The Mystery of the Ghostly Galeon

you have refused to come with me to visit my brother,” she said, her voice low. “But your concern is quite unnecessary. I really do hope you’ll come with me.”
    The three friends exchanged startled glances. For one thing, they hadn’t realized until now that Miss Trask even had a brother. For another, there was a note of appeal in her voice that they’d never heard before.
    To Trixie, she sounded worried at the thought of going alone to her childhood home.
    I’m imagining things , Trixie thought. I must be.
    But she had a sudden hunch that she wasn’t.

A Family Quarrel ● 2

    IT WAS EXACTLY one hour later when Trixie raced home to talk to her parents. Soon afterward, her cheeks still rosy from the crisp night air, she hurried away to find her two older brothers.
    She discovered them in the warm and fragrant kitchen of the old farmhouse. Maps lay scattered across the polished surface of the familiar maple table. Trixie guessed they had been busy discussing plans for the coming weekend.
    Six-year-old Bobby, Trixie’s youngest brother, had long been in bed. Even Reddy, the Beldens’ lovable Irish setter, was fast asleep. He lay on the braided rug at Brian’s feet and snored softly.
    As always, the kitchen looked cozy in the lamplight. Its walls were hung with gleaming copper utensils, and treasured china was proudly displayed on plate racks and cup hooks.
    Thinking of china, Trixie glanced guiltily toward the sink. It was now clean and free from the clutter of wet dishes that she had left there earlier. Someone had dried them and put them away. Judging from the exasperated look on Mart’s face, Trixie guessed that he was the someone who’d had to do it.
    Brian grunted. “So you’re home.”
    “I’m home,” Trixie agreed, hastily deciding not to mention the tender subject of chores. “Brian, Mart, guess what?”
    Mart, who was only eleven months older than Trixie, and who looked enough like her to be her twin, immediately closed his eyes. He clapped one hand to his forehead. “Wait!” he droned. “Don’t tell us! The One and Only Mart Belden, the All-Knowing, will read it in your cerebral cortex!”
    He paused, thoroughly enjoying his use of big words, which he could pronounce but never spell.
    “I prognosticate,” he droned on, “that we are not going to sojourn at Owasco Lake, after all. It appears that we have had our collective arm twisted. We will instead peregrinate to the Catskills to visit Miss Trask’s brother, who is, it seems, an innkeeper.”
    Trixie giggled. “You’re right, and wasn’t that something? None of us knew Miss Trask even had a brother—”
    “Quiet, squaw!” Mart thundered. “I am not finished. Now, where was I? Oh, yes! Can it be that my pea-brained sister seriously expects to ascertain the solution to an ancient mystery? And can the aforesaid mystery have anything to do with an evanescent pirate? If so, I can tell her right now how the mystifying deed was done.” Trixie was startled. “You can?”
    “Sure,” Mart said in his normal voice. He opened his eyes and grinned at her. “The answer’s very simple. The old captain covered himself all over with vanishing cream and became invisible.”
    “Oh, Mart!” Trixie exclaimed, trying not to laugh. “I suppose Honey called you.”
    “Nope, it was Jim,” Mart said. He opened the big old refrigerator and gazed affectionately at its contents.
    Brian ran a hand through his dark, wavy hair. “Jim told us everything,” he said. “But whatever happened to not listening to any arguments? What happened to standing firm, no matter what? I thought you guys finally decided to give Miss Trask some time to herself.”
    “Yes, but—” Trixie began.
    “I know what it was,” Mart said over his shoulder. “Trixie’s been reading one of her dumb spy novels again. What’s the woman’s name who writes those silly things? Lucy Snodgrass?” Trixie’s face flamed red with indignation. “Her name is Lucy Radcliffe. And she does not write dumb novels. She’s only eighteen years old, but she’s had so many wonderful adventures. She’s been all over the world in the service of her country, and—”
    Mart threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Only eighteen years old, eh? Take it from me, O squaw, that author’s had so much happen to her that I’d guess she’s seventy years old if she’s a day. What’s more, I’ll bet she has a bit of a mustache.”
    Trixie swallowed hard. “She doesn’t