August, 1963
“Morning, Dad.”
Trixie dropped a kiss on her father’s cheek and took a seat beside him at the breakfast table. He smiled a response, but barely lifted his eyes from his morning paper. Breakfast time at Crabapple Farm tended to be hectic, and Peter was determined to make it all the way to the business section before the end of his first cup of coffee.
“Eat up, Peter, before it gets cold.”
Helen placed a heaped plate of scrambled eggs, fried tomatoes and toast in front of him, done just the way he liked them. He thanked her, meeting her eyes for just a moment, then dug in. He shifted the paper so as to make eating easier, ignoring the discussion between his various offspring about their recent trip to New York City. The less he thought about that near-disaster, the better.
Another mouthful later, he turned the page. Down in one corner was a headline that caught his eye: Crooked Antique Dealer Killed by Spiders. The terse article was hardly longer than its heading. One dark eyebrow rose as he read.
“Something interesting, Dad?” Trixie asked, blue eyes wide with curiosity.
He scanned the page for something, anything, to tell her and seized upon a modest advertisement just next to the article. “I see there’s going to be a symposium on jellyfish migration.”
“They migrate?” she asked, confused, but not all that interested.
“It’s the first I’ve heard of it, too,” he answered, turning the page.
He took another mouthful and shook the paper in a way that he hoped would signal that he did not want to talk. The ploy worked and the rest of the meal passed in relative peace, with Mart taking up the challenge of educating all who would listen on the habits of jellyfish. True to character, Brian defused the situation when Trixie tired of that topic and Bobby began asking questions that showed that he had missed the entire point.
Soon, it was time for him to leave for work. Contrary to habit, he tucked the folded newspaper under his arm, then kissed his wife and left the house. Before backing out of the garage, he opened the paper to the same page and read the article again.
NEW YORK CITY.–Antique dealer Hector Albert Vargas, 53, died yesterday in his shop after being bitten by hundreds of exotic spiders. Mr. Vargas was on bail for his alleged involvement in a recent diamond smuggling case.
“Surely, it must be the same man,” Peter murmured. “It can’t be a coincidence.”
Troubled, he folded the paper and dropped it on the seat beside him. He only hoped that Trixie did not find out about this. That was the last thing he needed.
When he descended to the kitchen a few days later, it was to find his paper had been commandeered by Trixie.
“Dad! You’ll never guess what’s happened!” She waved it at him, front page foremost. “It’s Blinky! I just know it is.”
Mart, beside her, rolled his eyes. “Your intransigent predilection for vaulting to indefensible inferences, Beatrix, will undoubtedly effectuate ill-effects if allowed prevalence.”
“Are you planning to save us from that, Mart?” Brian shook his head. “Because, otherwise, I don’t think you’re helping.”
Peter looked from one to another of his children. Trixie was bouncing with excitement; Mart was pretending disbelief, but underneath he was just as worked up; Brian’s face was pale and his expression grim; little Bobby had tired of his siblings’ antics and was busily eating more than his share of the pancakes, while Helen continued to cook more. He turned to his eldest and asked for a rational explanation.
“You see, Dad, an accused criminal has died in unusual circumstances and Trixie is sure it’s one of the criminals she just helped to catch.” He took the paper from his sister and handed it to its rightful owner. “They mentioned the scar on his face, and the nature of the crime he’s supposed to have committed.” He paused a moment. “They also mentioned that the antiques dealer in the same case died a strange death a few days ago.”
In silence, Peter examined the article, which was far wordier than the previous one. This time, it seemed, one of the conspirators had escaped custody, only to be crushed to death by an enormous stone idol while he hid from authorities inside a South American exhibit in a museum. Worse, it rehearsed the entire other incident, adding the detail that the spiders were believed to have been inside a recent shipment of articles from South America. It ended with speculation on whether the two deaths were coincidental.
“Well, what are you suggesting needs to be done about it?” he asked, after putting it down.
“We need to go back to the City and investigate,” Trixie declared, at once.
“We need to stay right away from there!” Brian countered. “Don’t you understand? There might be someone deliberately killing people connected to this case.”
Trixie waved off this potential danger. “But they wouldn’t know that we’d had anything to do with it. They’re just after the guys who let that fortune get away. So, Dad, can we ride the train to the City tomorrow, please?”
“Most certainly not!” The words burst out of him, but he reined in the ones that wanted to follow, which involved Trixie never leaving the house ever, ever again. “This is a matter for the police.”
To his dismay, his daughter looked only a little disappointed, which signalled that she had not yet given up. He resolved to call Matthew Wheeler and see what could be done by way of a distraction.
The following morning, a Sunday, Peter did not even make it to his paper before the disturbance began. He was on his way to the breakfast table when a loud knock sounded at the front door. With a longing sniff of the delicious aromas coming from the kitchen, he went to answer it.
“Mr. Belden,” Sergeant Molinson greeted. “May I come in? I’d like to speak to you, and Trixie, Brian and Mart.”
Heart sinking, Peter opened the door wide. Across the room, he saw that Helen had overheard and was fetching at least one of the three from the kitchen. While he was showing the sergeant to a seat, the three teens entered, Mart still chewing a mouthful of sausage.
“What is it?” Trixie’s face was eager and her voice high with excitement. “Has something else happened? Pedro? Big Tony?”
“Sit down, please, Miss Belden.”
Peter saw a look of annoyance cross her young face, but her curiosity overrode it and she complied with the direction. Mart and Brian sat down next to her on the sofa, opposite the police officer. Peter took the other arm chair.
“I take it you saw yesterday’s paper,” Molinson began.
Trixie nodded. “We sure did. I just knew it was Blinky they were talking about. I was right, wasn’t I?”
“You were. Unfortunately, there was something that the paper didn’t say. The other two members of the gang got away in the same break-out.” He paused, looking at each of them. “They’re still at large.”
“Do they have any way of knowing where we are?” Peter asked, his pulse racing. “Are the kids in danger?”
The policeman hesitated. “I don’t think you’re in danger from the escapees. But there is another matter that I’ve been asked to speak to you about.”
“What is it?” Trixie bounced in her seat. “Is there something we can help with?”
Molinson scowled. “No. You will not be helping with anything. You will be keeping a low profile until such time as these people are caught, or as the so-called curse takes its toll.”
Her eyes widened. “Curse?”
He nodded. “The delegation from Lima have discovered that one of the idols was an ancient relic. The others were copied from it. According to the Peruvians, your idol was the real one and it had a curse on it. I can hardly believe I’m saying this, but we have already traced five people who handled that object and have died suddenly in the last two weeks. So, either there’s something to this story – which I don’t believe for a minute – or someone is taking advantage of the story to cover up a whole lot of murders.”
“It can’t be a coincidence?” Brian asked, a serious look on his face.
The sergeant shook his head. “I don’t believe in this kind of coincidence. You know about the man bitten by spiders and the one crushed by the stone idol. We also know of a gang member who choked to death on coffee beans, a police officer who handled it after the capture and who was attacked and killed by a jaguar, and a cleaner who tried to steal it from the police station and who later was found strangled with some kind of Amazonian vine.”
“So we’d better beware of piranha-infested waters,” Mart quipped. “And maybe stay away from chocolate for a while.”
“I see you’ve noticed the South American theme,” Molinson answered. “You all handled the thing. I suggest that you be very careful where you go and what you do until this is all sorted out. Someone isn’t happy about that idol. You don’t know whether they know about you or not, so I’d suggest that you play it safe.”
“Thank you for coming and telling us about it, Sergeant,” Peter answered. “You can be sure that Helen and I will do all we can to keep these three out of trouble.”
The man nodded and arose. “I’ll be in touch if there are any further developments.”
“A real, live curse!” Trixie crowed, just as the door closed behind the policeman. “I’ve got to call Honey and tell her.”
“A real, dead curse, more like it,” Mart corrected, white in the face. “Five people, already. You don’t suppose the Bob-Whites will be cursed, too, do you?”
“Of course not.” Brian’s expression was sceptical. “You heard Sergeant Molinson. Someone is taking advantage of the curse to try to cover up revenge killings.”
“Yes, but where did they even get a jaguar?” Trixie demanded, tapping her foot. “Hmm?”
Peter raised a weary hand. “Perhaps it would be better to finish your breakfast, rather than stand here and argue about it. We will all be staying nice and close to home until the criminals are safely behind bars, understand?”
“Sustenance? A commendable recommendation, if I do say so myself.” Mart started for the kitchen, his siblings trailing behind him, still talking about jaguars.
When they were gone, Peter sank back into his armchair and put his head in his hands.
Minutes later, while he was finally eating his delayed breakfast, the telephone rang. Helen answered it and handed it over to Trixie. The call was evidently from Honey and, from Trixie’s end of the conversation, it was clear that Molinson had visited Manor House next. It was also obvious that the two girls were conspiring on how to investigate.
Peter was on the verge of going over and snatching the receiver from his daughter, to tell young Miss Wheeler that she could get that idea out of her head because Trixie was grounded for the next fifteen years, when he felt Helen’s hand on his.
“Leave her,” she whispered. “There’s no harm in their talking about it.”
“But, Helen,” he answered, in an equally low voice. “They’re going to get into some kind of trouble. We have to stop this!”
She squeezed his hand and he felt comforted. “Leave it to me. I already have a plan.”
True to her word, Helen had soon sorted out the teenagers. Before an hour had passed, all of the Bob-Whites were safely occupied and under supervision either at the farm or Manor House, with plans for a cook-out at Crabapple Farm that evening. The Wheelers had insisted that Miss Trask help with keeping an eye on the seven and that she should escort them wherever they wanted to go. Implicit in that arrangement was the idea that she would prevent them from straying outside the bounds their parents set for them.
They got through the day with a minimum of grumbling. The teens were happy to spend time together, but would have preferred the lake over either of the houses. Madeleine Wheeler had been adamant that it was too dangerous under the circumstances, however, and the other parents respected her opinion.
The cook-out was a great idea, though, and Peter was just beginning to relax, his belly full of good food and the teenagers seeming happy to laugh and talk on the patio, when the wretched telephone started ringing again. Unable to just leave it for someone else, he went to see what was the matter.
“Mr. Belden? It’s Sergeant Molinson,” the caller explained.
Peter closed his eyes and silently sighed. “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”
“I’m calling to let you know that another death has been reported. A man called Anthony Alvarez. According to the detective from the City, he was known as Big Tony.”
“How did he die?” Peter asked. Too late, he noticed that Trixie was in the doorway behind him, listening.
“It’s rather gruesome, actually. He was impaled on a flagpole that was flying a Peruvian flag.”
“A flagpole? How does that even work?” He could not help the interjection, in spite of his wish to keep Trixie out of this. “I can’t imagine how that’s possible.”
The officer cleared his throat. “I understand that he fell from a great height.”
“Yes, but how did they make him land in the right place?” Peter persisted. “It’s incredible.”
“I am unable to answer that question at this time.”
“Sorry. And thanks for letting us know. Is there anything extra we should be doing?”
“You’re keeping a close eye on those teenagers?”
“Of course. We’ve got them all here, now, with extra adults to make sure they don’t stray.”
“Good. Now, don’t be alarmed, but we’ve stationed a man on Glen Road for the time being, just in case. We’re expecting that they’ll go for the last conspirator left at our end of the smuggling business first, and that we can catch them at that before they might start looking for you.”
“I hope so, too.” He shut his eyes again. “Thanks for your call, Sergeant.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
He put down the receiver and turned to see his daughter, curls almost quivering with curiosity and a question already on her lips. He held up a hand.
“Yes, that was Sergeant Molinson. Yes, you deduced correctly and another of the conspirators has died. He fell a long way and landed on a flagpole.”
“Who?” she demanded. “Was it Pedro, or Big Tony?”
“It was Big Tony.”
She nodded, and then her eyes narrowed. “Was there a flag on the flagpole?”
For a moment, he did not want to answer, but at last he nodded. “Peru’s.”
“It all fits,” she murmured, turning away. “Thanks, Dad. Gotta go.”
He let out a groan once she was gone. If he knew his little girl, everyone present would know all about it within a minute.
Going to work in the morning was one of the hardest things that Peter had ever had to do. He longed to stay home and keep a careful eye on his mischievous daughter, to make sure that she stayed where she was supposed to be, but bills do not pay themselves and good jobs are hard to come by. So, he entrusted the task to Helen, and also to Margery Trask, Bill Regan and Tom Delanoy – all of whom had been drafted by Matthew Wheeler – and went off to do what had to be done.
The whole day, he was plagued by odd visions of what might be happening at home and he was beyond relieved when the day passed without him making any terrible mistakes. He drove straight home, intent on taking up his vigil once more.
As he neared home, however, he felt a jolt of fear to see two police cars parked outside. Certain that the game preserve had mysteriously been infested with anacondas, he took the driveway a little faster than usual, left the car at the closest point to the door rather than inside the garage, and practically ran to the house.
“What’s going on?” he demanded of the first person he found, who happened to be Bobby.
The little boy shrugged. “Dunno. Boring stuff.”
Leaving his son behind, Peter strode into the living room, where he found Sergeant Molinson and another man talking with Helen and the seven teenagers.
“What’s happened?” he asked, again.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Belden,” Molinson greeted. “This is Mr. Garcia, of the South American delegation. Your wife has given permission for some officers to make a check of the property, just to assure ourselves that none of the smugglers have been here.”
“Yes, of course.” Peter dismissed that matter as unimportant. “But has something else happened?”
“The last of the conspirators has died, yes.” Mr. Garcia spoke excellent English, with barely an accent. “He and another man – from the Peruvian end of the operation and recently arrived in this country – died together a few hours ago. We would have arrested the second man for the murders, but in his eagerness to finish off the one called Pedro, he overstepped the mark and became his own victim.”
“You haven’t told us how they died,” Trixie pointed out.
Garcia bowed his head. “I have not. I did not know that you were so interested.”
Molinson grumbled something under his breath.
“Please, tell us,” Trixie urged.
“It was a very strange death. I do not know what the newspapers will say about it.” Mr. Garcia glanced around at his audience. “They succumbed, it seems, to a poisoned soccer ball.”
“Poisoned with what?” Brian wondered.
“Let me guess!” Mart put in. “Was it from a poison arrow frog?”
Mr. Garcia shrugged. “We do not yet know. But more likely, if it truly did come from the Amazon, and we think that it did, the poison was curare. It is easier to handle than the frogs, after all.”
Trixie frowned. “But how does poisoning a soccer ball kill someone?”
“It was equipped with small spikes,” he explained, “disguised in the seams. We think they were going to play – but instead, both died. The man must have forgotten which side had them and pricked his own skin, as well as his victim’s. It was clear that he had poisoned the ball himself; we found all of the equipment in his room.”
“Or maybe there really is a curse,” Trixie answered, wide-eyed. “And we all touched that idol, too.”
“Ah, but did you?” Mr. Garcia asked. “As it happens, no. You were told that a man tried to steal one of the idols? It so happens that he disturbed some of the labels. Our experts have checked and the original idol was not the one that you had. Yours was only a copy, made specially to hold a gem. So, even if there was such a thing as a curse, you are safe. And now that all of the criminals are accounted for, you are safe from them, too.”
Trixie gave him one of her bright, sunny smiles. “Great! Thank you so much for coming to see us, Mr. Garcia. It’s been really interesting to talk to you.”
Peter met Sergeant Molinson’s eye and felt a surge of understanding between them. This particular problem was solved, but the next one was surely just around the corner. With Trixie, that was a certainty.
Author’s notes: A big thank you to Vivian, who kindly offered to edit. Your help is very much appreciated!
The term poison arrow frog, used by Mart, is no longer in use. It is now called either a poison dart frog, a dart-poison frog, or just a poison frog. As mentioned in the story, it seems curare was more commonly used for that purpose anyway.
This story was written for CWE number 12: Die, Villain, Die! To meet the requirements of this challenge, I only needed to kill off one villain. I might have gotten a little carried away. The villains in question come from book 12, The Mystery of the Blinking Eye. The time setting of the story matches the original year of publication. Thanks to the CWE team for issuing the challenge. It was lots of fun!
Please note: Trixie Belden is a registered trademark of Random House Publishing. This site is in no way associated with Random House and no profit is being made from these pages.
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