Chapter 11:

Is He Dead?

"Just because he can whip up a tasty plate of scrambled eggs doesn't mean Mr. Handleman doesn't have some gall!" Trixie spouted, climbing out of the station wagon, back at the Jones farm. "Imagine, still maintaining we were the ones playing jokes last night. Only we weren't making things up. If I recall, it was he and his cronies who were spinning the yarns."

Honey pulled up the hood of her jacket and slipped out of the car after Trixie. "Oh, Trixie, why don't you give it a rest," she snapped. "Let's be real. Maybe Mr. Handleman didn't see any of the things we did. It's possible, you know. He certainly didn't seem to be joshing about it this morning."

It was another chilly, drizzly day, and the B.W.G.s' moods reflected the oppressive gloom which hung in the air about them like a dark cloud.

Shutting the car door behind the two girls with an irritated slam, Jim announced, "Only one way to find out. Follow me."

Drawing to a stop under the second-story window to Jim's mother's room, the five teens were stunned to find the walkway had been swept clean.

"No wonder Mr. Handleman thought we were joking," Dan declared with disbelief. "Whoever tossed that stuff out the window must have cleaned up before he and his friends got here. I know we didn't imagine things."

Honey bent down and pulled a shiny piece of metal out of the grass. "We weren't imaging things," she informed her friend. She displayed the small object in her open palm. It was the clock's minute hand.

Brian scratched his head. "I just don't get it?" he admitted. Why would some lousy bum go to all the trouble of picking up after himself?"

Trixie got down on her hands and knees to look for additional clues. "Maybe he didn't," she said. "Perhaps Mr. Handleman did. You know, as part of his 'prank.' Why I wouldn't be surprised if he somehow orchestrated the entire episode. He knows all about Jim and Jonesy's past."

"You don't honestly believe it was all an elaborate joke on Mr. Handleman's part?" Honey asked wide-eyed.

"Oh, Trixie," Jim exclaimed, thoroughly exasperated. "That is one of the most outlandish theories you've ever come up with. Mr. Handleman would never do anything like that!"

Dan chuckled. "The next thing you know, she'll be telling us that Dale Dart, the reporter in the red truck, was his accomplice," he kidded.

Trixie raised her eyebrows. It was an interesting theory, and she'd have to think more about it. Her gut did tell her the reporter was somehow involved. And as much as she wanted to give Mr. Handleman the benefit of the doubt for Jim's sake, she decided against it for now. Sometimes, she was realizing, Jim was just too trusting. Getting to her feet, Trixie wiped her muddy palms on the seat of her jeans. It wasn't very lady-like, but she didn't care since Mart wasn't there to point it out. Trixie had come up empty-handed.

"Well, I think we can assume the mirror's wiped clean, too," she announced, brushing a damp lock of hair out of her eyes. "But let's check it out anyway."


In Jim's mother's room, the large vanity mirror sparkled, confirming Trixie's suspicions. All traces of the lipstick were gone.

"At least it's one less thing we'll have to clean," Honey giggled, trying to make light of the situation. "Speaking of which, shouldn't we be getting busy? We've got nothing more to go on here."

Grumpily, everyone agreed, so Jim set to work assigning them various tasks. To Trixie's dismay, he decided to put the jobs needing water on hold. Not that Trixie really relished the idea of scrubbing out the deep sink in the laundry room or washing down the walls in the kitchen, but she was itching for a reason to snoop around down at the creek where Jim believed the loud boom had come from.

But as luck would have it, her male friend thought their time would be better spent sorting out and boxing up the items going to auction and charity. So after carefully pointing out the things he planned to take back to Sleepyside, Jim waved the Bob-Whites off to work, reminding them, they could help themselves to whatever they wished.

Trixie seriously doubted she'd find anything to take home. She certainly didn't want the vase shaped like a Siamese cat, which sat on the vanity opposite the beds. Its green rhinestone eyes had an evil gleam that gave her the heebeegeebees. "Too bad someone didn't throw you out the window instead of the clock," she mused, stuffing it in a box.

Mulling this over further, Trixie went the window and looked down, hoping to see something she'd missed before. Instead, she saw someone coming up the walk.

"Miss Trask's back," called out, heading for the stairs. "Remember what we all agreed. Mum's the word about last night."

Brian shook his head. "I don't recall agreeing to that at all," he whispered to Jim as they followed his sister down the steps. "We're planning to tell Miss Trask the whole story, correct?"

"Yep," Jim replied seriously. "And the sooner we get it over with, the better. At least we don't have to make a trip into the Sheriff's office this morning."

Miss Trask was sliding her umbrella into the stand by the door as the Bob-Whites assembled to greet her. The ordinarily cheerful woman did not look happy at all. In fact, to the young people's alarm, she appeared unusually annoyed.

"Good morning," she said coolly, confirming their suspicions. "I hear you had a rather long evening. I do hope the excitement has settled down a bit?"

Her final sentence was more of a statement than it was a question, and she paused just long enough to remove her goulashes, before taking a headcount. To the governess's relief, the teenagers were all accounted for, and other than appearing a bit tired, none looked too worse for wear.

Trixie cringed. "Did Mr. Handleman phone you?" she asked.

"He did not," Miss Trask replied. "It seems he didn't wish to alarm me. No, I called him after overhearing two ladies discussing your adventures with Jonesy's ghost, at breakfast this morning. You can imagine my distress. The entire diner was a buzz." She handed Jim a folded copy of the Cloverton Chronicles. "See Page 2," she instructed him sternly. "At least this time, the Bob-Whites didn't make headlines ."

It was Jim's turn to wince. "How on earth did this get out so quickly?" he whistled, passing around the paper so his friends could see.

Brain read the article aloud.

" Fools or Ghouls?

Early this morning, April tomfoolery came knocking on the door of local resident George Handleman. Five teens, aging between fourteen and seventeen, arrived on his doorstep at around 1:45 am requesting a safe haven for the night. According to the teens, the ghost of deceased resident Jeremiah Jones has returned to his family farm seeking revenge on all who dare trespass.

Jones, the Gazette has learned, perished three weeks ago during a prison uprising.

Among the teens reporting the incident, was Mr. Jones's stepson, James Winthrop Frane II, who is currently residing in the home.

Young Mr. Frane alleges Jones's spirit drove the young people from the property after tossing items from a second-story window and leaving a warning in blood on one of the upstairs mirrors.

Sheriff Frank Baker, who was visiting Mr. Handleman at the time of the incident, investigated their claims but found no evidence of a haunting. He maintains this was all an elaborate hoax concocted by the teens for April Fool's Day.

Our sources also tell us that the Jones homestead will be going up for sale next week. Please contact Up Country Realty if you are interested in viewing the property.'"

"It doesn't give the author's pen name," Brian finished glumly.

Dan let out a snicker, which brought a look of displeasure from Miss Trask.

"Can't knock a little free advertisement," he said defensively. "I bet people will pour in for the open house."

"I'm sure they will." Miss Trask scolded the young man. "But most will be looking for ghosts, not looking to buy. There is nothing funny about this prank at all."

"But it wasn't a prank!" Honey pleaded with her governess. "Honest, Miss Trask. We'd never make something like this up."

Miss Trask frowned. "I'm disappointed in you children," she went on. "I thought you were all adults. I've heard all I want to hear. What's done is done."

But the teenagers weren't ready to let it go. They hadn't been playing games. Surely Miss Trask would come around if they were able to explain? Only no matter what the Bob-Whites said, the irritated governess refused to listen. It only served to make her angrier.

As tears of frustration welled up in Honey's hazel eyes, Trixie could sense the steam building behind Jim's ears. Why even level-headed Brian was beginning to look frayed around the edges. She had to do something and do it quickly.

Impulsively, she stepped forward and confessed. "This is all my doing, Miss Trask," she said. "Last night, when I got up to get a glass of milk, I bumped into the table and knocked the clock out the window. I didn't want Jim getting mad at me, so I made up the ghost story. Only things got out of hand. You can't blame the others. Please don't be upset with them. I'll apologize to Mr. Handleman. Honest, I will. And I promise I won't do anything like this again."

As a hush fell over the room, Trixie could sense a pair of eyes boring into her back. Taking a deep breath, she turned to see who they belonged to, and immediately wished she hadn't. Jim only met her gaze for a few seconds, but it was long enough for Trixie to recognize rage, betrayal, and disbelief all rolled up into one ugly expression on his face. It was a look she hoped she'd never see again.

Spinning on his heel, the roiling young man stalked out of the room, leaving Trixie feeling sick to her stomach. "I'm sorry!" she called out frantically, "I'm really, really sorry, Jim!"

She would have chased after him if Miss Trask hadn't held out a restraining arm.

"Give Jim some space," the governess said knowingly. "Once he cools off, then you can talk to him. In the meantime, you and the others can get back to work. This afternoon, you may go over to Mr. Handleman's to make your apologies." Miss Trask let out a defining sigh as if finally content having a convincing explanation. She even managed a weak smile.

"I haven't forgotten what it's like to be a teenager, Trixie," the older woman went on. "There will be days when your heart tells you to do one thing and your head another. When this happens, the trick is to slow down and listen to both. I'm not telling you shouldn't follow your heart, but consider the consequences before you do."

"Yes, Miss Trask," Trixie replied meekly. "I think I understand."

Miss Trask chuckled. "I wish I did," she admitted in a rare moment of candor. "There are those of us who tend to think too much with our heads. But enough talk! We must get busy. I'm going to go upstairs to change. Then I'll round up Jim so he and I can take an inventory for the auction house. We'll start in the barn, should any of you need us."

And with that, their chaperone headed for the stairs, leaving Trixie to believe the worse was behind her. However, she was sadly mistaken. As soon as Miss Trask was out of earshot, Dan launched his own attack.

"Where do you get off lying to us like that?" he fumed, getting up in the startled young lady's face. "Honestly, Trixie Belden, you infuriate me sometimes. Is what Jim thinks of you really more important than how the rest of us feel? You put us through some kind of a nightmare last night. Did you ever once give a thought to anyone but yourself?"

As Trixie stammered to reply, a voice from the doorway answered for her.

"She didn't lie to us, Dan. She lied to Miss Trask." Jim ran his fingers through his red hair and stepped into the room. "Once I calmed down, I realized Trixie couldn't have been the one who knocked the clock out of the window. I distinctly heard it chiming midnight after she'd gotten her milk. And we were all together in the living room when we heard it hit the ground outside."

"Why then, did you tell Miss Trask you broke it?" Honey asked Trixie point-blank.

Trixie stared down at the hole in the toe of her sneaker. "Miss Trask didn't believe the truth," she replied matter-of-factly. "She would have stayed angry if someone hadn't confessed. I thought better me, than all of you. She's used to it when I do stupid stuff. Besides, I knew she'd want me to apologize to Mr. Handleman. I'm hoping maybe when I do, the word will get around that some dumb girl made up the story, and maybe it will keep the ghost hunters away, and maybe the house will sell quicker."

Brian was tempted to give his sister a knuckle sandwich. "That's a lot of "maybes," he said quite frankly. "You shouldn't be telling lies to anyone, for any reason, little sister. But I suppose we should thank you. You certainly aren't 'some dumb girl.' However, I imagine Moms and Dad will have a few choice words for you when we get home." He gave her a half-grin before finishing. "But who knows? 'Maybe' I can do something to keep them from grounding you."

Letting out a false-hearted laugh, Trixie waved her assignment sheet in her sibling's face. "Good luck with that," she moaned. "I have a feeling Moms and Daddy will come up with a list of chores that'll make this one from Jim, look like a cakewalk."

She glanced up at Jim, grateful to find no sign of the ugly expression she'd seen there earlier. "I want you to know you're still a slave driver," she told him half-seriously.

Jim smiled. "You volunteered to come on this trip," he reminded her again. "Besides, sorting through all that junk will give you another opportunity to look for that notorious postage stamp," he added.

"I'm beginning to think you made that story up just to con me into helping," Trixie groaned. "Come on, everybody. We'd better hop to it if we have any hope of finishing before dark."


But by early afternoon, Trixie realized she'd exaggerated the amount of work she had to do. She'd completed everything on her list, so she went to see if anyone could use a hand with theirs. Lagging behind the others, Dan jumped at her offer.

Therefore, on his request, Trixie began emptying out the desk in Joney's den. It wasn't a hard job, but it did require she be careful to toss anything that looked important back into the top drawer for Jim to inspect later. So far, the drawer contained an old stock certificate, a letter which was ready to be mailed but had never made it to the post office, and a picture of a lovely woman whom Trixie assumed was Jim's mother. The wastepaper basket, however, brimmed over with a mishmash of old receipts, pencil stubs, and rotting rubber bands.

"Why would anyone keep this stuff in the first place?" she muttered, stepping on the trash to compact it.

"Sure beats me!" Dan remarked. He'd been weeding empty cigarette packages out of a file cabinet nearby and been thinking precisely the same thing. "I knew Jonesy was a rat, but I never suspected he was a packrat. This goes beyond laziness."

Trixie had to agree, and yet she wished Dan hadn't mentioned rats. Reaching into one of the desk's pigeon holes, she had visions of a big ugly rodent popping out and biting her fingers. But to her relief, all Trixie found inside were a handful of yellowed newspaper clippings. "I'm kind of surprised this desk is going back to Sleepyside," she mused, plopping down in the matching chair and spinning around to face her friend. "It's pretty nice, but I didn't think Jim wanted anything that belonged to Jonesy?"

Dan sauntered over and ran his hand across the large piece of furniture. "Jim's giving it to me," he revealed, beaming proudly. "Just think, I won't have to do my studying at Regan's desk in the stables anymore! Mr. Maypenny should let me keep it at the cabin, don't you think?"

Trixie glanced down at the scuffs on the roll-top desk, and then up at the excitement on Dan's face. She'd forgotten how little he owned and how much she took for granted. "Of course," she replied earnestly. "It's quite handsome. And I bet with Mart's help you'll get it to look like new. He's a whiz at refinishing furniture, you know. You should have seen the job he did on the gateleg tables we pulled out of Honey's attic. They made quite a splash at the antique show the B.W.G.s held for UNICEF."

"So I hear," Dan replied with a chuckle. "Mart's still boasting about it. But you're right. I bet he could give me some good pointers. I've never done any kind of work on furniture before. Guess I wouldn't have been much help with the antique show, even if I'd been part of the Bob-Whites back then."

"Gleeps! I wish you had been there to help! " Trixie exclaimed. "It was a lot of work, and most of it back-breaking. Just ask your uncle, Regan. He was one of the volunteers who jumped in to help us collect furniture when we realized we'd bitten off more than we could chew. Believe me, there would have been plenty for you to do!"

"Kind of like this trip," Dan sighed, again eyeing his list. "Which reminds me, Trix. I don't think you've heard the latest? Miss Trask plans to run into town this evening to call Regan. She hopes to talk him into driving up with one of the horse trailers. There are a few items, like this desk, that won't fit in the car. But there isn't enough big stuff to justify renting a truck. She thought the smaller of the two trailers might fit the ticket."

Trixie grinned and pulled another handful of newspaper clippings out of the desk's cubby hole. "Regan's a good sport," she replied. "He'll let us use the trailer. But I bet you a nickel it'll be Tom who does the driving. That is if Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler can do without their chauffeur for a few days."

Dan chuckled. No one hated to drive as much as his uncle Regan did. "I'd be a fool to take that bet," he admitted. Then Dan realized he'd lost Trixie's attention. He moved to peer over her shoulder. "Something interesting?" he asked.

"I'd say!" Trixie gasped, raising her eyebrows. "The rumors surrounding the missing stamp are true! This article talks about the robbery of Handleman's Hobbies. And guess who they arrested?! A '42-year-old local farmer named Mr. Samuel A. Jones'!" she finished triumphantly.

Dan whistled as Trixie fell silent, scanning down the rest of the snippet.

A few moments later, she went on.

"It says here, one of the local merchants was working late doing some bookwork when he heard the crash of a plate-glass window next door. When he went to investigate, he saw someone resembling Mr. Jones slipping out the backdoor. According to this, Jonesy's father's bond was set at $4,000 during a preliminary hearing, and a trial was scheduled for October 9th. It doesn't mention what was stolen, just that the safe and the cash register were emptied."

"Wow," Dan breathed. "I'm beginning to see why Jonesy turned out the way he did. 'Like father, like son,' they always say. Are the other articles follow-up stories, Trix?"

Trixie looked over the remaining strips of newsprint. "Most are," she revealed. "The police searched the farm but didn't find anything related to the break-in. There wasn't enough evidence to convict Mr. Jones, so they released him." She handed the clippings to her curious friend.

"Somehow, I doubt he was innocent," she added confidently.

Dan read the articles, and then laid them in the desk's top drawer. "Innocent until proven guilty," he reminded her. "But I have to admit that I tend to agree with you, Trixie. Too bad dead men can't tell tales. I suppose we'll never know for sure if he committed the robbery unless you find the stamp hidden somewhere on the farm."

Trixie gave Dan a smirk wondering if he'd memorized a book of famous quotations. "Let's not forget that 'little thieves are hanged, but great ones escape," she teased him without his knowing it. Then a sudden thought sent Trixie springing unexpectantly from her chair. Reaching for the clippings, she cried, "What if he's not dead, Dan?!"

Clearing his voice, Jim announced his presence behind the two teens. "Who are you talking about now?" he inquired, making his way around the pile of boxes blocking the direct path to his friends. Jim had come bearing gifts. Cold bottles of water and crunchy granola bars meant to boost the young people's energy levels. "Not Jonesy again, are you?"

"Nope, "Dan disclosed, gratefully accepting the drink being held out to him. "She's talking about his father. Samuel Jones."

"Samuel Jones?" Jim repeated slowly. "What's brought this on?"

As Dan unscrewed the top of his drink, he shrugged. "Beats me," he admitted. "Hey, Sherlock, mind explaining?"

Jim looked quizzically at Trixie as she handed him the newspaper clippings in exchange for one of the granola bars. "These got me thinking," she announced, pointing to the small stack of newsprint. "If Jonesy's father's still alive, he could be the man we saw by the barn, Jim."

Dan smoothed back his sleek, dark, hair. "How do you draw that conclusion from the articles?" he broke in.

"Easy," Trixie explained. "You said it yourself, Dan. They make Jonesy's father sound just like his son."

Dan took a quick swig of water and admitted, "I still don't follow you, Trixie?"

Trixie let out a big breath. "OK, I'll give you an example. Brian often acts like Dad, wouldn't you agree?"

Dan nodded.

"Brain also looks like Daddy, and even sounds like him over the telephone, correct?"

"OK, I see where you are coming from," Dan stopped her. "But if Jonesy's father were alive, wouldn't he still be living here?"

"Not if he decided to retire, and move someplace warmer, Trixie insisted. "Why I'm sure the farm got to be too much for him at some point, and if so, he probably turned it over to his son."

To cool his frustration, Dan ran the sweaty bottle of water across his forehead. "If that were the case, the farm would have fallen back into Samuel Jones's hands when Jonesy died," he said. "Not Jim's."

"No," Jim said suddenly, looking up from his reading. "When Mother married Jonesy, the farm was going under. She gave him our savings to keep it afloat. But there was one condition. The deed was to be placed in my name if anything ever happened to Jonesy."

"Then Samuel Jones might still be alive!" Trixie exclaimed victoriously.

Jim set the articles aside. "Jonesy never actually said he was dead," he remarked. "He never talked about his family, to be honest. But it's a long shot, Trixie."

A knock on the open door spun the teenagers around to find Brian and Honey looking somewhat perturbed.

"Are we allowed at this meeting?" Brian asked, his arms folded across his chest.

Jim waved the two inside. "I wouldn't call it a meeting," he explained apologetically. "More of an impromptu debate."

As he brought Brain and Honey up-do-date on their conversation, Brain kept sliding his thumb and forefinger down the sides of his chin as if stroking an imaginary beard. Looking very thoughtful and collected, there was little doubt, that in a few years, the oldest Belden would be the spitting image of his father. It gave credit to Trixie's theory, and she smiled.

But it was when Brian finally spoke, his little sister's hopes truely soared. "Trixie might actually have something there," he told Jim, as his friend dropped quiet. "Mr. Jones might also be our vagrant. It's not much of a stretch to think he'd blame us for his son's death since we were the ones who sent Jonesy away to prison. And if that's how he feels, I somehow doubt Samuel Jones would sit back and let you inherit the farm, Jim."

Jim only took a moment to muse over the idea. "That's assuming he's still alive," he reminded Brian and the other B.W.G.s. "I find it somewhat doubtful. Sam Jones would be in his 70s or 80s. At that age, he'd be a little old for playing games."

Honey, who was perched on the edge of the metal file cabinet, took sides with Trixie. "I disagree," she said. "Look at Mr. Handleman. He must be near 80. And he's as spry and ornery as an old billy-goat."

Trixie was pleased that she and Honey saw things in the same light. "My thoughts exactly," she said. "And I bet Mr. Handleman can settle this dispute for us, once and for all." She looked at her watch and then reached for the newspaper clippings. Carefully folding them in half, she tucked the fading papers into her back pants pocket.

During this time, Dan had been watching her closely. Finishing off his drink, he tossed the empty bottle into a nearby bag of recyclables and chuckled. "Don't tell me you've decided to tell Mr. Handleman you're hunting for his stolen stamp?" he teased his blond-haired friend. "I thought that was supposed to be some big secret, Trix?"

Trixie thought for a minute. That wasn't totally true. She just wanted to wait until the right time to tell Mr. Handleman about her investigation. "Maybe I'll tell him, and maybe I won't," she admitted honestly. "But it's about five-thirty, and I promised Miss Trask I'd go next door to make my apologies as soon as Mr. Handleman got home from work. It won't hurt to ask him about Jonesy's father while I'm there, will it?"

Brian held out his hand to detain his sister. "I suppose not," he said. "But how about I run you over in the station wagon? If it were me, I'd want someone along to lend a little moral support."

Trixie hesitated but turned down her brother's offer. It was going to be hard enough to fib without Brian hovering over her. Besides, she did her best detective work when the boys weren't along to rein her in. "That's awfully nice of you," she replied. "But I think I'll walk. It will give me time to practice my apology. Besides, what I really need is the help of an experienced detective."

Honey bounced to her feet, grinning. "That sounds just up my alley," she declared happily. "Shall we be on our way, dear partner?"

In a feigned moment of panic, Jim reached into on of the partitions under the hood of the desk. "Wait!" he called urgently, causing the girls to stop in their tracks. "You don't want to go off without this, do you?"

Wheeling around, Trixie couldn't fathom what they may have forgotten.

Grinning, Jim placed an oversized magnifying glass in her hands. "A schoolgirl shamus should never be caught without one," he explained with a wink.

As the boys had their little laugh, Trixie pretended the joke slipped past her. "I'll be sure to remember that," she said earnestly. "Please tell Miss Trask we won't be long, will you?"