Too happy to speak, Trixie only nodded.
Back at the clubhouse, Trixie sat in a corner, watching and listening to the banter among her closest friends. I can’t imagine any of us being happier than we are right now, she thought.
After a while, Trixie’s reflective mood passed, and she joined in the chatter. The Bob-Whites discussed the plans for the bikeathon and their hopes for its success. Then the topic shifted to the upcoming end of school and the beginning of summer.
“I can’t wait,” Di Lynch said happily. “Just think —swimming, lying in the sun—”
“And weeding the garden,” Mart groaned, clutching his back as if he could already feel it ache after bending over a hoe.
“We’ve had one good omen for the summer already,” Brian said.
“What’s that?” Honey asked.
“Well, it’s been quite a while now since Trixie got us involved in a mystery. That just might mean that she’s outgrown the phase, and we can spend the summer enjoying ourselves, instead of keeping her out of trouble.”
Mart, Dan, and Di laughed, but Trixie and Honey exchanged guilty glances, knowing that their suspicions about Ben and Nick amounted to two more mysteries to solve, even though they’d been telling each other that there was no such thing.
I’d be working on the bank note mystery, too, Trixie thought, if I knew where to begin.
As her eyes shifted from Honey’s, Trixie saw Jim looking at her, his green eyes trying to read her thoughts.
The Trophy Shop ● 12
BY MONDAY, Trixie was feeling restless and distracted. During class, during homework and chores for her mother, Trixie’s thoughts continually returned to the bikeathon. She was eager for it to start, and just as eager for it to be over with, so she’d know how much money had been raised.
There was very little she could do, however. At the clubhouse on Saturday, it had been decided that Trixie, Jim, and Brian would man the first rest stop at the deserted house, checking off riders’ names and handling the refreshments. Di and Mart were to be at Mrs. Vanderpoel’s, and Dan and Honey would help Mr. Maypenny.
When the last riders left each point, the Bob-Whites working there would go to Maypenny s so that they’d all be there for the picnic.
Between now and then, there’s just nothing left to do, Trixie thought, except to hand out pledge cards to people who ask me for them at school and set up the booth on Wednesday to collect the cards.
When Trixie wasn’t thinking about the bikeathon, she was thinking about the counterfeit bank note, wondering what was being done to solve the case. She racked her brain trying to think of something she could do, some way to find a lead, but she had to admit that it was impossible. The closest she came to being in on the case was when her father came home and told the family that the police had questioned the employees at the bank, asking if anyone had tried to redeem any German bills there. No one had.
Brian had errands to run for his mother after school on Monday, and Trixie took advantage of the opportunity to stay downtown and do some window-shopping, hoping that it would provide her with some distractions.
“I’ll meet you back here in an hour,” Brian told her after he’d guided the jalopy into a parking space on the town’s wide main street. “Try not to spend all your money. You have to leave some for your Bob-White dues.”
“I’ve already paid my Bob-White dues,” Trixie told him, “as well as a fine for having a button missing from my club jacket at the last meeting. That means I have no money left to spend.”
Honey had made all of the Bob-Whites’ jackets right after the club was formed. She had worked on them with loving care, fitting the red cloth perfectly and embroidering B.W.G. on the back of each. The Bob-Whites were all very proud of the jackets, and they had decided that any member who appeared in public with his or her jacket in less than top-notch condition would have to pay a fine of ten cents a day to the club treasury. Honey and Di, who always took care to be well groomed, rarely had to pay the fine. Mart, with his love of food, was frequently caught with some remnants of his last meal or snack on his jacket. Trixie, who hated any kind of sewing chore, seemed always to be caught with a tom seam or a missing button. Jim, Brian, and Dan were less concerned with keeping their jackets clean and in good repair than they were with outgrowing them. Honey had already let the sleeves down as far as she could on all three of their jackets, and she’d told Trixie secretly that new jackets might well be good Christmas presents for the boys.
Trixie chuckled to herself as she walked down the street, thinking of Jim, Brian, and Dan all frequently tugging the sleeves of their jackets down over their wrists. Their sleeves don’t seem to stay down much longer than the buttons stay on my jacket when I replace them, Trixie thought. She wished she had Honey’s love for sewing. But Trixie couldn’t even master simple things like buttons, much less the kind of beautiful needlework that Honey could do.
Just then Trixie passed the yard goods store, and she stopped for a moment to look through the window at the bolts of brightly colored spring fabric that had just come in. It was all so beautiful, and Trixie thought about the beautiful spring and summer clothing that Honey could make from it. I’d just go wild if I had to sit still long enough to sew even the simplest skirt. Besides, the beautiful things Honey sews look wonderful on her, but all of my things get wrinkled or stained the minute 1 put them on. I guess that’s why they call me “Tomboy Trixie
Walking a little farther down the street, Trixie came to the sporting goods store. Here she lingered for quite a while, looking longingly at the tents and sleeping bags, the shiny ten-speed bikes, and the well-stocked shelves of camping supplies. The Bob-Whites all loved camping out, especially since Jim had taught them so much about woodcraft and the outdoors. Most of their equipment
was worn or makeshift, though, since their strict rules about making their own way prevented taking the expensive gifts that Mr. Wheeler would have been happy to give them. The Bob-Whites always hoped that there would be enough money in the treasury for some of the new equipment they wanted, but whenever they had managed to put something aside, they had found some good cause to donate it to.
Trixie sighed deeply and continued on her walk. This doesn’t seem to be cheering me up very much, she thought, although it certainly is distracting.
Soon Trixie had walked past the section of town where the nicer, busier stores were located and was in an area where the shops were smaller and not as clean or well decorated.
She looked into store windows where the displays featured plumbing fixtures and used appliances. In one window, a huge leather shoe, at least two feet long, drew attention to the shoe repair shop inside. Trixie smiled as she looked at it. Imagine trying to find the owner of a shoe like that! she thought. It would be like the story of Cinderella, only in reverse: Whose foot is big enough to fit inside this shoe?
In the next window, Trixie saw an elaborate display of trophies and ribbons. Some of the trophies were for special activities and had bowlers, baseball players, or even cats and dogs perched on the tops. Others were plain loving cups that could be given out for any special honor. There were also huge ribbons in many colors, some with fancy rosettes on the, top. Trixie stared at them, imagining the speeches that would be made as they were presented to their winners and the speeches the winners would make as they accepted the awards.
I wonder how much they cost, Trixie thought. It would he nice to he able to give something to the riders who finish the whole bikeathon route, or at least to those who earn the most money in pledges. There’s only one way to find out. Trixie opened the door and walked in.
The store looked deserted when Trixie walked in, but a small bell hanging above the door tinkled to tell the owner that someone was in the shop.
For a few moments, no one appeared, and Trixie amused herself by looking at other trophies on display inside the store and at newspaper photographs of people presenting awards to other people.
At last a man emerge
d from the back of the shop. Trixie saw a look of disappointment cross his face when he saw her standing in his shop alone, and she realized that he did not consider her a serious customer. And he’s probably right, she thought. There’s not much money in the Bob-White treasury right now, in spite of all Mali’s and my fines.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone more polite than hopeful.
“I’m not sure,” Trixie confessed. “I just happened to be passing by your window, and it occurred to me that it might be nice to buy some trophies or ribbons for an event that I’m helping to organize. Are they very expensive?”
The man frowned slightly, and his already stooped shoulders sagged a little more. He looked sad and overworked, and Trixie could imagine the feeling of anticipation he’d had when he’d heard the door open and the hopelessness that had taken its place when he’d walked out here to find only a fourteen-year-old girl with sandy hair and freckles, wanting to buy some inexpensive ribbons.
“That depends on what you mean by expensive,” the man replied. He walked over to a glass display case in a far corner of the room and pulled out a plain ribbon with the words “First Place” printed on it. “This is the least expensive award I have. It has a card on the back where you can write the date, the name of your organization, and the reason for the award. We carry ribbons for first through fourth place, and they’re fifty cents apiece.” Trixie listened carefully, nodding. She started to calculate how much it would cost for four ribbons, and how much that would leave in the Bob-White treasury. Suddenly it struck her that something about the man behind the counter looked very familiar. She looked at him carefully, then snapped her fingers as the name came to her. “Nick Roberts!” she exclaimed.
The man looked perplexed. “That’s my name, yes. Do I know you from somewhere?”
Trixie flushed. “That’s right, I’d forgotten. Nick Roberts would be your name, too. But it’s your son that I know—Nicholas William Roberts the third. My name is Trixie Belden, Mr. Roberts. Nick and I are in school together. In fact, it’s partly because of Nick that I’m helping to organize the event that I told you about. It’s a bikeathon to help raise money for the art department.”
Trixie thought she saw the man’s face tighten, but she continued. “Fifty cents apiece seems very reasonable to me. I’d like to buy four of them—one each of first through fourth place. I’ll have to come back tomorrow, though, because I don’t have that much money with—”
“I’m sorry,” the man interrupted in a harsh voice. “I should have explained. I don’t sell ribbons in such small quantities. A minimum order is a dozen of each.” His voice was controlled, but Trixie noticed that his eyes were lowered, as though he didn’t want to look at her.
“But surely—” Trixie began.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Roberts repeated. “Selling one ribbon at a time makes it too hard to keep track of our inventory. The small amount of money I’d make would not be worth the extra work.” He put the ribbon back in the case. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do in the back room.” He turned on his heel and walked away.
Trixie stared after him. She couldn’t feel angry, because the man hadn’t really been impolite. His reasons seemed to make sense. The tiny shop was spotlessly clean, but the worn carpet on the floor and the peeling paint said clearly that hard work went into every penny that was earned here.
Still, Trixie thought, the bikeathon is meant to help his son. You’d think that he’d at least let me buy the ribbons if I’m willing to pay for them.
Like father, like son. The old expression ran through Trixie’s mind, and she had to admit to herself that it had never seemed truer than when applied to Mr. Roberts and Nick. Neither one of them likes the bikeathon idea one little bit, Trixie thought. She wondered what Nick had told his father to make him so opposed to it.
Leaving the shop, Trixie was struck by another thought. I wonder if it’s just the opposite. I wonder if Mr. Roberts told Nick something that turned him against the bikeathon.
Noticing the time on the bank clock, Trixie realized that Brian was probably already waiting at the car. She walked quickly back down the street. Me and my bright ideas, she thought. This walk was supposed to take my mind of my thoughts. All it did was give me even more to think about.
Sinister Warnings • 13
TRIXIE WAS GLAD for the chance to be busy after school on Wednesday, when she and Di and Honey once again set up their table in front of the principal’s office.
For an hour they were busy indeed, as one student after another handed in pledge cards. When the last student had left, the girls sat for another few minutes, quietly totaling up the pledges.
“Yippee!” Trixie yelled when she looked at the final total. The yell echoed in the deserted hallway, and she clapped her hand over her mouth and looked around guiltily. “Look at this!” she exclaimed. “If all the riders finish the route, we’ll have raised close to three thousand dollars!”
“Oh, Trixie, are you sure?” Honey asked, her hazel eyes round with disbelief.
Di Lynch quickly rechecked the figures and nodded. “Trixie’s absolutely right. Oh, just imagine how many things the art department can buy with that much money!”
“That would make it all worthwhile, wouldn’t it?” Trixie didn’t explain what she meant by “all.” She didn’t have to. Honey and Di both knew that she was talking about the troubles with Ben Riker and Nick Roberts. They nodded, indicating their agreement.
After dinner that night, Trixie was trying unsuccessfully to concentrate on her homework, when the phone rang.
“It’s for you, Trixie,” her mother called a moment later.
Trixie ran to pick up the receiver. “Hello,” she said.
“Trixie, this is Honey. Meet me at the clubhouse, right away.” Honey’s voice was so low that Trixie could hardly hear it, but the note of distress was unmistakable.
Trixie knew immediately that Honey was speaking quietly so as not to be overheard by her family, and she forced her own voice to stay light and cheerful as she replied, “Okay, I’ll be right over.”
Hanging up, she turned to her parents, who were sitting in the living room. “That was Honey,” she said. “She wants to talk to me. It’s about the bikeathon,” she added. “I’ll be back in a while.” That wasn’t really a fib, she thought as she pulled on a light jacket and hurried out the door. I’m almost sure it has something to do with the bikeathon. What else could it be?
At the clubhouse, Trixie found Honey pacing the small room, her arms wrapped around her body as if she had felt a chill. Honey was so preoccupied that she didn’t even seem to see Trixie come into the room.
Trixie walked over to her friend and gently touched her shoulder, forcing Honey to look at her. “What is it, Honey?” she asked anxiously. “What happened?”
“Oh, Trixie,” Honey wailed, “I just got the most horrible phone call. H-He said I should call off the bikeathon. He—he said if I didn’t—if the bikeathon went on as scheduled next Saturday—that something awful would happen. ’You can be sure of it,’ he said.” Honey put her hands over her ears, as if to drown out the sound of the man’s voice.
Trixie stared at Honey, trying to absorb the shock of what her friend had just told her.
“Who was it, Honey?” she asked after a few moments. “Did you recognize the voice?”
Honey shook her head. “It was low and rasping and awful,” she said. “I’ve never heard a voice like that. I’d remember it, I’m sure.”
Trixie thought for a moment. “He was probably making it sound that way on purpose, to make it sound more threatening.”
“Well, he certainly succeeded,” Honey said. “I’ll never forget how awful it sounded—never, ever.”
“Wait a minute,” Trixie said. “He could have been disguising his voice—in which case, it might be somebody you know.” Trixie thought for another moment, then took a deep breath and spoke quietly. “Honey, please don’t be offended. I have to ask you
this. Was Ben home when you got the phone call?”
Honey looked up, startled. “No,” she said slowly. “No, he wasn’t. Oh, Trixie, you don’t think—”
“I don’t know what to think, Honey,” Trixie interrupted. “I’m not accusing Ben of anything. You have to admit, though, that he’s a suspect. He’s made crank phone calls before.”
“Oh, Trixie, never like this one,” Honey said. “He’s made silly calls, asking if he was talking to ’Man or House’ and then demanding to know which—and then dissolving into giggles at the other end of the phone, so we knew who it was right away. This was different, Trixie.”
Trixie hesitated again, then asked, “Honey, did it—did it sound at all like Nick Roberts’s voice?”
“Trixie, I told you before, it didn’t sound like anybody I know,” Honey replied, her voice shrill. “What are we going to do?”
Trixie sank into a chair. “Nothing,” she said flatly. “We’re going to do nothing.”
“But, Trixie—” Honey began.
“Don’t you see, Honey?” Trixie interrupted. “With no more information than we have now, the only thing anybody would do if we told them about it would be to cancel the bikeathon. That wouldn’t help us find the phone caller, and it won’t help the art department, either. You just have to be very careful for the next few days. Keep your eyes open and stay out of trouble. Then, after the bikeathon, we’ll report the call to the police.”
Honey agreed reluctantly. “I’m still scared, though, Trixie.”
“It was probably just a crank call, Honey,” Trixie said. “I’m sure that nothing will come of it.” Almost sure, she thought guiltily.
The girls parted, with Honey agreeing not to tell anyone about the call and Trixie reassuring her that everything would be all right.
That night, Trixie lay awake a long time before she finally fell asleep.
Later, she dreamed that she was being chased by a mysterious man on a bicycle, who kept calling out for her to stop in a raspy, horrible voice. In the dream, she couldn’t stop, because ahead of her she saw a German deutsche mark that she had to get so that she could give it to the art department to pay for posters.
The Mystery off Old Telegraph Road Page 9
