The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

stock was too much for Fredericka.
    “No, I’ll go,” she said, without enthusiasm. But perhaps if she humoured the child, she would divulge what was on her mind.
    Fredericka had gone halfway down the back path when a sudden thought occurred to her. That cook book couldn’t possibly have come in so soon. Margie was up to some mischief, and Margie was on the suspect list—more than that, Margie’s mischief could be serious. She turned in her tracks and hurried back to the house. She slipped off her shoes at the back door and returned quietly to the office.
    Margie, with her back to the door was searching frantically through the desk drawer.
    “What are you doing, Margie?” Fredericka asked sharply.
    The girl stopped her search as though she had been struck, slammed the drawer and swung round. Her eyes were frantic and staring and her cheeks crimson. She looked not only frightened, but ill.
    “I—I left a notebook here when I was in the other day,” she said quickly.
    “Surely not in my desk drawer.”
    “Well. You might have put it in. I didn’t know.”
    “You could have asked.” Margie made no reply. She seemed to crumple suddenly and slumped into the chair.
    “Are you ill?” Fredericka asked. She was now torn between anxiety and anger.
    “No I’m not. But if you think I’m going to say anything more to you, I’m not. What business have you to keep someone else’s silver box in your drawer anyway?”
    “So that’s what you were after.” Fredericka sat down, and put her hand on Margie’s knee. “Come Margie,” she said quietly, “tell me what it’s all about.” But Margie’s face had set in a mask of hatred—or fear, Fredericka couldn’t be sure which.
    After a few fruitless attempts to make the girl speak, Fredericka lost her temper. “Margie, I must say to you now and for all time, that, if you can’t behave yourself, you needn’t come here at all. Miss Hartwell said you would help me. Help indeed. You barge in and out without knocking. You rummage in the storeroom. You play insufferable childish pranks. And now you rummage in my desk—”
    “Aunt Lucy’s desk.” Margie’s face was now blotched with deep purple stains—and her words sounded strangled.
    “You’d better go then, Margie, before I lose my temper altogether. I’m in charge here now, as it happens. And for the time being this is my desk.” Fredericka felt suddenly ashamed. Why did this child enrage her so? She struggled with herself but before she could speak again, Margie had got to her feet quickly and had slammed her way out of the house.
    What a fine detective she had turned out to be. Whatever would Peter think of her? Oh well, it was too hot to care—too hot to chase after the wretched girl. Fredericka looked at her watch and saw with relief that it was after twelve. She would just get some cold coffee for lunch and then lock up and escape. The orchard would be hot, perhaps, but less so than the house and no one could find her there. Blessed thought.
    When Fredericka looked out the back door and saw that Chris was still working away at the shrubs with his pruning knife, she called to him and he dropped his tool as though he had been attacked. Then he stooped to pick it up and turned to come toward her. It was like a slowmotion film.
    “Sure am hot,” he volunteered when he had come close enough to be heard.
    “Yes. I thought you might like some iced coffee,” she added. Suddenly she didn’t want him to go. She didn’t want to be left alone. Peter had spoken of a police guard but Thane Carey had said nothing about it.
    “Sure thing.” Chris answered her with a tired smile and, as Frederick turned to go in, he sank down on to the porch and pulled out a red and white spotted handkerchief to mop his face and neck.
    Fredericka carried his drink and a plate of sandwiches out on to the porch and after she had had her own lunch she went back to find him still sitting as she had left him. He looked up at her and she could see the panic on his face.
    “I reckon I ought to give you-all the benefit of my perteckshun this afternoon,” he said slowly.
    “Oh no, Chris. I—I’m all right. I don’t think anyone wants to do me any harm,” she said with a thin show of courage.
    “No, Ma’am, Miss Wing, that ain’t the trouble. It’s jes’ these kids around here. I been chasin’ them off’n the place all the morning. Comin’ in every which ways to see where the—the murder been done at.”
    This