The Mystery of the Vanishing Victim

donations that had been pledged, Trixie discovered when the Bob-Whites compared notes on the - way home.
    “I’m grateful for that,” she told her friends. “But there’s something I’m even more grateful for.“
    “What’s that?” Jim asked as he turned the station wagon into the driveway of Crabapple Farm.
    “I’m grateful that, as far as I’m concerned, this day is over!” Trixie said emphatically. She hoisted herself out of the car and gave a halfhearted wave before walking into the house.
    True to her word, Trixie asked her mother’s permission to skip dinner arid went directly to her room. Although it was only a little past five o’clock and the sunshine was still pouring in through her windows, she pulled on her pajamas and crawled into bed.

    When she awoke, the sun was shining, but the quality of the light had changed. Trixie lay still for a moment, feeling confused and trying to decipher the reasons for her confusion.
    Gradually she realized that her early bedtime had thrown her routine out of kilter. “Did I just doze for a while, or did I sleep all night?” she asked herself. She raised her head to look at the alarm clock by her bed. “Eight o’clock,” she read. She let her head fall back on the pillow while she tried groggily to figure out what that meant.
    Trixie stretched every muscle in her body. Gradually she woke up, realizing that the stiffness that had plagued her the day before was almost gone this morning.
    “It’s a brand-new day,” she said happily, sitting up and swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
    It was only when she was sitting up that she became aware of the noise downstairs. Although the Belden household was often in an uproar at mealtimes or in the evening, mornings were usually very quiet at Crabapple Farm.
    “Something must be wrong,” Trixie said to herself. She pulled on her slippers and robe and ran downstairs.
    In the kitchen, Brian Belden was shouting and waving his arms wildly. Mart was yelling, too, and Bobby, alarmed by Brian’s being upset, was crying.
    “What’s going on?” Trixie shouted into the din.
    Brian broke off in midsentence and waved toward the back door. “See for yourself,” he barked.
    Trixie walked outside and froze as her glance fell on the Model A. There was something strange-looking about the antique car, and immediately Trixie knew that the car was what was throwing her calm oldest brother into such an uproar.
    She stared at the car, trying to decide what was different about it. “It’s lower!” she exclaimed. She looked at the tires. They were all flat. “The signs are missing, too!” she added.
    “They’re there, all right,” Brian said behind her. “They’re lying broken on the ground beside the car. The tires are flat because they were slashed. And if you walk around to the front, you’ll see that both the headlights are smashed.”
    Trixie’s face was white under its spattering of freckles as she turned to look at her brother. “But why?”
    Brian’s jaw was clenched. He thrust a crumpled note at his sister.
    Trixie took the note and stared at it. LEAVE THE MISER ALONE it read.
    “That was stuck in the window of the car,” Brian said.
    “Then there is a miser!” Trixie exclaimed almost joyfully.
    Trixie’s excitement angered her brother even more. “There’s also a vandal,” he reminded her. “Someone did who knows how much damage to a valuable antique—one that was entrusted to us. I think that’s the important thing right now.”
    “Of course,” Trixie said. “But—”
    “But nothing. I’m going to call the police,” Brian said. He turned on his heel and walked back into the house.
    Trixie followed, her excitement fading as she realized that what Brian had said was true. The damage done to the car wasn’t just a possible clue to the mystery of the miser. It was a potential tragedy to the Bob-Whites, who had been trusted with the car because Mr. Burnside thought they were capable of taking care of it until the sale. “Mr. Burnside probably won’t let us have the car for the sale now,”
    Trixie muttered as she walked to her room. “He probably won’t let us use his warehouse for donations.” She froze on the top step as the final, most horrible thought occurred to her. “He’ll probably even make us pay for the damage! Where will we ever get the money?”
    By the time Trixie had changed clothes and come back downstairs, she was on the verge of tears. The noise that had