome prince.
She finished the story as quickly as possible, said good night to Bobby, and hurried to her room. She walked to her dresser and looked sternly at herself in the mirror.
“You’re being just plain foolish, Trixie Belden,” she said out loud. “The handsome prince Laura Ramsey is counting on to rescue her isn’t Jim; it’s the detective she’s hiring. And that detective will be just as interesting to you and Honey as he is helpful to Laura Ramsey.” Trixie’s voice sounded strong and convincing, but the blue eyes that stared back at her from the mirror didn’t look convinced at all.
A Real Detective ● 5
THE NEXT MORNING, the eyes that stared back at Trixie from the mirror as she combed her sandy hair had regained some of their sparkle. “Today we meet a real, live detective,” she told her reflection. “I hope Honey calls soon. I can’t wait another minute!”
The phone rang just as she finished dressing, and she raced down the stairs to answer it. “Hello!” she shouted into the receiver.
“Trixie?” Honey’s voice came through the wire uncertainly.
“It’s me, all right. I mean, it’s I. I’ve been waiting to hear from you,” Trixie said.
“Well, you can’t have been waiting all that long. It’s only eight o’clock in the morning!” Honey pointed out.
Trixie wanted to remind Honey that she had been separated from her and Jim and Laura Ramsey since five o’clock the previous afternoon —plenty of time for impatience to set in. But she held back. There was no point in making Honey feel guilty because Trixie felt left out. Instead, Trixie asked eagerly, “Is there any news about the detective?”
“He’ll be here right after lunch,” Honey said, her voice revealing her own excitement.
“Oh, Honey, that’s wonderful!” Trixie exclaimed. Then she swallowed hard. “Can—can I be there when he comes?”
“Of course,” Honey said, sounding surprised by the question. “You have to be here, to tell him about finding the wallet.”
“I just thought— I mean, it seemed— Never mind. I can’t wait to meet him,” Trixie said, biting her tongue to keep from asking if Jim had spent much time with Laura.
“I can’t wait, either,” Honey said. “I think this is going to be the longest morning of my entire life.”
“Let’s go riding,” Trixie suggested. “That’s always a good way to pass time.”
There was a slight pause before Honey said, “Oh, Trixie, I’m sorry. Laura and I already went riding this morning. We were both up early because we couldn’t sleep, and Laura seemed so restless that I thought it’d be a good idea for us to get some exercise.”
“Oh,” Trixie said quietly, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach.
“You could still go out by yourself,” Honey said. “Or you could get Brian or Mart to go out with you.”
“I could,” Trixie said without enthusiasm. But it wouldn’t be the same, she knew. It was time with her best friend that she really wanted. Besides the mystery of Anthony Ramsey’s disappearance to be discussed, there was also the secret of Mr. Lytell’s loan. Honey was the only person Trixie could talk to about that, and she was fascinated by the idea that Mr. Lytell might, in spite of appearances, be a wealthy man. And though she didn’t want to admit it even to herself, she wondered if Jim was with Laura right then! Reluctantly, she said, “There’s an awful lot to do around here this morning. I guess I’ll just stay around and help Moms until after lunch.”
“Well, I’ll see you then,” Honey said.
“Yes... see you then. Good-bye,” Trixie said.
She hung up the phone and bit her lower lip as her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. “You’re being foolish again,” she murmured to herself. “You’re being unsympathetic, too. Think about how poor Laura Ramsey must feel this morning, waiting for the detective who’ll help her find her father. She must really want someone to talk to.”
But what about me? The voice that cried out in Trixie’s mind sounded very young and very lonely. For a moment, she felt herself on the verge of tears again. Then Trixie squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. “You’ll go out and tend the garden,” she answered the voice.
Trixie’s back was aching, and her fingernails were caked with dirt, but she felt much better. Shiny red tomatoes were lined up along the kitchen counter, waiting for Mrs. Belden to sort them for canning or for immediate eating. A bag of green onions was in the refrigerator, along with two bags
of cucumbers—a bag of large ones for slicing and a bag of small ones for making pickles.
The garden had been cool at first, although it had begun to heat up by the time Trixie finished her work. The coolness and the monotonous rhythm of picking had calmed her. The sight of the growing piles of vegetables had given her a feeling of importance, as if reminding her that they needed her, even if her best friend didn’t seem to.
With almost an hour remaining until lunchtime, Trixie wondered what to do next. Another glance at her dirt-caked fingernails gave her the answer.
She ran upstairs, showered, and washed her hair. With a towel wrapped around her, she rummaged in a drawer next to the sink for the old toothbrush she used for her nails. Finding it, she scrubbed every bit of dirt from under and around her nails. Then she slathered lotion over her hands and looked approvingly at the result: Her no-nonsense short nails and stubby fingers didn’t look elegant, by any means, but the nails were gleaming white, and the hands looked and felt soft and smooth.
Trixie towel-dried her hair, then went to her room and brushed it vigorously, taking out some of the unruly curl and leaving soft, sandy ringlets.
She went to her closet and flipped through the hangers, pushing the faded blue jeans out of the way. She found a pair of pale blue slacks and a thin gingham blouse that she hadn’t worn since school had let out in June. She put them on and checked the effect in the mirror. She wasn’t as beautiful as Laura Ramsey, she knew, but today she wouldn’t feel like a frog looking up at a princess, either.
Trixie nodded her approval at her reflection and went downstairs to help her mother put lunch on the table.
Mrs. Belden looked twice as Trixie came into the kitchen. “Why, you look very nice today,” she said, the tone of her voice reflecting a little too much surprise.
“It’s just a pair of slacks and a blouse,” Trixie said, trying to sound casual.
Mrs. Belden, wisely, said nothing more. Her sons, unfortunately, had plenty of comments when they came to the table.
Bobby smiled, then frowned. “Are you goin’ to a party, Trixie? You didn’t tell me you were goin’ to a party. I want to go, too.”
“I’m not going to a party, Bobby,” Trixie told him. “I just didn’t feel like wearing jeans today, that’s all.”
Brian entered the kitchen just in time to hear Trixie’s last sentence. He looked at her for a moment, one eyebrow raised. “Is Ben Riker coming to visit the Wheelers?” he asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Trixie felt herself beginning to blush, realizing immediately what Brian was talking about:
Once before, she had developed a sudden interest in dressing up, pretending that a crush on Ben Riker was the reason. Actually, her purpose had been to get her parents’ permission to wear her diamond ring, so that she could give it to Mr. Lytell in exchange for holding Brian’s jalopy. “I hadn’t heard anything about a visit from Ben,” Trixie said airily, ignoring her own blushing. “Why do you ask?”
Brian grinned at his sister, knowing full well that she knew that he knew. “I don’t know what could have brought that possibility to mind,” he said with an innocent look.
Just then Mart entered the room, and Trixie braced herself for the harshest teasing of all.
Mart glanced at her, pulled out his chair, and sat down. “You look nice, Trix,” he said.
Trixie’s mouth dropped open. Mart was definitely not acting like himself these days, and she decided that she would make it a point to find out why—and soon. She’d get Honey to help her, if Honey wasn’t too busy helping Laura Ramsey.
Right after lunch, Trixie left the house and walked to the garage for her bike. The heat had assailed her as soon as she walked through the back door. It was going to be another scorcher.
Eager as she was to get to Manor House, she forced herself to pedal slowly. Otherwise, she knew, she’d be a steaming, wilted wreck by the time she arrived.
She parked her bike at the side of the long driveway near the house, walked up the front steps, and rang the bell. Miss Trask opened the door almost immediately, looking cool and composed in her tailored gray suit.
“Go right into the library, Trixie,” Miss Trask said. “Everyone else is there already.”
Trixie smiled her thanks and walked across the large, high-ceilinged entryway to the library. Inside were Mr. Lytell, Honey, Jim, Laura, and a rugged-looking stranger who must, Trixie thought, be a detective.
As she looked him over, Trixie decided that this man was exactly what she’d expected a private detective to be. He was short and stocky, but his girth all looked like muscle, except for a slight paunch that swelled above his belt. He was wearing green pants that bagged at the knees, a wrinkled white shirt, and a tie that was pulled down below the open top button of the shirt. A suit coat that matched the pants was lying untidily over the back of a couch.
Trixie’s inspection of the detective was interrupted as Honey spotted her friend. “Oh, here she is now. Hi, Trix!”
“Hi,” Trixie replied. She saw Honey’s eyes glance over her appraisingly, and she realized, uncomfortably, that her best friend had noticed the difference in her appearance, even though she was too tactful to mention it.
“You look nice today, Trixie,” Jim said.
It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. All of the compliments she’d received had been making her feel that her normal appearance must be awful, indeed, if a simple pair of slacks and a blouse made such a difference. “I look nice today for a change, you mean,” she said, her voice bitter.
Jim’s face showed his surprise at this unexpected attack, and Trixie pressed her lips together hard, wishing there were some way to unsay what she’d just said. “I—I’m sorry, Jim,” she said meekly.
“That’s all right. Now that we’re all here, let’s get down to business.” The coldness in Jim’s voice was obvious to everyone.
“Trixie, this is Mark McGraw, the detective Laura hired. Mr. McGraw, this is my best friend, Trixie Belden,” Honey said.
McGraw nodded curtly, and Trixie murmured a hello.
“Where should we begin, Mr. McGraw?” Laura Ramsey asked.
“We begin with my retainer,” McGraw told her gruffly.
Laura looked shaken; clearly, the detective was not going to express any sympathy for her father’s disappearance. He was a businessman, and detective work was his business. “Of—of course,” she said. She reached into her purse and drew out the pile of bills she’d received from Mr. Lytell.
“And just you see that you give Miss Ramsey a receipt for that money, young man,” Mr. Lytell said sternly.
“I don’t happen to have my receipt book with me,” McGraw said sarcastically.
“I do,” Mr. Lytell said. He pulled the book out of his pocket and shoved it at the detective, who looked at him in disbelief for a moment before he took the book.
The room was silent as the detective wrote out a receipt.
When the money and the receipt had been exchanged, McGraw said, “That’ll do for a starter,” then sat down on the couch and pulled a pencil and a small notebook out of his pocket. “All right, let’s begin at the beginning,” he said. “Miss Ramsey, tell me all you know about your father’s disappearance.”
Laura Ramsey drew a deep, shaky breath and told the story, much the same way she had told it at the store the day before. Once or twice her voice broke, and she had to pause for a moment before she could continue.
When she finished, the others maintained a respectful silence while McGraw continued writing.
“And you kids are the ones who found the wallet?” he said abruptly as he looked up.
Trixie and Honey nodded. They both felt more than a little intimidated by this man, who seemed to have no trace of sentiment in him at all.
“Tell me about it,” McGraw demanded.
Trixie and Honey looked at one another. Honey nodded slightly, so Trixie cleared her throat and began to speak, telling the detective what she had told Laura R
amsey the day before. She proudly included her deductions about the length of time the wallet had been on the ground and the elimination of robbery as the motive, because of the presence of the hundred-dollar bill.
McGraw didn’t acknowledge her cleverness, however. “Did you look for tire tracks on the shoulder of the road?” he asked.
Trixie looked at Honey, who shook her head. “No,” Trixie said.
“Too bad,” McGraw grunted. “How about signs of struggle—stones kicked up, grass matted down, anything like that?” He looked up at Trixie, who once again shook her head. “Too bad,” he repeated. “It’s also too bad you weren’t more careful with the evidence,” he said, pulling the wallet out of his shirt pocket and holding it up for them to see. “Nice smooth leather like this would take fingerprints pretty well. But now that it’s been handled by everyone and his uncle, there’s no point in even trying.”
Trixie swallowed hard. She had looked forward to learning from a real detective, but what she was learning was that she still had an awful lot to learn. “Is there anything else we can do?” she asked timidly.
The detective wrote a few more words, closed the notebook, and returned it and the pencil to his pocket before he spoke. “Yup, there are a couple of things you could do to help me. First, I’ll need a deposition.”
“A what?” Honey asked.
The detective sighed. “A deposition,” he repeated slowly. “Just write down everything you’ve told me, plus anything else you can remember that you haven’t told me. Make it as clear and concise as you can. If this case ever gets to court, your testimony will be important. So I want you to get everything down now, while it’s fresh in your minds.”
Trixie and Honey exchanged wide-eyed glances. They might have to testify in court! “We’ll do that right away,” Honey said. “Is there anything else?”
The detective thought for a moment. “Well, I want all of you to be alert for any strangers in town. There’s a chance that someone is holding Ramsey somewhere near here, and if that’s the case, they’ll need to come into town for supplies, food, things like that. If you spot anyone, let me know. It would also help if you could give me a map of this area, pointing out any places where someone might be holding a captive—abandoned buildings, caves, places like that.”
The Mystery of the Millionaire Page 5