The Mystery of the Phantom Grashopper

Belden smiled wanly. “The radio,” she sighed. “WSTH has played it several times today. Someone has been calling in and requesting it.” She rubbed her forehead and frowned. “Regan wants Bobby to exercise Mr. Pony tomorrow,” she said, “and his school reopens the day after that thank goodness. I’ve had a headache all day.”
    “You go and sit down, Moms,” Trixie urged, feeling more guilty than ever about being late. “I’ll finish getting dinner.” Trixie picked up a spoon and took over at the stove.
    “Hi, Trixie!” Bobby said, waving a napkin at her. “I know nother old-fashioned song now. Want to hear me sing it?”
    “I believe I heard you singing when I came in,” Trixie told him. Taking the silverware from the drawer, she handed it to her little brother. “Let’s see how quietly you can put these on the table, Bobby,” she whispered. “Moms has a headache.”
    Bobby made a silent O with his lips. “Okay,” he whispered back. Tiptoeing to the table, he began his new task, very carefully placing each piece of silverware in its proper position.
    Reddy began barking a minute later, and Bobby forgot to be quiet. “Here comes Dad!” he yelled. He and Reddy raced for the front door.

    In spite of his avowed preference for hamburgers, Mart ate baked ham, scalloped potatoes, and buttered carrots with great enthusiasm. “It’s delicious, Moms,” he said. “Dinner fit for a despot.”
    “It wasn’t cooked in a pot,” Bobby objected. “It was cooked in the oven!”
    “No thanks to me,” Trixie said with a grin, then turned to speak to her father. “We stopped by Town Hall after school, Dad,” she told her father.
    “Oh?” Peter Belden buttered a hot roll. “Have they found the weather vane yet?” he asked.
    “Not a sign of it,” Brian answered.
    “I’m sure it must have been stolen,” Trixie said seriously.
    Her father raised an eyebrow. “Stolen?”
    Trixie nodded. “If the wind just blew Hoppy off the roof, someone would have found him by now. The wind surely wasn’t strong enough to blow him very far away from Town Hall.”
    “That’s true,” her father agreed. “But why would anyone steal a weather vane, Trixie?”
    “That weather vane is an antique,” Mrs. Belden pointed out. “It might be worth quite a bit of money. But I don’t think that anyone in Sleepyside would steal it. Maybe it was just broken to pieces when it fell.”
    “There were no pieces found, either,” Trixie persisted. “Hoppy just vanished.”
    Trixie and her brothers were cleaning up the kitchen after dinner when Mr. Belden yelled for them to come to the living room in a hurry. Wiping her hands on a dish towel, Trixie followed her brothers. The radio in the living room was on, and Trixie’s father gestured for them to pay attention to what the announcer was saying.
    “... and the weather vane, made in the shape of a grasshopper, has been missing all day. The weather vane was apparently blown down by the storm, but the area around Town Hall has been searched thoroughly, and no trace of it has been found.
    “The weather vane is about three feet long and weighs sixty pounds. It is over two hundred years old and believed to be one of the grasshopper vanes made by Shem Drowne, a Colonial coppersmith who crafted the famous grasshopper for Faneuil Hall in Boston. Authorities consider the Sleepyside weather vane to be very valuable, and it’s feared that it has been stolen.”
    “There!” Trixie gasped. “See what I mean?”
    Her father hushed her.
    “…a word from Sergeant Molinson of the Sleepyside Police,” the newscaster continued.
    “Good evening.” Sergeant Molinson s familiar gruff voice came from the radio. “We must now assume that the antique weather vane from the top of our Town Hall has been stolen. The police department asks that all citizens of Sleepyside be on the alert. Any information concerning the possible whereabouts of the weather vane should be reported to the police at once. Thank you for your cooperation.”
    “Well, now it’s official,” Trixie said.
    “You were right, young lady,” her father conceded. “You know, it’s funny—I must have looked at that weather vane a million times over the years, and I never gave a thought to the possibility that it might be valuable.”
    “I never did either,” Mrs. Belden agreed. “Maybe it should have been on display in the museum, locked up in a case. But it’s always seemed so-so natural for it to be