The Mystery of the Memorial Day Fire

Honey asked. “You’ve been too busy to sleep over in simply ages. Miss Trask mentioned it this morning.”
    Trixie remembered the loneliness she’d felt the night before, when she couldn’t confide in her brothers. Now she was even more reluctant to do so, since it would also mean telling them about the humiliation at the police station. “Okay,” she said to Honey. “I’ll be over right after dinner, if Moms says it’s okay.”
    Mrs. Belden, having heard about the canceled orders, readily agreed to let Trixie spend the night with her friend. Although the afternoon dragged, it did finally pass, and Trixie went back to the Manor House.
    By unspoken consent, the girls tried to stay away from the subjects of arson, Mr. Roberts’s future, or sales of caps and T-shirts. Every other subject seemed to remind them of those, though — even the color scheme Honey had come up with for the clubhouse and the design she’d sketched for new shelves.
    “It will look wonderful,” Trixie said lamely. To herself she added, If we ever get the money for it.
    When bedtime finally came, all the suppressed thoughts came tumbling into Trixie’s consciousness. She heard Honey’s even breathing and knew her friend was asleep, but she couldn’t follow that good example. Instead, she tossed and turned. Finally, after midnight, she gave up trying to sleep and went to stand by the window. The night was clear and the sky was studded with stars. Trixie felt some calmness creeping back into her agitated mind.
    The calmness disappeared and her heart skipped a beat when she saw a shadowy figure enter the Wheelers’ stable and pull the door closed behind it!



12 * The Right Suspect

    IN NO MORE THAN TEN SECONDS, it was all over — the shadowy figure was gone, the door was closed, and all was still. What Trixie had seen began to seem like a distant memory. She started to wonder whether she had imagined the whole thing.
    I can ’ t be sure, she thought, but there’s only one way to find out. Noiselessly, she tiptoed over to her clothes, which were piled on a chair. She pulled on her jeans and T-shirt, and carried her tennis shoes. The need to be quiet forced her to move slowly out of the room, down the long hall, and down the stairs.
    After what seemed like hours, Trixie reached the front door. She grasped the huge brass knob as firmly as she could and turned it slowly and carefully until she felt the door release. Then she pulled it open, still moving in slow motion, ready to freeze if the door gave the slightest squeak. It didn’t. Of course not, Trixie thought. With all those servants, a squeaky door doesn’t stand a chance at the Manor House.
    Trixie stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind her. Then she stopped to put on her shoes, hopping around first on one foot and then the other. Oh, woe, she thought, why didn’t I just sit down to do this? Because it would have taken extra time, and I’m in such a hurry — so I spend twice as much time trying to keep my balance. When will I ever learn?
    Finally, remarkably, she made it across the path to the stable door without mishap, without the lights suddenly going on in the house behind her - and without the shadowy intruder opening the door to come back out.
    Trixie paused for a moment to get a clear mental picture of what lay on the other side of the door. Just inside was the tack room, which ran the full width of the stable. It was a separate room, with a door that led back into the stalls where the horses were kept. The door was usually closed, so there would be no way for Trixie to know whether someone was hiding behind it. There was a small closet in the tack room, too, which was used for Regan’s leather repair and carpentry tools. It was another perfect hiding place.
    Trixie wiped her clammy hands on the sides of her jeans before she reached out for the handle of the stable door. She’d just have to hope that the intruder was still in the tack room and not trying to hide. Moving fast and taking the intruder by surprise was her best chance.
    With that in mind, she yanked the door open and reached for the light switch just to the left. She jumped out of the way of the door as light flooded the tack room.
    There was a gasp and a crackle of straw as the intruder whirled around, showing Trixie her astonished and frightened face.
    “Jane Dix-Strauss!” Trixie said in a loud whisper. “What are you doing here?”
    The young reporter put her hand to her chest and