The Mystery of the Millionaire
it’s I. I’ve been waiting to hear from you,” Trixie said.
“Well, you can’t have been waiting all that long. It’s only eight o’clock in the morning!” Honey pointed out.
Trixie wanted to remind Honey that she had been separated from her and Jim and Laura Ramsey since five o’clock the previous afternoon —plenty of time for impatience to set in. But she held back. There was no point in making Honey feel guilty because Trixie felt left out. Instead, Trixie asked eagerly, “Is there any news about the detective?”
“He’ll be here right after lunch,” Honey said, her voice revealing her own excitement.
“Oh, Honey, that’s wonderful!” Trixie exclaimed. Then she swallowed hard. “Can—can I be there when he comes?”
“Of course,” Honey said, sounding surprised by the question. “You have to be here, to tell him about finding the wallet.”
“I just thought— I mean, it seemed— Never mind. I can’t wait to meet him,” Trixie said, biting her tongue to keep from asking if Jim had spent much time with Laura.
“I can’t wait, either,” Honey said. “I think this is going to be the longest morning of my entire life.”
“Let’s go riding,” Trixie suggested. “That’s always a good way to pass time.”
There was a slight pause before Honey said, “Oh, Trixie, I’m sorry. Laura and I already went riding this morning. We were both up early because we couldn’t sleep, and Laura seemed so restless that I thought it’d be a good idea for us to get some exercise.”
“Oh,” Trixie said quietly, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach.
“You could still go out by yourself,” Honey said. “Or you could get Brian or Mart to go out with you.”
“I could,” Trixie said without enthusiasm. But it wouldn’t be the same, she knew. It was time with her best friend that she really wanted. Besides the mystery of Anthony Ramsey’s disappearance to be discussed, there was also the secret of Mr. Lytell’s loan. Honey was the only person Trixie could talk to about that, and she was fascinated by the idea that Mr. Lytell might, in spite of appearances, be a wealthy man. And though she didn’t want to admit it even to herself, she wondered if Jim was with Laura right then! Reluctantly, she said, “There’s an awful lot to do around here this morning. I guess I’ll just stay around and help Moms until after lunch.”
“Well, I’ll see you then,” Honey said.
“Yes... see you then. Good-bye,” Trixie said.
She hung up the phone and bit her lower lip as her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. “You’re being foolish again,” she murmured to herself. “You’re being unsympathetic, too. Think about how poor Laura Ramsey must feel this morning, waiting for the detective who’ll help her find her father. She must really want someone to talk to.”
But what about me? The voice that cried out in Trixie’s mind sounded very young and very lonely. For a moment, she felt herself on the verge of tears again. Then Trixie squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. “You’ll go out and tend the garden,” she answered the voice.
Trixie’s back was aching, and her fingernails were caked with dirt, but she felt much better. Shiny red tomatoes were lined up along the kitchen counter, waiting for Mrs. Belden to sort them for canning or for immediate eating. A bag of green onions was in the refrigerator, along with two bags of cucumbers—a bag of large ones for slicing and a bag of small ones for making pickles.
The garden had been cool at first, although it had begun to heat up by the time Trixie finished her work. The coolness and the monotonous rhythm of picking had calmed her. The sight of the growing piles of vegetables had given her a feeling of importance, as if reminding her that they needed her, even if her best friend didn’t seem to.
With almost an hour remaining until lunchtime, Trixie wondered what to do next. Another glance at her dirt-caked fingernails gave her the answer.
She ran upstairs, showered, and washed her hair. With a towel wrapped around her, she rummaged in a drawer next to the sink for the old toothbrush she used for her nails. Finding it, she scrubbed every bit of dirt from under and around her nails. Then she slathered lotion over her hands and looked approvingly at the result: Her no-nonsense short nails and stubby fingers didn’t look elegant, by any means, but the nails were gleaming white, and the hands looked and felt
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