The Mystery of the Whispering Witch

suspicions. “What do you know about Fay?”
    Mrs. Belden looked startled. “Why, you’d know more about her than I would, Trixie. She seems like a nice youngster—a little too pale, perhaps, and certainly too thin.” She glanced at Trixie’s sturdy figure with satisfaction. “And, of course, I can tell Fay’s worried about something. Is—is it anything I can help with, dear?”
    Trixie felt a sudden rush of affection and gave her mother a fervent hug. “Thank you, Moms,” she said. “I guess we all know we can count on you for just about everything. But I don’t think you can help Fay—not just yet, anyway.”
    Mrs. Belden turned away and straightened the bright quilt on the neat maple bed. “There,” she said. “Now, everything’s ready for your guest. And, Trixie, I’ve told her she can stay for as long as she needs to.” She sighed. “I keep on thinking how lucky I am....”
    Trixie gave her a final hug and turned toward the door. “We’re very lucky, too, Moms,” she answered. “Now, about those chores you wanted me to do this morning—”
    Mrs. Belden laughed. “It’s all right, dear. You can run along. Just don’t tell your father that I let you off so easily. As for Bobby, you don’t even have to worry about baby-sitting with him today. He’s gone over to the Lynches’ to play with the twins.”
    Trixie was still smiling to herself as she hurried away to find Honey and Fay. She looked for them first in the Wheeler stable. They weren’t there, but she stopped for a moment to pet the soft nose of Susie, the little black mare.
    Trixie remembered how she and Honey had bought Susie for Miss Trask, who, with Regan, helped to manage the Wheeler estate.
    “Maybe I’ll get to ride you later on today,” Trixie whispered softly in Susie’s ear.
    Suddenly there was a clattering of hooves in the stable yard outside. A horse whinnied, and a second later, redheaded Regan strode into the stable, leading Jupiter, the Wheelers’ big black gelding.
    Jupiter’s muscles rippled under his shining coat, and Trixie took care to stand well away from his sharp hooves. Although he was one of the most beautiful of horses, he was usually hard to manage.
    Today, though, the big horse was behaving himself for once as he allowed Regan to lead him into his stall and slip the saddle from his back.
    Regan glanced at Trixie sharply. “Wonders will never cease,” he said. “At last a Bob-White has appeared voluntarily to exercise the horses. I waited for either Jim or Brian to show up, but when they didn’t, I took Jupe out myself.” He reached for a brush and began grooming the gelding.
    Trixie flushed. Regan was always complaining, and rightfully, that she and the other Bob-Whites didn’t exercise the horses as often as they should.
    She felt guilty as she glanced at the other stalls. Besides Susie, there was Strawberry, a roan who was Mart’s favorite mount; Starlight, a chestnut gelding, usually ridden by Brian; and Lady, a fine dapple gray mare. Their luminous eyes seemed to stare back at her reproachfully.
    “I’ll try to get all the Bob-Whites back here this afternoon, Regan,” she said hastily. “Honestly, I will. But for right now, I’m looking for Honey and another—uh—friend of mine.”
    Regan didn’t look up. “If the other friend is young Fay Franklin, you’ll find ’em both up at the house. They were headed that way not five minutes ago. I think Honey had been showing the Franklin girl the boathouse.” He paused, brush in hand. “What’s the matter with her, Trixie?”
    Trixie pretended to misunderstand. “You mean Honey?”
    “Of course I don’t mean Honey,” Regan replied. “I mean Fay. She seems a nervous sort of young ’un, if you ask me. When I saw them both, I pulled Jupe to a halt and asked her how she liked living in a genuine haunted house. I was only kidding, but I thought she was going to faint.” He glanced up at Trixie. “Fay doesn’t believe all that baloney about ghosts and curses, does she?”
    “I don’t know,” Trixie answered slowly. Then she remembered the question she’d meant to ask Brian this morning. “Regan, what do you know about old Caleb Lisgard—I mean, about the way he died?”
    Regan grunted and began brushing Jupiter’s sleek neck in slow, easy strokes. “There’s been plenty of gossip about it lately,” he admitted, “and some of it, I think, was started by Zeke Collins. He was there when the old man died—at least,