Chapter 7 : Suspicion

The first opportunity Trixie had to see her father since his court appearance left her with a distinctly dissatisfied feeling. She left her mother and Mr. Davison at the jail to discuss the case. Since she was not included in their conversation and rather than wait for them in the lobby, she called Honey and asked to be picked up and driven home. To both her disappointment and her surprise, Jim showed up in his new car.

The silver BMW Z3 shone in the mid-morning light. The top was down, the music loudly energetic and the driver handsome and smiling. "Hop in, Trixie," Jim told her. "I'm here to take you home."

Trixie opened the car door and got in. As she settled her purse at her feet, she realized she'd never been in a sports car before. Her Uncle Andrew owned a Corvette, but had never let any of the kids in it. "Wow," she said, looking around the interior. "This is nice." She pulled her seatbelt over her and easily fastened it.

"Thanks," he said, easily shifting into first as he drove slowly to the parking lot exit. "It handles really well, but it's taken me a bit of getting used to." He laughed. "It sure beats driving the Bob-White wagon!" At the street, he waited for an opening in the morning traffic, then pulled out.

Trixie watched Jim's grip on the driveshaft as he shifted gears. The sunlight glinted off the reddish hairs on the back of his hand and caused tiny valleys of shadow between his knuckles. Realizing she was staring, she refocused her attention on the traffic and the street. "Don’t you find this odd? Being so low to the ground, I mean."

They pulled to a stop at a light. Jim glanced to his left. A minivan had pulled up alongside them. Jim realized the door handle on the other vehicle was higher than his head. "I guess so," he laughed. "But it's a lot more fun this way. I'll show you what I mean when we get out of this traffic."

"Okay." She relaxed in the seat. Her right arm fit perfectly in the armrest built into the door frame, but her head couldn't seem to find the perfect spot in the backrest.

Her squirming must have attracted Jim's attention, because he said, "You can adjust the seat, you know."

"Oh." Trixie found the controls and soon she was as comfortable as she had been in a long time. The sun on her face, the wind in her hair, her legs stretched out in front of her, the music perfectly loud and distracting, her day was finally falling into place.

Then Jim asked, "So, how's your dad holding up?"

The last thing she wanted to discuss was her father. That whole mess was still too fresh, too chaotic and too incomprehensible. She couldn't even make sense of her conflicting emotions regarding the boy she was sitting next to and that was supposed to be simple. She either liked him 'that way' or she didn't. There was no in-between, right? Love was like a lamp. It's either on or off, love or… hate? No. That was the problem. She definitely did not hate him. If this confused her, how could she make sense of things with her father?

It had been surprisingly difficult to bear seeing him in the pale blue prison uniform, barred from touching him by a sheet of Plexiglas. She had expected to have to talk to him on a phone. In that at least, she was not disappointed. But talking to a person on a telephone while staring directly at him only emphasized her physical removal from him. This was the man who had tucked her into bed as a little girl. This was the man who had taught her how to ride a bike. This was the man whose outstretched arms had encouraged her to enter the water and then to swim. This was now a man she was forbidden to touch, who had a cheek she could not kiss, who had a hug she could not take comfort from. Accused as a criminal, it was now too dangerous to let him have contact with her, his own flesh and blood.

Her first impulse was to try smashing the Plexiglas so that she could touch him, but reason prevailed. She smiled bravely, fighting her tears, and tried to speak without the quaver in her voice. Her father's words to her had been tender, yet direct. Don't get involved with this, Trixie. Please let your mother and the lawyers handle things. All I need for you and your brothers to do is help out your mom. Don't add to her worries. She has enough. But do try to have some fun, okay? I'd hate it if I thought you kids were obsessing over this.

Her father tried to get her to stay out of the investigation. To please him, she gave her word, but she didn't feel good about it. She knew she could help. Who had a better motivation for a thorough investigation, her or some faceless private eye who had never met Peter Belden except behind bars in a county jail? She had left the correctional facility with her head at war with her heart. She had been hoping to see Honey. She needed to cry on her best friend's shoulder, to rant and rave against injustice and unfairness. She got instead Jim Frayne, a boy who had always seemed to be slightly uncomfortable with the messier side of her personality; the boy, she figured, who would automatically agree with her father that she should stay out of the middle of things.

"How is my dad holding up?" she repeated his question. "As well as can be expected, I guess."

Jim nodded in reply. They said nothing more until he turned up the driveway to Crabapple Farm. He pulled to a stop and she got out of the car. When she shut the door, her purse in her arms, he told her, "You know, you can always talk to me. I'm your friend, Trixie."

She smiled cheerfully. "I know, Jim. But there's not much to talk about. I'll see you later." She waved at him, then hurried into the house. She had to talk to Honey. She could vent to Honey.

*     *      *

Honey hung up the phone after her conversation with Trixie, swallowing her anguished tears. She felt guilty for having a father who was not in jail, not wanted by the authorities for any misdealings public or private, and for being grateful of that fact. She cried because her very best friend in the whole world did have a father like that.

She lay her head on her hands and let herself weep for two minutes. After the first spate of tears eased, she wiped the salty fluid off her cheeks and forced her mind back to the task at hand: planning a Bob-White fundraiser.

Miss Trask had been made the point of contact for both Mr. Lynch's company and Mr. Wheeler's. It was now her job to coordinate with their public relations departments and to ensure the prompt and proper amount of funding. All Honey had to do was spend it all. For the daughter of a self-confessed shop-aholic, she found it unexpectedly complicated. This was far more troublesome than selecting bedroom furniture or a new outfit for school. She not only had to satisfy her own tastes but the Bob-Whites and everyone who might be in attendance at the actual event. It was not easy.

Diana and Anne opted for stylish, avant-garde décor. Dan wanted whimsy. Jim had no firm opinion on the merits of either choice, but whatever the others decided would be fine with him. Honey herself wanted something different, memorable and magical, but the idea of decorating the school gym (use of which the School Board had allowed, thanks to a private meeting with Mr. Wheeler) to resemble Cinderella's Castle in Disney World seemed difficult, remote and utterly impossible.

You can't disguise a gym, she thought philosophically. Pity.

*     *      *

Anne had just reached the stables when she heard Dan call her. She turned in time to see him jump off the stairs to his garage apartment. She waited, covertly admiring his athletic shorts-and-T-shirt-clad form, while he raced across the grass toward her. "What's up?" she asked when he finally caught up to her.

"I wanted to talk about the dance contest," he said. "You will be my partner, right?"

He actually seemed uncertain. She smiled, suddenly shy herself. "Of course, I will." Still, a thought niggled in the back of her mind. Is he sincere? Or did my father put him up to this? Does he really want to be with me or is it a put-on?

"And you weren't kidding about all those lessons you took, right?" A lock of dark hair had fallen over his forehead and he swept it back with a careless hand.

"Course not!" She laughed. "The Langs were big on lessons and-"

"That's fine, fine," he said. "What kind of dances do you know? Skip the ballet and artsy stuff like that."

A bit put-off by his brusqueness, she nevertheless began to recite her dance floor accomplishments. "Waltz, Argentine tango, cha-cha, mambo, East Coast Swing, West Coast Swing, two-step, Charleston, Lindy Hop and now, thanks to you, Salsa. Why?"

He laughed in triumph. "Yes! You can Lindy? You're sure?"

Anne felt flustered by the intense look in Dan's dark eyes, but she managed to reply, "Yes. I am. Why? Do you?"

Still chuckling, he nodded, then took in her jeans and blouse with a quick sweep of his eyes. "Oh, yeah. I do. Come on," he said, taking her firmly by the shoulder and escorting her into the stable. "Let's find out what you know."

"Ummm," she said. "I'm not really dressed for it. I mean, these aren't exactly saddle shoes. Despite the fact that I was going to wear them riding." Hearing her inadvertent joke, she smirked to herself before glancing around, but from what she could see, the stables were empty, even of horses.

Dan looked at her feet. She wore her fancy riding boots the Langs had gotten for her the year before. They each had a swirling L monogram. "Those are smooth-soled shoes though, right?" She nodded. "Then they'll do fine, especially on this wooden floor."

"Dan," she asked. "What are you going to do?" She watched as he reached up to the radio that Regan kept on a low beam. He was tall enough to easily twist the dial.

The radio, formerly tuned to a country-music station, broadcast static as Dan searched. Almost immediately, they heard a loud voice yelp, "Hey! What's going on?"

Anne jumped. Ben Riker walked in the stable from the opposite end. It was he who had shouted. He carried a large bucket and a scrub brush. He stopped when he saw Dan and Anne, his expression changing swiftly from surprise to dismay to stoical composure. He met Dan's eyes evenly and nodded once. "Dan," he said.

"Ben," Dan said, in exactly the same tone. Then, as if Ben had never been there, he refocused his attention on the radio.

Anne thought she had prepared herself for seeing Ben. She thought she had worked out any lingering resentment and anger with her therapist that morning, but even that learned and talented woman had yet to reach the roots of Anne's emotional turmoil. Work toward forgiveness, her therapist had said. Anne cleared her throat and said as neutrally as possible, "Hello, Ben."

Hearing her greeting, Dan couldn't help but stare at her. His grip on the tuning knob tightened and the station for which he had been searching suddenly came in clear. Shaking his head, Dan adjusted the volume level up. The infectious chords of Sing, Sing, Sing filled the stables.

Ben stared at her, too. He almost dropped his bucket and scrub brush but covered for his clumsiness by setting the items near one of the horse stalls. "Uh, hi, Anne. How's it going?"

She was about to reply in as civilized a manner as she could manage that she was doing as fine as could be expected, but she'd know for sure at the beginning of next week when she went in for a follow-up appointment with her doctors, but Dan walked directly in front of her and stopped, obstructing her view of Ben. His jaw clenched tight, Dan said, "Forget him. Let's dance." He held out his left hand, she took it with her right and after an eight-count, they began a clumsy Lindy Hop.

Ben stood and watched them dance, struck for a moment by the study in contrast Dan and Anne presented. Dan was tall, Anne short. Dan had black hair while, thanks to Miss Clairol, Anne's was white. Dan was in shorts, Anne in jeans. Dan had a loose-limbed, easy dance style, Anne moved precisely and without fancy touches. Dan could pass for an adult while Anne was just on the budding cusp.

She's really not your type, Riker. She's too thin and too much trouble. You should look for someone low-maintenance. Ben shook his head, grabbed his cleaning supplies and continued toward the tack room and his dirty wall.

*     *      *

"You sure this will work?" Mart asked Diana dubiously.

"It worked in Dirty Dancing," she replied confidently. "It'll work here."

"That was a movie."

"It took place in the Catskills."

"It was filmed in South Carolina."

"What-ever!"

They stood in the shallower end of the Wheeler lake, where the water was waist deep. Dressed in tight blue bicycle-short style swim trunks, Mart shifted his feet until he felt reasonably sure he would be steady enough for what was to come. Diana, wearing one of her usual violet bikinis, took several careful steps backward. Her brow knit in concentration, she asked, "You ready?"

Mart nodded. He held his hands and arms outstretched to catch her. Diana lowered her chin and charged him. At the last possible second, she jumped.

*     *      *

Helen Belden walked inside her house, dropped her keys and her purse and slouched wearily into the family room. She was about to collapse on the sofa when she saw a strange sight. Her daughter was dusting. Standing just inside the doorway Helen wondered, Did I tell Trixie to dust without realizing it?

Trixie turned from the mantle and nearly shrieked in surprise. "Moms! You're home! I didn't hear you come in." She sucked in her lower lip and glanced around the room worriedly. "I'm not quite done cleaning."

Helen smiled. "That's okay, sweetie. The place looks nice." She moved to the sofa and sat. She slowly stretched her feet out in front of her and kicked off her shoes. "Thanks."

Trixie quickly put away her dust cloth and the furniture polish. When she returned, Helen asked her, "Where is everyone?"

"Um, let's see," Trixie said, sitting on the other end of the sofa. "Brian took Cap, Knut and Hallie into town in the Bob-White wagon. Brian's picking up Dad's car from the impound lot and one of the guys're going to drive the wagon back here after stopping at the grocery store. There was talk of giving Hallie a driving lesson when they got back to Glen Road. Mart is swimming with Diana in the lake, Bobby's with Terry and Larry and I'm here."

Helen nodded. "Why the grocery store? We have food here, don't we?" She frowned, clearly uncertain if they did indeed have food in the house or not.

Her daughter smiled cheerfully. "Cap's going to make dinner tonight. He's promising meatless lasagna."

Helen frowned harder. "Isn't that just pasta and sauce? We have pasta and sauce."

Trixie matched her mother's frown. "I think tofu is somehow involved, but don't quote me."

"Oh," Helen said. "There is definitely no tofu in this house." She stretched her legs again and pressed her eyes with the palms of both hands.

Trixie agreed. They lapsed into silence. Reddy padded downstairs and into the family room. Upon seeing Helen, he barked once and wagged his tail. "Get your fuzzy, Reddy," Helen said to him. "Where's your fuzzy?" Reddy barked again and hurried off, apparently in search of his fuzzy toy.

"I thought I saw it in Dad's study," Trixie said musingly.

"Your father doesn't like Reddy to get too used to being in there alone," Helen replied. "That dog has a tendency to walk under the desk and hook the computer cables on his collar."

Trixie started to laugh. "Remember when we first got the computer and Reddy did that? He pulled the mouse and keyboard off the desk and onto his back. The look on that dog's face was priceless!"

Helen chuckled, remembering. After a moment, she regarded her daughter thoughtfully. "Sweetie, what's wrong?" Before Trixie could reply, she said, "Don't tell me it's nothing. That's a standard teenage cop-out. If you say it's nothing I won't believe you."

Trixie felt her eyes well up with tears, so she turned away, knowing full well that if she saw compassion and concern in her mother's kind blue eyes, she'd lose it for sure. Her mother had her own problems. What did Trixie's worries matter? They were nothing. "It's not important," she said.

"Nonsense," Helen replied. "You're my daughter. Everything you feel is important to me."

Trixie shook her head. "You have Dad to worry about," she said. But even as she got the words out, she felt the tears start. She managed to say, "It's just that…", before the tears began to fall.

Immediately, Helen moved closer to her, taking her in her arms protectively. She held her daughter for several long moments as she wept. "What's wrong, Trixie?" Helen asked. "Tell me all about it. 'It's just that' what?"

Trixie felt her tears soaking into her mother's blouse. She pulled away and tried to dry her eyes, but her mother caught her hands and kept them still. Looking deeply into her eyes, her mother asked again what was wrong. Trixie replied, "It's just that, well… Dad's in prison! I mean, you know that. That's nothing new or anything. But… he's my dad. I know he hasn't done anything wrong, but I don't even know for sure what they're accusing him of! But whatever it is, he's being falsely accused. I know I could help. I really could. But I'm not allowed to. It's not fair."

"None of this is really fair, Trixie," Helen said. "Your father hasn't done anything wrong and he's still in jail. He's not a flight risk, yet the judge has denied him bail. He's not dangerous, but he's locked up from his family. You are helping, though. All of you are, in your own way." She smiled encouragingly.

Trixie shook her head. "Not me. Not like Brian and Mart." When her mother asked her to explain, she told her, "Brian's 'Mr. Responsibility'. He's taking charge of everything. He gets to drive you around. He gets to pick up Dad's car. Even Knut and Cap are doing what he says. And Mart! Mart's been picking up Brian's slack with the chores and he isn't even complaining about it. And now Cap's making dinner and Hallie's been cleaning-"

"She has?" Helen hadn't realized that.

Trixie nodded vigorously. "She has. Not that I really wanted to do it, but it doesn't leave me much else to do."

"Except dust?"

"It is my usual assignment."

Helen laughed softly at her daughter's woeful expression. She ran her fingers through the ends of Trixie's yellow curls. "That is helping, though."

"But it's not what I do best, Moms!" She shifted her position on the sofa cushion to sit sideways and face her mother. "Haven't I helped solve all kinds of crimes? Haven't I proven, time and again, that I know what I'm doing? That I have a knack for solving mysteries?"

Helen nodded reluctantly. "Sure, Trixie, but-"

"Then why can't I help Dad?" She waited for her mother to say something wise and infuriating like 'because I said so that's why'. She did not.

Instead, Helen took a long look at her daughter. "All right, Trixie," she began. "You're not a little girl anymore. I haven't told your brothers any of this. Frankly, I'm not sure I can even say it out loud."

Trixie kept her mouth shut despite the overwhelming urge to press her mother for details.

"You know the charges against your father," Helen said calmly. Trixie nodded. "Basically, the FBI is saying that your father has been embezzling funds electronically from the bank for the past two years. Because the bank did a system overhaul two years ago, they're having trouble accessing prior records. That's how they arrived at that date. Anyway," she said, taking a breath, "they claim he's been putting the money in a Swiss bank account."

"That's crazy!"

"There's more, and this is the part I hope your brothers don't know," Helen said. For the first time, she appeared uncomfortable.

Trixie felt an immediate rush of support and concern for her mother. She leaned forward and put her hand on her mother's hand. "What is it, Moms? You can tell me."

Helen smiled wanly and nodded. Taking another breath, she told her the rest of it. Trixie gasped, her jaw dropping open. "No way! That's not possible!" Helen shrugged and was about to say more when they heard the unmistakable sounds of the others returning.

"Not a word, okay?" Helen cautioned. Trixie hastily agreed and they both stood to greet the new arrivals and help bring the groceries into the kitchen.

*     *      *

Diana would jump. Mart would grab her waist and lift her above his head. She would then hold out her arms and position her legs in an attractive pose, the crowd would cheer and they'd win the contest. In theory, that is. In practice, it was quite different.

Diana jumped. Mart reached for her waist. Diana's stomach crashed into his face and together they slammed through the surface of the water to the lake bottom. Sputtering for air, they struggled to stand upright.

The next two minutes revolved around trying to determine who was at fault. Was Diana not leaping high enough? Or was Mart simply not strong enough to lift her above his head?

They tried it a dozen more times, but to no avail. The one time Mart came closest to lifting Diana over his head, it was while they were both underwater.

They eventually decided that copying the dance sequence from Dirty Dancing was out of the question. But what could they do instead? Mart wanted to do something funny. Diana wanted something elegant. They sat in the shallow water and brainstormed.

"How about Gene Kelly in Anchors Aweigh?"

"No way am I dancing the part of some cartoon mouse! How about something from Royal Wedding?"

"You want Astaire? How about Easter Parade?"

She considered it. "Easter Parade? With Judy Garland?" He nodded. "Something from the movie or the song itself?"

"No, no. The movie." He grinned and jumped to his feet. He began to sing, pantomiming paddling a canoe. "We could sail…up… the avenue but we haven't got a yacht! We could-"

Diana shrieked. "No way!" She leapt to her feet and kick-splashed water at him. "No way am I going to smear my face with ashes and wear horribly tattered clothes! I want to be clean and at least decently dressed. Besides. It's hardly swing." She primly folded her arms.

Mart sighed. "Okay, fine. We'll try the Dirty Dancing thing again."

"No," Diana sighed. "You're right. We'd probably look sillier doing something serious anyway." As she pouted prettily, she noticed a speculative gleam in his bright blue eyes. "What're you thinking about?" she asked.

He began to slowly grin, his cheeks dimpling delightfully. "I've got a great idea. How about we do something midway between serious and silly?"

"Like what?"

After he told her his suggestion, she asked him to tell her again. "Are you sure that will work?" she asked him over and over.

"It will work," he told her. "But we need to practice until it's second nature."

"We can't do it here," she said. "But we could at my house. My parents have turned the room over the garage into a dance studio for my sisters. We could use that."

He nodded and took her by the hand to lead her out of the lake. "We certainly could," he said. "What's more, it's private." He waggled his eyebrows at her as she began to dry herself off with her fluffy royal blue towel.

"Be serious!" she giggled. "It's not that private!"

"Hey!" He pretended affront. "I'm just talking about sneaking a few kisses now and then."

"In that case," she relented, "I'll agree with you. Come on. Let's go check out the room, okay?"

"I do need to get home for dinner, but I can spare a few moments to inspect our rehearsal hall. After you, my Terpsichorean treasure!" Mart bowed gallantly, allowing her precede to him.

Several steps later, she turned her head to ask, "Why do you always walk behind me?"

"With this view," he said slyly, ogling her bikini-bottomed backside, "wouldn't everyone?"

"Mart!" she shrieked, whirling about to fling her towel at him. He laughed and chased after her until the Lynch house came into view and she allowed him to catch her.

*     *      *

The meatless lasagna turned out to be tastier than Trixie figured it had a right to, but she still ate every bite on her plate. Cap beamed with self-satisfaction. "See how easy it is to give up eating animals?"

Bobby, wide-eyed, nodded. "I'll say. In fact, Moms, I don't want to eat meat ever again!"

Helen nodded her head. She tried to smile, but succeeded only in creasing her cheeks. "Okay, Bobby. I'll remember that next time I'm making hamburgers."

"I have no qualms about my carnivorous nature," Mart said. "Just give me your burgers, Bobby." The others laughed, Bobby looked confused, but Cap just shook his head.

"If you only could see what I have seen," he told them. "You'd know that animals should not be subjected to the selfish desires of humans. We don't need to eat meat any more to get vitamins and proteins, so why do we? It's a habit, that's why. A nasty, cultural habit."

"Why would I give you my burger, Mart?" Bobby asked. "I like Moms' burgers."

Brian smiled patiently. "They're made with meat, understand?"

Bobby's frown deepened. "So?"

Trixie sighed. "Bobby! You just said you wanted to stop eating meat."

"Nu-uh," the youngest Belden replied. "I just said I was giving up eating animals."

The teenagers began to laugh, even Hallie, who had been unusually quiet during dinner. "Bobby," Knut said, "Animals are meat. Where do you think it comes from?"

"Meat is beef," Bobby insisted.

"And beef is cow meat," Cap informed him. "I know you know that cows are animals."

Bobby stared at the remains of his vegetarian lasagna. "This is made with cow?"

"Not too appetizing when you put it that way, is it," Mart cracked.

"No, Bobby," Trixie said gently. "This lasagna was made with tofu."

"What animal does tofu come from?"

Hallie twisted her face into an expression of extreme disgust. "Tofu comes from soybeans. It's squishy and tasteless. Yuck!"

"Hallie!" Cap snapped. "Cut it out. We've covered this before."

"I don't have to like it," she insisted pertly. "So I don't." Alone among the Beldens, she had focused on the salad and breadsticks that accompanied Cap's meal.

In the middle of the ensuing sibling argument, Helen spoke up. "Bobby, we've discussed where food comes from before. Don't you remember?"

The friendly, boisterous dinner conversation stopped short, stalled by the unexpected and now unrelated comment. The children turned to each other for answers and then to the end of the table where Helen Belden sat, a look of dawning recognition in her eyes. "Oh, dear," she said softly. "You're past that, aren't you?"

Slowly, they nodded. "Are you okay, Moms?" Trixie asked.

Helen smiled self-deprecatingly. "Sure. I'm just tired. I haven't been able to sleep well. I never realized how big that bed really is…" Her smile turned weak.

Brian stood. "Why don't you go on upstairs and take a bath or something? Relax and let us clean up. There's an old movie on at nine. Silver Streak I think it's called."

Her expression brightened. "Silver Streak is playing? Gosh, I love that movie. Kids, it's hysterical. You'll love it. And Trixie, it's even a mystery. We'll all watch it together. We'll pop some corn and bunch up on the sofa. It'll be fun."

"Sounds good to me," Knut said, making the decision for them all.

"Me, too," Trixie said anyway. "Go on upstairs and we'll get this all taken care of. Don't you worry about a thing. The movie's not on for another two hours."

Helen agreed and inside of fifteen minutes, the cousins were almost complete with their task. Knut got permission to give Hallie a short lesson in parallel parking in the driveway. Cap and Bobby went to watch, kibitz and critique. Brian called the fire rescue station to check his schedule for the weekend. Mart swept the floor while Trixie wiped down the counters.

Trixie's mind was preoccupied with what her mother had told her that afternoon, so when Mart began whistling, she hissed at him to stop. "Why?" he asked. "It's just an old song."

"You should know why!" she scolded him. "Because Moms will hear you."

"So?" He was honestly puzzled. "Whistling is cheerful."

She shook her head. "The song, idiot! Think of the lyrics. You want Moms to hear you whistle that song?"

He hesitated a moment, clearly running through the lyrics in his head. He flashed a sick grin. "You don't think she heard me, do you?"

"No," she assured him. "But just keep it down, okay?"

"Yeah, no kidding." He continued sweeping the floor. When he was ready, Trixie held the dustpan for him so he could sweep the crumbs into it.

When the crumbs were all in the pan she stood and handed it to him. "How do you think the cousins are taking things?" She tried her best not to tell Mart what else she had found out that afternoon. It was clear he didn't know anything about it.

He shook his head. "I think they're taking it well considering this isn't how they intended to spend their aestivation." He dumped the crumbs into the trash can and opened the broom closet.

Trixie smirked, watching him replace the broom and dustpan. "You mean, this isn't a dream vacation?" He shot a surprised look at her for correctly defining 'aestivation'. To further twist the matter, Trixie stuck her tongue out at him.

Mart faced her, readying a quip, but the phone rang so he went to answer it. It was Diana. Trixie went outside to leave her brother some privacy. She joined Cap and Bobby on the porch and watched Hallie attempt to parallel park the Camry. All the while, the song Mart was whistling kept going through her head:

Every time you're with me, you're still not certain that I love you. Every time you're near me, you're still not certain that you're mine…Suspicion… Torments my heart. Suspicion. Keeps us apart. Suspicion…why torture me?

To Be Continued

Trixie Belden Homepage