“That’s just disgusting,” Trixie said. She tossed the paper facedown on the table and jabbed angrily at her cornflakes with a spoon.
Mart Belden, who was already finishing his second bowl of cereal, picked up the paper and studied it. “I assume you mean the self-centered persistence of the spectators’ surveillance,” he said. “I agree that it is disgusting. I appreciate the paper’s admonitory function in portraying it so vividly.”
“I agree,” Brian Belden said, coming out of the kitchen with a plate of peanut-butter toast and a glass of milk. “I hope that the people who see themselves in that picture will think twice before they stand around to watch another fire.”
“That isn’t what I meant at all!” Trixie exclaimed impatiently. “You’re saying all the people in that second picture should be embarrassed to be plastered all over the front page. But what about that first picture? I happen to think that one’s pretty humiliating, too!”
Brian picked up the copy of the Sun and looked at the front page. “You’re talking about the picture of the Bob-Whites, obviously. I get that much. But I don’t know what’s so humiliating about it.”
“You’re kidding!” Trixie exclaimed in disbelief. “It’s the morning after the worst disaster in the history of Sleepyside. Your picture is on the front page of the paper, and you’re grinning as though you didn’t have a care in the world. You don’t see anything wrong with that?”
“I didn’t have? care in the world at the time that picture was taken,” Brian said. “That, in fact, is the point of this picture. See here, where it says ‘Before’? Nobody’s going to think we’re smiling now, Trixie.”
“This flawed feedback seems like a febrile manifestation,” Mart said.
Trixie opened her mouth to retort, then closed it and shook her head. “All right, Mart,” she said. “You’ve got me this time. I have no idea what you just said.”
“Mart means — and I think he has a good point - that you’ve literally worried yourself sick about Nick Roberts and his father since last night,” Brian told his sister.
“Oh, Brian, you’re right,” Trixie said, ignoring the fact that Mart had actually made the point first. “I don’t think I slept a wink last night. I suppose I did overreact to those pictures, but it just hurts to be reminded that I was so happy last night, when I’m so miserable now.”
“Well,” Brian said, “at the risk of making you even more miserable, I suppose I should tell you this morning’s news. I heard on the radio that the site of the explosion was the Roberts Trophy Shop.”
“It happened right there in Nick Roberts’s father’s store?” Trixie shrilled.
“In the basement of that store,” Brian said. “The store is badly damaged, of course, and so is the warehouse next to it. But there’s a lot more good news than bad news. Nobody was killed — nobody was even hurt, except for a couple of fire fighters who inhaled too much smoke. What’s even more remarkable is that the fire fighters limited the damage to those two buildings, even though they were held up so badly waiting for the crowd to clear out.”
“None of that good news helps Mr. Roberts,” Trixie pointed out.
“In a way it does,” Brian said. “I’m sure he’d feel much worse if someone had been killed trying to save his store. Anyway, worrying about it doesn’t help Mr. Roberts, either. I think you’d better let go of this thing before you really do get sick.”
“If ailments enthrall you, might I recommend that you contemplate the condition of the Bob-White clubhouse? Such cogitations will create that condition, I’m sure,” Mart said.
“Yipes!” Trixie said, her dejected look instantly replaced by an agitated one. “I’d forgotten all about the clubhouse! Today’s the day we’re all supposed to meet there, to see how it got through the winter and decide what repairs it needs this summer!”
“The agreed-upon hour is ten a.m.,” Mart said. “Consequently, less anxiety and more action on your part would be advisable.”
“Okay,” Trixie said. “I’ll hurry up and get ready, but that doesn’t mean I’ll stop worrying about Nick and his family.” Trixie tossed her napkin onto the table and hurried upstairs.
Moments later, she came back down, pulling a V-neck sweater over her plaid shirt. The sun pouring in through the windows was warm, but she knew from experience that the clubhouse would still be giving off the chill it had taken in over the winter.
“Aren’t you ready yet?” she asked her brothers teasingly.
“We are indeed,” Brian said, rising from the table and picking up his dishes. “We’ll just go out through the kitchen so we can take our dishes to the sink. I’d suggest you do the same, since Moms is being good enough to let you out of spring chores this morning.”
“Oh, Brian, you’re right,” Trixie said, hurrying over to the table and picking up the cereal bowl and milk glass she’d left there. In the kitchen, she rinsed out her dishes in the sink, and then paused to hug her mother, who was standing at the stove. “I do appreciate the morning off,” she said. “I’ll work twice as hard this afternoon to make up for it, I promise I will.”
“I know you will,” Mrs. Belden said. “And since our main task today is to finish getting the seedlings into the garden, I’d say starting first thing this afternoon is a good idea. The ground will have a few extra hours to warm up. We’ll have a few extra hours without aching backs, as well!”
Trixie groaned and placed one hand on her lower back, anticipating the ache that would be there before bedtime. “Oh, woe,” she said. “All those little tomatoes and beans and onions to put in all those little tiny holes in all those long, straight lines. Are you sure the garden is worth all that work?”
“Well, why don’t you think about all the chili and spaghetti sauce and green beans with bacon we’ll be having in a few months. Then you can tell me whether or not it’s worthwhile,” Helen Belden said.
“Yum!” Trixie said. “It’s worth it, it’s worth it! I’ll be your willing slave all afternoon.”
“Right now,” Brian said, “what you need to be is a dedicated club member. Let’s go, Trix!”
Calling final good-byes, the three Beldens left the house and walked down the path to their clubhouse.
The clubhouse, which was on the Wheeler estate, had originally been the gatehouse for the Manor House. It had fallen into disuse and been hidden by weeds for years before the Bob-Whites rediscovered it and made it their own. They had spent hours working on the two-room building, adding a wood floor over the dirt one, fixing the roof, which had caved in during a storm, and putting up shelves in the storage room for sports equipment. With the addition of the bright, cheerful curtains that Honey had sewed, the conference room of the clubhouse had become a favorite place for meetings, parties, and projects.
Because of its remote location, winters tended to be hard on the clubhouse. Each spring, the Bob-Whites had to repair the damage caused by howling winds and sub-zero temperatures. Each year, too, they tried to make a few repairs or improvements that would make the clubhouse more useful and comfortable than it had been the year before. The problem, though, was that everyone had a different idea of how the limited time and money for the clubhouse should be spent. At the spring meeting, the Bob-Whites decided whose ideas they’d turn into action.
When Trixie and her brothers entered the clubhouse, the meeting was ready to begin. Honey and Jim were already there, as were Dan and Di. Dan and Di were the least active members of the Bob-Whites. Dan’s work kept him too busy for many of the activities. Di’s two sets of twin brothers and sisters kept her busy as well, even though each set of twins had a private nurse. But everyone knew that this meeting was too important to pass up.
“Oh, Trixie, did you see our pictures in the paper this morning?” Di asked.
“I certainly did,” Trixie said, her welcoming smile instantly turning to a scowl. “I think that — ”
“Ahem,” Jim said, acting quickly to head off a tirade from Trixie. “As co-president of the Bo
b-Whites of the Glen, I hereby call this meeting to order. Is that all right with you, Madame Co-President?”
“That’s fine,” Trixie said with a wave of her hand. “I’d just as soon not think about the picture or the parade or any of the rest of it, ever again.”
“Thank you,” Jim said. “The first and only item on today’s agenda is to decide what summer projects we want to take on for the clubhouse. I suggest that we all have a little tour first, to see what damage was done this winter and remind ourselves of the projects we’d thought of last fall.” The tour didn’t take long. Soon the Bob-Whites were back in their seats, all of them looking dejected.
“All of the windowpanes need reputtying,” Dan said. “The breeze is blowing right through.”
“The condition of the decorative pigment is pathetic,” Mart said.
“The paint job is bad,” Brian said. “The worst part is that paint isn’t just decorative. It protects the wood, too, which means we’ll have even worse problems if we don’t get the clubhouse painted this summer.”
“At least the inside still looks nice,” Trixie said, looking around at the cozy little room.
“Correction — the conference room looks nice. The storage room is a mess,” Jim said. “I thought we’d built enough shelves in there to store everything we’d ever own, but they’re already full. We’ll have to add more.”
“Paint, putty, and shelves,” Vice-President Honey Wheeler said, writing the list down in a small notebook. “Does anyone have anything to add to the list?”
“Isn’t that enough?” Trixie asked. “Painting this whole clubhouse and puttying all those windows will take every spare moment this summer — that is, every moment I don’t spend working in the garden or baby-sitting for Bobby or whatever else Moms needs help with.”
“You overlook the importance of those maternal requests,” Mart said. “It is through those endeavors that we will garner the funds needed to implement our plans.”
“Spoken like a true treasurer,” Brian told his brother. “Paint will be expensive, and the lumber for shelves won’t be exactly cheap. I suppose our treasury is nearly empty, as usual.”
“Unfortunately, you’re right,” Mart said. “Our funds might cover a small can of putty. That’s about it.”
“Where does it all go?” Trixie asked in amazement. “I work my fingers to the bone to earn my allowance, and practically every cent of it goes into the treasury. Everyone else works just as hard and gives just as much. Somehow, though, we never have any money left over in the spring. I don’t understand it!”
“I think my co-president is asking for a treasurer’s report, Mart,” Jim said.
“Very well,” Mart Belden said, taking a notebook out of his hip pocket. “Last October thirty-first, we held Halloween festivities here in the clubhouse. For said festivities we purchased two gallons of cider, cinnamon sticks, cloves, and a dozen apples for bobbing, as well as orange and black crepe paper for decorations.
“During said festivities, Ms. Wheeler reminded us of those less fortunate than ourselves, with the result that we sent a five-dollar contribution to UNICEF.
“At Christmas, we voted to buy a pair of gloves for Regan and a wool scarf for Tom Delanoy, the Wheelers’ groom and chauffeur, respectively, in recognition of the help and support they had given us through the year. Bottles of cologne went to Mrs. Helen Belden and Miss Trask, Honey’s governess, for the same reason.
“On February fourteenth, another festive occasion was held here at the clubhouse, for which we bought red and white crepe paper.
“In April, we voted to send ten dollars to that family near Tarrytown whose home was destroyed by a flood. That,” Mart concluded, shutting the notebook, “leaves our treasury with a total of six dollars and nineteen cents as of this date.”
“Six dollars!“‘ Trixie shouted. “That’s worse than I thought!”
“Well, I, for one, feel better,” Dan said. “We did a lot of good with the money we had, and we had a lot of fun. That’s what counts.”
“I agree, Dan,” Brian said. “I don’t think we have to feel bad about how we spent the money. We do have to worry about coming up with some more, though.”
“I could ask Daddy,” Honey said, without much enthusiasm.
“Oh, no, you couldn’t,” Trixie retorted instantly, as Honey had known one of the Bob-Whites would. “The only rules this club has are to help others and to pay our own way. If we ask for handouts, we just won’t be the same club.”
“I know that,” Honey said. “I’d really hate asking for the money, anyway, even though I know my father would be happy to give it to us. I’m so much more proud of myself since I started earning my own spending money and club dues.”
“You earn it the hard way, too,” Trixie said, “repairing all of Bobby’s tattered and torn clothes for Moms. Ugh! I can’t stand sewing.”
“Well, I love sewing, so earning my way isn’t as horrible as you make it sound. You actually work a lot harder, gardening and chasing after Bobby and trying to keep him from making all those tatters and tears than I get paid for mending,” Honey said loyally.
“Ahem,” Jim said again. “That kind of mutual admiration is what’s so wonderful about the Bob-Whites, but right now we have other things to discuss. Does anyone have any ideas for raising money?”
An uncommon silence followed Jim’s question. “I take it that’s a no,” Jim said, grinning in spite of himself. “Well, I’m glad we held this meeting as early in the summer as we did. We still have time to raise the money and get the work done. If anyone thinks of anything, let the rest of us know.”
“I just thought of something,” Honey said.
“Oh, good!” Trixie said. “What?”
“Miss Trask had Celia pack us a lunch,” Honey said, whisking a picnic hamper out from under her chair.
“Oh, you!” Trixie said, giving her best friend a playful swipe.
“Once again, attention to my alimentary system will alleviate my agitation,” said Mart.
“You mean the food will take our minds off our problems, just as it did last night,” Trixie said. “It didn’t work for me last night, though, and I don’t think it will work now, since you’ve reminded me of it.”
“Oh, no,” Brian groaned. “Look what you’ve done, Mart. You’ve got Trixie worrying about Nick Roberts and his father again.”
“Why are you worried, Trixie?” Di asked.
“Have you heard something more about the store?”
“Something more?” Trixie echoed in amazement. “How much more do you need? The store is gone, and that means Mr. Roberts is out of business.”
“What makes you think that?” Jim asked, unwrapping the sandwich that Honey had just given him.
“Well, the store blew up, didn’t it? How can Mr. Roberts stay in business if all his equipment and inventory and everything are gone?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of something called insurance?” Jim asked. “Mr. Roberts probably had his business insured. If not, the owner of the building probably had the building insured. Mr. Roberts will be back in business in no time.”
“Of course!” Honey said. “Oh, Trixie, isn’t that wonderful! Now you can stop worrying!”
Trixie took the sandwich that Honey gave to her and smiled her thanks without speaking. Somehow, she just couldn’t believe that all of the worries about Nick Roberts and his father were over.
4 * “Arson!”
“JUST THINK,” Trixie said to Honey on the following afternoon as they got on the school bus. “Day after day after tomorrow, we’ll be free, for three whole months!”
“Well, we won’t have to go to school for three months,” Honey said cautiously. “I don’t know if I’d call that freedom, though. Unless you mean that we’ll be free to spend hours working on the clubhouse and even more hours trying to figure out some way to pay for the materials.”
“Oh, woe,” Trixie said, slumping down in her seat. “I’d forgotten about the
clubhouse problem. Maybe I should use that, instead of the fire, to take my mind off the geometry and history tests I still have to face.”
“If your grades are as bad as mine are,” Honey said, “you’d better not use anything to take your mind off your schoolwork. If I don’t study day and night between now and Friday, I’ll spend the summer in summer school and be no use to the Bob-Whites.”
“Your grades aren’t that bad, Honey Wheeler,” Trixie said reprovingly. It was true that Honey had once had problems with her grades, as had Trixie. But the general enthusiasm of the Bob-Whites seemed to have infected even the girls’ school-work. Now, while they weren’t exactly scholars, their grades were much better than they had been. “I didn’t really mean what I said about using the fire to take my mind off my schoolwork, either. In fact, at this point I’d gladly use my schoolwork to take my mind off the fire. I’m really sick of hearing about it.”
It was impossible to avoid the subject of the fire, though. It had been a major and memorable happening in the little town of Sleepyside-on-the-Hudson, and everyone wanted to talk about it.
Ka-boom! was still Bobby Belden’s favorite sound. He shared his memories of the explosion with his brothers and sister time and time again. “Didja see how red it was when it went ka-boom, Trixie?” he’d ask. “Didja hear how loud it was?” Trixie would answer, “I saw it, Bobby, and I heard it. It wasn’t fun, though, it was awful — really awful. Two buildings were destroyed and it’s just a miracle that nobody was hurt. Do you understand that?”
In response to his sister’s question, Bobby always nodded solemnly and said, “It was really awful, Trixie.” But moments later he’d be enthusiastically yelling “Ka-boom” again.
“He’s just too young to understand,” Brian had said quietly after one of Bobby’s ka-booms had made Trixie jump in fright. “Don’t worry, though, tomorrow something new will catch his attention and he’ll forget all about the fire.”
“I hope we can all start to forget,” Trixie had told her brother.
The Mystery of the Memorial Day Fire Page 3
