The Mystery of the Memorial Day Fire

the fire started in his store,” Trixie protested.
    “Unless you figure not being able to move was the final problem — the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak,” Mr. Slettom pointed out.
    “Is that what you’re going to tell the police?” Trixie asked.
    “Of course not,” Mr. Slettom said indignantly. “I may not like it that Nicholas Roberts burned down my store, but I’m not trying to make trouble for him. I’ll give the police the facts, that’s all. And I won’t tell that one anything.” He gestured with his head toward the reporter.
    “We’re sorry,” Honey said. “We didn’t mean to sound as though we were accusing you. We’re just worried about Mr. Roberts.”
    “You have every reason to be worried,” Mr. Slettom said, his voice sounding sad once again.
    “Well, well, well,” said another voice nearby. “It’s the Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency, come to call on the police. To what do we owe this honor?”
    Trixie looked up and saw that Sergeant Molinson had come out of his office. “We have something to tell you,” she said.
    “Well, what is it?” he demanded.
    Trixie looked nervously at Mr. Slettom and then at Jane Dix-Strauss, who was staring at her openly. “Could we — could we go to your office? It’s sort of private.”
    “Trixie Belden, I have two unsolved arsons to investigate, a thousand phone calls to return, and a million other things to take care of. I can’t spend all day talking to a couple of teenage detectives. Tell me what’s on your mind or be on your way,” Sergeant Molinson ordered.
    The sergeant was usually good-natured. Today he was obviously strained and showed it. Trixie knew that she had to speak out in public or not be heard at all.
    She cleared her throat and said, “Did you know that Jane Dix-Strauss wrote a long article on arson before she came to Sleepyside?”
    “No, I didn’t, but I’m glad you’ve cleared up the mystery of her excellent reporting on the subject.” Sergeant Molinson was being mockingly polite. “Now, is there anything else?”
    Trixie hesitated, her confidence about to desert her. Then she felt Honey’s arm slide through her own, and she took courage from her friend’s presence. “A couple of weeks ago, I found a button with Jane Dix-Strauss’s initials on it in the alley behind Mr. Roberts’s store. Then, last night, I saw her behind the store. There was a big man with her, and she handed him an envelope and said she’d call him if she needed anything else.” Trixie let the words come out in one long stream. When she was finished, she was out of breath and she felt her pulse pounding in her temples.
    Sergeant Molinson looked down at Trixie and Honey for a minute. Then he turned around and barked at Jane Dix-Strauss, “Were you in that alley last night?”
    Trixie jumped at the sound of it. Then she realized that Sergeant Molinson had counted on surprise to get an unrehearsed answer.
    What the sergeant counted on didn’t work, however. Jane Dix-Strauss showed no reaction to being shouted at. Calmly, she pushed herself away from the wall and walked toward the policeman and the two girls. “I think the young woman is making a mistake,” she said firmly.
    “But, I —” Trixie began to protest, but the sergeant held up his hand to stop her.
    “Did you see her behind Roberts’s store, too?” he asked Honey.
    “No,” Honey admitted. “I saw the button, though,” she added helpfully.
    “Look, girls,” Sergeant Molinson said, sounding tired. “I know you want to help your friend Nick Roberts, but this isn’t the way to do it. If you say you found Miss Dix-Strauss’s button in the alley, I believe you. She might very well have been poking around there, just as Trixie was, and lost a button. But if she says you’re mistaken, I’m willing to take her word for it. And I really don’t have any more time to waste talking about it.” The sergeant turned and walked away, leaving Trixie feeling angry and embarrassed.
    “Come on, Honey,” she said. She led the way quickly out of the police station, refusing to look around for fear of seeing Mr. Slettom’s sad face or Jane Dix-Strauss’s gloating one.
    The girls rode back home and parted at the foot of the Belden driveway. “I guess I’d better get to my chores,” Trixie said. “I’ll have plenty of time to do them now — there’s no point even trying to sell T-shirts.”
    “Do you want to come over when your chores are done?”