The Marshland Mystery

somewhere.”
    “Maybe you’ve been visiting a gypsy camp, looking for a clue to one of your mysteries. All those beads and the bright-colored clothes look like a gypsy outfit.”
    “But she’s a blond, and those long yellow curls don’t belong on a gypsy,” Trixie whispered back.
    They moved closer to their mother and Bobby and stood watching in silence as another man spoke to one of the three women who had been fussing over the child.
    “We’d like one more shot of her playing the violin, if you don’t mind, Miss Crandall. The light is just right now,” the young man said eagerly, “for a backlight effect.”
    “Very well, Mr. Trent.” The tall, severe-faced woman snapped her words. “But only one more. And hurry with it. My niece is getting tired.”
    “Thanks, Miss Crandall.” He and the photographer hurried to the little girl. “How about a pretty smile this time, Gaye?” he coaxed.
    The little girl gave him a cold, unfriendly look. “I’m tired, and I don’t feel like smiling,” she told him. “Just finish, and then go away.”
    “That’s telling him!” Mart told Trixie with a grin. He hadn’t intended to speak loudly enough to be heard by anyone but Trixie, but it happened to be one of those strangely quiet moments when no one else was speaking. As a consequence, several of the others turned startled faces toward him, and Mart’s freckled face flushed crimson.
    The young reporter scowled at Mart, but the photographer laughed. “Okay, sis. This is the last,” he told the little girl good-naturedly and prepared to take the picture.
    “Who are they, Moms?” Trixie whispered.
    “Guests of the Wheelers. That young man from the Sun is preparing an article about the little girl. She’s a famous violinist, I understand.”
    Trixie was impressed but puzzled. “But she’s awfully little to be famous! She can’t be much older than Bobby.” She frowned. “Why did they come here to take pictures?”
    Mrs. Belden smiled. “Our crab apple trees are the prettiest background they could find, and Mrs. Wheeler suggested it. They’re staying for tea, so you’d better hurry in and get the kettle on. We’ll use the best china.”
    The picture was taken now, and the child was standing alone. Trixie had a sudden impulse to go to her and ask her to come along into the house and help get tea ready.
    But before she could reach her, Trixie’s good-natured Irish setter, Reddy, came loping in, tongue lolling, tail wagging, from some business of his own in the woods. He saw the small blond girl and ventured over to investigate her. The little girl gave a terrified scream and dropped the violin.
    In answer to her scream, a small white poodle hurtled suddenly out of the open door of one of the big cars in the driveway. Barking shrilly, he dashed to the rescue, with all the courage of a lion.
    Reddy stopped to look at the tiny white ball of fur rushing noisily at him, and he got down on his haunches to challenge it to a romp. The poodle skidded to a stop at a safe distance but continued its shrill yelps of defiance.
    Sunlight flashed on the small dog’s brilliant collar. Mart laughed. “Look out, Reddy,” he called, “or that city dude will chew you to pieces!”
    “No! No! Don’t you hurt Mr. Poo!” the little girl shrieked and started to run toward the two animals.
    “Gaye! Come back here!” Miss Crandall called, hurrying after the child. “You’ll be hurt! Remember your hands!”
    But Gaye kept on going. Then she tripped and fell,
    and the shrieks changed to screams of anger and pain.
    Trixie dashed toward Reddy to pull him away from the yapping poodle, but Reddy dodged and escaped her. Encouraged, the poodle chased after Reddy, and Reddy galumphed around happily, with the poodle yapping at his heels. It was all a lovely romp for good-natured Reddy, and the tiny poodle seemed to be beginning to enjoy the chase.
    Mart laughed. “Wish I had my camera,” he said as Trixie stood watching the two dogs disappear into the orchard. Trixie tried to think of something withering to say about his sense of humor but gave it up after a futile moment.
    “Go get that little dog, and tie Reddy up,” her mother called hastily as she went by, with Bobby in tow, to help the ladies soothe the screaming Gaye.
    “Mart, would you?” Trixie coaxed.
    Mart shook his head firmly. “Scoot, before Reddy gets tired of having his ears blasted by that insect’s shrieks and gets himself a poodle leg for