The Mystery of the Memorial Day Fire

engraving. Now he’s added caps and T-shirts, which are more in demand.”
    “There’s Mr. Roberts now,” Di said as a dark, heavy-set man joined Nick and his mother. “He must have dropped them off and gone to park the car.”
    “Maybe he was working late, if business is as good as Jim says. His shop is just a couple of blocks from here,” Trixie said. “I was there once, remember?”
    “Remember who was responsible for the salvation of your epidermis prior to the bikeathon?” Mart asked mockingly.
    “Now that’s worth remembering,” Jim said to Trixie. “I’m proud of you for helping Nick and his family, but I wish you hadn’t got mixed up in a mystery — and a dangerous situation — along the way.”
    “Solving that mystery was just as important to Nick’s future as the bikeathon itself,” Honey said, jumping in as always to defend her fellow detective. Honey liked mysteries as much as Trixie did, and the two girls planned to start the Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency when they finished school.
    “That’s all right, Honey,” Trixie said with a wave of her hand. “Jim and Mart made their point. But let’s not talk about mysteries right now, because there isn’t a mystery in sight. There is a parade in sight, though. Look!”
    Trixie pointed down the street, and the Bob-Whites could see, blocks away, the satin banner of the first of the marching bands. At the same time, the first thin, clear notes of the glockenspiel sounded over the lower-pitched babel of the crowd.
    “Oooh!” Di Lynch squealed. She clapped her hands and jumped up and down like a happy child. The animation made her even more beautiful than usual, although her slim figure, violet eyes, and black hair were always the envy of Trixie and Honey. “Trixie’s right — it’s starting! Oh, I can’t wait, I can’t wait!”
    The chatter among the young people ended abruptly. All seven of them stared intently toward the beginning of the parade, with various looks of excitement and pure joy on their faces.
    A sudden flash of light made Trixie’s head snap back and her eyes snap closed. When she opened her eyes again, a huge blue spot was swimming in front of them. “Hey!” she said irritably. “What was that?”
    “It’s called a flash,” said a sarcastic female voice. “It’s used for taking pictures after dark.”
    Straining to see around the blue spot, Trixie looked in the direction of the voice. Sure enough, the young woman who had spoken was holding an expensive-looking camera with a flash attachment mounted on it.
    “I’m Jane Dix-Strauss,” the woman said, “reporter for the Sleepyside Sun. Can I have your names?”
    Trixie felt her initial irritation growing. First the reporter had startled her, then she’d made fun of her for acting startled. Now she was acting as though nothing had happened. “What do you want our names for?” Trixie asked.
    “So that I can print them in the paper under this picture. ‘Sleepyside’s young people turn out for annual parade,’ that sort of thing.” This time, Jane Dix-Strauss’s voice sounded slightly bored, as if covering a parade in a small town was not her idea of exciting journalism.
    As the spot faded from Trixie’s eyes, she took a closer look at the reporter. Jane Dix-Strauss was small — not much taller than Trixie, and almost as slender as Honey. Her hair was dark and curly. She wore large-framed glasses, a spotless navy blue blazer with gold buttons, and a crisp tan cotton skirt. Everything about her looked intelligent, capable, and businesslike.
    Self-consciously, Trixie’s hand went to the missing button on the front of her red B.W.G. jacket. Honey had made the jackets for all the Bob-Whites, and one of the club’s membership requirements was to keep them looking spotless. Somehow, Trixie never succeeded. I bet Jane Dix-Strauss always looks perfect, Trixie thought irritably.
    “I’m Di-Diana Lynch,” said the young girl, who was almost as well dressed as Jane Dix-Strauss. “This is Mart Belden,” she continued, giving the name of her favorite fellow Bob-White next. “This is Mart’s brother Brian and that’s their sister, Trixie. Or should I say Beatrix?”
    “It’s Trixie,” the teenager said firmly. Just because her picture was going in the paper was no reason to remind everyone in town of her hated real name.
    “I’m Honey Wheeler, and this is my brother, Jim Frayne,” Trixie’s friend said.
    “Thanks,” Jane Dix-Strauss said,