The Mystery at Mead's Mountain

by Campbell, Julie

  “He seems to be okay,” Brian assured them. “He could use something to drink, though.”

  “Katie packed a container of tomato soup," recalled Honey. She poured a cup for the old man. “Here, sir, this will help you keep warm. You remember Trixie and me from yesterday, don’t you?” she said, and then she introduced the others.

  The old man, with trembling hands, took a few sips, then looked up. He seemed to study each of them, his gaze resting on Brian. “My name’s Carl,” he said weakly. “Just Carl, that’s all. I feel better now.” He started to sit up slowly.

  Trixie could tell that his head still really hurt, but he seemed determined to get moving.

  “You need to rest,” Brian said. “Some of us will ski back to the lodge for a rescue litter. Then we’ll take you to a hospital. You should be examined by a professional.”

  “You’re professional enough for me. I’m a tough old coot.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay, sir? You really ought to have that cut cleaned and bandaged by a doctor,” Brian worried. “You may need stitches.”

  “No, I don’t break easy. You just fix me up the best you can, young man. You’re a—a nice bunch of kids.” Carl’s voice trailed off, then he seemed to gather strength. “Listen and listen closely. To thank you for helping me, I’ve got some important advice for you. Mead’s Mountain is a nice place to ski, but playing detective games here may not be very healthy. I’m telling you this because... I don’t want to see you hurt.”

  “How do you know we’re detectives?” asked Trixie.

  “Word gets around. I’m just telling you to play it safe and mind your own business.”

  Brian began bandaging the head wound as well as he could. “Let’s not worry about that now. The important thing is to get you somewhere warm where you can rest. Where do you live? We’ll help you home.”

  “No!” Carl tried to get to his feet, but he sank back to the ground in pain. “Just let me rest here. I’ll be fine.”

  “Here, have something to eat, Carl,” Di urged. “How about a chicken leg?”

  After Carl had eaten some chicken and drunk more soup, he managed to stand up. “I have work to do,” he said awkwardly. “Thank you for your help.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Brian asked again. “We’d be happy to help you to wherever you’re going.”

  “I’m fine,” he snapped. “How many times do I have to tell you that! Will you kids just quit meddling in my life?” Then he pointed at Trixie and yelled, “Especially you!” With that, off he skied into the woods.

  “Wow, Trixie! He is a bit peculiar, your Mr. Carl Moonshine,” said Jim.

  “Peculiar, nothing. He’s a moonshiner or my name isn’t Trixie Belden.”

  “Okay, Elizabeth Taylor,” said Mart, “let’s discuss it while we finish lunch.”

  “Please, not here,” said Di, pointing to the bloodstained snow.

  “You’re right,” agreed Mart. “This place diminishes even my appetite.”

  “Come on,” Jim said, “we have to go back up the cliff anyway to get our skis and stuff.”

  Soon they were all settled comfortably, eating the remains of their lunch and admiring the panoramic view below them.

  “Now,” said Trixie, “let’s go over all the clues.”

  “I’m totally mixed up,” Honey admitted. “There’s so much going on—Carl, Eric, Pat, the ghost, and those awful notes.”

  “All we can do about Eric or Pat is check their footprints,” said Trixie. “It’s Carl who’s really mystifying.”

  “I didn’t like his warning about Mead’s Mountain being unhealthy,” said Jim. “Especially after that last note.”

  “Eric must have told him we’re detectives,” Trixie reasoned. “They’re up to something, otherwise they wouldn’t be worried about our being detectives.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions, Harriet Beecher Stowe,” Mart taunted.

  “In spite of his odd remarks, there’s something about Carl that I like,” said Brian thoughtfully. “He does seem to be a tough old coot.”

  Trixie was astonished. “Gleeps, Brian, he was downright rude, and after you practically saved his life. He didn’t want us around any more than necessary. Look how he acted when you suggested taking him home—like we were poison!”

  “I didn’t save his life at all,” Brian sighed. “Besides, people who love the mountains and live there alone for a long time can forget normal courtesies.”

  “People who love the mountains don’t keep all their shades pulled down in the middle of the day,” Trixie retorted. “I know something funny is going on in there. That’s why he didn’t want us to take him home. He’s probably on his way back from making a delivery of moonshine right now!”

  Brian, Mart, and Jim groaned in unison.

  “It’s just too heavy for an old man, Trixie,” said Brian. “Alcohol is used for other things besides drinking, you know. Doctors use a lot of it for sterilizing, for instance. You yourself said you used it in biology.”

  “Something that smells like alcohol is used in developing pictures, too,” added Mart. “That, my dear Eleanor Roosevelt, would explain why the shades were closed.”

  “Oh....” Trixie could see that her theory was evaporating into nothingness.

  “Alcohol is also used in printing,” Honey recalled. “I remember reading that some printers could become addicted to the smell of ink because of its alcoholic content.”

  “I did notice that his fingers were ink-stained, when I took his pulse,” said Brian.

  Trixie’s face brightened. “Really?” Then she was silent as she sat on the snow-covered log, elbows resting on her knees, chin cupped in her hand, and her brow furrowed.

  Mart bit into his second apple and tapped Trixie on the shoulder. “Oh, Virginia Woolf,” he teased, “are we to deduce from your inertia that you’ve developed another perspicacious hypothesis with which to confound us?”

  “I don’t know,” Trixie sighed. “I was just remembering that show we saw on TV last fall. The one about the huge black market in phony passports, driver’s licenses, birth certificates, and other identifications. Wouldn’t these mountains be a perfect place for that kind of work? You could have all your materials laid out and not worry about anyone interrupting you.”

  “I remember that show,” Brian said. “But we have no reason to suspect Carl of having anything to do with false ID’s.”

  “Why wouldn’t he tell us his full name then?” asked Honey. “And why was he so rude, both now and when Trixie and I went to the cabin?”

  “And why did his cabin smell of alcohol?” added Trixie. “Why are his fingers ink-stained?”

  “I think I can answer all those questions,” Di spoke up quietly.

  There was a moment of silence as the others stared at Di in amazement.

  “The art museum benefit my folks had last spring,” Di said by way of explanation.

  “Yes?” prompted Trixie.

  “There were a lot of Carl Stevenson prints there, and we talked to his daughter, Ellen Johnson, for a while,” Di continued. “She showed us one print of an old man with long white hair, called ‘Legend of a Mountain Man.’ She said it was really a self-portrait of her father, who lives alone in the mountains. It looked just like Mr. Moonshine.”

  “Di, you’re right!” exclaimed Honey. “How thrilling to think that we may have actually met Carl Stevenson himself!”

  “Of course you’re right,” said Jim. “The ink-stained fingers and artistic temperament. And the printer’s ink smell in his cabin. That would also explain why he doesn’t like a bunch of people around.”

  Trixie didn’t say anything. She couldn’t remember the picture very well at all. She was excited about having met a famous artist, but part of her was disappointed that he wasn’t a backwoods moonshiner.

  “That takes care of that,” said Mart, standing up. “Now, if everyone’s done eating, let’s get off the wild-goose trail and back on the ski trail.
Coming, Your Majesty, Queen of England?”

  Trixie glared at him and sputtered, “Well, you’re certainly no king, Mart Belden. You’re not even a prince or—or a very nice brother!”

  Jim laughed. “However that may be, I think we should head back to the lodge. It looks like a dandy storm is brewing.”

  Some Answers ● 13

  WHEN THE BOB-WHITES got back to their suite, Pat, Katie, and Rosie were waiting for them with Miss Trask.

  “Honey,” said Miss Trask, “Pat and Katie have some news for you.” Her tone of voice did not indicate whether the news was good or bad.

  Katie gave Rosie a little shove toward Honey. “Tell her, Rosie.”

  Very shyly, Rosie went up to Honey. She held out her hand. In it was Honey’s watch.

  Honey squealed with delight. “Rosie! You found my watch!” She bent down and gave the girl a big hug. “Oh, you little darling!”

  “Just a minute, Honey.” Something in Pat’s voice made Honey stand up and look at him questioningly. “Go ahead, Rosie,” he said. “Tell Honey the rest of the story.”

  In a quivering whisper, Rosie said, “I—I took it.” Then she turned, ran back to Katie, and hid her face in her mother’s lap.

  Katie automatically began to stroke the girl’s soft black curls and continued the story. “The first morning you were here, Rosie came to your room to meet you. She walked in and saw all of you out in the swimming pool. She tried to go outside, but she couldn’t get the patio door open.”

  “Rosie must have been the one to lock our door!” exclaimed Trixie. “She did it by accident, thinking she was unlocking the door.”

  Pat went on, “When she went into the bedrooms to see if anyone was there, she saw Honey’s watch. She thought it was pretty, and she’s wanted a watch since a friend of hers got one for Christmas. Rosie has a problem understanding that she can’t have everything that she wants or likes.”

  Katie sighed. “We re really sorry for all the inconvenience and worry we’ve caused you. Aren’t we, Rosie?” She pulled Rosie up to a standing position.

  “I’m sorry,” Rosie sniffed. “I won’t ever touch your watch again.” Tears rolled down her round cheeks.

  Honey realized that it was very important for Rosie to understand that she had done something wrong, but her compassionate nature couldn’t tolerate any more of the child’s unhappiness. She hugged Rosie again and said, “It’s okay, honey, someday you’ll have a watch of your very own.”

  Trixie’s mind was racing. She remembered the first time she had met Rosie—when she got a scolding for taking a jar of peanut butter she shouldn’t have. Jeepers, did I miss that clue! she thought. Eric even said he was looking for her outside our suite.

  “Wanda’s quarters!” Trixie interrupted her own thoughts out loud. “Has anyone asked Rosie about Wanda’s quarters?”

  Everyone turned to stare at Trixie.

  “Well, I mean, if she thought Honey’s watch was pretty, maybe she thought Wanda’s quarters were, too.”

  “We returned them a few hours ago,” said Pat. “Trixie, you’re some detective, you know that?”

  “That’s what I told you,” said Katie. “She’s even famous!”

  Mart cleared his throat. “Not to put an end to our shamus’s hour of glory,” he said, “but how did you find out that Rosie had the watch and the quarters?”

  “She’s supposed to rest every day after lunch,” said Katie. “Lately she’s been sneaking out of her room, so I went in to check on her today. There she was on the floor, making stacks of quarters. We had quite a little chat, and then she showed me the watch. But—we really have to go now. I’m just so happy we found the watch while you’re still here.”

  “This time I will give it to Miss Trask for safekeeping,” promised Honey.

  After the O’Briens had left and Miss Trask had gone to her room to put Honey’s watch away, Jim leaned over to Trixie and said, “I guess this lets Eric off the hook.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  Jim raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Maybe he’s not a thief, but don’t forget the funny conversation I overheard,” Trixie explained.

  Mart snorted. “And don’t you forget, Miss Scarlett O’Hara, that the man you heard him talking with is one of the most respected artists in the country. And furthermore, don’t you forget your disposition toward overemphasizing, exaggerating, and downright imagining anything even remotely suspicious!”

  “Some Rhett Butler you’d make,” giggled Di as Miss Trask came back into the room.

  “Honey,” Miss Trask said, “as soon as you discovered that you had worn your good watch by mistake, you should have brought it to me.”

  “You’re right, as always,” Honey said apologetically. “I’ll try to be more careful next time.”

  “Now that we’ve solved the mystery of the missing timepiece,” Mart broke in, “perhaps we could take some time out for dinner?”

  Trixie and Honey fell behind the others as they walked over to the restaurant. “If Eric doesn’t turn out to be the ghost, who do you think it could be?” Honey wondered.

  “There’re lots of people,” Trixie said. “Carl for one. I still think he’s up to something, famous artist or not. And he’s the one I saw in the woods the night our room was broken into and the fire was doused. Pat’s another one. He’s certainly had the opportunity. And what about Jack Caridiff? He’s always talking about ghosts.”

  “But Jack was with us when all the lights flickered in the lodge,” Honey said.

  “Oh, that’s right. I still think it’s Eric,” said Trixie just before they joined the others at the table.

  As they were finishing another excellent dinner, Katie came up to their table with an announcement. “Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve, you know.”

  “Already?” exclaimed Di. “We couldn’t have been here that long.”

  “Oh, yes,” laughed Katie. “And my question is, would you like to help plan a big party for everyone at the lodge? We would hold it in the lobby.”

  “We’d love to help!” said Honey. The others agreed, and Katie handed out paper and pencils.

  “I thought the boys could be in charge of food,” she said. “Mart seems like a natural for that job. And you girls might be in charge of entertainment and decorations. We don’t need anything fancy.”

  The storm Jim had predicted materialized soon after dinner. The wind built up strength and the snow came down harder as the Bob-Whites kept busy making lists of food, decorations needed, and entertainment possibilities. Mart suggested a show with people from the lodge doing different songs and stories from their regions. This idea met with great enthusiasm, although Trixie claimed he thought of it just so he could be master of ceremonies.

  “We could sing some folk songs from the Hudson River valley,” Jim recommended. “Perhaps Linda and Wanda would sing songs about the Vermont Green Mountains, and Bert and Jack might do something from the sea. We could ask Jim Carlyle to come and sing, too. And to make sure that Mart doesn’t steal the show with his clowning around, we’ll make Di co-master of ceremonies.”

  It was quite late by the time they completed their party plans and went to bed.

  When Trixie woke up the next morning, the snow was still coming down and the wind was still blowing hard, although the storm had lost some of its fury.

  She jumped out of bed with a burst of energy, then shivered as her feet touched the cold wooden floor. “You’d think they’d carpet the bedrooms, too,” she muttered to herself, pulling on blue jeans and a red pullover sweater.

  Today’s going to be super busy, she thought. Besides the party, there was all this fresh snow—perfect for checking people’s footprints. She bent over Honey’s bunk and quietly shook her. “Wake up, sleepyhead,” she whispered.

  “Don’t listen to her,” came Di’s voice from the other bunk. “We need lots of sleep if we’re going to stay up late and see in the new year.”

  “I’m sorry, Di,” Trix
ie said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “You didn’t. I’m already back to sleep.”

  Honey sat up and stretched. “What are you so excited about that you want to get started so early?” she asked.

  “We’ve got to go check footprints.”

  “No one else is up yet. There won’t be any footprints to check,” responded Honey, ducking back under the covers.

  Trixie threw Honey’s jeans at her. “Come on! Lots of people are up.”

  Trixie went out to the living room and put on her wool socks and waffle-stomper boots. When Honey was ready, they went to the lobby. Eric was already there, putting kindling into the fireplace.

  “Morning,” he said stiffly.

  “Are you building a fire?” asked Trixie.

  “What’s it look like?” he answered, heading for the door.

  “Do you need any help getting more logs?” Trixie asked sweetly.

  He looked at her suspiciously for a moment, then said, “Sure, that’d be nice. I don’t mean to be short-tempered. I didn’t sleep very well last night. The storm bothered me.” He held the door open for her.

  Trixie felt a flash of guilt. It wasn’t nice of her at all. It wasn’t because she wanted to help that she was going out in the snow.

  They ran out to the woodpile around the corner of the building, where the wood was piled high under a protective roof. As Eric stooped over to pick up some logs, Trixie glanced down at the footprints in the snow. There were her own—small, ornamented with four-pointed stars. And there were Eric’s beside hers, much larger... and ornamented with four-pointed stars, too!

  “Hold your arms out,” Eric commanded.

  “What?” Trixie had been so intent on the footprints she’d forgotten all about the wood.

  “Haven’t you ever carried wood before? Hold out your arms!”

  Eric piled the wood into her outstretched arms, and she hurried back inside and dumped the wood onto the fireplace hearth. As she brushed the bark chips from her sweater, she shook her head in answer to the question in Honey’s eyes. “Four-pointed stars,” she whispered.