The Secret of the Unseen Treasure

eyed Trixie, curious. “What are we going to shop for?” she asked.
    “Flowers,” Trixie said. “At Manton’s Flower Shop. Come on.”
    As they left the parking lot and headed up the sidewalk, Honey asked, “What are we looking for at Manton’s?”
    “A link,” Trixie said. “A connection of some kind. All of the bad things that have happened to Mrs. Elliot are somehow connected with her flower business. The arson attempt, the water pump sabotage, the trampled bed of snapdragons—”
    Honey interrupted. “What about the slashed tire? And the attempt to steal her Social Security check?”
    “The tire got slashed while she was here in White Plains delivering flowers to Mantons,” Trixie pointed out. “And if her check had been stolen, she wouldn’t have been able to get a new pump. She’d be out of business.”
    Honey nodded. “You’re right. But what are we going to find at Manton’s?”
    “I don’t know,” Trixie admitted. “I’ll just put my nose in a few flowers and see what I smell.”
    “I hope you don’t get stung by a bee,” Honey said in a half-serious tone.
    “I’ve been thinking about those stolen checks,” Trixie went on. “Maybe whoever stole them threw them away on purpose.”
    “What?” Honey asked.
    “Maybe he wasn’t interested in any of the checks except Mrs. Elliot’s. Maybe he stole all the others to make it look like he wasn’t after just hers.”
    Honey raised her eyebrows. “That’s why, when he didn’t find Mrs. Elliot’s check, he didn’t bother to steal any more on Glen Road. Right?”
    “Right,” Trixie affirmed. “And that’s why he threw the other checks away.”
    Trixie and Honey had walked several blocks from the shopping center. The flower shop wasn’t in the newest part of town; it was in a run-down area, on a side street. Tall buildings across from it prevented the sun from reaching the dirty windows. The only brightness in the neighborhood was the display of flowers Trixie and Honey could see in the window of the small shop.
    Trixie opened the door. A chime sounded softly, and the cloying odor of flowers wrapped itself around the girls.
    “I prefer the smell of flowers in a garden outside,” Trixie murmured to Honey.
    “The fragrance is too strong in a small room,” Honey agreed.
    Potted plants and a variety of vases cluttered the small shop. There was a desk with thick ring binders illustrating special displays to be ordered by number. Along one wall was a glassdoored cooler containing bundles of fresh flowers.
    An open door at the back of the shop revealed a tiny office. Inside, a dark-haired man was turning the pages of a ledger. He looked up briefly, then dropped his eyes back to the ledger.
    A tall, redheaded young woman in a green smock was working on a flower arrangement at a table near another open door, which led to the parking lot behind the building. She wiped her stained hands on her smock and stepped forward.
    “Good afternoon,” she said wearily. “May I help.... Well! Hi, Trixie! Hi, Honey!”
    Trixie stared, trying to recognize her.
    “I’m Ann Rinehart,” the girl said. “My sister Debbie was in school with you until we moved here from Sleepyside.”
    “I remember now,” Trixie said. “Hi!”
    Honey smiled and nodded. “How do you and Debbie like living in White Plains?”
    The young woman frowned. “Not much. Living in the city is a hassle. But, you know how—” The dark-haired man came out from the office. “I’ll take care of these young ladies,” he said curtly. “Get back to work on that arrangement you were making.”
    He smiled, but the smile looked like a cardboard cutout pasted on his face. His shining dark eyes looked like circles of one-way glass. Trixie felt a chill wriggle along her spine. “What may I do for you?” the man prompted. “We were just looking,” Honey said.
    “For anything in particular?” the man asked impatiently. “Potted flowers or cut? A display for local delivery, or something ordered by wire?”
    Trixie glanced about nervously, seeking an answer for his questions. Her eyes focused out the back door, and she saw the front of a car parked there—a gray car!
    “Th-That’s right,” Trixie stammered. “We were just looking, Mr. Finlay.”
    The man’s expression didn’t change. “Where did you get that name? Mine’s Manton.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry.” Trixie gulped. “I—I guess we have the wrong shop.”
    Honey nodded jerkily.
    “I don’t know anybody