The Mystery in Arizona

into a spacious living room, all four walls of which seemed to Trixie to be nothing but picture windows. On one side were the purple mountains and on the other a shadowy expanse which must be the desert. The “picture window” facing her, she slowly realized, was really a double glass door which opened onto another patio.
    “Welcome to my humble home,” Uncle Monty was saying. “It started out as an adobe hut. Then, during the Civil War, when Arizona had little or no military protection from Apache raiders, it became a small fortress. When I bought the land and renovated the house, I decided to try to keep as much of the Old Pueblo feeling as possible. So you will find that in contrast to this room and the dining room, the bedrooms are so small you could almost call them cells.” He turned to Mr. Lynch. “I know you’d like to call the airport about your plane reservation. The phone is in my study on the other side of the west patio.” The two men went out through the glass doors.
    “The rooms can’t be too small for me,” Mart said. “Cell-sized housekeeping is the only kind I’m interested in at the moment.”
    “If only,” said Brian, “we had had brains enough to put Trixie in a padded cell before we embarked for the great Southwest!”
    “Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Jim easily. “If you’d stop complaining and think about it, you’d find that the idea grows on you. The girls will have to do all the dirty work, because it’s a known fact that we boys are no good at bed-making and dusting.”
    “That’s right,” Brian agreed, brightening. “Except when we’re scouring a few pots and pans and waiting on the tables, we will be free to do exactly what we please.”
    Mart raised his sandy eyebrows. “Have you forgotten the dishes? Mountains of them after every meal.”
    “Squaws’ work,” said Jim.
    Trixie sniffed. “Says you.”
    Uncle Monty came back through the glass door, and with him was a beautiful young Indian girl who, Trixie guessed, must be Rose-who-blooms-in-the-winter. She was wearing a flame-red cotton dress with a full skirt and a dainty white apron. Her sleek, jet-black hair was cut short in front to form thick bangs, but the back was long and was tied with a piece of bright red cloth to match her frock. On her bare brown feet were multicolored straw sandals, and on her pretty face was one of the warmest smiles Trixie had ever seen.
    “Yah-teh— greetings,” she said, and her voice was low and soft. Her black eyes flitted from one face to the other so that it seemed as though she had welcomed each one personally.
    “This is Rosita,” Uncle Monty said. “Her father is a famous silversmith, and her mother makes exquisite jewelry. Someday she will show you her bracelets and necklaces.”
    The girl’s smile faded, and almost imperceptibly she shook her head. Trixie, feeling very disappointed, couldn’t help wondering why Rosita didn’t want to show them her jewelry. Trixie had read a lot about Navaho silver craft and had seen color photographs of lovely things that were studded with shell, turquoise, and coral. She had also learned that all Navahos love to decorate themselves with jewelry, but Rose-who-blooms-in-the-winter was not wearing even one small ring.
    There’s something mysterious about all this, Trixie decided.
    “They call themselves Bob-Whites,” Uncle Monty was saying as he continued the introductions, “and they are, from left to right, Trixie, Honey, Di, Jim, Brian, and Mart.”
    “I’m awfully glad to meet you all,” Rosita said without a trace of an accent in her voice. “If the boys will carry the luggage I’ll show you to your rooms now.”
    The rooms were, Trixie discovered, truly cellsized but charming in every way. There was a double-deck bunk in the room she would share with Honey, and it was connected to Di’s by a tiny bathroom.
    “The boys have a similar ‘suite’ on the other side of the patio,” Rosita said. “This is the old part of the house, and the rooms were built during the old days when the hacienda was a fortress. Mr. Wilson never rents them to paying guests, except in an emergency.” She smiled ruefully. “I am afraid they have not been dusted properly, but Maria and I had barely time to put clean linen on the beds and get out the blankets which you will need because die nights are cold here.”
    “I just don’t understand the Orlandos,” Trixie said. “Why did they leave so suddenly?”
    Rosita