The Mystery of the Memorial Day Fire

by Campbell, Julie

  “Your name?” asked the receptionist.

  “Trixie Belden,” she said.

  “I’ll tell him you’re here,” the woman said. She dialed a two-digit number and spoke Trixie’s name into the receiver. “He says to wait,” she told Trixie.

  Trixie stood for a moment leaning against the high reception counter. She didn’t want to turn around. Her mental rehearsal for this scene hadn’t included having to wait in a room with the woman she was about to accuse of hiring an arsonist—and the man whose stores the arsonist had burned!

  Honey, always better in social situations, put her arm through Trixie’s. “Come on,” she said, turning her friend away from the counter and leading her to a row of chairs along the wall opposite Mr. Slettom.

  The girls sat with their hands folded in their laps and their heads lowered. It was as if they hoped that by not looking at anyone, they could make themselves invisible. A voice speaking nearby told them the plan hadn’t worked.

  “You girls are friends of young Nick Roberts, aren’t you?” the voice asked.

  Trixie looked up and saw that Mr. Slettom had walked over to stand near them.

  “Too bad,” Mr. Slettom said, shaking his head.

  “Too bad we’re Nick’s friends?” Trixie asked in confusion.

  “No, no, no — too bad Roberts set this second fire. He would have gotten away with the first one, if he just hadn’t pushed it.”

  “Y-You mean you think Mr. Roberts is guilty?” Trixie asked fearfully.

  “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Mr. Slettom countered. “You know I thought he was innocent the first time around. Why, I offered him bail, anything he needed. But then —” Mr. Slettom broke off for a moment, shaking his head in the same sad way. “He just pushed it too far.”

  “But why do you think he set fire to your store?” Trixie asked.

  “I wish I knew. Maybe he just has it in for me. Sometimes people get that way, you know, when they’ve been under a lot of stress. They go looking for someone to blame, someone to get even with for all that’s happened.”

  “But Mr. Roberts’s problems were all over by the time the fire started in his store,” Trixie protested.

  “Unless you figure not being able to move was the final problem — the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak,” Mr. Slettom pointed out.

  “Is that what you’re going to tell the police?” Trixie asked.

  “Of course not,” Mr. Slettom said indignantly. “I may not like it that Nicholas Roberts burned down my store, but I’m not trying to make trouble for him. I’ll give the police the facts, that’s all. And I won’t tell that one anything.” He gestured with his head toward the reporter.

  “We’re sorry,” Honey said. “We didn’t mean to sound as though we were accusing you. We’re just worried about Mr. Roberts.”

  “You have every reason to be worried,” Mr. Slettom said, his voice sounding sad once again.

  “Well, well, well,” said another voice nearby. “It’s the Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency, come to call on the police. To what do we owe this honor?”

  Trixie looked up and saw that Sergeant Molinson had come out of his office. “We have something to tell you,” she said.

  “Well, what is it?” he demanded.

  Trixie looked nervously at Mr. Slettom and then at Jane Dix-Strauss, who was staring at her openly. “Could we — could we go to your office? It’s sort of private.”

  “Trixie Belden, I have two unsolved arsons to investigate, a thousand phone calls to return, and a million other things to take care of. I can’t spend all day talking to a couple of teenage detectives. Tell me what’s on your mind or be on your way,” Sergeant Molinson ordered.

  The sergeant was usually good-natured. Today he was obviously strained and showed it. Trixie knew that she had to speak out in public or not be heard at all.

  She cleared her throat and said, “Did you know that Jane Dix-Strauss wrote a long article on arson before she came to Sleepyside?”

  “No, I didn’t, but I’m glad you’ve cleared up the mystery of her excellent reporting on the subject.” Sergeant Molinson was being mockingly polite. “Now, is there anything else?”

  Trixie hesitated, her confidence about to desert her. Then she felt Honey’s arm slide through her own, and she took courage from her friend’s presence. “A couple of weeks ago, I found a button with Jane Dix-Strauss’s initials on it in the alley behind Mr. Roberts’s store. Then, last night, I saw her behind the store. There was a big man with her, and she handed him an envelope and said she’d call him if she needed anything else.” Trixie let the words come out in one long stream. When she was finished, she was out of breath and she felt her pulse pounding in her temples.

  Sergeant Molinson looked down at Trixie and Honey for a minute. Then he turned around and barked at Jane Dix-Strauss, “Were you in that alley last night?”

  Trixie jumped at the sound of it. Then she realized that Sergeant Molinson had counted on surprise to get an unrehearsed answer.

  What the sergeant counted on didn’t work, however. Jane Dix-Strauss showed no reaction to being shouted at. Calmly, she pushed herself away from the wall and walked toward the policeman and the two girls. “I think the young woman is making a mistake,” she said firmly.

  “But, I —” Trixie began to protest, but the sergeant held up his hand to stop her.

  “Did you see her behind Roberts’s store, too?” he asked Honey.

  “No,” Honey admitted. “I saw the button, though,” she added helpfully.

  “Look, girls,” Sergeant Molinson said, sounding tired. “I know you want to help your friend Nick Roberts, but this isn’t the way to do it. If you say you found Miss Dix-Strauss’s button in the alley, I believe you. She might very well have been poking around there, just as Trixie was, and lost a button. But if she says you’re mistaken, I’m willing to take her word for it. And I really don’t have any more time to waste talking about it.” The sergeant turned and walked away, leaving Trixie feeling angry and embarrassed.

  “Come on, Honey,” she said. She led the way quickly out of the police station, refusing to look around for fear of seeing Mr. Slettom’s sad face or Jane Dix-Strauss’s gloating one.

  The girls rode back home and parted at the foot of the Belden driveway. “I guess I’d better get to my chores,” Trixie said. “I’ll have plenty of time to do them now — there’s no point even trying to sell T-shirts.”

  “Do you want to come over when your chores are done?” Honey asked. “You’ve been too busy to sleep over in simply ages. Miss Trask mentioned it this morning.”

  Trixie remembered the loneliness she’d felt the night before, when she couldn’t confide in her brothers. Now she was even more reluctant to do so, since it would also mean telling them about the humiliation at the police station. “Okay,” she said to Honey. “I’ll be over right after dinner, if Moms says it’s okay.”

  Mrs. Belden, having heard about the canceled orders, readily agreed to let Trixie spend the night with her friend. Although the afternoon dragged, it did finally pass, and Trixie went back to the Manor House.

  By unspoken consent, the girls tried to stay away from the subjects of arson, Mr. Roberts’s future, or sales of caps and T-shirts. Every other subject seemed to remind them of those, though — even the color scheme Honey had come up with for the clubhouse and the design she’d sketched for new shelves.

  “It will look wonderful,” Trixie said lamely. To herself she added, If we ever get the money for it.

  When bedtime finally came, all the suppressed thoughts came tumbling into Trixie’s consciousness. She heard Honey’s even breathing and knew her friend was asleep, but she couldn’t follow that good example. Instead, she tossed and turned. Finally, after midnight, she gave up trying to sleep and went to stand by the window. The night was clear and the sky was studded with stars. Trixie felt some calmness creeping back into her agitated mind.

  The calmness disappeared
and her heart skipped a beat when she saw a shadowy figure enter the Wheelers’ stable and pull the door closed behind it!

  12 * The Right Suspect

  IN NO MORE THAN TEN SECONDS, it was all over — the shadowy figure was gone, the door was closed, and all was still. What Trixie had seen began to seem like a distant memory. She started to wonder whether she had imagined the whole thing.

  I can’t be sure, she thought, but there’s only one way to find out. Noiselessly, she tiptoed over to her clothes, which were piled on a chair. She pulled on her jeans and T-shirt, and carried her tennis shoes. The need to be quiet forced her to move slowly out of the room, down the long hall, and down the stairs.

  After what seemed like hours, Trixie reached the front door. She grasped the huge brass knob as firmly as she could and turned it slowly and carefully until she felt the door release. Then she pulled it open, still moving in slow motion, ready to freeze if the door gave the slightest squeak. It didn’t. Of course not, Trixie thought. With all those servants, a squeaky door doesn’t stand a chance at the Manor House.

  Trixie stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind her. Then she stopped to put on her shoes, hopping around first on one foot and then the other. Oh, woe, she thought, why didn’t I just sit down to do this? Because it would have taken extra time, and I’m in such a hurry — so I spend twice as much time trying to keep my balance. When will I ever learn?

  Finally, remarkably, she made it across the path to the stable door without mishap, without the lights suddenly going on in the house behind her - and without the shadowy intruder opening the door to come back out.

  Trixie paused for a moment to get a clear mental picture of what lay on the other side of the door. Just inside was the tack room, which ran the full width of the stable. It was a separate room, with a door that led back into the stalls where the horses were kept. The door was usually closed, so there would be no way for Trixie to know whether someone was hiding behind it. There was a small closet in the tack room, too, which was used for Regan’s leather repair and carpentry tools. It was another perfect hiding place.

  Trixie wiped her clammy hands on the sides of her jeans before she reached out for the handle of the stable door. She’d just have to hope that the intruder was still in the tack room and not trying to hide. Moving fast and taking the intruder by surprise was her best chance.

  With that in mind, she yanked the door open and reached for the light switch just to the left. She jumped out of the way of the door as light flooded the tack room.

  There was a gasp and a crackle of straw as the intruder whirled around, showing Trixie her astonished and frightened face.

  “Jane Dix-Strauss!” Trixie said in a loud whisper. “What are you doing here?”

  The young reporter put her hand to her chest and let out a long, whistling breath. “Right at the moment, I’m trying to get my heart to stop doing the tango. You scared the daylights out of me!” Trixie couldn’t believe her ears. Jane Dix-Strauss had looked frightened when she’d first turned around, but now she didn’t sound frightened. “I suppose you’d like me to leave so you can start another fire,” Trixie said. “That is, if your friend isn’t available to start this one.”

  That remark, which Trixie had intended to make Jane Dix-Strauss angry, seemed to amuse her instead. There was a hint of a smile on the reporter’s face as she said, “My friend, as you call him, isn’t going to start a fire here tonight. Neither am I. The real arsonist will, though — unless you scare him away.”

  “Is that your way of saying you’ve set a trap for Mr. Roberts?” Trixie demanded.

  “Of course not,” the reporter said. “Mr. Roberts isn’t the arsonist. I’ve known that from the beginning.”

  “Then why did you write that article that made him look suspicious?”

  “I wrote the facts, because that’s my job as a reporter. And the facts that were available did make Mr. Roberts look guilty. I tried to get other facts — the ones that would prove he’s innocent. If I’d been able to interview Mr. Roberts, I could have asked questions and gotten answers that would have turned the suspicion on the right person. But his son told me to get lost — remember?”

  “Who is this ‘right person’?” Trixie asked, still suspicious.

  “You mean you don’t know?” Jane Dix-Strauss asked right back. “You gave me the crucial piece of evidence.”

  “Your button? How could your button prove that someone else started the fires?” Trixie asked, completely confused.

  “I didn’t say it was my button,” Jane Dix-Strauss said. “In fact, it isn’t, and that’s why it’s crucial.”

  “Of course, it’s your button,” Trixie said, growing angry again. “It said JDS right on it. Who else —” She broke off in mid-sentence, and her eyes grew round.

  Jane Dix-Strauss nodded a confirmation of what Trixie had just guessed. “Now you know who. I’ll be happy to explain the what, when, where, and why, as we journalists say. But not now. If he finds you here, the whole thing will be spoiled. Would you leave now, please?”

  Trixie hesitated. Her distrust of Jane Dix-Strauss was fading, but it hadn’t disappeared. Her love of a mystery was as strong as ever. Finally, she said, “I’m not leaving.”

  “O-O-Oh!” The sound came out as a groan, and Jane Dix-Strauss shoved her hands into the pockets of her blazer as if she were afraid of what she might do with them. “All right, stay here — but stay out of sight, would you?”

  Trixie looked around for a way of doing that and decided on the small closet in the comer of the tack room. From there, she wouldn’t be able to see what was happening, but at least she could hear. She went into the closet, leaving the door ajar.

  The reporter suddenly stuck her head around the door. “One more thing,” she said briskly. “Stay out of sight until I tell you otherwise. I’m trying to get evidence that will stand up in court. I know what that evidence is and you don’t. If you pop up at the wrong time, the arsonist goes free. You don’t want that, do you?”

  Trixie shook her head, and the reporter withdrew. There was a click as Jane Dix-Strauss turned off the light, and Trixie found herself in darkness. She could hear the occasional stirring of the horses on the other side of the wall behind her and could smell their rich, pungent aroma.

  The quiet darkness seemed to go on forever. Finally, Trixie heard the sound of the door sliding open. Then there was light — not the blinding light of the overhead bulb, but a softer light. He must have brought a flashlight, she thought. Oh, I wonder if it’s really him.

  “So, you showed up,” a man’s voice said.

  It sounds like him, Trixie thought, but I can’t be sure. She felt her heart start to race with nervousness and curiosity. Then she noticed a beam of light cutting through the darkness in the closet. A hole in the boards! she thought excitedly. She traced the beam to its source in the wall near the floor. Crouching, she put her eye close to the small hole. At first, all she saw was Jane Dix-Strauss’s slender back. The man who had just entered was facing her, and Trixie couldn’t see who it was.

  “I showed up,” Jane Dix-Strauss said. “Did you really think I’d pass up an interview with Sleepy-side’s only arsonist?”

  There was silence in the stable. Trixie could sense the man’s anger at the reporter’s jibe. He turned away, into Trixie’s line of vision.

  Trixie put her hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. It is! It’s Mr. Slettom! she exclaimed soundlessly.

  “I don’t remember admitting that I started those fires,” the man said.

  “No, that’s true,” Jane Dix-Strauss told him. “Your secretary said that you had some information for me. I guess I just assumed, since she insisted on giving me this information in the middle of the night in an out-of-the-way place, that it was, shall we say, firsthand.”

  “You’re a cagey one, aren’t you?” Mr. Slettom asked, without expecting an answer.

  “So are you,” Jane Dix-Strauss said. “Shifting the blame onto Nic
holas Roberts was especially clever.”

  “Yeah, well — that’s the one thing I’m really sorry about,” Slettom said. “Not that the police suspected him — I meant for that to happen. But I never thought it would go this far. Why, they’re about to press charges against him.”

  “You wanted Mr. Roberts suspected just enough so they couldn’t suspect you, is that it?” Jane Dix-Strauss asked.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” Mr. Slettom said. “I couldn’t let him be arrested or have to stand trial. He’s a nice man, with a nice family. I tell you, I was getting pretty nervous. I was afraid I might have to confess to having set those fires myself.”

  “That’s where I came in, is it?” Jane Dix-Strauss said.

  Mr. Slettom had been pacing back and forth as he spoke, moving in and out of Trixie’s narrow range of vision. Now he stopped and looked back at the reporter in surprise. “You figured that out, too, did you?” he asked. “My, you are a clever one.”

  “Let’s see how clever I am,” she said. “My guess is that you really got desperate when you heard the Belden girl talking to Sergeant Molinson this morning. When she said she’d found my button in the alley behind the store, you, of course, knew it was really your button, Mr. James D. Slettom. You also knew that I’d know the button wasn’t mine, and that I’d soon figure out whose it was.

  “But Trixie’s accusation gave you an idea, too. You’d cast a little suspicion on me, the way you already had on Mr. Roberts. It would take some of the heat off him, without getting me into serious trouble. Is that how you’d figured it?”

  “That’s it, almost exactly. I’ve got to hand it to you.” There was genuine admiration in Slettom’s voice. “You’re too new around here to know it, but that young Belden girl has a reputation for being a pretty good detective. Sergeant Molinson didn’t believe her today, but after you’re found at the scene of the third fire, he’ll reconsider.”

  “Aren’t you worried about the countercharges I’ll make against you?” Jane Dix-Strauss asked.