The Secret of the Unseen Treasure

by Campbell, Julie

  “We scared him off,” Jim said.

  Then they heard a car roar off down the lane, concealed by trees and bushes.

  “What on earth is going on here?” Mrs. Elliot, wiping her hands on a dish towel, appeared beside Trixie. She sounded as if she didn’t know whether to be angry or worried at the way the young people had come charging onto her property. Then she smelled the gasoline, and her face twisted with fear.

  “What’s going on here?” she repeated in a trembling voice.

  Trixie shook her head. “That’s what we’d like to know.”

  Clues—and More Mystery • 2

  MRS. ELLIOT was lean and strong from years of gardening. Her eyes, as blue as delphiniums, peered through thick glasses. Her deeply tanned face was framed by short, curly gray hair. At the moment, her cheeks were flushed with fear.

  “Mrs. Elliot,” Trixie said quickly, “we saw a man try to set fire to your shed.”

  Jim pointed to the gasoline can. “He was pouring gasoline on the side of the building.

  Fortunately, we scared him off before he did any real harm.”

  Mrs. Elliot looked at the climbing clematis along the wall of the shed. The leaves, wet with gasoline, were already wilting.

  “He has done real harm. Gasoline will kill the plants. Nothing will grow in that soil for years.” She looked bewildered. “But if he’d burned down my potting shed....”

  “Why would anyone do that?” Trixie asked, as Honey, Mart, and Di came riding up to the shed.

  “I’ve no idea. I just can’t believe it,” Mrs. Elliot sighed.

  “Maybe an arsonist,” Mart said. “A nut.”

  “I don’t think so,” Trixie declared.

  “Why?” Mart demanded.

  “I—I don’t know,” she admitted. “I just have a feeling....’’

  “Whatever the reason,” Jim said seriously, “I’m glad we scared him off before he lit a match. A fire might have spread to the bam and caused a lot of damage.”

  Mrs. Elliot’s eyes widened as she imagined the possible destruction. “That would be the end of my business,” she said. “Of course, it’s not the way it was when my husband was alive. Then we sold large volumes of flowers and produce. Now... well, there’s one flower shop in White Plains that takes some blossoms. Most people around here have their own gardens, so I sell only special arrangements occasionally. I need that income to eke out what Social Security doesn’t cover.”

  “That reminds me,” Honey said, taking the envelope from the pocket of her jeans. “Mother asked me to give this to you.”

  “Thank you.” Mrs. Elliot put a hand to her forehead and looked at the concerned faces of the group of youngsters. “And thank you for what you all did.”

  Max Elliot came running past the cottage. His dark eyes flashed, and there was an angry glow under the tan of his unshaven cheeks. “Did he get away?”

  “Yes,” Trixie answered. “I guess that’s my fault. I yelled at him as we rode down the hill.”

  “It’s a good thing you did,” Jim reassured her. “If you hadn’t, he would have started the fire. By the time the fire department could get out here from Sleepyside....”

  Max Elliot turned to Trixie. “Did any of you get a good look at him?”

  “Only from a distance,” Trixie said.

  “I almost saw him,” Di said. “After we rode to the cornfield to tell Max, I saw a car racing down the lane on the other side.”

  “What kind of car?” Jim asked.

  “I couldn’t see that much of it—only the top.”

  “What color was it?” Brian asked.

  Di shook her head. “The sun was too bright, reflecting in my eyes. All I saw was the glare.” Max looked at his stepmother. “Guess we’ll never know.” He stepped toward the gasoline can.

  “Don’t touch it!” Trixie cried out. “We should call Sergeant Molinson. There may be fingerprints.”

  “Of course there will,” Max said. “Mine. This is my gasoline can. Our can,” he corrected himself, glancing at Mrs. Elliot. “It’s one we keep in the pickup.”

  “Are you sure?” Trixie asked.

  He pointed to a metallic spot where the red paint had been chipped away. “It’s ours,” he said dourly.

  “Well,” Mart commented, “that shoots down what I said. An arsonist would probably have brought his own gasoline.”

  Trixie moved determinedly to the gasoline can. “Let’s call Sergeant Molinson,” she suggested to Mrs. Elliot.

  Ten minutes later, the police car came up the Elliot lane. Sergeant Molinson got out and frowned at the B.W.G.’s, particularly Trixie. “What are you kids involved in now?”

  “We’re witnesses,” Trixie replied.

  Mrs. Elliot spoke to the sergeant. “Someone tried to set a fire here. These young people saw the attempt and prevented it.”

  Molinson sighed. “All right, tell me about it.” Trixie, Honey, and Jim all started to talk at once.

  “One at a time!” Molinson snapped.

  Honey and Jim looked at Trixie. Ignoring

  her, Molinson gestured to Jim. “You first. Then the others, if I think it’s necessary.”

  Jim told how, as they were resting the horses on the hill, they had seen the man pouring gasoline around the shed.

  “How could you tell from up there that it was gasoline?” Molinson inquired.

  “We couldn’t for sure, of course,” Jim replied. “But it was a red can—that one over there —and he was wearing a suit, not dressed for gardening. So we assumed—”

  “Assumed,” Molinson repeated.

  “We assumed correctlyl” Trixie declared. “It was gasoline. And the man’s fingerprints will be on that can.”

  “He wasn’t wearing gloves?” Molinson queried sharply.

  Trixie felt deflated. She hadn’t looked at the man’s hands. Neither had the other B.W.G.’s.

  “I thought so,” Molinson remarked.

  “But you’ll still check that can?” Trixie asked timidly.

  “Of course,” Molinson replied. “And I’ll probably find all your prints on it.”

  “Just Jim’s and Max’s that we know of,” Trixie told him.

  “Good,” said Molinson. “Jim and Max will have to stop by the station as soon as possible so I can take their prints. Then we’ll know which ones to eliminate on the can. That’s all I need from you kids.” Sergeant Molinson produced a handkerchief and picked up the gas can by slipping it through the handle. He, Max, and Mrs. Elliot headed for the driveway.

  Trixie caught Honey’s eye, then handed Susie’s reins to Mart. Honey gave Lady’s reins to Brian.

  “Now what are you up to?” Mart murmured.

  Trixie didn’t reply. Instead, she led Honey through the trees to the lane where they had heard the car roar off. There they found scuffed damp earth where tires had spun as the man had fled. Trixie moved slowly in the opposite direction. She followed the faint tire tracks to a spot of flattened grass and weeds.

  “He must have driven up the lane,” Trixie noted, “then turned the car around before going to Mrs. Elliot’s.”

  “That was probably so he could make a fast getaway after starting the fire,” Honey reasoned. “But he had to make it faster than planned, thanks to you.”

  “Thanks to the B.W.G.’s,” Trixie corrected her. She stepped farther off the lane to where the car had backed into the bushes and broken some of the branches and twigs. Trixie peered at the bruised bark of a maple sapling that had been scraped.

  “Honey,” she called. “Take a look at this.” Before Honey could join her, Sergeant Molinson spoke from behind them. “I thought I told you I didn’t need you anymore.”

  “We’ve found some more evidence for you,” said Trixie. She pointed to the bruised bark. “Some paint was scraped off the car. It looks like gray.”

  “That’s a big help,” Molinson grumbled. “There must be thousands of gray cars registered with the Department of Motor Vehicles. It might be a car from
Connecticut, Rhode Island, New Jersey....”

  Trixie nodded, discouraged. “We may never find out who would try to do such a terrible thing to Mrs. Elliot. She’s such a sweet, kindly person—”

  “I know,” Molinson interrupted. “When one of my officers was hurt recently, she took flowers to the hospital every day and gave vegetables to his wife and children.” Molinson’s glance moved from Trixie to Honey and back again. “I’d like to get my hands on the creep, too.” He sighed. “But with the little I’ve got to go on, it doesn’t seem very likely.”

  His tone hardened as he looked at the weeds and grass flattened by tires and feet. “I hope you haven’t destroyed other possible evidence here, trying to play detective. I appreciate your concern, but, as I said before, you’d better be on your way.”

  As she and Honey walked toward the cottage, Trixie said wryly, “I knew that friendly tone of his was too good to last.”

  Back at the potting shed, most of the gasoline had evaporated. Just to be safe, Jim was watering down the area with a garden hose.

  Mrs. Elliot brought out a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you,” she said.

  “Me, too,” said Max, scowling at the building. “Not that the shed would have been much of a loss. But the idea of someone trying to destroy it—”

  “Is it insured?” Jim asked.

  Max shook his head. “Too old and rundown,” he replied.

  “I couldn’t afford any insurance anyway,” said Mrs. Elliot. “But there are tools stored in there. And I need the hothouse on the side for some of my plants, like hyacinths and lilies for Easter, and poinsettias for Christmas.”

  “Your flowers are beautiful, Mrs. Elliot,” said Trixie, looking around. “I wish I had a green thumb like you and Max.”

  Max snorted. “I can’t grow a thing. All I’m good for is knocking down weeds. And I’d better get after them if we’re going to have any com to sell.” He moved away toward the cornfield.

  Mrs. Elliot gazed after him. “Max still has too much of the city in him,” she murmured. “Everything happens so fast there. But with growing things, you have to learn to wait, to be patient.”

  “I guess I’m not very patient,” Trixie admitted. “I tried planting sweet peas this spring, but I gave up and quit watering them before they blossomed.”

  “Let me give you a bouquet of mine,” Mrs. Elliot said. Ignoring Trixie’s protests, she led the way through the garden. “You mustn’t wait until too late in the spring to plant sweet peas, Trixie. You should dig a deep trench in good loamy soil, well fertilized. Soak the seeds overnight before planting them, then keep the soil moist.”

  “I’ll remember what you said next time,” Trixie said. “But the plants kept falling down.

  “That’s natural for them,” Mrs. Elliot explained. “It’s called ‘stooping.’ They’ll grow more roots and climbers. Just be sure they have something to climb on. Chicken wire is fine, or a trellis, or string.”

  Trixie gasped at the sight of a huge pillar of colorful sweet peas. Then she spotted the opened frame of an old umbrella, hanging from the beam of the arbor facing the sun. From each umbrella rib, stout twine hung to the ground for the sweet peas to climb on.

  “What a neat ideal” Trixie exclaimed.

  “It does create a pleasing effect, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Elliot said. She smiled and explained sheepishly, “I needed something for them to climb on. I didn’t have any chicken wire and couldn’t afford to buy any. I found this old umbrella frame that I’d never gotten around to having re-covered. It just goes to show what you can get by with if you really put your mind to it.”

  “I think it’s beautiful,” Trixie said. Her eyes danced from color to color: lavender, pink, blue, red, white, and yellow. “So many colors! And the stems are so big—not like my scrawny plants at all.”

  “That comes from good feeding and watering,” said Mrs. Elliot. She began snipping and collecting a bouquet.

  “Oh, don’t cut too many,” Trixie protested.

  Mrs. Elliot shook her head. “If the blossoms aren’t taken off, the vines will go to seed instead of creating more blooms.”

  Trixie frowned at the size of the bouquet. “You shouldn’t give so many away.”

  “Why not? Flowers are for sharing with others. And,” Mrs. Elliot sighed, “they don’t sell the way they used to.”

  “But they should,” Trixie said. “They’re so beautiful.”

  Mrs. Elliot handed Trixie a lovely bouquet. “It’s warm today, so I’ll wrap these cut ends in some damp moss to keep the flowers fresh.”

  Riding back to Manor House, Trixie raised the bouquet to smell the sweet scent.

  Honey was watching her. “You’re sniffing more than flowers,” she said.

  Trixie nodded absently. “There’s a lot about this afternoon I just can’t believe.”

  “You mean you can’t believe that school is out?” Honey asked.

  Trixie gave her a scowl.

  Honey nodded. “I know. It’s Mrs. Elliot. I can’t believe it either, that someone would want to destroy her property.”

  Trixie urged Susie ahead to pace alongside Jim on Jupe. “When you go down to the police station to let Sergeant Molinson take your fingerprints, I’d like to go with you.”

  Jim grinned. “I’ll enjoy your company, but he won’t.”

  Mart overheard. “Now what are you concocting, sister?”

  “Some way to help Mrs. Elliot. And,” Trixie added quickly to forestall any more questions, “among other things, when her com is ready, I think we should buy some and have a com roast.”

  The B.W.G.’s all agreed.

  When they arrived at Manor House, Regan eyed the horses. “Good,” he commented. “They’re not overheated or winded. Give them a rubdown, then water and feed them. How was Mrs. Elliot?”

  Regan’s big hands clenched when he heard about the arson attempt.

  Dan, back from town, stood to one side, listening quietly and frowning. “Would you recognize the man if you saw him again?” he asked.

  The B.W.G.’s explained that they’d only seen the man from a distance.

  “But we did find some other clues,” Trixie said.

  Dan’s frown deepened. “I think you should leave this to Sergeant Molinson.”

  “Why?” Trixie asked.

  Dan shrugged. “I just think that you should. Arson is serious business. Dangerous.”

  “Dan’s right,” Regan agreed. “Any guy who’d want to set fire to a struggling widow’s property has got to be really sick. It’s a good thing that he didn’t get a better look at you kids. So keep out of it. Don’t play with fire!”

  The B.W.G.’s were silent as they groomed the horses and cleaned the tack. When Brian and Mart were ready to leave for home, Trixie lingered behind.

  “Tell Moms I’m going to ride into Sleepyside with Jim,” she said.

  “My earlier testimony has been corroborated,” Mart commented. “She’ll get around to her chores sooner or later—emphasis on later.” Trixie thrust the bouquet at him. “Stick your nose in this. Maybe it’ll sweeten your thoughts. Give it to Moms.”

  “Peace offering?” Mart asked mockingly. Trixie sneered. “Jim will drop me off at home as soon as he’s through at the police station.”

  On the two-mile drive into town, Jim was thoughtful. While waiting for a stoplight to change, he turned to Trixie. “What Regan said really kind of scares me,” he admitted. “If that guy recognized any of us and found out where we live....”

  Trixie shuddered. “Gleeps! He might try starting another fire. That’s all the more reason for us to do anything we can to see that he’s captured.”

  “I don’t know what more we can do,” Jim said, turning his eyes to the road as the fight changed. “We’ve already told Sergeant Molinson everything we saw.”

  In the Sleepyside police station, Trixie remained silent. Sergeant Molinson’s frown at her app
earance was all the warning she needed. She stood to one side, watching, as the fingerprints of Jim’s right hand were taken. Then Jim showed Sergeant Molinson where he had grasped the gas can when he had turned it upright.

  The telephone on Molinson’s desk rang. He answered and, after a brief conversation, began writing a series of numbers on a note pad.

  Trixie turned to a cork bulletin board and began scanning the various cards and papers tacked on it. There were hints about bicycle safety. A small holder contained stickers with emergency numbers for police, fire, and ambulance, to be placed on telephones. A large color poster illustrated various kinds of harmful drugs, how they were used and what their effects were.

  Molinson hung up the phone and spoke to one of his officers. “That was the local Social Security office. Here’s a list of numbers of the checks that were stolen from the rural postal route on Glen Road. The office is sending out warning bulletins to all area banks. I don’t think we’ll see the checks around here, but make some copies of this list and get them to Lytell’s store on Glen Road.”

  Trixie broke her silence. “Did you say the Glen Road postal route? That would include Mrs. Elliot, wouldn’t it? Was her check stolen, too?”

  Molinson scowled. “You’re right up-to-date, aren’t you? The checks were stolen ten days ago. The names of people who didn’t receive their Social Security checks were in last week’s paper.”

  Trixie reddened and spoke to Jim, who was wiping his hand on a paper towel. “I’ll meet you at the car.”

  She hurried out of the police station and down the street to the office of the Sleepyside Sun. At a table in the lobby, she opened the large binder containing recent back issues of the paper. Trixie had been too busy lately with school and other activities to bother reading the newspapers delivered to Crabapple Farm. Anyway, the New York City paper was usually filled only with politics, problems of foreign countries, and big-city crime. And the Sleepy-side Sun had mostly news she didn’t care about, either: “Mrs. Smith entertained Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Brown, and Mrs. Anderson for luncheon and bridge on Tuesday.” The following week, Mrs. Jones’s name would be first, because the luncheon had been at her home. Trixie seldom looked at the paper unless she expected an item about some activity in which she or her friends had participated. Remembering Molinson’s scowl, Trixie vowed that she would keep more “up-to-date.”