The Mystery of the Memorial Day Fire

the stable, she raced back inside, grabbed a saddle blanket that was slung over a rack, and began beating at the flames. She swung the blanket with all her might, releasing all the fear and anger and frustration that had been pent up inside her during the long period of hiding.
    She didn’t even know how long she’d been fighting the fire when she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye. She turned her head and saw Honey using another saddle blanket to beat at the fire.
    Beyond the tack room door, the horses were whinnying in fear and lashing out with their hooves at the sides of their stalls. If the fire isn’t out soon, they’ll destroy themselves, Trixie thought.
    In the distance, she heard the wail of the fire sirens. She looked over at Honey, who signaled with a nod that she had heard them, too. But neither of the girls stopped their vital work until a fire fighter in high boots, long coat, and helmet appeared.
    “All right,” he said, “we’ll take over here. You girls leave now.” He took the girls by the arms and led them firmly out of the stable.
    Only then did Trixie realize how tired she was, how much her arms ached. She looked down at her hands and saw that the palms had been scraped raw against the rough cloth of the saddle blanket.
    Jim came running up to them, and threw his arms around them both. “Are you all right?” he asked.
    The girls both nodded. Trixie opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out of her smoke-parched throat. She tried again, and what came out was a low-pitched croak: “Is Jane all right?”
    Jim frowned, and Trixie thought the worst, but he said, “I think she is — or will be. We took her into the house. The doctor should be here soon.”
    “You were busy,” Trixie said, “calling the fire department and the doctor and carrying Jane inside.”
    “That’s the least of it,” Jim said. “There’s my finest accomplishment right there.” He gestured toward the driveway.
    Trixie looked and saw what she hadn’t noticed before — three squad cars, in addition to the fire truck. Sergeant Molinson was among the policemen who were milling around. More important, though, was the single figure huddled in the back seat of one of the cars.
    “Mr. Slettom?” Trixie asked in amazement.
    “Mr. Slettom!” Honey exclaimed as her brother nodded. “What is he doing here? What does he have to do with all of this?”
    “Absolutely everything,” Trixie said.
    “I hope that’s true,” Jim said, grinning in spite of the seriousness of the situation. “Otherwise I’m in big trouble. After you yelled for help, I saw someone standing a few yards down the driveway. He must have been making his escape when he heard you shouting. I’ll bet he was horrified to discover there had been another witness. He must have waited around, hoping there’d be a way to get rid of you, too.
    “I called to him, and he started to run. So I ran after him and tackled him and held him until the police got here.”
    “That was wonderful of you!” Honey said proudly.
    Jim smiled at his sister. Then his face got serious again. “It wasn’t so wonderful to leave you two to fight that fire alone,” he said. “I had no idea you’d gone back in until I’d already tackled Slettom. Then there was nothing I could do but wait until the fire department and police showed up.”
    “Well, anyway, it all worked out just fine,” Trixie assured him.
    “Oh, did it, now?” a deep voice asked. The three young people turned and saw Sergeant Molinson walking toward them. “Perhaps you’ll come in the house and tell me all about it.”
    Trixie surprised herself by shivering suddenly in the cool evening air. “Going in the house sounds like a good idea, anyway,” she said. She turned and led the way inside.
    A worried-looking Miss Trask, in bathrobe and slippers that somehow looked as businesslike as her usual tailored suits, met them at the door with hugs and led them into the den. There, Jane Dix-Strauss was propped up on a couch, her hands wrapped around a blue mug. A pot of tea, more mugs, and some cookies were on a tray nearby. “Are you all right?” Trixie asked.
    Jane Dix-Strauss started to nod, then winced and put her hand to her head. “I was a little shaken up on the play, as the sportscasters say. I’m alive, though — thanks to you.”
    “I’m glad I was able to help,” Trixie said as she poured herself a cup of steaming tea and took two cookies from the tray.
    “So the