The Mystery at Saratoga

is a B. And this little one is an e. And the tall skinny letter is an I, and—”
    “That’s very good, Bobby,” Trixie interrupted impatiently. “I had no idea you’d learned so many letters. But don’t you want to know what Brian and Mart have to say?”
    “Oh, yes,” Bobby said, remembering that the letter inside the envelope was even more interesting than the letters on the outside. “Will you read it to us, Moms?”
    “I will, indeed,” Mrs. Belden said, washing her hands at the kitchen sink and drying them before she took the letter from Bobby. She sat down at the kitchen table, and Trixie quickly sat down and pulled Bobby onto her lap.
    “The first part of the letter is in Brian’s handwriting,” Mrs. Belden said. “ ‘Dear Moms, Dad, Trixie, and Bobby:’ ” she read. “ ‘Greetings from your hardworking sons. We’ve been meaning to write for days, but by the time we’re really sure that all of our young monsters are asleep for the night, and not just pretending to be asleep so they can sneak out of the cottage later, we’re so tired that we just tumble into our own cots.
    “ ‘In other words, we’re working very hard, but we’re enjoying every minute of it. We took a two-day canoe trip this week, and Jim impressed everyone with his knowledge of woodlore, while Mart scared everyone—including me and Jim—half-silly with his ghost stories around the campfire.’ ”
    “Mart tells great stories!” Bobby exclaimed.
    “He certainly does,” Trixie agreed, shivering as she remembered the times, years ago, when she had lain awake in her room after listening to one of Mart’s tales, imagining that every shadow was a ghost.
    Mrs. Belden, reading ahead, smiled as she said, “The handwriting changes here. See if you can guess who wrote this:
    “ ‘My elder sibling is predictably unostentatious in describing our peregrinations. His ministrations to sunburns and blisters were no less integral to our journey than Jim’s forest acumen or my histrionic ability.’ ”
    “I know who wrote it,” Bobby said. “Mart did. But I sure don’t know what it means!”
    Trixie sniffed. “I doubt that Mart knows exactly what all those big words mean, either, Bobby. But I think the translation is something like, ‘Brian didn’t take enough credit for what he did on the trip. He gave first aid to the campers, and that was just as important as Jim’s woodlore or Mart’s scary stories.’ Right, Moms?”
    Mrs. Belden nodded and continued reading. “ ‘Seriously, Moms, I can tell from watching Brian and Jim that we have a good idea in planning to open a school for boys after we all finish college. Brian is going to be a first-rate doctor, and Jim is just wonderful with all the kids up here. Working at this camp is great experience for us, although my teaching of agriculture is limited pretty much to trying to make sure that everyone can recognize poison ivy. And I might add that I haven’t always succeeded even in that.’ ”
    “Poison ivy—yuch!” Bobby shouted.
    “Yuch is right,” Trixie added. “Go on, Moms.”
    “There’s not much left,” Mrs. Belden said. “Just one more paragraph, in Brian’s handwriting again. He says, ‘Sorry this letter is so short, but we have to hit the hay. The wake-up call comes awfully early around here, and the kids wake up rarin’ to go. We’re both looking forward to coming home to the soft life at Crabapple Farm next week.’ ”
    “Soft life!” Trixie hooted. “They’re not going to have it so soft when I hand over my chores for three weeks, to make up for having done all of theirs since they’ve been gone.”
    “That’s something you’ll have to work out with your brothers,” Mrs. Belden said. “Right now, you might be interested in the postscript to this letter.” Taking the letter from her mother, Trixie felt her heart flutter as she recognized Jim’s handwriting.
    “Dear Trix,” she read silently, “I’ve been writing to Honey and my folks while Brian and Mart wrote this letter, and I’m just as bushed as they are. But I did want to say hi. And I wanted to remind you to take care of yourself and not—I repeat, not —get involved in any mysteries while we’re away. I worry about you, Trixie. We all do.”
    Trixie felt a wave of guilt. She and Honey had debated, on the way home the night before, whether or not they should telephone the boys and tell them about Regan’s disappearance and their decision to go to Saratoga