The Mystery of the Millionaire

all!”
    Trixie sighed. “No, I’m not. Laura Ramsey is a wonderful person. She’s hiding her broken heart beneath a cheerful exterior. She needs every bit of help we can give her.” Trixie spoke as if reciting from memory. “But just tell me this: How come an English major from Columbia University doesn’t recognize Shakespeare when she hears it?”
    “Oh, Trixie!” Honey groaned impatiently. “Laura didn’t say she didn’t recognize it.”
    “But she didn’t,” Trixie countered stubbornly. “Well, nobody can be familiar with every single word written by every single author,” Honey responded.
    “That means you don’t really think she recognized the line, either,” Trixie pointed out.
    Honey shrugged. “No, I guess I don’t think she did. But I don’t think it proves anything, either.” She gave the lid of the pickle jar she was closing an extra twist for emphasis.
    The girls continued their cleanup in uncomfortable silence. Then Di joined Mart, Brian, and Dan in the shade of the boathouse, while Honey slathered herself with suntan oil and lay out on the beach in the sun.
    Trixie ambled down the beach, digging her toes into the sand, concentrating hard on thinking of nothing at all. Suddenly she stood stockstill as she heard a noise at the top of the slope. She scrambled up the slope, grabbing the weeds that grew there to help her up. Pushing aside the last bush that stood between her and the road, she saw a small, battered green car make a fast turn and pull off quickly down the road. She peered after it, trying to see the license plate, but the dust churned up by the car’s spinning tires obscured it.
    Trixie scrambled back down the bank and ran to the boathouse, where everyone had regathered. “Somebody’s been spying on us,” she shouted.
    Laura Ramsey gasped and raised her hand to her throat.
    “Now, Trixie, calm down. What are you talking about?” Jim demanded.
    “I was walking along the beach there,” Trixie said, pointing, “and I heard a noise. I climbed up the bank just in time to see a car turn around— fast —and drive back down the road.”
    “And that’s what you call ‘spying on us’?” Brian asked calmly.
    “Well, what do you call it?” Trixie retorted.
    “I call it a car driving down the road,” Brian said.
    “Why would he be in such a hurry to get away, if he hadn’t been spying?” Trixie persisted irritably.
    “He could have been trespassing,” Jim pointed out. “Lots of people come here without permission, even though the path to the boathouse is posted with ‘No Trespassing’ signs. It’s an attractive spot, especially in this heat.”
    “Of course,” Honey said. “Someone was coming here to swim, then saw us, or heard us, and realized they could get in trouble if they got caught here. So they turned around and left. That’s perfectly logical.”
    “Is it logical for them to park up there and wait, when there are two cars already parked here?” Trixie demanded.
    “They might have thought they could just stay hidden up there, in the shade, until we left,” Jim said. “Then they could come down and enjoy their swim. When they saw you walking toward them, they were afraid of getting caught, so they left.”
    “If they were parked up there watching us, waiting for us to leave, that’s spying!” Trixie said triumphantly, no
    “Ah, my sibling sleuth,” Mart said indulgently. “Perennially perpetuating a paucity of circumstances into pandemonious preconceptions.”
    Trixie, furious at her friends’ refusal to take her seriously, turned on Mart. “If you’re saying I’m making up a mystery, I don’t have to. I know about some pretty mysterious goings-on that I could get involved with if I wanted to—and they’re much closer to home than this. Do you know what I mean?”
    For once, Mart was speechless. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally just nodded. He knew that Trixie was threatening to turn her attentions to his own strange behavior—and that, it seemed, was something he didn’t want to happen.

Trixie Trespasses ● 7

    IT WAS JIM who finally spoke. “If you want to use the word spying to describe somebody watching for us to leave the lake so they can go for a swim, that’s fine with me, Trix. We’ll call it ‘spying.’ ” Jim’s patronizing tone did nothing to calm Trixie down. “Well, if it is spying, what are we going to do about it?” she demanded.
    “Nothing,” Jim said.
    “But—” Trixie