The Mystery of the Castaway Children

“It’s Not a Skunk” ● 1

    THUMP. THUMP.
    Pause.
    “Go get it, Reddy!”
    “Woof!”
    Thump.
    Inside the hot kitchen, Trixie Belden brushed the damp curls off her forehead as she finished up the last of the dinner dishes. The noise of her little brother Bobby throwing his ball against the side of the house was less than soothing. Apparently Reddy, the Beldens’ Irish setter, was the outfielder. Why is it always my turn to do the dishes on the muggiest nights of the summer? Trixie thought irritably.
    She wasn’t the only Belden affected by the heat. She could hear her parents’ conversation out on the porch, and both of them sounded rather testy.
    “Peter,” Trixie heard her mother say, “can’t you play catch with Bobby until Brian and Mart come back with, the ice cream? He’s trampling my petunias.”
    Peter Belden had been trying to tell his wife about his day at work, but he stopped long enough to call, “Take it easy, Bobby. Windows cost money.”
    Trixie heard the creak of the porch swing as her father eased himself onto it. “Anyway,” he went on, “I feel sorry for David Dodge. He came into the bank again several weeks ago to inquire about another loan, but we couldn’t see our way clear to let him have any more money. Now he’s having to auction off his property on Saw Mill River.”
    “Isn’t his wife one of the Jacksons? Surely their credit is good,” Mrs. Belden objected.
    “They’re both from families that have been in the area a long time,” Mr. Belden replied, “but that’s not what establishes a good credit rating anymore, Helen. It’s whether you pay your bills promptly that counts. This man Dodge is up to his ears in debt. He buys things he can’t afford, and he uses credit cards like they’re going out of style. When he runs short of ready cash, he borrows from the nearest friend and signs an IOU.”
    “What’s wrong with that?” Mrs. Belden asked. “Credit cards aren’t exactly dishonest.”
    “David Dodge isn’t dishonest,” Mr. Belden sighed. “He’s careless. He’s convinced he can pay, but he hasn’t got any sense when it comes to money. He just plain indulges his family without counting the cost.”
    No wonder her father sounded disapproving, thought Trixie. His job at the First National Bank in Sleepyside taught him to respect money management and credit rating. He handled large sums of other people’s money, while his own family lived in comfortable yet moderate circumstances on Crabapple Farm.
    Trixie’s thoughts drifted to a few indulgences she wouldn’t mind having at Crabapple Farm. Central air conditioning, for a start. An electric dishwasher, too. Gleeps! She knew better than to ask for a dishwasher, though. Someone would be bound to tell her, “Who needs one? We have you!”
    The trouble was that housework was not one of Trixie’s passions. On the other hand, she loved the farm. Sharing the work was the price each Belden paid for living a quiet, uncluttered life. Trixie had only to glance out the window over the kitchen sink to see gardens and orchard, fields and lawn. She felt sorry for the family of that man her father was talking about. Evidently they had a place over on Saw Mill River, between the Hudson River and White Plains. It would be painful to have to give that up.
    Despite the cloud blanket trapping heat in the hollow where the farm lay, Trixie could think of no place she’d rather be on this sweltering August night. Just the same... she’d be the last to complain if the family splurged on an electric dishwasher.
    Trixie frowned to herself as she wiped the counters clean. “I’ll climb the walls if it doesn’t rain pretty soon,” she muttered.
    Finally she had the kitchen as spotless as she could make it, and she headed for the porch to join her parents. Plopping herself down on the steps, she inhaled the cooler air and shoved her mop of short sandy curls up from her hot neck.
    Peter Belden had not taken his wife’s suggestion to play with Bobby, who had moved his ball game to the wall of the garden shed in the backyard. Each time his ball dropped into the grass, grasshoppers whirred in protest. Robins were raising the last brood of the season in the maple tree by the doghouse. Disturbed by the weather, they sang their loudest. Trixie found the sound vaguely annoying. As she watched the cloud mass hanging over the Catskills, she heard the first rumble of thunder.
    “Better watch out,” she called to Bobby. “The