The Mystery of the Vanishing Victim

contest for drawing the most people to the sale, I’d win hands down,” he said. “Everybody had questions about the car I was driving, and when I said there was going to be an antique car show along with the rummage sale, everyone said they’d be there for sure.”
    Brian chuckled to himself. “The other way for me to be a clear winner would be to add in the number of times someone pulled up alongside me at a stop sign and yelled, ‘Get a horse!’ That happened about five hundred and sixty-one times.”
    “It’s sort of unfair that you have to make your rounds alone,” Trixie said sympathetically.
    “Oh, don’t take my grousing seriously,” Brian told her. “I actually did pretty well on donations to the sale, too. My jackpot was a woman who had held a rummage sale of her own—on the day of the biggest rainstorm all season! Nobody came to her sale, so she has lots of stuff boxed up in the basement, all neatly folded and with the price tags still in place.”
    “Gleeps, Brian! That brings up a problem I hadn’t even thought of: What are we going to do with the things that don’t sell?” Trixie asked.
    “We’ll bundle them up and give them to charity,”
    Brian said. “One way or another, everything people donate will contribute to a worthy cause.”
    “Doesn’t that make you feel good?” Trixie asked, eyes sparkling. “I just don’t understand people who don’t want to get involved.”
    “Like our stranger, you mean?” Brian asked his sister. “I don’t think most people start out that way. Sometimes, though, if a person gets hurt by another person, that one tragic experience is enough to make him or her decide that people mean pain. ”
    “People must miss out on an awful lot when they decide to keep everyone else from getting involved with them,” Trixie said.
    “They avoid both pain and pleasure that way,” Helen Belden observed.
    “They avoid stern lectures from people who care about them, too,” Mart said pointedly.
    “I get the message,” Trixie said. “In fact, I sent myself that same message while we were still in the car.” She stood up and began to clear the table. “I think that made me the clear winner today, no matter who’s ahead in the contest.” She nodded archly at Mart and stalked into the kitchen.

    Just as the last of the dishes were dried and put away, the Bob-White station wagon pulled into the driveway. “Gotta go, Moms,” Trixie said, drying her hands and tucking the dish towel onto the rack.
    She ran out the back door and hopped into the car.
    “You’re full of energy after a long day,” Jim observed as he backed out of the drive.
    “I’m just eager to see what Mrs. Manning finally decided she could part with,” Trixie said.
    “I hope she doesn’t let you down,” Jim said.
    “I don’t think she will,” Trixie replied. “She seemed like such a nice lady. Oh, speaking of nice ladies, there’s one house I don’t dare set foot in tonight. If I do, we won’t get home until midnight.” Briefly, Trixie told Jim about the woman who wanted to know all about the “real” Lucy Radcliffe.
    Jim laughed at Trixie’s imitation of the woman’s breathless eagerness. “I agree. You’d better wait in the car while I go inside. Believe me, I won’t even hint that I was in the Catskills with you when you met ‘Lucy.’ ”
    The two Bob-Whites rode the rest of the way in silence, and Trixie found her thoughts turning to the woman who Trixie was sure was connected somehow with the hit-and-run victim. When Jim turned the station wagon onto the first block Trixie and Honey had covered that afternoon, it was that house, not Mrs. Manning’s, that Trixie strained to see.
    “Where do we start?” Jim asked as he drove slowly down the block.
    “What?” Trixie pulled her attention back to the car. “Oh, Jim, I’m sorry. Mrs. Manning lives back on the corner. You can turn around in this driveway.”
    “And this driveway belongs to the house you’d really like to visit,” Jim guessed.
    Trixie flushed guiltily.
    “You don’t have to explain anything,” Jim added hastily. “I told you that this afternoon, and I meant it.” He paused for a moment in the driveway, staring at the house. “Just looking at it, I’d say nobody lived there at all. The drapes are all shut tight. There are no lights showing anywhere. There are no trikes or bikes or balls or bats lying out on the lawn.”
    “That’s just what I was thinking, Jim,” Trixie told