The Hudson River Mystery

table,” said Trixie.
    ”Right,” he said. ”I didn’t get around to doing much research on Di’s costume, though. Mary helped me make that, too.”
    The whole group turned to Di, smothering their laughter at the sight of her hooded sweatshirt, on which were sewn dozens of brown, black, and white feathers.
    ”What are you supposed to be?” Honey snickered.
    Before Di could respond, Mart said, ”She’s a colinusvirginianus , what else?”
    ”I’m no such thing!” said Di indignantly.
    ”That’s Latin for the quail known as the bob-white,” Mart told her. ”You’re our very own club mascot, and an attractive one at that.”
    ”Mart, you’re cute, too, but sometimes your ideas are a little weird.” Di blew at the feathers surrounding her pretty face. ”Now get me out of here!”
    After Trixie and Honey helped Di out of her sweatshirt, Trixie turned to Mart. ”Leave it to you to be the only one of us Bob-Whites to be immature enough to dream up costumes for the party!” Suddenly she remembered her own peculiar dress and finished lamely, ”Well, at least Honey and I came as human beings.”
    ”That’s debatable!” Dan hooted.
    ”I don’t think you two have any business making fun of me,” added Di.
    ”I’ve seen horses that look better in clothes than you guys do tonight,” Mart said. ”And my shark costume was no infantile fantasy, Beatrix. Its sole purpose was to get your goat, and I must say I think it succeeded admirably.”
    ”I wish I were a goat,” Trixie grumbled. ”Then I could butt you!”
    ”Tsk, tsk, watch your language,” said her brother. ”Look who’s calling whom ’immature,’ anyway—I hardly think that seeing sharks in our Hudson is the height of sophistication!”
    ”Oh!” Honey exclaimed.
    Everyone stared at her, and Honey turned as red as her ill-fitting sweater. ”I mean,” she went on, ”I saw it, too.”
    ”Look what I’ve started,” Mart groaned. ”That’s right, she saw it,” said Trixie. ”And now you’ll all have to believe me.”
    ”Oh, no, we don’t,” Mart began heatedly.
    Brian stepped forward. ”Why don’t you two save your sibling rivalries for later, and let’s get right to the main point of this party.”
    ”Eating!” cheered Mart. To everyone’s amazement, he bent down and extracted a small sack of seven tangerines from a hidden compartment in his shark costume. ”My share of the meal—some Halloween-type citrus!” he exclaimed.
    ”I’m color-coordinated, too,” boasted Jim, pointing to his relish tray of black olives and carrot sticks.
    ”Well, I’m not,” Dan said, ”but I didn’t think anyone would mind.” He unveiled a huge paper bag full of popcorn.
    ”Yum!” shouted Trixie, hurrying over to help herself to the first handful. In her haste, she brushed against Mart’s shark contraption. She had to grab it by its fin to prevent it from falling to the wooden floor. ”Fin!” she murmured. ”I wonder....”
    ”How I constructed it?” Mart guessed. ”I’ll be happy to elucidate. First, I—”
    ”No, no! I was wondering if the fin I’ve been seeing —Honey and I have been seeing—could possibly belong to anything besides a shark. Maybe it’s phony somehow, like this....”
    ”That’s not phony,” Di put in. ”It’s genuine paper mash—whatever Mart said it was.”
    ”Thank you, Diana.” Mart beamed. ”As for you, Beatrix, of course your figmental fin belongs to something other than a fishy shark.
    Namely, it belongs to a sea serpent!”
    ”I’m serious, Mart—”
    Brian, whose contribution to the party was providing orange soda and all eating utensils, looked up from setting the table and frowned. ”I didn’t think I’d have to repeat myself. Let’s eat!”
    ”I second the motion,” said Trixie, munching popcorn and dishing up kidney bean salad at the same time.
    The Bob-Whites attacked Honey’s chicken salad sandwiches as if they hadn’t seen food for weeks. It seemed to take only minutes for every crumb, every carrot stick, and every kidney bean to disappear. Then Di brought out her dessert-chocolate cupcakes topped with bright orange frosting.
    After dinner, Mart pushed back his chair and said, ”My compliments to the chefs—all seven of ’em!”
    ”This is one case where too many cooks didn’t spoil the broth,” Jim agreed.
    ”I’ve never understood that saying,” Di fretted.
    ”Try this one,” said Mart. ”Too many crooks broil the spoth!”
    In the midst of