The Mystery in Arizona

up,” she muttered and wandered on to the edge of the pool. She tested the water with her toes, decided it was just right, and dived in to swim the length.
    When she emerged, dripping but cool and refreshed, at the other end, she discovered that Uncle Monty and Mrs. Sherman were sitting together under an umbrella. Stretched out on a red chaise lounge a few yards away was “Calamity” Jane Brown. And seated in a folding canvas deck chair was a plump, middle-aged man with sparse gray hair who Trixie guessed must be Mr. Wellington.
    She had never seen Mrs. Sherman before, but she was sure that there couldn’t be two guests at the ranch who looked so silly in a cowboy costume.
    Just then the woman raised her voice, and Trixie heard her say, “I’m telling you, Mr. Wilson, the situation has become intolerable. I paid in advance for service, and I’m not getting any. The Orlandos were all excellent. If you can’t replace them, you shouldn’t have let them go.”
    Uncle Monty looked unhappy, but he said mildly, “I didn’t; they just went, Mrs. Sherman. I consider myself fortunate that my niece’s young friends, who came out here to be my guests, have—”
    “That’s the point,” Mrs. Sherman interrupted. “The boys are obviously amateur waiters and the girls—well, the one who did my room today told me herself that she learned how to make beds at boarding school. When she told me her name and where she lives, it didn’t take me long to figure out that she is the daughter of Matthew Wheeler, the New York millionaire. Of all things—”
    “My niece’s father is a millionaire, too,” Uncle Monty said with the ghost of a smile.
    “Well, it’s intolerable,” Mrs. Sherman continued hotly. “Having heiresses wait on me makes me feel very uncomfortable. I found that Mexican girl, Isabella, very satisfactory, and I could grow fond of Rosita if I ever saw her for any length of time. But—”
    “Isabella,” Uncle Monty pointed out quietly, “is the direct descendant of an Aztec noble. And Rosita’s grandfather was a great Navaho chief. He’s written up in all of the history books. I just don’t see why you object to Honey. But if you like, I’ll ask Trixie Belden to do your room after this. She’s as poor as a church mouse.” He raised his voice, frankly laughing now. “Aren’t you, Trix?”
    Trixie joined in his laughter. “Poorer than that,” she said, coming closer and squeezing water out of her curls. “I’d be glad to switch with Honey, Mr. Wilson.” She smiled in Calamity’s direction. “Honey can do Miss Brown’s room, instead.”
    At that, to Trixie’s astonishment, Miss Brown scrambled ungracefully to her feet. “Well, that doesn’t suit me at all,” she fairly shouted at Uncle Monty. “I’ve worked hard all of my life, and if Mrs. Sherman is uncomfortable with an heiress waiting on her, imagine how I would feel.”
    “So you’ve worked hard all of your life?” Mrs. Sherman bellowed. “How about me? When I was your age, I couldn’t afford to spend two weeks loafing around a dude ranch in expensive clothes! Those boots you have on must have cost forty dollars. When I was your age, I went barefooted except on Sundays, and there were so many holes in my go-to-meeting pumps that I had to line them with cardboard.” Very red in the face, she stopped suddenly and patted her dyed black curls.
    Suddenly Trixie felt sorry for her and guessed that Mrs. Sherman was now more embarrassed than she was angry. She had revealed more about her past than she intended, and now she must feel as silly as she looked. The richly decorated cowboy boots she was wearing were obviously brand-new and must have cost a lot more than forty dollars. And her green satin shirt was much more expensive-looking than the checked silk one Jane Brown was wearing.
    If anybody, Trixie reflected, has a right to make critical remarks, it’s Calamity. She’s so small and slim she looks cute in Levi’s.
    “Well, anyway,” Mrs. Sherman was saying exasperatedly, “the service here is terrible, Mr. Wilson. For the past hour I’ve been trying to get someone to bring me a tall glass of ice-cold lemonade. I've tapped the bell on that table until my fingers are sore, but does anybody come?”
    “I’m sorry about that,” Uncle Monty replied. “I haven’t been able to hire anyone to take the place of Juan Orlando, who used to serve soft drinks at the pool between meals. But I’ll be glad to—”
    “No, no,