The Mystery of the Headless Horseman

watchful eye, the teen-agers worked industriously, first with the horses, then with the tack.
    Patch, disappointed that Jim obviously had no time to play with him, turned and trotted away toward the house.
    Trixie watched him go. She found herself wishing that one day Reddy might be as well behaved. It was impossible, of course. Or was it?
    It was almost suppertime before Regan was satisfied that his beloved horses had come to no harm from their afternoon’s outing.
    The tack had been polished and rehung on the stable wall—stirrups on leathers, girths thrown over saddles, bridles on the hooks right under the saddle pegs. Even Di had stayed there to help.
    “Fine!” Regan said at last. “Everything’s fine! You’ve done well, all of you!”
    “In that case,” Honey said, sounding relieved, “I’d better find Miss Trask again. We have a very important question to ask my parents.”
    “And I,” Di said, “have a telephone call I can’t wait to make.”
    Brian hurried home to Crabapple Farm to see about his long-ignored chores. But Mart stood watching Di as she rode back up the hill.
    “Maybe I should have gone with her to talk with Mr. Lynch,” he said. He threw Trixie a triumphant look out of the corner of his eye. “Some people think that I put my feet in my mouth. The truth is that I only put my feet under the dining room table.” And with that parting shot, he strolled away, his hands in his pockets.
    Trixie sighed. “I suppose what he means is that he’s hungry again.”
    Regan grunted. “Is there ever a time when he isn’t?”
    Suddenly Trixie chuckled. “I wonder if Mart will be able to be as en-enticingly enchanting when he gives Reddy his obedience lessons.”
    Jim came up behind her. “What’s all this about Mart giving Reddy lessons?”
    Trixie picked up Harrison’s derby hat, which Di had forgotten to take home. She stuck it on her head and grinned.
    “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.” She tipped the hat jauntily over one eye. “Mart will never train that dog to do as we want. Never!”

The Phantom Rider • 7

    OVER SUPPER that evening, Trixie listened quietly while Brian and Mart told the rest of the family about their afternoon adventure.
    “And when she heard the news,” Brian said, “Miss Trask was great! She offered to help us at the bazaar tomorrow.”
    “Thanks to me,” Mart reminded him, “and if Di gets her father’s permission.”
    “In the meantime,” Brian continued, “Harrison is being well looked after at the hospital. His head has been stitched up, and they’ll find out the results of the X rays soon.”
    “How do you know?” Mart asked, his mouth full of roast beef and potatoes.
    “I called Dr. Ferris a while ago,” Brian said. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Mart,” their mother said. “It’s bad for the digestion.”
    “Are Brussels sprouts bad for the ’gestion, too?” Bobby asked hopefully, eyeing the vegetables on his plate.
    “They’re very good for the digestion,” Helen Belden answered firmly. “Aren’t they, Brian?” But Brian was busy pursuing a thought of his own. “Miss Trask was telling us about the curator of Sleepyside’s Fine Arts Museum, Dad. Was there anything mysterious about his death?” Peter Belden, their banker father, frowned. “No, there was nothing mysterious about it. It was a heart attack, plain and simple. It was very unexpected, that’s all. Jonathan Crandall had had a weak heart for some time. No one thought it was quite as serious as it turned out to be.” Trixie said suddenly, “Miss Trask told us about the missing vase, too. Was it really that valuable?”
    “It was priceless,” Mr. Belden said quietly. “It was Ming, you see.”
    “Wow!” Mart exclaimed. “A real honest-to-goodness genuine Ming? I’ve never clapped my illustrious orbs on one yet. No wonder the owner of it was upset.”
    “What’s so great about a Ming vase?” Trixie asked. “Is it especially beautiful, or what?”
    Her father thought for a moment.
    “Well, I’m no expert on the subject of beauty,” he said, “and I only saw a picture of that vase. It was pale green in color. It was somewhat squat in shape, and it looked as if it were made out of thick pottery.”
    Trixie felt bewildered. “It doesn’t sound very beautiful to me. I don’t understand. What makes it worth so much money?”
    Her father laughed. “I’m not really an expert on that, either. But once I was told that anything