The Mystery of the Vanishing Victim

didn’t hear any of it!” Now the fearful look of having to contradict her friend was plain on Honey’s face.
    Trixie handed the nightgown to Honey and, without speaking, began to get undressed.
    She was in her pajamas and under the covers before she replied. “I know what you’re thinking: If we didn’t hear the phone ring or the stairs creak just now, we might not have heard the van then, either. But I don’t think it’s the same, Honey. This is my own house—and you’re here so often that it’s practically yours, too. The phone rings ten times a day, and someone goes up or down the stairs a hundred times. Those noises are so familiar, I’ve tuned them out. I hardly ever notice them, unless I’m expecting a call or expecting someone to come to my door—or hoping they won’t.”
    She grinned at Honey. “I remember when I was making Moms a Christmas present last year. Every little noise in the house made me panicky, because I was afraid Moms was coming up the stairs to bring me some clean clothes or ask me if I was catching a cold or something.”
    Honey smiled back at her friend. “You don’t have to remind me of that,” she said. “You finally made me come over and stay here in the room with you, so I could listen for strange noises. Remember?”
    Trixie smiled sheepishly. “I remember,” she said. “The point is, lots of times we don’t hear noises unless we have some reason to. If the doorbell had rung, I’m sure we would have heard it, because we were expecting Sergeant Molinson to come over, not to call. And when we were out there on that deserted street, I think we would have heard almost any noise, because our nervousness would have given us reason to hear it.”
    Honey Wheeler sighed. “I don’t know what to think,” she said. “What you say makes sense, but it’s confusing having to decide that I didn't hear something. I have to remember not remembering, and I can’t remember if there’s nothing to remember or if I just don’t remember what there is to remember. You know what I mean, don’t you?”
    “Just barely,” Trixie teased. Then she added soberly, “I do know exactly what you mean, Honey. All I really have to base my feelings on is that phrase I used to myself, ‘the van came out of nowhere.’ Maybe it’s silly, but I can’t just ignore it.”
    Honey Wheeler made no reply. Her slow, steady breathing told Trixie that she was asleep. Resolutely, Trixie put the thought of the green van from her mind. She rolled over on her side and let herself slide into sleep.

    It was another knock on the door that woke the girls the next morning. The knock was followed by a shouted “Shake off your somnolence! Descend and partake of the antemeridian repast!”
    “Is that anything like ‘come and get it’?” Honey asked, sitting up slowly and squinting in the morning light.
    “When you’re called to breakfast by Mart, it is,” Trixie answered. She threw back the covers and got slowly out of bed, stretching and yawning. “I was going to check out your analogy this morning, Honey. I was going to notice what I noticed when I woke up, I mean. But Mart spoiled it.”
    “There wasn’t much chance to wake up gradually this morning,” Honey agreed.
    The girls dressed and went downstairs, where the smell of bacon and eggs told them that breakfast was indeed ready. Trixie slid into her accustomed place, and Honey sat in the extra chair that had been set next to Trixie’s.
    “Morning, everybody,” Trixie said, reaching across the table for a slice of toast.
    “Morning, everybody,” Bobby Belden echoed. “Morning, Honey, most of all. I didn’t even know you were here, Honey. You weren’t here when I went to sleep last night, were you? You could have read me a story if you were here last night when I went to sleep.”
    Honey Wheeler smiled down at Trixie’s six-year-old brother. “Now, Bobby, you know that if I’d been here last night when you went to bed, I would have read you two stories,” she told him.
    “I know,” Bobby admitted. “You always read me two stories or three stories or four stories or—”
    “That’s enough,” Peter Belden told his youngest son gently but firmly. Bobby was at an age when he enjoyed the sound of his own voice, and he would have gone through his entire range of numbers if left to himself.
    “Well, you can read me a story after breakfast, anyway,” Bobby told Honey amiably.
    “I’m not sure that I can, Bobby,” Honey said.