The Mystery of the Millionaire

some of them.
    “I’ll mail them back to Carlson Crafts today,” Mart said in an almost-whisper. “My check should be here in a couple of days.”
    “That’s super, Mart,” Trixie said. Her voice sounded loud in the stillness of the room.
    Mart nodded. “They didn’t even take me as long as I thought they would. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if I could turn out two batches a week, instead of one. That means I can double my initial projected earnings. I might be able to pay my own way through school entirely. In fact, I might even be able to help you and Bobby out. I was thinking I might be able to keep at this after I’m teaching at the boys’ school, too. Then I wouldn’t even have to have a salary from Jim. I could support myself.”
    “Jim would never expect you to do that,” Trixie protested.
    “I know he wouldn’t expect it,” Mart told her. “But with the savings on my salary, we could give scholarships to a couple more unfortunate boys.”
    Trixie looked again at the five plaques. They seemed like such a small foundation for the big dreams Mart had built on them, she thought. “I hope it all works out just as you’ve planned it.” That was as much as she could say truthfully to her brother.
    “I hope so, too,” he said earnestly.
    Trixie patted her brother on the shoulder and left the room. Thinking again that human behavior was the most mysterious mystery of all, she started down the stairs to get a glass of iced tea. She was on the bottom step when the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” she called out to whoever might have heard it.
    Opening the door, she saw a casually dressed, slender young man standing on the porch. He had a pencil stuck behind one ear and a clipboard tucked in the crook of his arm. “Good morning,” he said politely. “My name is Burt Anderson. I represent the Census Bureau. Could I ask you a few questions about your family?”
    “Of course,” Trixie said. “If you’d rather talk to my mother—”
    “Oh, no,” he said quickly. “The woman of the house usually has more than enough to do, without stopping to answer a lot of questions. I’m sure you can give me all the information I need.” He took the top sheet of paper, which was already filled with writing, out of the clipboard and put it on the bottom of the pile. Then, pulling the pencil from behind his ear and holding it poised over a clean printed form, he said, “First, family surname.”
    “Belden,” Trixie said quickly. “B-e-l-d-e-n,” she spelled out for him helpfully.
    “How many in the family?” he asked.
    “Four. I mean, six, counting my parents,” Trixie said.
    The man nodded. “Four children, two adults,” he muttered to himself as he filled in the forms. “Names and ages?”
    “My father is Peter Belden. He’s thirty-nine,” Trixie began.
    “What is his occupation, please?” the census taker asked, carefully filling in the blanks.
    “He’s a banker,” Trixie said.
    “Hmm.” The man appeared vaguely impressed. “Go on,” he added.
    Trixie hesitated for a moment, not sure what information came next. “My mother’s name is Helen,” she said. “She’s thirty-seven.”
    “Does she work outside the home?” the man asked.
    “Well, she has a big garden,” Trixie said uncertainly.
    The man laughed. “No, no. I meant, does she have another job, besides housewife and mother?”
    “Oh! No.” Trixie felt herself beginning to blush.
    “It’s a confusingly worded question,” the man told her. “We used to ask simply if the woman of the house worked. Then people pointed out that a housewife and mother works harder than most corporate executives. Hence the rewording. But it still isn’t very clear, I’m afraid. Now, the children’s names and ages.”
    “Brian is the oldest. He’s seventeen. Mart— Martin—is fifteen. I’m fourteen. Bobby—Robert—is the youngest. He’s six,” Trixie said.
    “And what is your name?” the man asked.
    Trixie’s blush started all over again. “Do you need my real name?” she asked.
    The man looked startled. “Do you usually use an alias?” he asked.
    Another wave of embarrassment surged over the first one. She was only making it worse, she knew. She should have just told him her hated real name immediately—at least it would be over with by now. “My real name is Beatrix,” she finally told him reluctantly. “But everyone calls me Trixie.”
    The man nodded. “Understandably.”
    Trixie grinned through her