The Mystery in Arizona

patio. It was as bright as day out there except for one shadowy comer.
    Trixie stared unseeingly into those shadows, wondering if the boys had come back yet from their moonlight ride. “The lucky ducks,” she thought enviously. “They’ve probably already made friends with the foreman and are teacher’s pets by now. But I’ll bet it’ll be different when we girls want to go riding tomorrow. Old crosspatch Howie probably won t let us ride anything but a sawhorse.”
    And then she heard, rather than saw, that somebody was hovering outside in the shadows. A soft sighing sound rose and became a sob.
    Somebody was out there, and that somebody was crying. Who could it be—and why was he, or she, so unhappy?

Calamity Jane • 9

    THE NEXT MORNING, as they dressed hurriedly and tidied their rooms, Trixie said, “I heard somebody crying out on the west patio last night. Who do you suppose it could have been?”
    Honey frowned thoughtfully. “The homesick guest, Mr. X. Wellington?”
    Trixie shook her head. “I got the feeling that it was a girl, or a quite young woman. It might have been Rosita or Maria. In spite of the fact that they smile a lot, I don’t think either of them is very happy.”
    “I know what you mean.” Honey folded her patchwork quilted comforter into a neat triangle and placed it at the foot of her bunk. “I think Maria sort of wishes she had gone off with her in-laws wherever they went. And Rosita, since her parents don’t know that she’s working here as a maid—and wouldn’t approve of it if they did—is certainly unhappy. Any girl as nice as she is would be miserable under the circumstances. Why on earth do you suppose that she’s here under, well, false pretenses?”
    “There can be only one answer,” Trixie said. “She must need the money Uncle Monty is paying her. But if her father is a famous silversmith and her mother makes exquisite Navaho jewelry, why should she need money? I don’t understand.”
    “It’s all beyond me,” Honey admitted. “Thinking about all the complicated characters at this ranch makes my head ache. I’ve decided not to think about any of them except my personal problem, Mrs. Astorbilt.” Honey clasped her slim hands. “Oh, Trixie, she’s bound to see right through me. I don’t really know how to behave like a maid.”
    Trixie laughed. “Of course you do. Your home has always been swarming with them. Ditto for Di since her father made a million dollars. I’m the one who’s going to behave so peculiarly that—”
    Di yelled to them then through the open doors of the adjoining bath: “Hey, you two! Maria just brought me our uniforms. Come and get ’em.”
    The “uniforms” turned out to be simple white blouses, beautifully hand-embroidered in brilliant color, and gay, multicolored dirndl-type skirts. “The skirts,” Di said with a giggle, “are really glorified aprons. Maria says we don’t have to wear them except when we’re on duty. I’ve just about decided to wear mine over my jeans—I mean my Levi’s.” She pirouetted around her small room. “How do I look? It definitely gives the impression that I’m wearing old-fashioned pantaloons. Don’t you agree? I mean, I could have just stepped out of a covered wagon, couldn’t I?”
    Honey, convulsed with laughter, unhooked Di’s skirt and snatched it away from her. “No. Definitely no. Pantaloons is the right word, since you did look like a buffoon. The women who came out West in covered wagons wore panta lets . Dainty ruffled things, Di, not Levi’s.”
    “What difference does it make?” Di demanded gaily. “We’re all going to behave like buffoons, anyway. If I’m supposed to make Mr. Wellington laugh, why shouldn’t I act like a clown?”
    “Because you’re far too pretty—” Honey began, and then suddenly the door was flung open and standing there was a nurse in a stiffly starched uniform.
    “You girls,” she said sternly, “are making far too much noise at this hour of the morning. A great many of my patients do not sleep well. They need this hour’s rest before breakfast. I will thank you if you will keep your voices down and confine your giggles to some other hour of the day.” She closed die door with a sharp click.
    “Oooh,” Trixie moaned quietly. “We don’t seem to be any more popular with Nurse Girard than we are with Foreman Howie.” For a fleeting second, Trixie wished she were back home where no one was ever scolded for laughing.
    Honey