The Mystery in Arizona

that squaw,” said Mart. “For years I have been trying in vain to get her to give me the correct answer to that simplest of all weights and measures problems: ‘Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. How many pickled peppers did Peter Piper pick?’ ”
    “Pooh,” said Di. “That’s not a problem. It’s a jawbreaker—and in case you’re interested, I believe you said ‘How many peckled pippers’ instead of—oh, well, never mind.”
    “Nobody could answer that question,” Honey put in. “There probably are no such things as pickled peppers, and if there were, they’d probably vary in size.”
    “You use pickled peppers when you make chili sauce, don’t you, Maria?” Brian put in.
    “Dried chili peppers,” she said. “But one can easily pickle peppers by putting them sliced with onions and garlic in a crock and covering all with a brine of vinegar and salt.”
    “That proves my point,” Honey said quickly. “Before you could answer Mart’s problem, you’d have to know how many slices make a whole pepper. And that’s impossible.”
    “Besides,” Di added, “Peter Piper couldn’t have picked a peck of peckled pippers because pickled peppers don’t grow. They’re pickled after they’re picked.”
    Mart was almost hysterical with laughter. “You girls grow pickled brains,” he finally got out. “The answer to my problem is quite simple. In two words —one peck.”
    Trixie glared at him. “Oh, for pete’s sake!”
    Mart groaned. “Are you referring to Pete Piper? If so, I’d rather not hear any more about him.” He turned to Jim. “In fact, if anyone mentions the name Pete in my presence, I shall he on the floor and scream.”
    “Don’t look now,” said Trixie, “but prepare to scream. Hi, Petey,” she shouted as Maria’s little boy came in.
    Everyone, including Maria, burst into laughter, and the little boy stared at them solemnly. Maria sobered quickly. “I told you to stay in bed until I called you, mi vida,” she said.
    “Want my breakfast,” he announced. “I’m going to school.”
    “Well, all right,” Maria said reluctantly. “I guess you have not caught cold, after all. Come and have some tortillas . The big boys are eating theirs with butter and syrup. You will like that, yes?”
    “I’m tired of tortillas ,” he said. Trixie slipped past him through the doorway, and then, to her amazement, she heard him say, “I won’t eat anyfing ’less I can have some dead people’s bread.”
    Oh, oh, Trixie thought as she hurried on to her room. Dead people’s bread! What on earth could he mean by that?
    Then she dismissed everything else from her mind and concentrated on her theme. The day before, she had borrowed from the bookcases in the living room a stack of beautifully illustrated magazines which contained articles on the Navahos. Soon she was completely absorbed in the history of Navaho silver craft.
    She learned that concha belts derived the name from the shell-like form of the decorations on them. Some of the Plains Indians wore these round or slightly oval plates on their long braids. The Navaho warriors wore their hair in a single queue at the back of their heads, so they attached conchas to pieces of leather which they wore around their waists. One concha, with a diamond-shaped slot in the center, served as a buckle for the leather lacing of the belt. The old belts, Trixie discovered, were wider and heavier than modern ones and always had exactly seven conchas in them.
    She was about to write in her own words what she had learned about concha belts when the breakfast bell chimed. Quickly she tidied the desk, giving Mrs. Sherman time to get to the dining room.
    But her plotting was wasted. When she tapped on the elderly woman’s door, a cross voice said, “Come in; come in.”
    The door was yanked open by Mrs. Sherman, who looked larger than usual in a voluminous pink satin-and-lace negligee. “Oh, my goodness,” she greeted Trixie. “I hoped you were Rosita bringing me a cup of black coffee. I have no time for breakfast. I must pack.” She waved her hands. “Did you ever see such a mess? I hardly know where to begin.”
    The small room did indeed look as though a hurricane had rushed through it, leaving in its wake a tumbled mass of clothing. Sheer stockings and lingerie were impaled on the spurs of Mrs. Sherman’s beautifully decorated cowboy boots, which were sprawling incongruously on top of her desk.
    The bed was heaped high