The Happy Valley Mystery

by Campbell, Julie

  “I’m sure he’s the thief,” Trixie said excitedly. “I saw him that night on the hill overlooking the sheep pasture. What else could he have been doing there?”

  “Are you talking to yourself?” Mart asked, looking at Trixie.

  “No, I’m not, Mart Belden. I’m talking to Brian and Jim and Honey. Can’t you hurry, Brian? Oh, jeepers, he must have repaired his truck,” she said as they reached the intersection near Army Post Road. “He isn’t even in sight.”

  “I’ll see if I can overtake him,” Brian said and stepped on the accelerator.

  “There probably are speed laws,” Jim reminded him. “Slow down, Brian. You’re supposed to be the conservative one, you know.”

  “How can I slow down when Trixie’s twisting my arm?” Brian asked. “She’s the one who’s in a hurry.”

  “It’s all right now,” Trixie said breathlessly. “There’s the truck ahead, see? It’s turning down that road. After it, Brian! He’s making for some hideout!”

  “Funny kind of hideout,” Mart said. “He’s heading right into Valley Park.”

  “Well, were going to follow him, anyway. He’s probably trying to throw us off,” Trixie cried.

  When the truck parked in front of the small bank, Brian drew right in beside it. Trixie was out of the jalopy in a flash. She peeked into the truck. “They’re the same kind of sheep as Uncle Andrew’s,” she whispered. “The man’s gone into the bank. I’m going to follow him. I’ve got to see what he does.”

  Inside, she went to the desk in the center of the room and pretended to be filling out a deposit slip. Out of the comer of her eye, to her surprise, Trixie saw the president of the bank come from behind his desk and shake hands with the black-bearded man.

  “How are you, Mr. Schulz?” he said. “What brings you into town? Selling some more of your sheep?”

  “Yes, I am,” the bearded man answered. “When my neighbor, Andy Belden, was here, he kept after me to hold on to them for a better price—but I got my price at the auction at Rivervale the other day. That’s where I’m bound for again.”

  Dejectedly Trixie trudged back to the jalopy and climbed into the front seat with Brian. She told them what she had heard. No one said a word till they left the village of Valley Park behind them.

  “How was I to know?” Trixie said then, defensively. “I never met the neighbor across the road from Happy Valley. Anyway, what was he doing in Uncle Andrew’s field that late in the evening?”

  “Part of his farm adjoins Uncle Andrew’s land,” Mart said. “I knew that.”

  “You mean his land jumps across the road?” Honey asked.

  “Sure it does. When they lay out new roads, lots of times they have to cut through people’s land. Mr. Gorman told us that land across the creek belonged to Mr. Schulz. I guess Trixie just wasn’t listening. Dreaming, instead, about black whiskers and—”

  “Cut it out, Mart,” Jim said. “It did look suspicious.”

  “Even bigger brains than yours, Mart,” Trixie said shamefacedly, “men like... well, Scotland Yard and the FBI... they have to track down every clue.”

  At the farmhouse, they found that Ben had returned. He was a big, dark, good-natured young man, anxious to talk about the short course he was planning to take at the university in Ames.

  “The dean of the school of agriculture has his own big farm,” Ben said. “I was out there. Mr. Gorman, you should see the queer-looking sheep he has. Wait a minute; I wrote it down. It’s a kind of French merino... here it is... Rambouillet.”

  “You don’t see many of them in Iowa,” Mr. Gorman said. “As a matter of fact, I never did see one.”

  “They have skin as loose as a basset hound’s,” Ben told the Bob-Whites. “It hangs in folds. I’d hate to shear one of them. The wool brings a good price, though. Maybe I’ll have some of them when I get my own farm. It’d be worth a try.”

  “Are you going to be a sheep farmer?” Trixie asked. “I’m going to try to be,” Ben answered with a grin. “A real farmer with a real farm—not a New York farm the size of a handkerchief.”

  “You’ve been in rural New York, then?” Trixie asked, annoyed.

  “No, I haven’t, and I don’t want to be,” Ben answered. “Too much fancy stuff. Give me the wide open spaces,” he sang, half under his breath.

  “We have some real farms, as you call them, in New York,” Trixie said, “and one of the best agricultural schools in the whole United States... Cornell.”

  “It’s a good school,” Ben conceded, “but, say, you should just get over to Iowa State before you go back home.” As he got up from the table, he asked, “Did you say this outfit wanted to go fishing?”

  “Yes, Ben, I think some of them would like to,” Mr. Gorman said.

  “Well, then, let’s get going. We have to dig worms first,” he added as he went out the door.

  “Don’t mind Ben,” Mr. Gorman said. “We had a visitor from New York City last summer who patronized him till he saw red. Ben stood him just so long, then he took him snipe hunting. Don’t let him catch you on that one. The poor guy held a bag open out there on the hill all night long, waiting for a snipe to go into it. Ben had a good night’s rest. I guess he thinks all New Yorkers are the same. He might just make an exception of your Uncle Andrew’s family. He’ll show you a good time fishing.”

  “Anybody coming?” Ben stuck his head in the door to ask. The boys jumped up to join him.

  “I don’t think I’ll go,” Trixie said.

  “Are you afraid of worms?” Ben asked.

  “She’s not afraid of anything,” Jim said. “You’ll find that out. Come on with us, Trixie.”

  “No, thanks,” Trixie said. “I have to fry, not catch.” She accented her words for Ben’s benefit.

  “Doesn’t he think he’s smart?” she asked Honey and Diana when they were all doing the luncheon dishes for Mrs. Gorman. “I think there’s something just a little bit odd about him.”

  “Do you think he’s a sheep thief?” Honey asked, laughing. “He doesn’t have a black beard, you know.”

  “Black beard?” Mrs. Gorman asked.

  “Yes—” Honey began.

  “Honey Wheeler,” Trixie said under her breath, “Honey Wheeler, if you say one word to anyone about that... well, you can just forget all about our plans for an agency when we finish school. I’m going upstairs and write a letter to Moms.”

  A Strange Light • 7

  ABOUT SIX O’CLOCK the fishermen returned with four good-sized bass and about a dozen bluegills. The boys cleaned them, and then, under Mrs. Gorman’s direction, Trixie rolled the fish in cornmeal and browned them in butter.

  Ben came in and ruffled Trixie’s curls. “You aren’t mad at me, are you?” he asked. “I always have liked to tease girls. The boys were telling me about some of the bad hombres you’ve hunted down. I take off my hat to you.”

  Trixie turned the crisp fish onto a warmed platter, then led Ben to a box in the comer of the kitchen.

  “Hunting these down was the most fun I ever had,” she said, and she picked up a little black and white kitten and held it to her cheek. “Isn’t it darling?”

  “Well, I’ll be darned,” Ben said. “I’ve hunted all over for Blackie’s kittens. I’ll bet she really had them hidden. Where did you find them?”

  “In the closet in your room where you keep your summer clothes,” Trixie said triumphantly. “You must have left the door to your closet open. Mrs. Gorman asked me to bring the towels out of your room—she’s going to wash clothes tomorrow—and I noticed the open closet door. I started to close it, and there they were— four of them.” Trixie sat on the floor and pulled the kittens into her lap.

  “Right in my own room!” Ben said, chagrined. “Almost under my own nose!”

  “No, right on top of your good summer sport coat,” Trixie answered. “They think it’s a nice soft bed, don’t you, kittens?”

  “Well, I’ll be doggoned,” Ben said as he held a little black
kitten in his hand. “Listen to this little fellow purr, will you? Sounds like a motorboat. There, there,” he told the little cat, “I can get that old summer coat cleaned. Don’t be so scared. Its heart is going about a hundred and sixty beats to the second,” he said, and he put the tiny ball of fur into Trixie’s hands. “They sure are cute.”

  Afterward, when they stood around the piano singing while Diana played, Trixie whispered to Honey, “At first I thought I wasn’t going to like Ben at all, but he’s really nice, isn’t he? I guess I like him, after all.”

  A few hours later, something happened to send Trixie’s thoughts hurrying back to her first impression of Ben.

  About eleven thirty, after they had all gone to bed, Trixie still lay awake. The house was quiet. It was quiet outside. Tip and Tag were asleep or off about their dog business in the far fields. Betsy and her calf were quiet. There was no moon, but the stars were so thick in the great bowl of sky that they shed a sort of half-light.

  Suddenly, out of the quiet, Trixie heard two soft whistled notes, one high, one low. Then, after an interval, two more notes.

  “Mart’s signal!” she thought. “Our emergency signal! What can it be?”

  Trixie slid out of bed, put on her jeans, and drew a sweater over her head. She slipped her feet into sneakers and went quietly down the stairs and through the door.

  “It’s Ben!” Mart said. “He pretended to go to bed when we did, but I don’t think he ever did.”

  “What happened?” Trixie whispered.

  “He just left here with a lantern,” Mart answered. “See that light bobbing up the road? He’s trying to shade it with his hand—see, Trixie—right over there past Schulz’s barn?”

  “I see,” said Trixie. “That’s funny, isn’t it? Where do you think he’s going? That’s a silly question. You don’t know any more than I do. Mart, let’s follow him! Let’s see what he’s doing. Do you have your flashlight?”

  In answer, Mart turned the light on and flashed it up and down the road.

  “Don’t do that!” Trixie exclaimed softly. “He’ll find out we’re following him. Just turn it down on the road so we can see. Let’s ran!”

  They ran as fast as they could, keeping the bobbing light of Ben’s lantern in sight. Across Army Post Road he went, down Sand Hill, and along the trail that led to Walnut Woods.

  Trixie and Mart followed. Just inside the entrance to the woods, they lost sight of Ben. “I thought when we passed this woods coming from the airport that it looked like a criminal’s hideout,” Trixie said.

  Mart didn’t answer. “There goes his lantern again, Trixhe said excitedly. “He’s making some sort of signal with it.”

  “He is,” Trixie agreed, her voice tense. “He’s swinging it around in an arc. Look, Mart! Look way beyond him, back there farther in the woods. Do you see anything?”

  “A square of light,” Mart said. “Can it be a window?”

  “Probably,” Trixie said. “If it is, someone just drew the curtain down. Mart, this doesn’t look at all good to me. There goes Ben’s lantern again, signaling.”

  “Yes,” Mart said, “it’s some kind of rendezvous. Let’s get going, Trixie.”

  “All right,” Trixie said and started toward the woods.

  Mart caught her hand, drew her back, and shook his head. “Huh-uh,” he said, “not in there. We don’t know our way six feet ahead of us. Getting lost in Walnut Woods wouldn’t do us any good in solving the mystery.”

  “Well, Mart Belden, of all the crazy things! If you think I’m going to stop now—”

  “Not stop,” Mart answered. “Just be smart for once in your life, Trixie. Let’s go back to the house as quickly as we can, tell Mr. Gorman what’s going on, and then come back here with him. He knows the woods.” Reluctantly Trixie turned and ran—ran up Sand Hill, across Army Post Road, down the farmhouse road, and into Happy Valley Farm. Breathlessly she knocked at Mr. Gorman’s door, Mart close behind her.

  When he opened the door, Mrs. Gorman came out, too. Honey and Diana, aroused, poked their heads from their doors down the hall.

  “It’s Ben!” Trixie gasped.

  “What about Ben? Is he sick?” Mr. Gorman asked. “He’s the thief!” Trixie gasped. “Mart and I caught him red-handed!”

  “You what?” Mr. Gorman demanded. “Ben a thief? What rank nonsense! What are you talking about?” Dramatically Trixie told him, with Mart trying to talk at the same time.

  When Mr. Gorman could piece together what they were saying sufficiently to understand them, he laughed. He laughed and he laughed. And then Mrs. Gorman laughed, too, till she almost cried.

  Trixie and Mart just stood there getting angrier and angrier. Finally, Trixie stamped her foot on the floor and said, “Stop that! Don’t you want to find out what is happening to the sheep?”

  “We sure do, Trixie,” Mr. Gorman said. “Sure as you’re born. Only Ben isn’t stealing the sheep.”

  “How do you know,” Trixie asked, “when you won’t even go and find out? What else could he be doing, sneaking off into the night that way and swinging his lantern around, signaling?”

  “Hunting possums,” Mrs. Gorman said and put her arm around Trixie. “If there’s anything in the world Ben likes, it’s roast possum. On dark nights he goes after them... trees them and blinds them with his lantern. Wait till tomorrow when you taste the fat one he brings home.”

  “I don’t want to taste one. I’d never in the world taste one,” Trixie said. “I’d just as soon eat... Blackie or Tip or Tag!”

  “Whew!” Mr. Gorman said. “You should have the red hair instead of Jim. Sheep thief!” Mr. Gorman was still laughing as he turned back into his room. “Wait till I tell this to Ben! Trixie, remember what I said about leaving the problem to Joe Brown, the sheriff? That remark still stands. Get some sleep now, girls. You, too, Mart. Ben a sheep thief! Imagine that, Mary!” Trixie didn’t move. “Maybe we did make a mistake,” she said. “Maybe Ben isn’t a sheep thief. Maybe it’s true that he was swinging the lantern to blind the possum. But what about that lighted window off in the woods? And why did someone pull down the blind when Ben swung his lantern?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mart repeated, “how about that?”

  “Imagination,” Mr. Gorman said. “There’s no house off in that woods. Imagination—just imagination.”

  Bob-Whites in the Spotlight • 8

  LISTEN TO THIS.” Trixie spread the letter from her mother on the table in the breakfast nook. “Listen, Jim —all of you! Moms said that Dan stopped in to see her and get news of us, and guess what!”

  “I’ll see for myself,” Mart said, taking their mother’s letter. “Gosh... old Dan has himself a job!”

  “How can he?” Honey asked. “He couldn’t come with us because he had to be tutored this vacation. What kind of a job?”

  “After he gets through with his lessons,” Mart said. “It’s a honey of a job. I wish I had a chance at it. He’s giving figure skating lessons part time at the White Plains rink.”

  “That’s perfect for Dan!” Diana said.

  “Something else Moms said,” Trixie announced. “Dan told her we should have taken our skates with us, so she sent them. They’ll probably get here after we leave. I wonder what Dan thought we’d do with skates out here in the country?”

  “There’s a good indoor rink at Rivervale,” Ben remarked as he stopped in the kitchen for a second cup of coffee. “And our rink is open day and night. Happy Valley isn’t exactly the last frontier.”

  “We know that,” Honey said quickly. “Don’t be so edgy, Ben. We think it’s swell here. When our skates come, we’ll try out the rink. That is, if you’ll lend us your jalopy to get over there.”

  “I think I can manage that,” Ben said. “Say, Trixie,” he went on, winking at Jim, “when are you going to slip the handcuffs on me?”

  “You told!” Trixie accused Mr. Gorman.

  “Of course I did,” Mr. Gorman said. “If Ben is stealing my sheep, I
want him to stop it right now.”

  “Well, I just think it was mean of you to tell him,” Trixie said, her face bright red.

  “Can’t you tell when they’re teasing you?” Mrs. Gorman asked. “I think it’s real good of you to try to find out who’s stealing those sheep, Trixie. I know one thing—if someone doesn’t find out pretty soon, most of our ewes will be gone, and then—”

  “It won’t be long till I’m gone, too... no longer manager of Happy Valley Farm. That’s what you mean, isn’t it, Mary?” Mr. Gorman’s face was serious.

  Ben’s face sobered, too. “That’s right,” he said. “One thing you said sort of stays in my mind, Trixie. About that lighted window you thought you saw off in the woods... back of the place where I was treeing the possum.”

  “Yes?” Trixie asked, immediately alert. “We did see it, and we saw someone pull the shade down, didn’t we, Mart?”

  “It couldn’t be,” Ben said, shaking his head. “I hunt in the woods all the time, and I fish in the river at this end of the woods. Been doing it for years. Nobody has ever cut through the grapevines and hazel brush to get very far back in that jungle. The ground belongs to the state, you know. It’s really Walnut State Park.”

  “We have heard stories about people living back in there,” Mrs. Gorman reminded him.

  “They did about a hundred years ago, yes,” Ben agreed. “You see, Trixie, the way I heard it is this: Just after the Civil War ended, a bunch of men, led by some escaped convicts, gathered their families together and settled along the banks of the river. They made their living by operating illicit stills.”

  “Then the government caught up with them,” Mrs. Gorman said.

  “Yes.” Ben nodded. “And no one knows quite what happened. I have heard that they went farther back into the deep woods. Even if they did, no one has seen anything of them or their descendants since that time.”

  “People have seen lights in there before,” Mrs. Gorman reminded him.

  “It was nothing but will-o’-the-wisps over the swampy land,” Mr. Gorman said. “Say, I almost forgot something.” He reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a handful of tickets. “Dan Schulz’s boy Ned sold me these. There’s a basketball game at Rivervale this afternoon, with a barbecue and dance afterward. I thought you might all like to go.”