The Mystery at Mead's Mountain

fireplace. Trixie appeared to be deep in thought, and Honey finally leaned over and whispered, “You’ve got something on your mind, and I want to know what it is.”
    “I’ve been thinking about our first night here,” Trixie said softly. “I think I’ve figured out how our ghost came in without leaving any footprints.”
    Honey looked startled, and Trixie explained, “He came in the front door, doused the fire, opened the patio door to make it look like he came in that way, and then went out the front door again, locking it behind him.”
    “But the front door was locked,” Honey began. “Oh—you think Pat’s the ghost instead of Eric. He would have had a key.”
    Trixie shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t need a key,” she said smugly. “Honey, do you have your student ID with you—you know, the plastic-coated one?”
    Honey fished the card out of her wallet, trying to control her curiosity.
    “I’ll go out in the hall, and you lock the door,” Trixie commanded. “I’ll be back in by the time you can count to ten.”
    Honey locked the door behind Trixie and began to count. “One... two...”
    Trixie took Honey’s card and slipped it in between the door and the doorjamb.
    “Five... six...”
    She forced the card against the lock and started to wiggle the card back and forth.
    “Nine... ten...”
    Trixie held on to the doorknob and tried to turn it, still wiggling the card.
    “Thirteen... fourteen...”
    Trixie was just about to ask Honey to let her in, when finally the door popped open! Trixie handed Honey her school card. “You count too fast,” she breathed.
    The other Bob-Whites were standing open-mouthed behind Honey.
    “Trixie Belden, how did you do that?” Di asked in amazement.
    “Cheap locks,” Trixie answered. “Anyone with a credit card has a key to this door!”
    “Dad’s definitely going to have to replace those locks,” said Jim firmly. “Here, let me try.”
    While the others took turns trying to open the locked door, Trixie grabbed Honey’s arm and pulled her into their bedroom, closing the door behind them.
    “I’m going back to the cabin in the woods,” Trixie announced.
    “I knew it,” moaned Honey. “You still think Carl and Eric are guilty of something, don’t you? Even though Eric isn’t the ghost or a thief, and Carl is a famous artist, not a moonshiner.”
    “Everyone keeps forgetting about the conversation I overheard,” said Trixie. “I do think they’re up to something, and I think all the answers to this whole case lie in that cabin.”
    “You can explain it to me on the way,” sighed Honey, reaching into the closet and pulling out her windbreaker. “There’s nothing I can say that will change your mind.”
    Trixie gave her friend a hug. “I knew you’d come,” she said.
    “I don’t have much choice—remember your promise that you wouldn’t go anywhere alone? How about asking Jim to come, too?”
    “I forgot about the promise,” Trixie admitted. “But let’s not ask Jim. We’re only going to check footprints and look in a window if we can. There’s nothing that can happen to us.”
    When the girls told the others that they were going for a walk, Brian said, “We might go skiing pretty soon. Think you’ll be back in time?”
    “Don’t wait for us,” Trixie said. “Where are you going?”
    “Downhill—we want to explore what’s below the lodge,” said Brian.
    “Have fun,” said Honey. “We’ll join you if we’re here in time.”
    Trixie and Honey were delighted to see that Wanda had started the chair lift, which would save them a grueling walk up the mountain.
    “The snow is kind of deep today,” Wanda cautioned, “but you won’t have much of a problem. You kids have really gotten to be good cross-country skiers. One of these days you’ll be showing up Rosie!”
    After they had made the climb through the woods above the chair lift, Honey demanded that Trixie explain everything to her.
    “You have to remember what the pawnbroker told me about the counterfeit money,” Trixie began. “That’s what really gave it away.”
    “What did he say?” prompted Honey.
    “That the bills were works of art,” replied Trixie. “So?”
    “Who would be better at making ‘work of art’ forgeries than an artist such as the best printmaker on the East Coast—Carl Stevenson!”
    Honey stopped skiing. “But the man’s a hermit, Trixie. He never goes to town. How could he have passed counterfeit