Chapter 11: Dreams

Upon returning to Crabapple Farm, Trixie and Mart discovered that things had not gone well for anyone during their marathon interrogation by the IRS agent. They had been aware that the IRS was auditing the Beldens' finances; Mr. Bascombe had told them as much. What they had not been aware was the extent of the government's investigation and its precautionary actions.

When they walked into the cozy farmhouse, they found Helen Belden sitting at one end of the kitchen table, a calculator, two checkbooks and a yellow legal pad in front of her. Brian sat next to her and watched as she punched numbers onto the keypad with the end of a No. 2 pencil. He glanced up as Mart and Trixie entered, but Helen remained focused on the LED display.

"Everything okay, Moms?" Trixie asked softly. She and Mart stopped at the foot of the table, recognizing their brother's expectant posture. By mutual agreement, they waited for some sort of announcement from their mother rather than launch into a blow-by-blow of their own financial struggle.

Helen sighed and leaned back in her chair. She glanced at Brian, shrugged, then looked up at Mart and Trixie, startled. "Oh, hello, kids," she said.

Trixie smiled gamely. "Hi, Moms." Mart echoed her cheery greeting. "What's going on?"

Helen tossed her pencil onto the table. It rolled until it hit the calculator. "I don't want to tell you, but I have no choice. Not really," she said. She glanced at Brian.

"You want me to tell them?" he offered.

She smiled and patted his hand where it rested on the table. "No, Brian," she told him. "You've taken enough responsibility. I thank you for it, and I appreciate all that you've done, but I'm through feeling like a victim. I want to start taking some action!"

Trixie glanced at Mart, then pulled out the chair at the opposite end of the table from her mother and sat down. She folded her hands in what she thought was a businesslike manner and composed her features. "What happened, Moms? You can tell us."

Mart chose to sit in the chair across from Brian. "What's wrong, Moms? What happened?"

Helen took a deep breath. "Well, you know we're getting audited," she began. They nodded. "Well, there's more. The government, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that we don't deserve to have access to any of our own money."

"What?" Trixie asked. She had an idea what had happened, and her mother's next words confirmed it, but she was still shocked by the thought that it had actually happened.

"The government froze our assets," Helen continued. She spoke simply, as if discussing the weather or a piece of celebrity gossip. "I was at the grocery store, swiping my ATM card at the checkout stand only to have it declined. I tried to pay with a check, but the store manager came out and said he'd have to make a call first. He called the bank to verify our balance and that's how I found out we no longer had any money." She smiled and began to laugh. "He told me right in front of the check cashing counter. You know, where the carpet cleaner rental stand is? Right next to the newsstand."

Trixie frowned angrily. "How can they do that? Don't they know Dad's innocent? Don't they know the money's good? We're neighbors, for Pete's sake. There've been Beldens here for over a century. How can they do that to us?"

Patiently, Brian explained. "They can't give the stuff away and the government's frozen our accounts. The government thinks the money is dirty, and if it is, they'll probably liquidate everything and take it for back taxes or something."

"But we don’t owe any back taxes! Do we?" Trixie glanced at their mother.

Helen shrugged. "The IRS seems to think we might. Oh, the man was very polite," she said. "He likes these old farmhouses. We talked about the floors alone for a good half hour. But if Peter took all that money, then he certainly never claimed it on any tax return, therefore he owes."

"Plus," Brian added, "they don't want us moving any funds around, hiding it anywhere else."

There was a long pause before Mart said, "There's no food in the house, is there." It was not a question, but a sad statement of fact. Brian scolded his brother with a quick word while Helen just wearily closed her eyes. Trixie mentally repeated to herself, we won't starve, we live on a farm, we won't starve, we live on a farm…

*     *     *

"All right, fine! I'll tell you just to keep you both from pestering me into an even earlier grave!" Anne glared at Dan and Diana. "I'll tell you just what that good doctor, that Hippocratic Oath-breaking doctor, that highly recommended, on his way to a Nobel Prize doctor, that ridiculously ill-mannered, irritating, obstinate fool of a doctor told me this morning at my appointment." She jumped up from her slouching position on Diana's comfortable settee and stormed to the window, falling silent once more.

This time, however, Diana and Dan remained silent as well. They communicated with a few quick frowns and worried glances, but recognized that Anne had been pushed enough. For a good half hour, the two of them had tried and tried to get Anne to discuss her doctor's appointment that morning. It wasn't even a week since her inadvertent intoxication. They wanted to know how she was doing. They cared about her condition. What was so difficult for Anne to talk about? What didn't she want them to know?

Dan watched her posture carefully, searching for signs that Anne needed a touch or a hug. He found it difficult to 'read' her, however. He stood and hesitated. Diana glanced up at him, her expression one of anxious uncertainty. "Anne?" he asked softly.

She turned away from the window, her skin pale, her eyes bleak. She shrugged, opened her mouth, but no words came out. She visibly collected herself, fought back tears, turned her face to look down at the carpet beneath her feet and said, "I'm out of the program."

"Huh? What?" Dan and Diana said together. They shared a look of surprise and dismay. Diana continued, "Why? How can that be? What'd the doctor say?"

Anne wiped at her eyes with the back of one hand. "Just that I had exceeded the parameters of the study. I wasn't supposed to deviate from my diet, not one bit, not one gram, for at least six months after getting the transplant. I didn't tell you guys this, but he didn't want to operate on me in the first place."

"He didn’t?" Dan asked, puzzled.

"Nope," she replied. "He didn't think a teenager would have the willpower to stick to a restrictive diet, no matter what the long term benefits would be. I had to sell him on the idea. It was my best shot to avoid dialysis."

Dan remembered Anne telling him how serious her condition had become, that her previous doctor had predicted she'd be on dialysis and a waiting list for a kidney inside of two years, if no radical treatment could be found. Fighting her way into the experimental treatment program had proven to be the best possible thing for her. She had renewed energy and spirit. She was becoming a different person, a happy person. In her eyes now, he saw the angry, frightened look of the girl who once believed her parents wanted her to die.**

He moved to her side, but conscious of Diana's presence, only lay his hand on her shoulder. "Anne," he said softly, "It was only one time, one mistake, surely-"

Her eyes blazed with brown fire. "It was not my mistake!" she told him, then groaned softly in despair. "But it was enough."

Diana stood, too, and moved to Anne's other side. "If you're really careful, though, and watch your levels, then…?"

Anne smiled grimly. "I asked that already. He refused to consider it. I wasn't supposed to let my blood sugar drop below 60. 55 at the absolute least. By the time the EMTs arrived that night, it was 41. I even lost consciousness."

"Oh, Anne!" Diana drew her friend into a hug. "I'm so sorry!"

Anne returned the hug a bit awkwardly. Not for the first time did Dan wonder just how much physical contact she had ever been subject to. He didn't figure the Langs to be all that affectionate. "It's not anyone's fault," she was saying. "Not really. It just happened."

Diana drew back and met Anne's eyes straight on. "It was Hallie and Ben who did this to you. I can't believe I was ever nice to them."

"Oh, geez," Anne said. "I'm trying so hard not to blame others for the things that happen to me. I'm working on forgiveness. This makes it so much more difficult, being able to pinpoint one instance and one chain of events that has brought me to this."

"I don't suppose Hallie's apology means much to you right now," Diana said.

"Not much," Anne agreed.

"She apologized?" Dan asked. "You didn't tell me that."

"Oh, sorry," Anne frowned slightly. "I meant to." She turned toward him, then whirled suddenly to stare at Diana's bedside clock. "It's two-thirty already?"

"I guess so," Diana said. "Why?"

"I have to get going," Anne told them. She grabbed her small bag and slung it over her shoulder. "I have an appointment with my therapist at three. I've got to go."

Diana followed her to the door. "I'll walk you out," she offered.

"No, thanks," Anne said with a smile. "I'm fairly sure I can find the front door by myself. I'll call you both later, okay?" Dan and Diana agreed to wait for her call, so she left the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Diana slumped onto her settee. "Well! What do you think of that?"

Dan slouched casually into the wing chair. He hooked a leg over one arm and rested his head against the seat back. "It never rains, does it, Di?"

"Nope," she replied. "It never does."

*     *     *

Honey heard Jim's footsteps in the hallway outside the fundraiser war room, or what used to be known as the upstairs library. She looked up from her desk as he walked in scowling. "What happened? How'd it go? What's the verdict?"

"Arrrgh," Jim growled and fell onto the leather sofa. He clutched at his hair and closed his eyes in pain. "It was terrible," he said, then proceeded to list all the things the auditor wanted to know.

Honey's eyes went wide with alarm. "How are we supposed to come up with explanations for all that?" she asked. "And why should we have to? We're just kids and this is just a kids' club."

"His point was that we operate as any other charity organization does," he explained. "So we're liable to provide the government the same information as they do." He shook his head. "This can't be right, though. I'm certain Dad's lawyers can find a way out of this. Maybe we'll have to make some restitution, or maybe we'll get lucky and just get a slap on the wrist."

She nodded her head slowly. That didn't sound so bad. "So that's the worst that could happen?"

"Well, truthfully," Jim told her, "it could always be worse. We could be told we can't do anymore charity work and have to cancel the fundraiser."

"The dance contest?" Honey nearly shrieked. "Never! I've worked too darned hard on this to cancel it now! Why, Miss Trask and I have all the sponsors lined up and the morning DJs from WSTH will be there. They're going to start announcing it next week." She glanced at the CDs, papers, Post-It^© Notes, contracts and unsigned checks that covered the mahogany desk. "No," she said finally. "They are not taking this from me."

Jim shook his head. "It isn't up to me, Honey," he said. After a moment he asked, "Is Dad home?"

"Uh-huh," she said. "He and Mother are in their sitting room, I think. Why?"

"I want to check with him about this, and about maybe helping the Beldens." He stood. "If they're being audited, their bank accounts are probably being frozen."

That hadn't occurred to Honey, but the thought worried her, so she stood and followed her brother to her parents' rooms. Once there, she sat through another and more complete recitation of the two-plus hour meeting with the IRS agent. Her mind began to wander, finding respite in a recent memory.

She remembered once more the moment just before Brian's eyes closed and his lips met hers. She remembered the thrill of recognition, almost of homecoming, that sparkled over her skin and through her body. She remembered how that thrill intensified with the second kiss, when his lips parted slightly, and when he drew back she had the strangest, clearest vision.

She was wearing a white silk dress. He was in a black suit, maybe a tuxedo, and they were standing in a sun-flooded room of gold and green, surrounded by music and peace and love. She had felt it so real and so perfectly, that when she looked at him, for a long moment it was as if they were sharing that vision. For a long moment, it had seemed as if that vision were the only real thing, and the rest of the world was an uncertain, unreal shadow.

She sensed her mother's hazel eyes, so very much like her own, regarding her, and Honey forced her thoughts to return to the present. There would be time enough that night, when she was alone, to relive Brian's kiss and consider what it all might mean. "Yes, Mother?" she asked softly. "Is something wrong?" She spoke quietly, because Jim and her father were deep in a discussion themselves.

"No, dear," her mother replied with a tender, knowing smile. "Everything's going to be just fine."

*     *     *

"Why don't you tell me how your meeting went?" Helen sighed and leaned back in her kitchen chair. The last thing she wanted to know was how her and Peter's problems had descended upon their children's club, but she would never say so out loud.

Trixie began relaying all the pertinent information regarding the IRS agent and the possibility of tax evasion. Helen frowned, trying to reconcile her belief and trust in a fair and equitable legal system and government with the knowledge that her husband was an innocent accused. It was not easy.

She looked at Mart and Brian and saw the dark circles under their eyes. She saw similar signs of stress on Trixie's face as well. Helen's heart hurt. Her children were suffering. What could she do to ease their pain? To avoid seeing Bobby's long face, she had sent him to the Lynch's house to play with the twins. She wanted him to enjoy his childhood as long as possible. He was too young to be kept up at night with worry.

For that matter, so was Helen. She felt extremely unprepared for her current problems. If only Peter were home, she kept thinking, then she wouldn't feel so alone. Of course you wouldn't, she reminded herself, because he'd be here, too. As Trixie's speech wound down, Helen took a deep breath and slowly let it out.

"Trixie, boys," she began. "I'm so sorry this happened to you. I wish it hadn't. I wish one of you had thought to wait for Mr. Davis before answering any questions, but I know you believed you could handle it on your own. Truthfully, I think you all did fine. I'm sure you were honest and that's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Moms," Trixie began, but her mother kept talking.

"I want you to try and remember everything the agent asked you," she said. "I want one of you to call Mr. Davis and tell him all of it. Probably, since you're underage, his questioning you without a parent there is illegal."

"Um, Jim's not underage," Mart said reluctantly.

Helen nodded. "But Trixie and you are. Anyway, did he ask to see any ID?" They shook their heads 'no'. "Then he was probably just fishing. I think, Trixie, that your hunch that he's looking for a way for your father to have laundered money is correct. That seems to be what the agent who was here was looking for."

Beside her, Brian nodded. To his brother and sister, he said, "The man kept looking around for expensive items and things paid for with cash. He kept asking about the antiques, were we sure we had inherited them, had we ever gotten them appraised. Things like that. He wanted to see the loan papers on the minivan and Dad's Camry. He wanted to know about my financial aid at school. Had we had any work done to the farmhouse."

"Basically," Helen translated. "He wanted to know if we were hiding anything in plain sight. Of course, we're not, and I think that confused him."

Brian chuckled. "I'll say. When I told him I was doing work-study in the student cafeteria and at the infirmary as well as volunteering at the crisis center, not to mention working part-time at the hospital as an EMT, well. His eyes almost bugged out."

Trixie and Mart grinned. Helen smiled, too. A sense of humor was one thing the government not only could not tax, it could not take away. She looked down at her legal pad. It was filled with numbers she had spent a quarter hour adding together. She now knew just how much money she did not have to pay the bills.

A knock on the kitchen doorjamb drew everyone's attention. Cap and Knut stood there and Helen could see Hallie's worried face in the dimness just beyond her brother's shoulders. "Aunt Helen?" Knut said. "We just got off the phone with Mom and Dad. We told them everything and they suggested a plan."

Immediately, Helen knew what Peter's brother had suggested. "They're going to lend us money, right?"

Knut nodded and entered the room. He leaned on the table and looked at her. "Helen, Dad wants you to know that we're family. We stick together in a crisis. He's put a hundred thousand in a bank account just to help out."

"But what if that money gets frozen, too?" Helen asked, ignoring the looks of surprise and words of astonishment from her children.

Knut shook his head. "Cap and I are the only ones who have access to the money. On paper, that is. Right now, we're not under investigation."

"Right," Cap agreed, moving to stand near his brother. "Checks'll be arriving soon with our names on them. We'll cover everything and Dad said not to worry about paying any of it back. He said something about owing Peter some money from a long time ago. He said he figured in interest." He shrugged to show he didn't know what his dad could have referring to.

Helen frowned a moment before Harold's message began to make sense. She laughed, surprising herself with how good it felt. "Okay," she agreed. "I can't afford my pride. Why don't you boys go tomorrow and pick up some counter checks so I can pay some bills in the meantime? And I'll get you a list and you can go to the grocery store and get the food I couldn't get this morning."

"Sounds good to us," Hallie grinned. She leaned on the back of Helen's chair. "I love shopping!"

"It's not your money, Sprout," Cap reminded her with a laugh. She frowned at him, but the general air of levity forced a giggle out of her.

Helen suggested a good search for leftovers might make an interesting dinner menu. As the younger people jumped to get started on their mission for tasty and nutritious entrees, Helen motioned Trixie to join her in the hallway. Once there, she lifted her daughter's chin and looked straight into her eyes. "Trixie," she told her, "I want you to know I'm aware of how much stress you're under. I appreciate the strain you must be feeling and I'm glad to see you're handling this so well."

Trixie's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Moms," she said. "I don't feel like I'm handling it well! I'm certain I'm doing everything wrong. Like not getting you when Mr. Bascombe came to see me and-"

"Whoa, hold on!" Helen told her with a gentle smile. "This is how handling something well feels. Do you think I know what I'm doing all the time?" Trixie nodded her head. Helen laughed. "Well, I don't. But you think I do because you don't see me falling apart. That's what I see you not doing. Falling apart. I mean." She stopped, sighed. "What do I mean?"

Trixie grinned. "I know what you mean, Moms. I talk like that, too."

"I know," Helen laughed. "That's the scary thing. I though I had outgrown that habit!" Helen laid her forehead against Trixie's. "I love you, sweetie. And I am proud of you. I just wanted to let you know that."

Trixie was about to answer when Mart stuck his head out the door. "Hey, Moms? There's some leftover burgers we could defrost, but all we got are some hot dog buns. What do you think?"

Helen thought a moment. "When the meat's defrosted," she decided. "We'll just roll the burgers into hot dog shapes, grill them and eat them that way."

Mart blinked, then smiled. "Roll-O-Burgers, eh? Sounds good to me!" He returned to the kitchen to announce the plan.

Helen chuckled at Trixie's uncertain expression. "Roll-O-Burgers?" she repeated weakly. "You sure about that, Moms?"

"Hey," Helen told her. "Food should be an adventure. This dinner certainly will be. Let's go in and help save the men folk from your cousin. I can here her giving orders already."

Trixie stopped her mother from returning to the kitchen by wrapping her in a hug. "Moms?" she said.

Helen returned her daughter's embrace. "What, sweetie?"

"I love you, too."

Helen shut her eyes tight against the sudden tears. "I know," she said. "I know." Arm in arm, they went back into the kitchen.

*     *     *

Upstairs in her room an hour or so later, Trixie tried to find something constructive to do. Hallie had taken to cleaning their shared quarters every day, so that didn't leave much. She ended up sitting at her desk, trying to make sense of everything that had happened.

It was nearly impossible. The only thing that made sense was the government's actions. Naturally, they feared that one of the Beldens would attempt to move the hidden millions they had allegedly stashed somewhere. Her mother had also informed the children that the government had revoked everyone's passports in an attempt to keep them in the country.

There goes that romantic Mediterranean cruise Jim never invited me on, Trixie thought sourly. She tried her best to stop thinking of the situation emotionally. Her family's plight required intelligent, thoughtful decisions and ideas. Flying off on a reactionary tangent could hardly help anything and would probably hurt her father's case. Hadn't that been the first goal of Agent Chadwick? To make Trixie upset enough that she'd say or do something stupid and help the government's case?

She realized she had to stop getting upset and letting her emotions rule her head. She realized she needed to divorce herself from the situation so that she could look at it objectively. Wasn't that what enabled her to solve all those mysteries before? The fact that she wasn't directly involved in them?

Not exactly true, one side of her brain reminded her. The sheep thieves in Iowa were stealing from your uncle. In Idaho, your own cousin had been kidnapped. Last year, your own brother had been accused of petty vandalism. Heck, most of the cases you've solved involved those closest to you. That's probably what motivated you to solve them yourself at all.

Great, the other side of her brain smirked. What does that mean for when I become a professional detective? That I'll have no desire to help strangers?

She groaned and considered pounding her head against the wall. It had to be more constructive than just sitting and staring at it.

Phooey! Forget this sitting around, she told herself. I'm going to do something about this! I’m going to figure out who's doing this, how and most especially why. My dad's a great person and not just because he's my dad. Even if he were Di's dad or Honey and Jim's, he wouldn't deserve to have this happen to him.

She grabbed her stuffed shoulder bag and rummaged through it for her notebook. She found the page full of thoughts she and Hallie had picked through the night before. She studied it and hoped something else would begin to make sense. Who would do this, she wondered. And why? Why get Peter Belden put in jail?

She purposely began thinking of her father as a separate person. He had lived all his life in Sleepyside, she knew. Surely in all that time, he made some enemies. Someone has wanted to do this for a very long time. Someone has hated Peter Belden for at least two years and probably longer, since the embezzlement scheme had been going on at least that long without anyone noticing it.

Scheme, she thought. A carefully developed and implemented plan. Someone has taken the time and energy to plan this entire thing out. That means this person is logical, thinks things through in an orderly fashion, and probably has lots of time on his hands. He's probably not married, nor does he have a girlfriend, she supposed, or he'd expend his energy in other pursuits.

It occurred to her that she was starting to form her own Criminal Profile. For a brief moment, she panicked. How did she know if she was right? How did she decide if her profile made sense or not? How do those guys in the FBI do it? And how come my dad fits one of those profiles?

She forced the fear and insecurity away from her thoughts and concentrated on completing her profile. She wondered if there were a standardized list of elements for this sort of white-collar crime or not. She knew that serial killers tended to be white men from 25 to 35 years old, but that was thanks to watching TV shows. Television rarely went into details on embezzlement, except to point out how much money passed through the embezzler's hands.

A tiny nugget of information surfaced in her brain. She remembered reading in a news magazine some years ago about a man who worked in a bank in some Asian country who had embezzled millions through stock market manipulations. Her father worked in a bank. Her heart sank. Her father fit that part of the profile.

But, she reminded herself, he certainly did not have too much time on his hands. She returned to her mental exercise. As she continued to make notes, think, make more notes and think harder, Hallie came in to announce that Cap and Mart had collaborated on a dessert and it was finally ready.

Trixie declined the offer to go downstairs to eat. Instead, she asked Hallie to bring her a slice of whatever the boys had made and a glass of soda. She wanted to continue to work on her theories. Once the chocolate-raspberry dessert was on Trixie's desk, Hallie wisely allowed her cousin privacy and thinking space. She shut the door and did not return until eleven o'clock.

By that time, the dessert had congealed and grown cold, the soda had gone flat, but Trixie had her theory. She tested it on Hallie, who tried, but could poke no holes in it. "What are you going to do now, Trix?" she asked.

Trixie stretched and yawned. "I'm going to call another Bob-White meeting in the morning and get everyone else's opinion on it. But right now, I'm going to sleep." She closed her notebook with a satisfied smile before taking her dishes downstairs. Inside of ten minutes, she was peacefully asleep in her bed.

*     *     *

"Riddle me this, Dan-Man," Diana sighed, closing a worn copy of The Crucible. It was almost two hours after Anne left. "What's up with Mart?"

"Huh?" Dan looked up from his perusal of one of Diana's fashion magazines. "What do you mean. What's wrong with Mart?"

She frowned. "I'm not sure. But lately he seems to be avoiding me." Dan opened his mouth to speak, but she continued speaking herself. "I don’t mean me exactly, but talking to me. Well, doing anything with me, actually. But yeah, I miss him calling me every night and talking my ear off. I miss him sending me happy little 'good morning' emails."

"Um, Di?" Dan asked. "You know they got their PCs confiscated, right?"

"Oh, I know that!" Diana shot him a disgusted look. "Even before that, though. He's been avoiding me."

Dan nodded his head. "I have a pretty good idea why, but I'll only tell you if you answer something about men to me, okay?"

She grinned. "Same deal as always? Okay. Give me the answer, O Wise One."

He tossed the magazine onto the floor. "It's like this, see," he began. "Mart's family is going through a crisis. The man of the house, Mr. Belden, is in jail. There's a power vacuum, see, and there's too many men around to fill the role of 'king'."

"King?" she repeated dubiously.

"Just go with me on this, okay?" He recollected his thoughts, then continued. "There's always one guy in charge of things and up until now, it's been Mr. Belden. He gets taken out, so that leaves not only Brian and Mart, but Cap and Knut, too. There are too many men vying for power. Someone's got to lose."

She sat a moment in thought. "Sounds like one of those wolf packs we read about in Biology class."

"It's exactly like that," he nodded. "It was like that on the street, too. Some head guy would get jacked by the cops and then half a dozen of his followers would fight for a new position. The guy gets off, he comes back and has to reclaim his leadership. He gets sent up and the new guy, whoever he is, gets to keep his crown."

"Uh-huh," she said slowly. "And Mart wants to be the head guy?"

"Sure he does," Dan said. "He probably won't tell you that and I doubt if he'd see it in himself, but he's a guy. He wants to lead. All guys do. It's in our genes or something."

"Uh-huh," she said again. "But Brian's got seniority."

"Exactly," he agreed. "And that's the problem. Brian's going to win. No matter what happens, Brian's got the edge. He's older, he's proven himself to be responsible and level-headed. He's already been there for their mom. How can Mart compete with the guy's track record? Not to mention the super-responsible Knut or the cool-head-in-a-crisis Cap."

"So he's feeling… what, exactly. Emasculated? Impotent?"

Dan's eyes widened. Instinctively, but without conscious thought, he crossed his legs. "I don't think so! Not really, anyway. I mean, um… I guess that's one way of describing it, but it's not quite what I'd choose."

His squirming did not go unnoticed by Diana. She half grinned and said, "Then what, exactly? What can I do for him to help him out?"

Dan laughed. "Don't make me say it, Di. Come on. Just be yourself. You're a great girl, Di. You've got a big heart. Let Mart decide when he's ready to come clean about all this. Figure in advance, though, that he's not going to tell you what I told you. He's not going to realize what his problem really is, so just let him think he's got the answer, okay?"

Diana laughed, too. "I got it. Don't mess with the ol' male ego. Done. Anything else I should know?"

"Yeah. Last thing Mart needs right now," he said, "is any fighting. He also won't appreciate any girlish games."

She frowned. "I've never played games with Mart. What gives you the idea I would or ever have?"

He sighed and stretched his legs out in front of him. "I guess that's my question, then. See, Saturday night, me and Anne went to the movies and to Wimpy's for dinner."

"She told me," Diana smiled. "She said you two had a good time."

"Yeah," he agreed. "It was a good movie. Thing is, at Wimpy's Anne got all girly on me. Clingy. She giggled. A lot. I hated it."

Diana thought for a long moment. "Did she do that the entire time or just at Wimpy's?"

He thought, too. "Not in the theater and not in the car. I guess it was just when we were with other people. You think that has something to do with it?"

"I think so," she said. "I'd have to talk to her to be sure, but I'm guessing she's feeling a bit insecure right now about you. That, or she just doesn't know how to act on a date."

"How to act?" Dan asked. "I just want her to act normal. Like herself."

"I know that," she said. "But I don't think Anne's ever had much experience with the opposite sex. She's only seen movies and read books. You know we're the first kids her own age she's spent much time with." He nodded. "I don't get the impression she's all that comfortable with us sometimes."

He nodded again. "That makes sense," he said. "When we were at Wimpy's, it was starting to bug me that she wouldn't look at me. She looked at her food, she looked out the window, but she didn't look at me. I was beginning to think something was on my face. Like I was breaking out or something and just didn't know it." He laughed. "So I went to the restroom to check, but I was fine. There wasn't even anything stuck between my teeth."

Diana laughed, too. "Oh, you poor guy! How awful! What'd you do then?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. I went back to the table and tried to get her talking."

"She wouldn't talk to you?"

"Not like normal," he said. "She answered questions and stuff, but she didn’t ask me any. You know, I was in control of the conversation the whole time. I like it more two-way. Like this." He gestured to mean him and Diana.

She smiled. "I know what you mean. I just think she's nervous, being in public with a boy on a date. Especially you."

"Me? Why especially me?"

"Because you're the guy every girl in town wants to date," she grinned. "You're dangerous."

His jaw fell open. He lay a hand on his heart, his expression all shocked innocence. "You're kidding! I'm a pussycat!"

"Yeah, right!" Diana laughed. "Tell me another one!"

At that moment, there was a knock on the bedroom door. Diana invited the person inside. It was Harrison, the prim British butler. "Miss Diana?" he asked. "It is almost time for dinner. Will your guest be joining the family?"

Diana turned the question to Dan. "Would you like to?"

Dan jumped at the offer. "Sure! Anything beats one-pot spaghetti."

Harrison frowned. "One-pot spaghetti? I won't hazard a guess. I'll inform the staff to set another place at the table." He left the room, shutting the door behind him.

"I like visiting you, Diana," Dan said with a happy sigh.

"Why's that?"

"You feed me."

The friends laughed before getting up to get ready for dinner.

*     *     *

The long and the short of it, as far as Honey could figure out, was that her father would not help. Apparently, his personal accountants had been notified that the Wheelers' tax returns were going to be audited, going back as far as 1995, just to be on the safe side. The lawyers had advised the family to steer clear of the Beldens as much as possible. Honey thought that completely unfair.

"I won't do it!" she said. "I won't abandon my friends just because they're in trouble. What kind of person would that make me?"

"I'm not asking you to, Honey," her father said soothingly. The family had sat down for dinner in the formal dining room. He glanced at his wife at the foot of the table. "Are we, Madeleine?"

"No, dear," Madeleine agreed. "We're not. We're simply asking you to try and be sure you don't hinder them any. That you don't, even by accident, harm their case."

"How could we do that?" Honey asked. "I would never hurt them."

"Not intentionally, no," Matthew agreed. "But the appearance of criminal or shady activity can often be enough to turn a jury against even the most innocent person."

"Honey," Jim said quietly. She reluctantly met his eyes. "If the IRS thinks the Bob-Whites could be laundering money for Mr. Belden, what makes you think they don't suspect Dad of doing the same thing?"

"Huh?" Honey was shocked. She looked at her parents in disbelief. "Has somebody said something? Are we in trouble, too?"

"Sweetheart," her father replied, "I'm confused. Weren't you in the sitting room with your mother and Jim and me when we were discussing this very thing?"

"Um," she admitted, "I was, but I guess I was thinking of something else. I’m sorry. Would you mind telling me again?"

He smiled fondly. "Not at all, Honey. I'll try and sum up. Wheeler Enterprises is looking at the very real possibility of an audit, as well as a criminal investigation, all stemming from our relationship with Peter Belden and the First National Bank of Sleepyside."

"But I thought all your money was in banks in New York?" she asked.

"Yes, it is," he replied. "I'm pleased you remember that. That was years ago I took you around to meet all the bankers and lawyers. 'Take Our Daughters To Work Day', wasn't it?" He smiled and returned some of his attention to his plate of food. After a moment he nodded and said, "The company's money is in a large bank headquartered in the city. However, I've moved quite a bit of our personal funds to an account here at First National. That way, Miss Trask and Regan don't have any troubles writing checks for the estate or things like that. The staff's salaries are also paid through accounts at the bank."

"I see," she said. "So there's the possibility that you could be moving money from your personal account to your business account and then overseas?"

"Exactly!" Matthew smiled proudly at his wife. "That's my girl, huh!"

Madeleine shrugged. "She certainly doesn't get it from me! I don't even pretend to understand the first thing about business. It's all boring. No offense, Jim," she added quickly, knowing he was studying the subject at school.

"Oh, none taken," he replied, just as quickly. "It's boring to me, too. I’m only taking it so I can manage my school when it starts. Once it gets going, I fully intend to hire a manager and an accountant." He grinned and the others chuckled.

"That's the best way to do business, son," Matthew laughed. "Come up with enough money to hire the people who know how the business works and let them manage it all for you."

Honey looked puzzled. "Is that what you do, Daddy?" She looked at him and waited for his answer.

Madeleine spoke, instead. "Honey, darling. Do you really think your father understands the first thing about oil wells? Not to mention shipping, publishing or aeronautics?"

She thought about it. She looked at her father and thought hard about it. Did he? She hesitated, then said, "I'm guessing 'no'?"

Matthew laughed harder. "You're guessing right!"

*     *     *

To get to Dr. Fortescue's office, one of the outbuildings on the grounds of the Westchester County Sanitarium, Anne had to walk through a walled, private Japanese garden complete with reflecting pool, water lilies and randomly yet harmoniously placed smooth stepping stones and well-managed bushes. Her first several visits to the psychotherapist, she took scant notice of the path to the office door, focused as she was on the purpose and goal of her visit: to speak to the doctor.

After her third week of almost daily therapy sessions, Dr. Fortescue asked her if she'd noticed the bird's nest being built in the arms of the Japanese maple. Anne had not. She confessed she had never taken much time in the garden, had never sat for a single moment on the carved stone and wood bench, had never so much as taken the short, arched bridge over the pond instead of the more direct route from parking lot to door.

Dismayed, Fortescue conducted that session on the crushed green grass beneath the short, purple-leafed maple, and concentrated solely on getting Anne in touch with her surroundings. It had been the first break-through for Anne, and the first inklings in Fortescue that her patient would be able to be helped. Prior to each session afterward, Anne spent at least ten minutes in the garden, meditating to a peaceful and receptive frame of mind, which helped doctor and patient progress more quickly.

That Monday, however, Anne was running late, so she forewent her meditation and arrived in Fortescue's office out of breath and short on peacefulness. Without preliminary, she launched into an exhausted, raging, free-associative rant. She spoke for a full six minutes before pausing in realization she had begun to repeat herself.

Meanwhile, Fortescue regarded her patient calmly and without a single gesture or change in facial expression, making quick notes on a small lined pad of paper. When it was clear Anne was through, she put down the Bic pen, saying, "And good afternoon to you, too. I suppose your weekend did not go well? Or is this display of temperament related to your examination this morning?"

Anne fell into a low-backed chair, letting her head fall back on her neck. She stared at the ceiling and groaned. "Tessie," she said, using the doctor's nickname, "I'm out of the program."

"I see." Fortescue opened the notebook she used for Anne's case and retrieved her favorite pen from the cup holder on her oak desk. "Is that what the specialist told you or are you jumping to conclusions? You know you have a tendency to see the worst answer to a question." She tore off the page of quick notes she had made and tucked it into the notebook.

"I know," Anne admitted. "But you said that's sometimes a good thing. Keeps me realistic, you said."

"I did say that," Fortescue agreed. "But only if you have enough evidence to support a pessimistic answer. In this case, I'd want to hear the doctor's definite decision before I-"

"He told me flat out, no hope extended, I am out of the program."

The doctor took a sip of ice water from a tall plastic cup. The name of a popular sports team had long ago been emblazoned across the outside, but it had been washed so many times, only Fortescue herself knew from what team's cup she drank. "I'm sorry, Anne. It's a rotten break."

"I know." Anne's tone was pure misery. She slapped her hands on the arms of the chair, then slapped her hands again on the furniture and stood. "It's all just so unfair!"

Fortescue frowned. "Now, Anne, we've discussed this before. Life was never meant to be fair, but to -"

"-give us challenges in hopes we can face and overcome or defeat them. Yes, I know." Anne strode angrily to a large window that overlooked the garden. She said quietly. "I'm not sure I can win this one."

The doctor got up and walked over to Anne. She stood next to her and spoke quietly. "It's not a question of winning or losing, but of dealing with the problems that come up in life. Life is constant motion from one struggle to the next. It's what you can learn from each struggle that's important, not if you prevail or not. There will always be things you cannot conquer. Like your diabetes. Until there's a cure, it will always be with you."

Anne nodded. "It's still not fair," she maintained. "I mean, I just got to liking this place and these people and now it's all going to go away."

"But surely there's been some stabilization in your condition since the operation," Fortescue asked.

"I guess so," Anne said, but it was clear she didn't quite believe it. She grinned suddenly. "Did I tell you Dan asked me out on Saturday? He took me to dinner and a movie."

Fortescue reminded her softly, "Anne, we can talk about that later. I think we need to discuss your concerns about your condition." Firmly, she returned the conversation to Anne's state of mind following her doctor's pronouncement.

They talked for almost forty minutes. Anne's time was almost done. Fortescue smiled and suggested, "Try and focus on the positive things in your life. Try and focus on what you are, and not what you are not, okay?

Anne repeated, "What I am, not what I am not. Okay. I can do that. I think."

The doctor thought a moment, then said, "You mentioned a date with Dan. How'd that go?"

Anne smiled, thinking of how to start. "First, I have to say that being on a date is scary."

"How so?" Fortescue and leaned back comfortably in her leather-bound chair behind her desk.

"Let me ask you," she replied. "When you're on a date, how are you supposed to act? I mean, in the movies and TV and in books, girls just always seem to know what to say to make the guys they're with more interested."

"You mean, like flirting?"

Anne thought about it. "Okay. I'll go along with that. Flirting. How do you flirt? I mean, I was trying to do what I saw the other girls on dates do, but I only seemed to be making a fool of myself. At least, that's how it felt to me."

Fortescue closed her eyes with a pained smile. "Oh, Anne. Let's see. My older sister told me what to say and do when on a date. Eventually, however, I figured out that what worked for my sister didn't work for me. The instant I stopped acting like someone else and more like myself, that is - the instant I relaxed, the guy I was with relaxed, too, and we started having a wonderful time."

"You mean, I shouldn't flirt?"

"How did you feel when you flirted?"

Anne thought about it. "A little strange. I don't know what to say to him. Not really. I mean, in books and movies and stuff, girls always know what to say. Who tells them? How do they know?"

"What do you find yourself wanting to talk about?"

She sighed. "You'll laugh."

Fortescue gave her a look. "Have I ever laughed at you before?"

"All right," Anne relented. "I find myself wanting to talk about computers." She covered her face with her hands. "But he knows nothing about them! But he listens to me anyway and sometimes I think he understands what I'm talking about. Sometimes." She groaned. "I just don't know."

"Anything else?"

"Umm…" Anne thought harder. She looked down at herself. "Sometimes I think about his eyes. He's got these really amazing eyes. They're like black holes sometimes. They suck all the light out of the room. He's so sad. I just want to reach out and comfort him. Sometimes, I think if I knew the right words to say, I could make him laugh and forget all about those horrible things that he keeps hidden away."

"I see." Fortescue made a few notes on her page. Finally, she looked up. "Anne, I'm going to caution you here about taking on another person's problems."

Anne straightened in her chair. "I'm not intending to. Truly, I'm not. I know I have enough of my own to deal with. I just want to make him smile sometimes. Is that wrong?"

"Do you think it's wrong?"

"No!" Anne's reply was quick, then she added, "Not really. I don't think so. I don't know. Maybe?" Her sigh turned into an aggravated groan and she said, "I really hate introspection!" Then she laughed.

Fortescue smiled kindly. Their time was up, but she wanted to leave Anne with a positive thought. "I want you to take some time and think about all we've discussed today. A great deal has happened to you since our last meeting and we've only touched on a few things. As far flirting and dating goes, try to remember that, while women wear make up, that doesn't mean all men want is a made-up face. And as far as the rest of it goes, talk to your father about your options. Talk to the endocrinologist who first treated you when you came to Sleepyside. See what he thinks. Your life is not over. Don't let this latest episode define you."

Anne grinned wryly. "Concentrate on who I am, not who I am not, right?"

Fortescue smiled, too. "Exactly."

*     *     *

That night, Honey Wheeler wasn't the only Bob-White to suffer horrible dreams. While her phantasms devoted themselves to the image of her and Brian, elegantly waltzing across a large wooden dance floor, smiling tenderly at one another while being menaced by large grinning monetary symbols that seemed to shout lyrics that only she could hear, the others' dreams were a bit more commonplace.

Mart, for example, dreamed himself back in the clubhouse, fruitlessly searching through box after box of sports equipment, never finding the receipts he knew had to be there somewhere.

Brian, having been well informed of his parents' financial crisis as well as the club's, dreamed of Excel spreadsheets that went on and on into infinity.

Trixie's dreams centered on Crabapple Farm. A stranger was in the house, she searched every room, but the stranger was always just beyond the next corner. She tried to get her brothers to help her search, but they refused. 'Come outside with us and play ball,' they urged her.

Jim tossed and turned all night as well, torn between images of Trixie walking away from him Saturday night and the thought that, if he had never come to Sleepyside or taught the girls the Bob-White whistle, there would never be a club and there would never be such chaos.

Diana dreamed of getting on her horse, Sunny, and racing through the Preserve toward the bluffs overlooking the river. As she spurred Sunny faster, they jumped over the edge and then plummeted toward the water. She woke up, jolted by the sensation of falling and resolved to lay off the Oreos before bedtime.

Anne's pleasant visions of an afternoon picnic with a handsome companion were interrupted by a scalpel-wielding maniac who promised her if she didn't cry, he'd give her a lollipop -- after he removed her internal organs.

Dan's dreams were rarely pleasant. This night was no different. Caught between worry over Anne's possibly deteriorating condition, the Bob-Whites' financial tight spot and the Beldens' legal woes, if he had not dreamt of his months in the gang and on the streets, he would have wondered why.

It tore him up inside, wondering if the nightmares would always plague him, knowing they could never be beaten. Sighing, he looked at his bedside clock radio. The time was four-forty-four. He turned in his bed and closed his eyes with a groan. A minute later, the LED began to glow and the radio turned on.

…Now here I go again, I see the crystal visions… I keep my visions to myself. It's only me who wants to wrap around your dreams, and... Have you any dreams you'd like to sell? Dreams of loneliness like a heartbeat... drives you mad... In the stillness of remembering what you had... And what you lost... And what you had... And what you lost…

To Be Continued

** In Have You Seen This Child?, Anne fears that her parents want her to die and that is why they were unwilling to pursue experimental options like the pancreatic tissue transfer, which is the operation she did end up having, thanks to her cousin, David Maypenny, being a good genetic match.

Oh, and Roll-O-Burgers are a real dish. When my sweet husband Chris was growing up, he and his brothers rotated the cooking chores between them. One day, Chris's brother Jim presented the family with Roll-O-Burgers. It was a big hit. Try them at your next party!