The Mystery at Mead's Mountain

lodge.
    Once inside, she gazed appreciatively around the spacious lobby. Most noticeable was the towering Christmas pine tree nearly touching the peak of the cathedral ceiling. One entire wall was taken up by a large stone fireplace fenced in by comfortable-looking chairs and couches. At the other end of the room, opposite the fireplace, was the reception desk. The wall between the fireplace and the reception desk, facing the mountain, was entirely glassed in, but nothing could be seen in the outside floodlights except falling snow.
    Hearing footsteps, Trixie whirled around to see a tall, muscular blond man entering the room. He was wearing a very tight striped T-shirt tucked into bell-bottom jeans, and he had a clipper ship under full sail tattooed on his left forearm. With the rope sandals on his feet, he looked like a misplaced beachcomber.
    What a peculiar outfit for a ski lodge, thought Trixie.
    By this time, the others were filing into the lobby. Jim headed straight for the blond man. “Hi!” he greeted him. “Are you Pat O’Brien?”
    The man extended his hand and said, “No, I’m Bert Mitchell. Pat is expecting some kind of investigating team to arrive late tonight, so he and Katie are in the kitchen making sandwiches.” He held up his other hand, revealing a half-eaten sandwich. “They’re good, too.”
    Mart grinned. “Good, because we’re hungry.”
    “We’re that investigating team,” Jim explained, and then he introduced all of them.
    “You? But you’re just a bunch of kids!” Bert scoffed. “What do you do—watch to see who’s stealing out of the cookie jar?” He grinned at his own wit.
    Miss Trask stepped forward and said firmly, “Honey and Jim’s father is considering buying the lodge, and he wants to know if young people like this area.”
    “I see,” said Bert, still grinning. “You’re on a sort of vacation, huh?”
    “No,” replied Jim evenly, “we’re on a job. Could you please tell me where the kitchen is, so I can talk to Mr. O’Brien?”
    “Right through the door next to the reception desk,” replied Bert.
    After Jim left, Bert turned to the others. “Hey, kids, I’m sorry for laughing at you. When Pat said he was getting rooms ready for some people coming to investigate the lodge, I expected Sherlock Holmes types, not people whose father wants to buy it.”
    “That certainly is understandable, Mr. Mitchell,” said Honey pleasantly. “But we are taking our work very seriously.”
    “I can tell,” he said, seeming impressed. “Call me Bert, by the way. How long do you plan to stay?”
    “Only a week,” Trixie replied.
    “Well, I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourselves. I’m going to hit the hay now. See you later,” Bert said, and he strode off down the hall, sandals flopping.
    “We should have told him about the Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency,” Trixie sniffed. “Then he could have had a real laugh.”
    “Hey, everyone, come here,” Di called. She was standing at the reception desk, looking up at a beautiful picture on the wall. It was of the sun setting on the mountains, washing a rainbow of colors over them. “Why, that’s a Stevenson print,” said Miss Trask. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
    “It sure is,” agreed Mart. “Who is Stevenson?”
    “You mean I know something you don’t?” Trixie crowed. “Carl Stevenson is only the best and most famous printmaker on the East Coast. If you’d take your nose out of the dictionary sometime, you’d learn there’s more to this world than words.”
    “Don’t you remember the reception my parents had last spring to benefit the art museum?” Di asked him. “His daughter, Ellen, was there.”
    “Now I remember,” said Mart. “She’s the one who handles the business end of his art work, because he’s practically a hermit. I really like his stuff.”
    Just then, Jim came back into the lobby with a tall, lean, athletic man with wavy auburn hair and twinkling green eyes.
    Pat O’Brien grinned infectiously as Jim completed all the introductions. “Welcome to Mead’s Mountain!” he said. “I sure hope Mr. Wheeler does carry out his plan for this place. It’s very special. It’s been a wonderful home for Katie—that’s my wife—and our little girl, Rosie.” Then he sighed. “We’ll be sorry to leave it.”
    That’s funny, Trixie thought. I thought Mr. Wheeler said the O’Briens were the new caretakers.
    Pat picked up Miss Trask’s suitcase and said, “Katie’s making sandwiches