The Marshland Mystery

happens.” She hung up the receiver and glared at Mart. “I suppose you know that’s the last piece of pie!”
    “Sad, but true,” Mart admitted, gulping another chunk.
    “It happens to have been my piece,” Trixie told him coldly. “I didn’t eat it at dinner because I was saving it for breakfast. And now you’re gobbling it!”
    “Dear me, I’m so sorry!” Mart grinned with blue teeth. “I only did it to save you from falling a victim to excessive avoirdupois, dear sibling!”
    “Hmph!” Trixie snorted scornfully, but a moment later she giggled. Mart had tried to cram the last large bite of pie into his mouth as he finished speaking, but he had dropped half of it on his shirt. “That’ll learn yuh to watch your langwidge, podner!” she teased as she started past him into the hall.
    “Hey, wait a minute, Trix!” Mart looked with dismay at the mess on his clean white shirt. “Gosh, how can I get this stuff off my shirt? Moms will scalp me! I was supposed to wear it to school Monday,”
    “Gleeps! You’ll start a new style!” Trixie laughed.
    “Quit clowning, sis!” Mart pleaded. “What will take the stain out?”
    “Hm-m-m.” Trixie pretended to be thinking hard. “Let’s see now. Should it be soaked in milk or—no, that’s ink stains. Salt and lemon juice? Nope, that’s for rust.”
    “Come on-n!” Mart begged. “Have a heart!” He had an inspiration. “I’ll help you cart those weeds to school Monday morning if you lend me a hand with this mess.”
    “It’s a promise!” Trixie twinkled. “Okay, I remember now! On to the kitchen. March!”
    Mart had a little trouble getting the stained shirt off without spreading the gooey stains, but he finally managed it while Trixie was putting on the teakettle.
    When the water started to boil, Trixie spread the stained shirt over a large mixing bowl and held it stretched taut. “All right, now,” she told Mart, “hold the kettle as high as you can and pour the boiling water through the stain. But don’t splatter it on me, or I’ll yell so loud old Miss Martin out at the marsh will hear me!” Mart stood on a chair and tipped the steaming kettle over the bowl.
    “It’s starting to fade!” Trixie exclaimed excitedly. “What is this?” Brian’s voice came from the doorway. “You witches brewing up a love potion or something?”
    “I’m saving his life—not that he deserves it,” Trixie answered, and, when Mart had finished pouring the boiling water and had jumped down off the chair, she held up the shirt for Brian to see. “just like new—if you don’t look too closely. Kind of a pale blue shadow.” She handed it to Mart. “Hang it on the service porch. If you ask me sweetly in the morning, I’ll iron it for you.”
    “You’re reah-lly not a bad sort, sistah deah!” Mart held an imaginary monocle to his eyes. “Thanks awf’ly!”
    “You two!” Brian chuckled.
    “Anything going on over at Wheelers’ yet?” Trixie asked, perching on the end of the kitchen table and swinging her legs as she bit into an apple.
    “People are starting to arrive. And I caught a glimpse of the little fairy princess watching from the window when I let Moms out at the front entrance.”
    “I hope that means she’s going to perform. Honey said she was still jittery after this afternoon, according to Miss Trask.”
    “I wouldn’t know. I just dropped Moms, had a little gab with Dad, and dashed on back.” Brian chose an apple for himself and leaned against the table beside Trixie as Mart came back in from the service porch.
    “I hope Dad and Moms come home before I have to go to bed,” Trixie told Brian. “I’m dying to ask Dad if he knows who Emily could be.”
    “Was is the word,” Brian said calmly.
    “Brian! You found out! Who was she?” Trixie demanded eagerly.
    “Rachel Martin’s little sister. She was drowned in the swamp the night that the Martin mansion burned down.”
    “Oh, my goodness!” Trixie’s blue eyes were like saucers. “Go on!”
    “It was a pretty awful thing, Dad says. Especially for Miss Rachel. They were the last of their family.”
    Trixie was silent for a moment. Then she said soberly, “No wonder she hates that swamp! But I wonder why she still lives there. The fire was forty years ago.”
    “Dad says that the talk around the bank is that she blames herself for the little girl’s death, and living there is a sort of way of punishing herself. Besides, she has no other place to