The Mystery at Mead's Mountain

Mountain being unhealthy,” said Jim. “Especially after that last note.”
    “Eric must have told him we’re detectives,” Trixie reasoned. “They’re up to something, otherwise they wouldn’t be worried about our being detectives.”
    “You’re jumping to conclusions, Harriet Beecher Stowe,” Mart taunted.
    “In spite of his odd remarks, there’s something about Carl that I like,” said Brian thoughtfully. “He does seem to be a tough old coot.”
    Trixie was astonished. “Gleeps, Brian, he was downright rude, and after you practically saved his life. He didn’t want us around any more than necessary. Look how he acted when you suggested taking him home—like we were poison!”
    “I didn’t save his life at all,” Brian sighed. “Besides, people who love the mountains and live there alone for a long time can forget normal courtesies.”
    “People who love the mountains don’t keep all their shades pulled down in the middle of the day,” Trixie retorted. “I know something funny is going on in there. That’s why he didn’t want us to take him home. He’s probably on his way back from making a delivery of moonshine right now!”
    Brian, Mart, and Jim groaned in unison.
    “It’s just too heavy for an old man, Trixie,” said Brian. “Alcohol is used for other things besides drinking, you know. Doctors use a lot of it for sterilizing, for instance. You yourself said you used it in biology.”
    “Something that smells like alcohol is used in developing pictures, too,” added Mart. “That, my dear Eleanor Roosevelt, would explain why the shades were closed.”
    “Oh....” Trixie could see that her theory was evaporating into nothingness.
    “Alcohol is also used in printing,” Honey recalled. “I remember reading that some printers could become addicted to the smell of ink because of its alcoholic content.”
    “I did notice that his fingers were ink-stained, when I took his pulse,” said Brian.
    Trixie’s face brightened. “Really?” Then she was silent as she sat on the snow-covered log, elbows resting on her knees, chin cupped in her hand, and her brow furrowed.
    Mart bit into his second apple and tapped Trixie on the shoulder. “Oh, Virginia Woolf,” he teased, “are we to deduce from your inertia that you’ve developed another perspicacious hypothesis with which to confound us?”
    “I don’t know,” Trixie sighed. “I was just remembering that show we saw on TV last fall. The one about the huge black market in phony passports, driver’s licenses, birth certificates, and other identifications. Wouldn’t these mountains be a perfect place for that kind of work? You could have all your materials laid out and not worry about anyone interrupting you.”
    “I remember that show,” Brian said. “But we have no reason to suspect Carl of having anything to do with false ID’s.”
    “Why wouldn’t he tell us his full name then?” asked Honey. “And why was he so rude, both now and when Trixie and I went to the cabin?”
    “And why did his cabin smell of alcohol?” added Trixie. “Why are his fingers ink-stained?”
    “I think I can answer all those questions,” Di spoke up quietly.
    There was a moment of silence as the others stared at Di in amazement.
    “The art museum benefit my folks had last spring,” Di said by way of explanation.
    “Yes?” prompted Trixie.
    “There were a lot of Carl Stevenson prints there, and we talked to his daughter, Ellen Johnson, for a while,” Di continued. “She showed us one print of an old man with long white hair, called ‘Legend of a Mountain Man.’ She said it was really a self-portrait of her father, who lives alone in the mountains. It looked just like Mr. Moonshine.”
    “Di, you’re right!” exclaimed Honey. “How thrilling to think that we may have actually met Carl Stevenson himself!”
    “Of course you’re right,” said Jim. “The ink-stained fingers and artistic temperament. And the printer’s ink smell in his cabin. That would also explain why he doesn’t like a bunch of people around.”
    Trixie didn’t say anything. She couldn’t remember the picture very well at all. She was excited about having met a famous artist, but part of her was disappointed that he wasn’t a backwoods moonshiner.
    “That takes care of that,” said Mart, standing up. “Now, if everyone’s done eating, let’s get off the wild-goose trail and back on the ski trail. Coming, Your Majesty, Queen of