“What was it?” Trixie demanded.
Honey looked at Di’s pale face and pulled out a chair. “Here, Di, sit down. You look as if you’re about to fall over.”
“Thanks, Honey,” Di said, sitting down at the worktable. “First of all, the trip to the dentist was just dreadful. I had a cavity that felt as though it went clear through to the top of my head, so I was already pretty upset when I left the dentist’s office. I was thinking about how good it would feel to take my time and have a nice, calm ride home.”
“But what happened?” Trixie repeated, bursting with impatience.
“When I got out to my bike, I discovered that both tires were slashed—that’s what happened!” Di wailed. “My brand-new bike!”
“They were both flat, you mean. You probably forgot to put the caps back on the valves, and—”
“No, Trixie, they were slashed! Absolutely cut to ribbons! I just stood there, with my face still numb from the Novocain, staring at my brand-new bike with those totally ruined tires, and I thought, "Why would somebody do a thing like this to me?’ It was just awful!”
“Vandals!” Trixie muttered. “Things like that never used to happen in Sleepyside.”
“How did you get home, Di?” Honey asked. “Did you have to call your parents to come and get you?”
“No,” Di said. “That’s the only lucky part about the whole thing. I had finally decided that that’s what I’d have to do, and I knew they’d be upset, because they hadn’t really wanted me to ride my bike to town today, anyway.
“But just as I was looking in my purse for a dime to make the call, Ben Riker drove up and asked me if I needed a ride. I told him what had happened, and he loaded my bike into his car—that is, Mr. Wheeler’s car, which he was driving—and took me home.
“Wasn’t that a lucky coincidence?” Di concluded with relief.
“I wonder,” Honey said quietly.
Trixie and Di both turned to her in surprise. “Why, Honey, it was certainly lucky for me Di protested. “Otherwise, I don’t know how—”
“I wasn’t wondering if it was lucky, Di,” Honey said. “I was wondering if it was a coincidence.” As both girls stared at her blankly, Honey moaned, “Oh, don’t you see? What if those friends of Ben’s were the ones who slashed your tires? That’s just the sort of stupid prank that they might think was fun. What if Ben went along with it, then had second thoughts—or maybe felt bad because he knew it was Di’s bike—and came back with his car, waited down the block until he saw Di walk out of the dentist’s office, then drove up and offered her a ride, pretending that he knew nothing about what had happened?”
“I see what you mean,” Trixie mused.
“Oh, Honey, don’t be silly,” Di protested. “Ben wouldn’t do a thing like that. I’m sure it was pure coincidence, just as Nick Roberts said.”
“Nick Roberts? What does he have to do with this?” Trixie asked sharply.
“Oh, I guess I forgot to mention that,” Di said. “Nick was standing next to the bike rack when I came out of the dentist’s office. He said he’d been walking past on his way home and noticed the slashed tires. He was standing there wondering who the bike belonged to when I walked up.”
“I guess that takes the suspicion away from Ben,” Trixie said. She told Di about seeing Nick rip up the bikeathon poster. “For some reason— and I’m sure I don’t know why—Nick Roberts hates the whole idea of the bikeathon, Di. I’m positive that Nick knew perfectly well who that bike belonged to. He has to know that you’re one of the leaders of the bikeathon. Whatever strange reasons made him rip up that poster made him slash the tires on your bike. I’m sure of it. You probably almost caught him at it when you came out of the dentist’s office.”
“It makes sense,” Honey admitted. “That is, it makes sense if you can call two senseless acts making sense. I just wish I were as certain as you are that your theory lets Ben off the hook. Ben and his friends were making fun of the bikeathon the other day at the sign-up, remember? They could be out to stop the bikeathon, too.”
“Well, I don’t think either one of your theories makes sense,” Di Lynch announced. “I think you’re both being silly, trying to come up with explanations that don’t explain anything. Ben Riker and Nick Roberts may both act strange sometimes, but I don’t think that either one of them would deliberately do something as awful as slashing my tires. That poster that Nick ripped up was only a piece of paper, after all—not something as expensive as bike tires. And Ben and his friends may talk a lot, but we haven’t seen them actually do anything awful yet.”
“That’s true,” Trixie had to admit.
“What should we do?” Honey asked.
“I don’t think we should do anything,” Di said firmly. “If you tell anybody what you suspect, it will just cause hard feelings if word of it gets back to Nick or Ben. I think we should just wait and see what happens.”
Honey and Trixie looked at each other for a moment, each wondering whether something worse would happen if they said nothing. Both girls knew, however, that they had no real evidence on which to base their suspicions.
“Di’s right, Honey,” Trixie said finally. “All we can do is wait and see what happens.”
“And hope we were wrong,” Honey added gloomily.
At Mrs. Vanderpoel’s • 11
ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, after the Beldens had finished their weekly chores, Jim and Honey came by in the station wagon to pick them up and drive once more along the bike route, to decide where the directional arrows should go.
Di Lynch was on a shopping trip with her mother, and Dan Mangan was helping Mr. Maypenny patrol the game preserve. But the Bob-Whites had all agreed to meet at the clubhouse later that night to finish their plans for the bikeathon.
Honey had brought along a notebook and pencil so that she could record each of the locations they decided upon for the signs.
“I think the easiest way to keep track will be with the odometer readings,” Jim suggested. “What’s an odometer reading?” Trixie asked. “For the information of those Bob-Whites who are not familiar with the mechanics of the automobile, the odometer is the row of numbers above the steering column that indicates mileage,” Mart informed her. “What Jim means is that Honey should write down the exact mileage of every point that we decide should have an arrow.”
“Right,” Jim said. “When we turned onto Glen Road from the Belden driveway, the final digits on the odometer were three-one-six-point-two. Write that down, Honey. All we have to do is write down the other mileage numbers at each place we choose, then drive the same distance between stops when we put up the signs.”
“That is easier,” Honey agreed. “I was thinking I’d have to write an elaborate code, like ’third maple tree from fourth mailbox from comer,’ or something.”
“I thought we could use woodsman’s symbols,” Trixie said, “like the ones Jim taught us when we first met him—bent twigs or piles of pebbles that—”
“That we could only see if we got out of the car and walked the full length of the route,” Brian concluded. “Your way would be much more romantic, Trixie, but I think Jim’s is more efficient.”
“Here’s our first spot, gang,” Jim said. “Right here where the bikers will leave the school parking lot on Saturday morning.” He read the mileage off to Honey, who wrote it down in her notebook.
Jim continued to drive slowly out of town and down Old Telegraph Road, looking for places where arrows would be easily seen by the riders.
“Wasn’t it somewhere around here that you found that German deutsche mark, Trixie?” Honey asked.
“Right over there against that hedge,” Trixie said, pointing.
“Has Sergeant Molinson told you whether or not they’ve found the counterfeiters yet, Trixie?” Jim asked.
Trixie wrinkled her nose. “No, he hasn’t, which probably means they’re still on the loose. I just wish there were something more that I could do. If Sergeant Molinson hadn’t taken the
bank note away from me, I could show it to people who five around here and ask them if they had seen any others like it. That way—”
“That way you could scare off the counterfeiters, and they’d quietly pack up and move away and set up their operation somewhere else. Let’s face it, Trixie. You don’t know enough about the international currency market to be able to solve this case. Neither do the rest of us,” Brian said.
“I guess you’re right, Brian,” Trixie said. “I’d just assumed, since there was nothing about the bank note in the Sleepyside Sun, that nobody was working very hard at finding the forgers. It never even occurred to me that Sergeant Molinson could have good reasons for keeping it quiet. I guess I still have a lot to learn about the detective business. But how am I supposed to learn when all I’m ever told is to ’stay out of the way’?”
Honey had continued to copy down the mileage readings that Jim told her while Trixie spoke. Now she looked up from her notebook and turned to face Trixie in the backseat. “I know, Trix,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “I bet those forgers are operating out of the abandoned house Daddy bought. I bet that if we pried the plywood off the doors and windows, we’d find big piles of counterfeit money inside.”
While everyone else laughed, Trixie shook her head soberly. “I thought about that, Honey. After all, the hedge where I found that bank note is just down the road from that abandoned house. But I looked at that house carefully right before I found the note. It’s sealed up tight as a drum. It’s just not a good bet.”
“Oh, Trixie, I was just kidding,” Honey said. “You have no sense of humor about mysteries.”
“We re almost to Mrs. Vanderpoel’s house,” Jim said, changing the subject to prevent Trixie’s being teased about her serious concern for mysteries. “Should we stop for a visit?”
“Oh, yes, let’s do!” Honey exclaimed. “I haven’t seen her in ages.”
“Besides,” Mart added, “the way the road to her house wanders around in the woods, we’d better find a place for an arrow about every ten feet, or somebody will be sure to get lost.”
“Or think they’re lost,” Brian corrected. “It’s almost impossible to get really lost, since this is the only road, even though it does seem to wander aimlessly for a mile.”
As if to prove Brian’s point, the road took a sharp curve, then another. Jim slowed the car to a snail’s pace, concentrating on the road and reading the odometer numbers to Honey after each curve.
Rounding a final turn, the Bob-Whites saw the neat yellow brick house where Mrs. Vanderpoel lived. Jim pulled into the drive and shut off the car motor. As the sound of the motor died, Mrs. Vanderpoel appeared at the front door of the house. “I thought I heard a car coming up the road,” she called. “That sound is so rare out here that I can’t help but notice it. Come in, come in!” The Bob-Whites filed into the house, and Jim explained the errand that had brought them to the neighborhood and their decision to stop for a visit.
“I’m so glad you did,” Mrs. Vanderpoel told him. “I just finished making a double batch of oatmeal cookies, as it happens. Would you like some?”
“Yummy-yum!” Honey exclaimed. “Would we ever!
“Mrs. Vanderpoel, I have never had the misfortune to visit you when there were not fresh cookies waiting for me. Is this a case of extrasensory perception on your part?” Mart asked, straight-faced.
The old woman chuckled, her blue eyes crinkling and her rosy cheeks growing even rosier. “Now, Mart, don’t you go throwing your twenty-five-cent words at me,” she said cheerfully. “I don’t know a thing about extra-whatever-you-called-it, but I do know about cookies. I love to bake them, and I love to eat them, too.” She patted her ample stomach. “What with one thing and another, they never seem to go to waste, so I just keep making them.”
“We’re glad you do, too, Mrs. Vanderpoel,” Trixie said. “Mart just means he appreciates your cookies going to his waist.”
“Well, then, why don’t you all sit down at the dining-room table while I get us all some milk and cookies?” Mrs. Vanderpoel said, bustling off to the kitchen.
“I’ll help you,” Honey said, following her. Brian, Mart, Jim, and Trixie all took places around the table. Trixie ran her hand across the gleaming wood. “I love this table. I love all of Mrs. Vanderpoel’s furniture, don’t you?”
“It’s beautiful,” Jim agreed, looking around the room. “These things have all been in Mrs. Vanderpoel’s family for generations, and none of them seem to be any worse for being used, instead of roped off in a museum somewhere.”
“Bless you, no,” Mrs. Vanderpoel said, walking in from the kitchen with a huge platter piled with fragrant oatmeal cookies. “This furniture was made in a time when people had big, busy families and no money to replace their furniture whenever the mood struck them. It was made to last and last. That’s something those so-called antique experts don’t seem to understand.” She set the platter firmly on the table, as if to prove her point about the sturdiness of her furniture.
Honey had followed Mrs. Vanderpoel from the kitchen carrying a tray loaded with glasses of milk. She set one glass in front of each of her friends, then took her place at the table.
“Now,” Mrs. Vanderpoel said, settling her ample form at the head of the table, “tell me all about how your bikeathon is coming along.”
Each of the Bob-Whites looked around the table, waiting for someone else to begin. Each of them saw four pairs of expectant eyes and four jaws working on oatmeal cookies. Simultaneously, all five of the Bob-Whites swallowed their first bite of cookie, and then all five began talking at once.
As everyone burst into laughter, Trixie said, “You can’t expect to get much information when you’ve just fed us these delicious cookies, Mrs. Vanderpoel. But actually, the bikeathon is going wonderfully, so far.”
They all took turns telling her about their plans and about the success of the first sign-up.
Mrs. Vanderpoel listened attentively, nodding her approval. “I’ve always said nothing makes a person feel quite so worthwhile as creating something with his own two hands. That goes for the artwork your friends make in school, as well as for these cookies that I make, and the needlework I do during the winter months. That’s why I think the art department should have as much money as it needs, and I’m happy to help.”
Impulsively, Trixie got up from the table and went over to Mrs. Vanderpoel and hugged her. “You’re the tops, Mrs. V. Not everyone would be willing to serve cookies to a whole yardful of teenagers on a Saturday afternoon. We really appreciate it.”
“A toast to Mrs. Vanderpoel,” Mart said, raising his glass of milk.
“To Mrs. Vanderpoel,” the Bob-Whites chorused, raising their glasses.
The old woman’s eyes glistened, but she replied brusquely. “Oh, piffle! A few cookies and an hour or so of my time aren’t worth very much. I’m glad to help. Speaking of cookies, I was going to wrap some up for you to take to your friends Diana Lynch and Dan Mangan, and to little Bobby. I’d best do that right now.” She got up abruptly and bustled off to the kitchen.
“I’m afraid we embarrassed her,” Honey whispered nervously.
Jim shook his head. “She’s pleased, Honey. I could tell. She’s just very touched because we showed her that we appreciate her. I’m glad we did.”
“Me, too,” Trixie said under her breath.
“Here we are,” Mrs. Vanderpoel said cheerfully, coming back to the dining room with a plate on which there was another huge mound of cookies covered with foil. “Do you think these will be enough?”
“That’s more than generous, Mrs. Vanderpoel,” Brian said, standing and taking the plate. “Thank you, in advance, from Dan and Di and Bobby. I’m afraid we have to be going now. We’re supposed to meet Di and Dan at the clubhouse.”
“We’ll see you on Saturday,” Trixie said as the Bob-Whites walked to the door.
“We’ll be sure to return your plate then,” Mart added. “Good-bye.”
“I�
�ll be here waiting for all of you,” Mrs. Vanderpoel said. “Good-bye!”
Di and Dan were already at the clubhouse when the others returned. Jim dropped Honey, Mart, and Brian off. “I’ll take the car back to the house.
I can get some milk to go with the cookies, too. Trix will ride along,” Jim said.
Trixie looked at him in surprise but said nothing. Honey winked at Trixie as she got out of the car.
As they walked back to the clubhouse, Jim said, “I haven’t had a chance to talk to you alone, and I just wanted to tell you how glad I am that you and Honey have patched up your differences.”
Once again Trixie looked at him in surprise. “How did you know—” she began.
“Oh, Honey didn’t tell me that you two had had a fight,” Jim said. “Although,” he chuckled, “I had a feeling that something was bothering her. Especially after she yelled ’touchdown’ at the baseball game.
“Seriously, though, Trixie, I knew something was wrong, and I have a feeling that Ben Riker was at the heart of it.” Jim sighed. “I can’t take sides, because the Wheelers are my family now, and I’m ’ grateful to them for all they’ve done for me. But I don’t approve of the way Ben acts, and I sympathize with you for having to put up with him.”
Jim stopped walking and turned to look directly at Trixie. “Anyway, I’m glad that you and Honey made up. I hope you won’t let Ben upset you any more. I don’t want anything to come between the Beldens and the Wheelers—not ever.”
“I—I don’t want that, either, Jim,” Trixie faltered. “I didn’t really realize until the other day at the sign-up how much Honey is being hurt by Ben’s behavior and our disapproval of it. It’s easier, now, for me to be tolerant. But I’m glad you understand how I feel. It—it means a lot to me.”
Jim nodded sympathetically. “I know you pretty well, Trixie Belden—and I like what I know about you,” he said. “Let’s get this milk back to the clubhouse while there are still cookies left to drink it with.”
The Mystery off Old Telegraph Road Page 8
