Chapter Text
Fourteen-year-old Trixie Belden lowered the handle of her little brother Bobby’s red wagon and let out a whoop to end all whoops. The ditch along Glen Road was simply brimming with shiny nickels! Well, maybe that was a wee exaggeration. Trixie did have a tendency to blow things out of proportion when she was excited – which let’s face it, was nearly ninety-nine percent of the time.
“Have you ever seen so many cans in all your life!?” Miss Belden exclaimed, her round blue eyes flashing dollar signs. "Putting a five-cent returnable deposit on beverage containers is the best thing the state of New York ever did, if you ask me, Hon. We’ve hit the jackpot! I had a hunch this section of road between Mr. Lytell’s store and Porcupine Reservoir would be a good one after the long holiday weekend.”
Honey Wheeler, Trixie’s most loyal friend and dedicated detective partner, removed a navy scrunchie from her slim wrist and used it to tie back her shoulder-length bob of golden brown hair. The month of June was starting off like a blast furnace. Memorial Day and the last day of school had melted away like ice cream, giving the girls their first real taste of summer.
“I seem to recall you telling Mr. Lytell the deposit was ‘highway robbery’ the last time we stopped in for a soda,” the pretty girl returned, her hazel eyes twinkling.
Trixie and Honey were regular patrons of Mr. Lytell's country store. The Belden’s Crabapple Farm and the Wheeler's grand Manor House were just up the road from the oldfangled mercantile. The nearest supermarket was in the small town of Sleepyside-on-the-Hudson, about twenty minutes away.
Trixie reached into the hip pocket of her faded dungarees and produced two pairs of her mother’s floral gardening gloves. Handing one pair to Honey and slipping the other on, the worked-up girl grumbled, “That’s because that grouchy old penny-pincher raised his pop prices an additional ten cents ‘for the inconvenience of having to refund the blasted deposits,' and I quote. Mr. Lytell already charges twice as much as the Jiggly Piggly does for a can of soda, Hon. I mean, I know he doesn’t sell the volume they do. So I’d expect to pay a little more. But double? If you ask me, that horrible man should go to prison for price gouging.” Mr. Lytell wasn’t one of Trixie’s favorite people – nor was she one of his.
Miss Wheeler grinned as she wiped away the beads of perspiration dotting her forehead with the light cotton gloves. Normally, the young lady did exceptionally well in the heat. But the girls were overdressed for the weather. Each wore jeans, long-sleeved tops, and tall riding boots for protection. The gully was filled with prickly raspberry canes, which provided excellent hiding places for venomous cotton heads, deadly black widows, and other assorted creepy-crawlies. Collecting cans was dangerous work.
As Trixie barged fearlessly down the embankment, Honey more cautiously trailed behind. Miss Wheeler was deathly afraid of spiders – almost to the point of fainting at the mere sight of one. But as her very convincing friend had pointed out when she’d invited Honey to join her on the dubious expedition, the only way to overcome one’s fears was to face them head-on. So, face them Honey did.
“Mr. Lytell isn’t the only one who ought to go to prison,” Honey said, surveying the unsightly scattering of trash around her. "I thought the Returnable Beverage Container Act was supposed to encourage recycling and reduce litter, Trixie. If you ask me, the state would have been better off bringing back that cute little owl who used to remind people not to pollute. I wonder whatever became of him?”
“The little fellow likely got tired of hooting to deaf ears,” Trixie returned, lobbing an empty can into the wagon, bringing a clink.
Honey, taking an equally successful shot from the girls’ weedy free-throw line, was forced to agree. Not only was the ditch filled with discarded beverage containers, but also with empty fast -food boxes, soiled disposable diapers, and other disgusting trash. Worse, the horrendous odor of the waste was drawing swarms of buzzing insects. “I’m going to propose at our next meeting that the Bob-White’s adopt this section of highway,” she said, gingerly reaching for another can. “The Adopt-a Highway program enlists volunteer groups like ours to collect litter twice a month from roads like this one, Trixie. It’d be a two-year commitment, but we’d get our club name on a reflective road sign. That wouldn’t be boasting, would it?”
Trixie and Honey belonged to a semi-secret club named The Bob-Whites of the Glen. The tightly-knit group of boys and girls spent much of their free time working on worthwhile projects – but per club rules, the teenagers didn’t flaunt their good deeds. Honey’s older brother Jim had formed the group. Its members included not only the girls and Jim, but also Trixie’s older brothers Brian and Mart, as well as young people’s friends and neighbors Dan Mangan and Diana Lynch.
“Gleeps, I don’t know, Hon,” Trixie replied. "We’ll have to run it past Jim. But I’m thinking the sign just might inspire others to join the clean-up program –that, or make them think twice before tossing their garbage out their car windows.” Trixie and Jim were co-presidents of the B.W.G.s.
Honey toed a red soda can, and once she was confident nothing was lurking beneath it, scooped up the container and poured out the remains of the brown liquid inside. Whoever had discarded the drink hadn’t even finished it. It was a criminal indeed – especially given Honey’s growing thirst.
“I hate to say it, Trixie, but I’d pay just about anything for an icy beverage right about now,” the young lady sighed. “We’ll have to pick up a couple of drinks when we turn in these empties to Mr. Lytell. I’m feeling terribly parched.”
“I’m thirsty too,” Miss Belden admitted, zeroing in on the remnants of a case of beer. “Does Mr. Lytell carry Mountain Lite, Honey?” The shopkeeper accepted only clean, like-new beverage containers, and they had to be of a brand he sold.
Honey paused from her scavenging to swat away a pesky deerfly. "I don’t know,” she said, “but we’ll take the cans with us, and if he doesn’t, I’ll put them in the recycle bin at home. We shouldn’t just leave them here, Trixie.”
Miss Belden concurred and giggled. “If Miss Trask asks where they came from? We’ll tell her the boys had a little party,” she replied impishly. Miss Trask, Honey’s former governess, ran Manor House with the help of the Wheelers' groom Bill Regan. Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler were frequently out of town on business or holiday. Miss Trask and Regan were Honey and Jim’s surrogate parents. All of the Bob-Whites adored the endearing pair of grownups.
“Oh, Trixie, you’re just terrible,” Honey said, giving her friend a playful shove. "Miss Trask knows the boys would never drink. Why she’d never ever believe it a hundred years.”
“Oh, I know,” Trixie giggled, gathering the stinky remains and carrying them up to the wagon. “Still, it'd be fun to see the look on her face, Hon."
“I guess it would,” Honey admitted with a little laugh. “So, how many cans do we have, Trixie?” she asked, heaving yet another can her friend’s way.
The girls were rapidly filling the Radio Flyer, and its valuable cargo had Trixie smiling. "About twenty if you don’t count the beer cans, Honey. The way I figure it, we’ll need ninety-two. The Lucy Radcliffe book Mrs. Baxter is holding for me only costs $1.75. Still, if we plan to pick up sodas at Mr. Lytell’s, those are going to run us $1.25 apiece, and that’s only if Mr. Lytell hasn’t raised prices again.” Mrs. Baxter owned the used bookstore in town. The Paperback Palace was where the young sleuth bought the majority of her Lucy Radcliffe mystery novels. Trixie was a huge fan of the fictional teen detective and had recently gotten Honey hooked on the series of exciting books.
Honey gave the back of her head a scratch. "Don’t you mean eighty-five cans?” she asked carefully. Her friend had a reputation for being dreadful at math.
“No, I mean ninety-two,” Trixie insisted. "I’m figuring in the seven containers will need for sales tax, plus and minus the two-can deposit on the drinks we buy, assuming we finish our sodas at the store, and turn the empties right back in, Hon.”
Honey grinned and joined Miss Belden at the wagon. Maybe her partner wasn’t so bad with numbers after all. “I tell you what, Trixie. Since the drinks were my idea, how about you let me pay for them? I’m not sure I'm up to collecting ninety aluminum cans with the insects biting the way they are. I should have sprayed down with bug spray before we left home.” Honey had an open tab at the country store. Her family was rolling in dough.
Trixie’s family wasn’t nearly so wealthy – at least monetarily. Her father was a banker, and her mother was, well, Moms -the most loving stay-at-home mother in the whole wide world! Trixie wouldn’t have traded her happy life for all the tea in China.
But the curly-haired girl was frequently low on cash. Her five-dollar-a-week allowance, for doing chores around the house, as well as for babysitting her six-year-old brother, went to pay her Bob-White dues. That didn’t leave money for luxuries such as Lucy Radcliffe Mysteries -ergo – the reason behind the girls’ beverage container excursion.
“Gleeps, Hon, that’s mighty swell of you,” Trixie declared, taking the generous girl up on her offer. “Mr. Lytell’s going to thank you, too. I don’t think he would have been too happy sorting and shelling out clams for close to a hundred cans. Thirty–eight is going to be bad enough. I imagine he’s going to have a lot to say about it - and none of it good.”
Forty-five minutes later, Miss Belden’s grim prediction was about to come true.
As the girls pulled the squeaking wagon up the shady walkway leading to the country store, Mr. Lytell stepped from the shop’s front door onto the covered porch to see what was making all the racket. The pinched look on the shopkeeper’s pasty face had Trixie wondering if the collar of his starched white shirt might be too snug. That, or he’d tied his polka-dot bow tie too tightly.
“Good morning, Mr. Lytell!" Miss Belden chimed, giving the man a wave. "Hot one, isn’t it?”
Mr. Lytell didn’t return the friendly greeting. Instead, he removed his pocket watch from the niche of his bibbed apron and checked the time. It was a quarter after twelve - twelve seventeen to be more precise- and the aggravated gentleman scoffed. “It’s a bit late to be wishing me good morning, Miss Belden,” he returned dryly.
As Trixie rolled her eyes, mumbling something about it being too late to wish Mr. Lytell a good anything, Honey gave her friend a sharp elbow to the ribs. Mr. Lytell was in an extraordinarily sour mood. If Trixie wasn’t careful, the gentleman would turn the teenagers away.
Heeding Honey’s warning, Miss Belden put on her best smile. “I’ve got some returns for you, Mr. Lytell," Trixie said cheerfully, parking the wagon at the base of the steps. "Would you like to count them here? Or would you like me to wheel the cartful around back so you can do it there?”
Mr. Lytell folded his arms and glared down at the hopeful young lady. “I’d prefer you steer a course for the Jiggly Piggly and let them contend with the bloody mess,” he said. "I don’t have time to deal with you or your rubbish, right now, Miss Belden. Time is money, I’m not made of either, you know.”
Oh, Trixie knew alright. But she didn’t budge. There was a principle involved. “But Mr. Lytell, the parking lot’s absolutely empty!” the stubborn girl argued. “I find it hard to believe that the store is filled with customers. Besides, the returns only add up to two dollars and sixty cents – and that’s if you include the twelve beer cans. You do sell Mountain Lite, don’t you?” she asked, spying a tin advertisement for the alcoholic beverage, nailed to the side of the clapboard store.
“Mountain Lite!” Mr. Lytell exclaimed. “What are you doing with Mountain Lite cans, Miss Belden? Your parents don’t drink alcoholic beverages?”
Trixie grumbled and cast the surly shopkeeper the evil eye. “The boys had a little party at the clubhouse,” she returned contritely. The B.W.G.’s clubhouse had once been Manor House’s gate house. The teens held most of their meetings there.
As Mr. Lytell’s eyes popped beneath his heavy round glasses, Honey emitted a squeak of amusement. If Mr. Lytell had been wearing a pointed green hat, he would have looked like Hootie-Don’t- Pollutie owl. “Relax, Mr. Lytell. Trixie’s just pulling your leg,” she said. "We picked the beer cans, as well as the other empties, out of the ditch between here and the reservoir. It’s shameful the way people discard them.”
Mr. Lytell most definitely concurred. “Indeed it is, Miss Wheeler,” he said. "It brings our property values down, it does. You say you’ve been cleaning up that section of road?” Mr. Lytell’s home was out that way.
Trixie nodded, her blond curls bouncing. “That’s right, Mr. Lytell," she said. "The Bob-Whites are considering adopting that stretch highway. I was going to make a motion that the state put ‘Friends of Lytell’s Mercantile’ on the road sign they erect – you know, because the B.W.G.s don’t like to brag or anything. I thought having the store’s name on the sign might bring you some business. But we could just as easily ask them to put ‘Friends of the Jiggly Piggly' on it,” she added with a sigh, picking up the handle of the flyer, preparing to depart.
Honey smirked as the shopkeeper bustled down the steps.
“Well now, no need for you to go all town, Miss Belden….” Mr. Lytell declared, in the pleasantest of manners.
“I sure do hope the boys and Di are prepared to pick up trash,” Honey said with a giggle as the girls started down Glen Road for home. "You practically promised Mr. Lytell he’d get that adopt-a-highway sign, Trixie. It was brilliant of you to suggest that the B.W.G.s put his store’s name on the marker."
Trixie took a sip of her grape fizz and laughed as the carbonated beverage tickled her nose. Mr. Lytell had taken back every last can, and had even given the young ladies free soft drinks. “I thought the idea was rather brilliant, myself,” she replied, patting herself on the back.
Honey sobered, shooing away the irksome deerfly that had been following her. “I just wish you hadn’t told Mr. Lytell that the boys had been partying at the clubhouse,” she confessed. “That man’s a notorious gossip, and a number of our friends’ parents frequent his store, Trixie. Miss Trask may know that our brothers and Dan would never drink, but that doesn’t mean others do. Our friend’s parents may not want their sons and daughters associating with us if word gets around that the boys have been guzzling beer.”
Trixie finished her drink and tossed the can into the wagon. The girls would return the empties on Sunday when they swung by the store for the newspaper while out exercising the horses for Regan. As the beverages had been on the house, Trixie didn’t expect Mr. Lytell would refund the two deposits.
“Ah, Hon, you worry too much,” Trixie said. "You told Mr. Lytell I was only joshing. If you ask me, the whole thing was pretty funny.”
“Yes, well, I don’t think Jim would have found the remark very comical, Trixie,” Honey replied. "Or your brothers and Dan, for that matter.”
Miss Belden drew to a halt, her sunbaked face losing all color. Trixie really didn’t give a flying fig what her gooney brothers thought of the remark. But Jim? That was another matter altogether. “Gleeps, Hon, you don’t plan to tell Jim what I said –do you?!” she gasped. Trixie fingered the silver ID bracelet circling her wrist. Honey’s adopted brother had given Trixie the trinket. If the young man learned of her gaffe? He might not want her to be his “best girl” anymore.
And the horrified young lady certainly didn’t want that.
As far as Trixie was concerned, James Winthrop Frayne was the most wonderful boy in the whole wide world. Jim was an excellent horseman, knew his way around the woods, and had even skipped a grade in school. But the handsome red-head was also quite human and had his flaws. Jim had a hot temper and could be overly conscientious at times.
But Honey put her fretting friend’s mind at rest. “No, I don’t plan to mention the remark to Jim – although I probably should, before someone else does,” she sighed. “You really should learn to think before speaking, Trixie,” Honey added.
“I know, I know,” Trixie moaned, regretting her actions. This wasn’t the first time the sassy girl had run off at the mouth – and sadly, it was likely to be the last.
“The fella’s and I will be back to pick you up in about fifteen minutes,” Trixie’s oldest brother Brian warned, pulling the Jalopy to a stop in front of the Paperback Palace later that afternoon. The second-hand bookstore sat at the end of Main Street where rents were more affordable. Mrs. Baxter and her orange Persian cat Pumpkin lived above the shop.
“I want you girls waiting on the curb when we get here,” Brian went on, running his fingers through his wavy brown hair. “Circling the block wastes gas and I’m tight on cash right now. A fill up definitely isn’t in the budget.” The normally easy-going young man was feeling the strain. The Jalopy, his sputtering old clunker, wasn’t exactly fuel efficient, and to make matters worse, the needle on its temperature gauge had been creeping up. The “fellas”, which included Jim and Trixie’s near-twin Mart, were headed to Ansley’s Automotive to pick up a new thermostat for the cantankerous beast. Brian, who was an excellent mechanic, suspected the one under the hood was going bad, which had the vehicle overheating as of late. The girls had hitched a ride to the town with the young men.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be waiting, and we can chip in on gas, too,” Trixie said as she and Honey crawled out of the car. “Honey and I have seventy-two extra cents from collecting cans if you’d like it, Brian?”
Mart let out a whoop from the rear seat. “Seventy-two cents?” he cried. “That might get us as far as the next stop sign, but most certainly not home, Miss Moneybags.”
“Hey, I’ll take whatever I can get,” Brian chuckled as Trixie shot a glare at Mart and fished the change from her dungaree pocket.
“By the way, I really like your girls’ idea of the Bob-Whites adopting that stretch of Glen Road out by the reservoir,” Brian added, giving Honey a warm smile. The young ladies had run the proposal past the young men on the way into Sleepyside.
As the pretty girl blushed, Trixie handed her brother the nickels and dimes, and Jim gave his special girl a wink. Mr. Frayne was keen on the idea too, but this wasn't the time or place to discuss it.
"I think we better get going, Brian," Jim said. "If I'm not mistaken, that sugary smell coming in through the window is antifreeze burning."
Taking a whiff, Brian let out a groan and then, reminding the girls again not to be late, pulled the Jalopy away from the curb as they waved goodbye.
As Trixie and Honey headed for the bookstore, Miss Belden carefully sidestepped the cracks in the sidewalk mindful not to "break her mother's back". The silly girl was in a happy, light-hearted mood. The only thing better than being foot loose and fancy free on summer break was having a new Lucy Radcliffe novel to immerse herself in. Why, it was almost as good as having her own mystery to solve.
"Boy, oh boy, I can't believe Mrs. Baxter actually managed to find a copy of The Mystery of the Unwrapped Mummy for me!" Trixie exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. "I've simply been dying to read it, Hon. Why, just the title alone is enough to give a person shivers! Would you like to borrow the book once I'm finished?"
"Do you even need to ask?" Honey replied, equally excited. "I think I'm even a bigger fan of Lucy Radcliffe than you are, Trixie!"
As the girls neared the shop’s entrance, playfully squabbling over who liked Lucy more, Pumpkin, who’d been sunning in the front window, stood and rubbed against the glass.
Unable to resist the long-haired showoff, Trixie was pretending to tickle the friendly feline under his chin when her eye caught sight of a brightly colored flyer taped to the inside of the pane.
“Gleeps, Hon, get a load of this!” the excited girl cried, unable to believe her eyes. “The North American Friends of Lucy Radcliffe are holding a convention in Manitou Springs, Colorado, July 23rd through the 26th. It says here, guests will blaze the same trail Lucy and Charlie did in The Case of the Whispering Waterfall. The registration fee includes a three-night stay at the haunted Mansford Hotel, as well as meals, transportation, and admission to all the major attractions such as Seven Falls, Garden of the Gods, and Pikes Peak! Not only that, there will be games with prizes, a spooky ghost hunt, a costume contest, and each registered guest receives an exclusive Lucy Radcliffe T-shirt and book bag!”
Honey clapped her hands to her mouth, and then twirled on her tiptoes. “Oh, Trixie, we simply must go!” the giddy girl cried. “I’ve been dying to visit the top of Pike’s Peak ever since reading The Case of the Whispering Waterfall. Why, that’s where Glen told Lucy that the only thing bluer than the sky was the color of her eyes,” she added dreamily. “Does the flyer say how much it costs to attend the event?”
Trixie let out a yelp as she scanned the fine print at the bottom of the page. “Holy Mackerel Honey! According to this, the registration fee is five hundred and seventy-five dollars per person - and that doesn’t include transportation to the convention or souvenirs. Why, we’ll never ever be able to collect enough cans by the end of the week to go. The deadline to sign up is this Friday.”
Miss Wheeler giggled. "We'll never be able to collect that many cans, never ever, period," she teased. "Not even out by Porcupine Reservoir. But chin up, Trixie! I'm sure Daddy will be more than glad to foot the bill. Mother spends more than that on new clothes each week, and my father was just saying this very morning that we have to start using the jet more often, or it won't be worthwhile owning it. You wouldn't want Daddy to have to sell his private jet, would you?" she added, giving her gloomy friend a playful poke.
“That would be awful…” Trixie agreed, gazing longingly at the flyer. “Only Moms will never go for it, Honey. You know how much she hates that your parents and the Lynches are always picking up the tab for my brothers and me. Moms insists there will be no more trips unless we Beldens can pay our own way.” The Lynches were almost as wealthy as the Wheelers.
As Trixie sullenly gave Pumpkin another imaginary scratch, her equally dismal partner heaved a heavy sigh. The girls just had to attend the fun-filled extravaganza. They just had to.
“Well, what if I ask Miss Trask to call your mother?” Honey ventured, brightening some. “Maybe she can talk her into letting you go? When Miss Trask hears about the convention, I just know she’ll want to attend. Miss Trask was a huge Lucy Radcliffe fan when she was our age, Trixie. She can practically recite the original fifteen books by heart, and was very surprised to learn there are now over one hundred and seventy volumes. Miss Trask wants to read The Mystery of the Abandoned Briefcase when I’m through. People of all ages adore Lucy’s adventures.”
The former governess frequently chaperoned the Bob-Whites’ outings, and Trixie lifted a hopeful eyebrow. But then dropped it just as quickly. “Oh, Honey, it’s no use,” she moaned. “Moms will never let me go. July is the busiest month around the farm, what with the produce from the garden getting ripe, and having to can it, and all. Plus, I have to watch Bobby for Moms, don’t forget.”
Honey hadn’t forgotten, but she wasn’t fazed in the least. She’d made up her mind that the girls were going to that convention in Manitou Springs. Ah, yes, Miss Wheeler could smell the fresh mountain air already. “So what if it is a busy time?" the young lady returned with a shrug. “Let Brian and Mart help your mother in the kitchen and with Bobby, Trixie. You’ll be covering your brothers’ chores when they go off to camp in August to be junior counselors, won’t you?”
“That’s true,” Trixie replied, perking up a little. “And there are two of them and only one of me. Besides, we’d only be gone a few days. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to ask Moms if I can go?”
“Of course it wouldn’t!” Honey insisted, reaching for the door handle. "Now come on, let’s get that book before the boys get back. If we’re not on that curb when they get here? We’ll be walking home.”
Trixie inhaled deeply as she and her gung-ho friend stepped inside the dusky shop. In Miss Belden’s opinion, there was nothing like the smell of old books. Why, the musky perfume simply reeked of romance and adventure.
The store’s interior added to the mystical atmosphere surrounding the young ladies. The Paperback Palace was aptly named. Inside, it truly felt like a palace.
In the days before silent films and the opening of the Cameo Theater, the ornate building had served as Sleepyside’s opera house. Rumor had it, John Wilkes Booth, the man who’d assassinated President Abraham Lincoln, had performed on the very stage where Mrs. Baxter was now sitting behind her computer. Around the stage, the original three tiers of seating had been replaced with bookshelves brimming with scores upon scores of used paperbacks.
“Good Afternoon!” Mrs. Baxter sang out as Pumpkin jumped down from the window and went to greet the young ladies. The silver-haired woman, a former librarian who’d discovered retirement wasn’t “her bag”, was as cheerful as Mr. Lytell had been grumpy. “It’s certainly a warm one, isn’t it?” Mrs. Baxter added, her voice echoing above the noise created by the whirling box fans cooling the cavernous room.
“I’ll say,” Trixie replied as she and Honey strolled up to the card table that Mrs. Baxter was using as a desk. “Brian’s Jalopy almost overheated on the way over, Mrs. Baxter. Honey and I have orders not to dawdle.”
As Pumpkin jumped up on his Mistress's keyboard and began taking a bath, the older woman laughed merrily. “I have your book right here, Trixie,” she said. "It’s a lovely copy from a non-smoking home.”
“Gleeps, that’s swell, Mrs. Baxter,” Trixie returned, digging into her pocket for the last of her can money. "You wouldn’t happen to have any more of those Lucy Radcliffe Convention flyers, would you?”
“If all goes well, Trixie and I are hoping to attend the convention,” Honey said with fingers crossed.
Mrs. Baxter exchanged Lucy Radcliffe and The Mystery of the Unwrapped Mummy for Trixie’s hard-earned dollar eighty-eight. "I’m afraid that’s my only one, but I’d be glad to run off a couple of copies for you if you wouldn’t mind fetching it for me,” she replied.
A short time later, Mrs. Baxter emerged from stage left with copies in hand. "I wish I were able to attend the event," the former librarian remarked, handing each girl a flyer. "One of my online customers, who is a convention coordinator, says Gloria Everlove, the ghostwriter who penned The Case of the Whispering Waterfall under the pseudonym Lucy Radcliffe, will be giving a lecture about the book and signing copies for attendees. I'd enjoy meeting her and getting her signature on a copy for the shop. A signed copy is worth significantly more than an unsigned one." Mrs. Baxter bought and sold books over the internet, as well as in the store.
"Gleeps, Mrs. Baxter, if Honey and I go to the convention, we'd be glad to have Ms. Everlove sign a copy of The Whispering Waterfall for you. Wouldn't we, Hon?" Trixie said.
Honey nodded vigorously. “My yes," she replied. "I'm glad you told us about the book signing, Mrs. Baxter. It's not mentioned in the flyer. I'd love to have Lucy Radcliffe- I mean Ms. Everlove - sign my copy, as well."
After thanking the girls and taking them up on their offer, Mrs. Baxter suggested the young ladies check out the North American Friends of Lucy Radcliffe's homepage online. "The complete convention schedule is listed there," she said. "I hear the coordinators have talked one of the guests into bringing her copy of the unofficial Lucy Radcliffe one hundred and fifty-two to the convention for a read-aloud in the hotel's conference center after hours. If I were you, I wouldn't miss the reading. The unofficial version of the book is very rare and chances are good you'll never get to skim its pages. I saw recently where a copy fetched seven thousand dollars at auction."
Trixie's jaw dropped, and she clutched the back of Mrs. Baxter's chair for support. Honey, noticing, asked if the young lady was feeling alright. Honey was worried that perhaps the heat was getting to her friend.
Only Miss Belden was fine. In fact, she was better than fine. “Five-thousand dollars,” she gasped, her eyes flashing dollar signs for the second time that day. “I have number one hundred and fifty-two, The Case of the Chinese Finger Trap, at home sitting on top of my bookcase, Mrs. Baxter. You wouldn’t be interested in purchasing it, would you?” If the smiling book dealer were to buy the book, Trixie would be able to cover not only her own conference fee, but also the fees for Honey and Miss Trask - and still have money left for postcards and trinkets for her family and friends!
But Mrs. Baxter was about to pop the tingling teen’s bubble.
“I’m sorry, Trixie, but I already have several copies of The Chinese Finger Trap,” she said. “The unofficial book number one hundred and fifty-two is titled Lucy Radcliffe and the Case of the Creaking Coffin.”
Neither Trixie nor Honey had heard of the mysterious printing, and Mrs. Baxter explained that only two hundred and twelve were thought to exist. Apparently, Silver House Publishing had pulled the book from store bookshelves and had the copies destroyed when it was discovered that the author, who claimed to have written the story, had actually stolen it from a fan fiction website.
The publishing company was said to have tracked down the book’s true author. And reportedly paid them six thousand dollars for the rights to the manuscript since a couple hundred of the books had sold. But instead of reissuing the novel, Silver House moved The Case of the Chinese Finger Trap, which was slated to be book number one hundred and fifty-three, into the slot of one hundred and fifty-two.
“I have a customer, ready to buy, should I ever get my hands on one of those sweet little gems," Mrs. Baxter sighed.
Trixie was sorry that she didn’t have a copy to sell the wishful woman. “Are there any other valuable Lucy Radcliffe books?” she asked. “I’ve got a signed copy of number one-seventy if you’d be interested in it, Mrs. Baxter. Honey and I bumped into the author on one of our trips. I'd tell you all about it, but I don’t think we’ve got time,” she added, checking her watch. Brian and the boys were due back any minute.
Mrs. Baxter laughed and shooed Mr. Pumpkin from her keyboard. “I imagine the encounter was quite entertaining,” she said, looking up the book’s current value. “I hear the author’s a real character. But I’m afraid, even with the gentleman’s signature, your paperback is only worth about fifteen dollars, Trixie. Which is very good, don’t get me wrong. And I am interested in it. But as your friend, I suggest you hold onto the book. It will only increase in value.”
Trixie grimaced. It wasn’t the news she wanted to hear. But she wasn’t ready to give up. “Well, what would you give me for a hard copy of number one with a cover on it?” she asked. “I picked one up at a garage sale once for ten cents because I liked the pictures inside. My paperback doesn’t have illustrations, you see. And, well, I guess I really don’t need the hard version– except to keep my desk from wobbling. I put it under one of the legs because the hardwood floor in my bedroom sags. But I’d be more than willing to let it go. The book –not the desk,” she added, with a giggle.
Mrs. Baxter grinned, and went back to typing. “If the book is in good condition, and the dust jacket isn’t too tattered, perhaps we can strike a deal,” she said. “On average, a hard copy of the first novel sells for about twenty-five dollars, Trixie. Of course, in the rare event that you stumbled across a first edition of The Secret of the Grandfather Clock, and the book is like new, it can be worth upwards of two hundred dollars. It was quite a find either way.”
Honey grabbed Trixie’s arm and squeezed it excitedly. Trixie had shown Honey the beautiful illustrations in the book, and the volume was indeed in excellent condition. If luck was on the girls’ side, it might just be her friend’s golden ticket to the big gala in Manitou Springs. Two hundred dollars was a bit shy of five hundred and seventy-five, but it was a start. Collecting seven thousand five hundred cans to make up the difference wasn’t necessarily out of the realm of possibility if the Bob-Whites all pitched in.
Of course, Mr. Lytell was bound to have a heart attack if the teens tried to cash in that many empties. But there was always the Jiggly Piggly to fall back on, and Miss Wheeler gleefully giggled. She was just positive Trixie was in possession of a first edition of Lucy number one.
Only Trixie wasn’t nearly as optimistic as Honey. Miss Belden didn’t want to get her hopes up prematurely only to have them dashed again. “How do I know if the book’s a first edition?” she asked Mrs. Baxter, feeling silly for not knowing.
The knowledgeable dealer went to the nearest shelf and returned with an early copy of Cosmo McNaught and the Atomic Asteroid Adventure. “I suggest you start by checking the copyright page at the front of the book,” she said, opening the thin tome and pointing to the page. “The print date should say, '1930' in Arabic numerals, Trixie. If the year is in Roman numerals, it’s definitely not a first printing. Next, you’ll want to take a look at the dust jacket’s ears for a titles list. The Secret of the Grandfather Clock should be the only book listed in the series. If the dust jacket mentions additional titles, such as number two, The Mystery of the Musty Attic, it’s a reprint.”
Honey removed a small steno pad from her purse and jotted the information down for her friend. “Is there anything else we should look for, Mrs. Baxter?" she asked.
“Actually, yes,” Mrs. Baxter returned. “You’ll want to take a careful peek under the dust jacket at the book’s cover, Honey. It should be solid blue, with no silhouette of Lucy holding a magnifying glass. If your book meets all three of the criteria I mentioned, it’s likely a first edition.”
Trixie was anxious to get home and take a closer look at her copy of the Grandfather Clock. Only Mrs. Baxter wasn’t finished.
“Of course, the book could also be a golden anniversary volume,” she went on, setting the collectible Cosmo McNaught adventure aside. “The special edition is nearly an exact duplicate of number one, except on the copyright page it’ll say, ‘1980 Lucy Radcliff 50th Golden Anniversary Edition’ and the edges of the book’s pages will be gilded. If memory serves me, each copy also came with a gold-metallic certificate of authenticity showing its printing sequence number. A low print of the special edition, in fine shape, can easily bring a thousand dollars or more. It was a limited three thousand run.”
As a dazed look came over Trixie’s face, Honey let out a piercing squeal. Trixie’s copy of The Secret of the Grandfather Clock had shimmery gold edges. It also had a funny metallic bookmark numbered “802 of 3,000”!
“Oh, Trixie, you’ve got copy 802 of The Lucy Radcliff 50th Golden Anniversary Edition right under your very own desk!” Miss Wheeler cried. “You wouldn’t be interested in buying the anniversary book, would you, Mrs. Baxter?” she went on to ask the startled lady. “I mean, if Trixie is still willing to sell it, course.”
“Oh, I’m willing to sell it, alright!” Trixie exclaimed, springing back to life.
Mrs. Baxter would have done cartwheels if she’d been a bit sprier. This time she was the one with dollar signs in her eyes. Sought-after Lucy’s didn’t come on the market very often. “If that book is what you girls think it is, I’ll give you six hundred dollars cash on the spot for it,” the older woman proclaimed. “I know three ladies who are bound to get into a bidding war over that shiny nugget.”
“Only six hundred dollars?!” Trixie gasped, thinking perhaps she’d misheard. "Wait just a minute, Mrs. Baxter. You said the book was worth a thousand dollars. Possibly more?”
“Yes, well, Mr. Pumpkin must eat, mustn’t he?” the savvy businesswoman replied.
Trixie found herself grinning as the orange feline rubbed up against her legs. To be honest, the plump fur-ball looked as if he could stand to skip a few meals. But no matter, Miss Belden laughed, admitting that she wouldn’t want the poor thing starving to death. Besides, the young lady had only paid a dime for the mystery, and six hundred dollars was enough to get Trixie into the convention.
“We have a deal, Miss Baxter,” Trixie said as the Jalopy pulled up out front, tooting its horn. “Honey and I will be back first thing in the morning with the book,” she promised.
As Lucy’s biggest fans dashed for the door crying, “Colorado here we come!” Pumpkin’s mama laughed.
Today had turned out to be everyone’s lucky day, so it would seem.