“Oh, good!” Honey said quickly. “You can ask him how to get there, Trixie!”
“And find out which plants should be blooming there now, this early in the season,” Di added. “I’ve heard that some herbs should be gathered in spring and others when they’re in bloom in July or August. And some you shouldn’t pick till they go to seed—and—” She was getting interested in the project now.
“Brian knows all the answers,” Mart interrupted. He glanced at his wristwatch. “But if you intend to ask him anything, Trix, you’d better scoot off home, quick like a rabbit, and do it before he gets too deep in his Latin. He has to study all evening to make up for taking the day off tomorrow to help with the planting.”
“I’ll be on my way right now,” Trixie assured him. And to the girls she said hastily, “I’ll phone you both the very minute I’ve talked to Brian. Then you can talk to your folks and arrange for the trip. Don’t forget to remind them that it’s really part of our schoolwork.”
“Mother is having some people at the house for a few days,” Honey said, a little frown creasing her forehead, “but I’m sure they aren’t any of our relatives or anybody she’d want me to stay home and entertain. I can’t remember who they are. Some foreign name, I think. Something to do with the Arts Club that Mother’s president of.”
“I don’t think I’m doing anything special this weekend,” Di said, “so I won’t have much trouble getting away.”
“Wonderful! Don’t go far from the phone, and I’ll call just as soon as I can.”
Trixie shifted her load of books to her other hip and started off along Glen Road toward the small white Belden farmhouse. Mart caught up with her in a couple of strides, and they hurried along in silence for a few minutes.
“Pretty decent of you to want to cheer up the old girl with some new specimens,” Mart said finally.
Trixie was so startled by the unexpected compliment that she came to a complete stop and stood staring at her almost-twin in amazement. “Well!” she finally managed to get out. “Thanks!” And she meant it.
Mart frowned at her. “Come on! Moms is probably having fits, because you promised to get home early and take Bobby off her hands so she could go shopping.”
“Gleeps! I forgot!” Hurrying after Mart, she fell into stride with him, and they went along together again in comfortable silence.
A small warm wind sent the faint perfume of crab apple blossoms along Glen Road from the Belden orchard.
“Mmm! Smell that!” Trixie broke the silence.
Mart sniffed the air. “Hmf! It’s just gasoline fumes.”
“You know I didn’t mean that, Mart Belden,” Trixie snapped irritably and stalked on.
Mart chuckled. “How would anyone know what goes on in that infinitesimal think tank of yours?”
Trixie had a retort on the tip of her tongue, but they had reached the foot of their home driveway, and what she saw up in front of the small white farmhouse stopped her. It stopped Mart, too.
For a moment, they both stood staring at the three expensive cars that were parked there.
“Oh, Mart! Something must have happened!” Trixie’s quick mind went to work. “Maybe Bobby ran out in front of one of the cars or Brian bumped his jalopy into one of them. Let’s hurry!”
Mart took hold of her arm quickly. “Whoa, there! Don’t push the panic button! It’s probably the Landmarks Society examining our pegged floors again. You know, we’re quite historical—or should I say hysterical, at the moment?”
Trixie pulled, but Mart held on, and a minute later she stopped struggling. “All right, I’m calm. I’m sure it’s all right, or those three drivers wouldn’t be just standing around talking behind that second car.”
They were both walking at a dignified pace as they came past the three limousines lined up near the house.
“I don’t hear any chattering going on inside, do you?” Mart asked. “Wonder what the ladies are looking at this time. Could be the old butter churn out on the back porch.”
“Let’s go look.” Trixie hurried on.
But there was no one there, either. Trixie, poking her head in at the kitchen door, saw signs of interrupted dinner preparations but no Mrs. Belden.
Mart was close on her heels. “Mysteriouser and mysteriouser,” he hissed, helping himself to a red-cheeked apple from the dish that always stood in the center of the table. But he had no time to bite into it. Voices from a distance were being wafted to their ears from somewhere out in the crab apple orchard behind the house.
Mart dashed back to the door and started out. “Hey! Looks like a convention. Something’s going on out under the trees. I can see Moms and Bobby watching.”
Trixie hardly waited for him to finish speaking before she was on her way out. Mart and the apple followed.
The crab apple trees were a mass of blooms against the clear blue of the afternoon sky. Trixie had been admiring them every morning for the past week, after they had all burst into bloom at practically the same time, so her attention was all on the strangers in the orchard.
A man had set up a camera on a tripod and was apparently getting ready to photograph a small girl dressed in a vivid costume and holding a violin in her hand. She was very slight and frail-looking, with long golden curls. Trixie decided that she must be about seven years old, eight at the most. She was standing quietly while three women fussed over her curls, powdered her nose, and adjusted her costume. The only time she moved was when a stray blossom, loosened by the wind, floated down and landed on her cheek. Then she brushed it away impatiently and stood woodenly again, looking bored.
It was Mart who spotted the lettering on the photographer’s satchel: SLEEPYSIDE SUN.
“Publicity stuff,” Mart told a puzzled Trixie. “I don’t know who Goldilocks is, but it looks as if the Sleepyside Sun thinks she’s worth a picture. I hope Moms is charging rental on the crab apple trees!”
“Why, she wouldn’t—” Trixie stopped abruptly as she saw that Mart was just fooling. But a moment later, after studying the delicate-looking child a little more, she said thoughtfully, “I know I’ve seen her before somewhere.”
“Maybe you’ve been visiting a gypsy camp, looking for a clue to one of your mysteries. All those beads and the bright-colored clothes look like a gypsy outfit.”
“But she’s a blond, and those long yellow curls don’t belong on a gypsy,” Trixie whispered back.
They moved closer to their mother and Bobby and stood watching in silence as another man spoke to one of the three women who had been fussing over the child.
“We’d like one more shot of her playing the violin, if you don’t mind, Miss Crandall. The light is just right now,” the young man said eagerly, “for a backlight effect.”
“Very well, Mr. Trent.” The tall, severe-faced woman snapped her words. “But only one more. And hurry with it. My niece is getting tired.”
“Thanks, Miss Crandall.” He and the photographer hurried to the little girl. “How about a pretty smile this time, Gaye?” he coaxed.
The little girl gave him a cold, unfriendly look. “I’m tired, and I don’t feel like smiling,” she told him. “Just finish, and then go away.”
“That’s telling him!” Mart told Trixie with a grin. He hadn’t intended to speak loudly enough to be heard by anyone but Trixie, but it happened to be one of those strangely quiet moments when no one else was speaking. As a consequence, several of the others turned startled faces toward him, and Mart’s freckled face flushed crimson.
The young reporter scowled at Mart, but the photographer laughed. “Okay, sis. This is the last,” he told the little girl good-naturedly and prepared to take the picture.
“Who are they, Moms?” Trixie whispered.
“Guests of the Wheelers. That young man from the Sun is preparing an article about the little girl. She’s a famous violinist, I understand.”
Trixie was impressed but puzzled. “But she’s awfully little to be famous! She can’t be much o
lder than Bobby.” She frowned. “Why did they come here to take pictures?”
Mrs. Belden smiled. “Our crab apple trees are the prettiest background they could find, and Mrs. Wheeler suggested it. They’re staying for tea, so you’d better hurry in and get the kettle on. We’ll use the best china.”
The picture was taken now, and the child was standing alone. Trixie had a sudden impulse to go to her and ask her to come along into the house and help get tea ready.
But before she could reach her, Trixie’s good-natured Irish setter, Reddy, came loping in, tongue lolling, tail wagging, from some business of his own in the woods. He saw the small blond girl and ventured over to investigate her. The little girl gave a terrified scream and dropped the violin.
In answer to her scream, a small white poodle hurtled suddenly out of the open door of one of the big cars in the driveway. Barking shrilly, he dashed to the rescue, with all the courage of a lion.
Reddy stopped to look at the tiny white ball of fur rushing noisily at him, and he got down on his haunches to challenge it to a romp. The poodle skidded to a stop at a safe distance but continued its shrill yelps of defiance.
Sunlight flashed on the small dog’s brilliant collar. Mart laughed. “Look out, Reddy,” he called, “or that city dude will chew you to pieces!”
“No! No! Don’t you hurt Mr. Poo!” the little girl shrieked and started to run toward the two animals.
“Gaye! Come back here!” Miss Crandall called, hurrying after the child. “You’ll be hurt! Remember your hands!”
But Gaye kept on going. Then she tripped and fell,
and the shrieks changed to screams of anger and pain.
Trixie dashed toward Reddy to pull him away from the yapping poodle, but Reddy dodged and escaped her. Encouraged, the poodle chased after Reddy, and Reddy galumphed around happily, with the poodle yapping at his heels. It was all a lovely romp for good-natured Reddy, and the tiny poodle seemed to be beginning to enjoy the chase.
Mart laughed. “Wish I had my camera,” he said as Trixie stood watching the two dogs disappear into the orchard. Trixie tried to think of something withering to say about his sense of humor but gave it up after a futile moment.
“Go get that little dog, and tie Reddy up,” her mother called hastily as she went by, with Bobby in tow, to help the ladies soothe the screaming Gaye.
“Mart, would you?” Trixie coaxed.
Mart shook his head firmly. “Scoot, before Reddy gets tired of having his ears blasted by that insect’s shrieks and gets himself a poodle leg for supper!”
“Reddy wouldn’t do such a thing!” Trixie snapped. But as she hurried after the two dogs, she wasn’t nearly as certain as she had pretended to be that the big red setter wouldn’t forget his manners and take a nip at the pesky yipper.
She lost sight of the pair almost as soon as she entered the orchard, but she could still hear the poodle barking in the distance. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called, “Reddy! Come back here!” Usually Reddy barked when he heard his name called, but this time there wasn’t a sound from him. And now the poodle had stopped its shrill barking, too.
She could see where they had romped across last year’s damp leaves. There was a trail she could easily follow, and she lost no time taking it, calling as she went.
Then, not far ahead, she heard Reddy’s bark. It was sharp. He barked the way he did when he had treed a porcupine or located a woodchuck hole. It was his hunting bark.
Trixie broke into a run. She hoped Reddy hadn’t decided that the white poodle was something to be hunted!
But when she came in sight of the big red dog, she saw how wrong she had been. He was standing between the tiny white poodle and something among the leaves at the foot of a tall tree.
With a menacing growl and bared teeth, Reddy was moving slowly toward a coiled and hissing snake that was almost the color of the faded leaves.
It was a deadly copperhead.
Small Genius ● 3
TRIXIE KNEW THAT one blow from the deadly copperhead’s fangs on Reddy’s long nose would be fatal. Her dog was not trained to hunt snakes. He would approach to attack it head on, as he would a badger or a wildcat. The snake would strike before Reddy could seize it. “Reddy! Here, Reddy!” she yelled desperately.
The big setter stopped his slow progress to glance back uncertainly at her. She called again, “Come!” as sharply as she could.
Training took over then, and Reddy turned back toward his mistress. Among the dead leaves at the foot of the tree, the snake uncoiled and slithered away.
“Good boy!” Trixie’s voice shook in spite of her efforts to keep it steady. Reddy’s long, plumed tail swung happily.
But now the tiny poodle was starting toward the tree, his small black nose quivering with curiosity.
“Mr. Poo!” Trixie let go of Reddy and made a dive for the poodle. She caught him up and held him safe, in spite of his wriggles. “We’re leaving right now, you two trouble hunters!” she told Reddy and the poodle. “Come on, Reddy. Big bone waiting!” She led them back through the orchard.
As soon as she saw her father tonight, she thought, she’d be sure to tell him about the copperhead, and he and Brian could come out armed with heavy sticks and flush it out of the leaves. The reptiles were still sluggish and moved slowly, so it would not be far from here. There were several big boulders at the far end of the orchard, and very likely it had a den there. Every spring, a few of the snakes were seen around the farm, and every spring her father and the boys made a project of ridding the place of them. Since Bobby’s experience with a copperhead the summer before, she knew that they’d act quickly about this intruder.
Trixie came hurriedly back to the edge of the orchard, with the poodle nestling contentedly in her arms and Reddy close at her heels.
The reporter and the cameraman were just leaving in one of the cars. Miss Crandall called sharply after the young reporter, “I must approve all photographs before they are printed, Mr. Trent. Don’t forget.”
“Sure thing, Miss Crandall. We’ll have them ready for your okay tomorrow.” He spoke to the driver, and they drove away.
Miss Crandall had her niece firmly by the hand, and the governess was putting the violin away in its case.
The little girl was rubbing her eyes and sobbing quietly as Trixie came up behind them. She looked forlorn and unhappy, and Trixie had an impulse to cheer her.
“Hey, there! Here’s your puppy, Gaye!” she called. “Here’s Mr. Poo, all safe and happy.”
Gaye looked quickly, dashing away her tears. Then she snatched her hand from her aunt’s and ran toward Trixie, exclaiming, “Give him to me! He’s mine!”
Trixie snuggled her nose in the poodle’s topknot by way of farewell and then held him out to Gaye. “He’s a darling.”
Gaye’s eyes flashed with jealousy and anger as she snatched the little animal from Trixie. “Let go of him! He doesn’t want to be with you! I’m the only one he loves!” She was hugging the puppy so hard that he let out a small yip of distress and struggled to get away. “He’s mine!” She began to cry loudly and hugged him even tighter, in spite of his wriggling.
Mrs. Belden hurried to Gaye and put her arms around the child. “It’s all right, dear. Trixie wasn’t trying to keep him. She brought him back to you.”
“Then send her away!” Gaye demanded, glaring at Trixie defiantly. Mrs. Belden hastily motioned to Trixie to go.
Trixie was annoyed. The little monster! And after she had practically saved the puppy’s life! She turned away with a frown and almost bumped into Mart and Brian, who were watching the scene with amused grins.
“Dognapping, hey? What next?” Mart teased. “And from such a sweet little girl!” He wrinkled his nose at Trixie and grinned.
“If you want to know,” Trixie told him with great dignity, “I probably saved his yippy little life.”
“From being squeezed to death?” Brian smiled.
“No. From a copperhead,�
� Trixie told him. And both boys sobered at once as she explained.
“Good girl,” Brian said grimly. “We’ll take care of Mr. Copperhead tomorrow. Meanwhile, keep Bobby out of the orchard.”
Behind them, Miss Crandall’s voice came sharply. “Stop the sniveling at once, or I’ll send that dog to a boarding kennel tomorrow. I won’t have you getting all worked up when you have a concert to give!”
Gaye wailed loudly. “Please, Aunt Della! I won’t cry. Don’t take him away! Please!”
“Poor kid!” Brian muttered under his breath.
The three of them watched Miss Crandall take the puppy out of Gaye’s clinging arms and hand him to the governess. “Put him in the car till we’re ready to go.” Gaye screamed after the governess, “Don’t let anybody touch him!”
“Recognize the little princess yet?” Mart grinned.
Trixie nodded. “I just this minute remembered. I saw her picture on a poster in front of the Music Hall last week when Mrs. Wheeler took Honey and me to hear the string quartet. She’s Gaye Hunya, and she’s going to play the violin there next Saturday.”
“Not just ‘play the violin,’ Trix,” Brian told her. “Our temperamental little friend is to appear as guest soloist with the symphony. And she gave a recital at Carnegie Hall when she was only five years old. Her father was a famous European violinist.”
“Well, bully for her!” Mart said dryly. “Too bad she isn’t a singer instead of a fiddler. She can scream loud enough when she wants to!”
“What a life she must lead,” Brian said thoughtfully. Trixie stared at him, puzzled. He sounded as if he were actually sorry for the little prodigy. “I should think it would be simply super to be famous and have thousands of people buying tickets to hear you.”
“It’s also hard work,” Mart reminded her, “which would not be so popular with you!”
“I work just as hard as you do, Mart Belden,” Trixie retorted. “All you do is a few chores and exercise the Wheeler horses. And I do that and a lot more—taking care of Bobby when Moms is busy and doing the dishes and everything else!”
The Marshland Mystery Page 2
