The Mystery of the Emeralds

town,” Trixie answered. “Maybe someone there will know where Rosewood Hall is.” She tried to keep the note of discouragement out of her voice as she said this.
    The guide had been right. Cliveden was not much bigger than the dot on the map in the geography book. If Trixie hadn’t happened to notice a rusty sign, INCORPORATED VILLAGE OF CLIVEDEN, SPEED LIMIT 15 MILES AN HOUR, they might well have driven right through.
    “Wow! Fifteen miles an hour!” Jim exclaimed, slowing the car to a crawl. “I bet that sign has been there since the first horseless carriage came into town.”
    “Watch out for the livestock!” Brian cautioned as a rawboned old cow meandered onto the road.
    “Looks more like dead stock to me,” Mart said with a shiver. “What a creepy town!”
    There were a few houses and one general store, a boarded-up church, and a one-pump gas station. As they passed the store, Trixie caught sight of a small sign in the window: UNITED STATES POST OFFICE.
    “Gleeps!” she cried. “Back up, Jim, or turn around or something. We re on the right track at last.”
    “Hey, watch out, Trix!” Brian yelled as Trixie opened the door and jumped out almost before the car had come to a halt. “Do you want to lose a leg?” His warning was disregarded as his sister raced up the rickety steps into the store.
    “Let’s stay in the car,” Honey suggested. “If there is a Rosewood Hall, she should be the first one to hear about it, and if there isn’t, our being in there with her won’t help matters a bit.”
    “You’re right, Honey,” Jim said. “I hope she’ll get some encouragement. She’s so sure she’s on the trail of something big; I’d hate to see her bubble burst now.”
    The store was empty when Trixie entered, but the squeak of the hinge apparently had been heard by someone in the rear, because it wasn’t many seconds before there was the sound of scuffing feet. A curtain hanging in a doorway at the back was pushed aside, and a wrinkled-faced old woman came out. Although the day was hot, she clutched a faded blue shawl around her thin shoulders.
    “Excuse me,” Trixie began, her voice unnaturally high with excitement. “Do you happen to know where Rosewood Hall is?”
    “Rosewood Hall?” The old lady cackled. “I reckon I do know where it is. My folks used to live there before—” She gave Trixie a long, cold look, the smile disappearing from her face. “What do you-all want to know about Rosewood Hall for?” she drawled. “You aren’t from around here, are you?”
    “No, we’re just passing through,” Trixie answered as nonchalantly as she could. “Relatives of a friend of mine used to live there, and I was curious to see it, that’s all.”
    She smiled sweetly and tinned as though to leave, hoping to reassure the old lady that she didn’t have any ulterior motive in asking about Rosewood.
    “Not so fast, honey,” the woman said, coming out from behind the nearly empty showcase, the wry smile reappearing. “I thought you might be another of those rich folks from up north.”
    “Well, I’m from up north,” Trixie said in her most ingratiating manner, “but I’m certainly far from being rich!”
    “They come down here and buy up these old places, and us folks who’ve lived in ’em for years have to get out,” the old lady said in a whining voice. “Then they don’t even have the grace to come in here to buy a stamp.”
    “Is that what happened to you?” Trixie asked. “Well, not exactly,” was the evasive reply. “Part of Rosewood burned down during the Civil War, and the wing that was left, where we lived, just finally fell down around our ears when I was a girl. Rotten clean through, it was. There’s only the front left standing today.”
    Trixie’s heart was pounding as she said, “Well, I’d like to take a look at it, as long as I’ve come this far.”
    “It’ll just be a waste of time, honey. If you want to see a really nice place, go to the house next to it, Green Trees. That’s one the Northerners haven’t got their hands on yet.”
    “And who lives there?” Trixie asked, wanting to get as much information as possible from what might turn out to be her only source.
    “Edgar Carver, and he’s the last of his line,” the old woman said sadly. “I’m told his ancestors built the house over a hundred and fifty years ago, and there’s been a Carver in it ever since. It’s down the road a mile. You can’t miss it.”
    “Oh, thank