Mystery in the Mail

by Janice

Author’s notes: This story is being posted as part of the fifth anniversary celebrations for Jixemitri. Congratulations, Cathy! You’ve created one of the friendliest places on the net and I can’t thank you enough for letting me be a part of it.

As a mystery, this story stands alone, though it is part of The Long Way Home. The connection between Jim and the Henley family is explained in The Secret of the Rose and Under the Apple Tree, both of which are mysteries. You don’t need to have read them to understand this, but they fill in the details.

If you’ve been reading this universe and need to refresh your memory on what came before, visit the Reminder Page.

Before we start, I’d like to thank LoriD, for sorting out my grammar and punctuation issues, and Grey, for setting me straight about the US postal system and suggesting the image which you’ll find about a third of the way down.

January 1993

The morning air was cool and crisp as Jim and Trixie rode through the preserve. They had been away from Sleepyside for the past week and were taking advantage of the fine weather to reacquaint themselves with the horses. All around them, the preserve was wearing its winter clothes, complete with a fresh layer of snow.

“I always miss this when we’re away,” Jim said as they walked the horses up the steep slope to the top of a ridge. “After I graduate, I want to get a job where I can live out here year round.”

“I’ll miss you,” Trixie said with a little sigh. “My graduation seems an eternity away.”

Jim laughed softly. “It’s not that long,” he said. “Before you know it, you’ll be finished, too, and then…”

“Let’s talk about something else,” she said and took a deep breath. “I love the way the world smells this early in the morning.”

The conversation continued as they made their way up the hill. “Let’s get back to the stables,” Trixie said reluctantly as she paused at the top. “It’s too cold to stay out long this morning.”

As they groomed the horses she brought up a subject she had been meaning to broach with Jim for some time. “I was talking to Ursula the other day,” she began casually.

“You mean your genealogy friend?” Jim asked. “The one who does all the military stuff?”

“That’s her. She gave me a new idea of how to find someone who’d been adopted out. She suggested that if we could find out the place and the exact date there could be local records that might give us a clue.”

“You mean, like an adoption agency or a home for unmarried mothers?”

“Maybe,” Trixie nodded. “Or, if she stayed with a relative we might find someone who knew her.”

A little over a year previously, Trixie had decided to find out what had happened to the child of Agatha Henley and Frederick Hamilton who had been the subject of one of her previous cases. The task had proven too much for her at that time, but her skills and contacts had improved in the ensuing months.

“I’m going to try and find out where she went to have the baby,” she continued. “We’ve already got an approximate date, but I’ll have to try to pin the exact date down.”

“Sounds good,” Jim agreed. “How do you intend to start?”

“That’s where you come in,” Trixie said with a smile.

“I was afraid of that,” Jim muttered. “What am I in for?”

“Not much,” she replied. “Just help me figure out where Miss Henley might have kept personal papers.”

Jim considered for a moment. “We didn’t search the barn very carefully,” he said finally. “Come with me when I go over there later and you can have a look.”

While Jim paid a visit to Rose Cottage to arrange for some work to be done, Trixie began her search of the barn. It was chilly inside, and very little light penetrated beyond the first two or three steps.

Now that I’m here, she thought, I barely know where to begin. I’d forgotten how messy it was in here.

With barely a glance, she bypassed the piles of abandoned farm machinery that littered the entrance. In a few moments she had climbed over a pile of old furniture and was in an area she had never seen before.

I don’t believe it, she thought, amazed. Who would’ve thought it would be like this back here?

The jumble at the front of the barn concealed an area every bit as neat as the house had been when Jim had inherited it. A beautiful wooden desk stood against the rear wall, flanked by old-fashioned wooden filing cabinets. Deep, built-in shelves were neatly stacked with boxes and trunks.

Moving to the desk, Trixie opened each of the drawers to find them empty. The filing cabinets were the same.

I guess the contents would have been eaten by rodents by now, anyway, Trixie thought, disappointed. Maybe I should check the boxes.

She shone her light on the label of the nearest one which read, ‘Taxation Records.’ A few minutes search revealed a box labelled ‘Personal.’ Moving it to the desk, she held her breath as she unsealed and opened it.

Trixie gently lifted out item after item until she found what she was looking for: a bundle of old hand-written letters, carefully wrapped. The rest of the box yielded nothing useful and she resealed and replaced it on the shelf before taking her find back to the house to examine.

That afternoon while the sun was still high in the sky, Jim and Trixie took a walk around the grounds of Ten Acres. A long time ago, Jim had made the decision to let most of the land revert to its natural state and had more recently been helping the process along by planting native trees. He wanted to make sure that the recent storm had not done too much damage.

“We’ll have a look around the ruins first,” he said to Trixie as they approached the boundary. “I haven’t been near them for a long time.”

The pair pushed through the hedge and made their way towards the place where the old house used to stand.

“What’s that?” Trixie asked, pointing to a long crack in the icy snow. “Is the ground cracked underneath?”

Jim stopped in his tracks. The crack radiated from the ruins to the point where Trixie stood, a distance of several yards.

“I hope not,” Jim replied. “I’m not sure we should be standing here if it is.”

As they turned to leave a soft crunching noise, almost like footsteps, sounded behind them. Trixie looked over her shoulder and gasped. An area the size of a small car, not far from where they had stood, had depressed slightly.

“Look, Jim,” she said. “It’s starting to cave in!”

“Tread carefully,” he replied, softly. “We’d better get out of here.”

A few minutes later they had put enough distance between the ruins and themselves to feel safe again. Relief showed plainly on both of their faces.

“I’d better get someone in to look at that straight away,” Jim said, looking worried. “There’s no telling what could happen.”

While Jim made arrangements for temporary fencing and engineer’s inspections, Trixie’s thoughts were far from her newly begun investigation. Everything was happening at once and she had little time to devote to a mystery which had remained unsolved for so many years.

After a few days, things began to settle down at Ten Acres and Trixie was able to concentrate on figuring out where Agatha Henley had been sent to wait out her pregnancy. The answer was tantalisingly close from the outset, with numerous references in Agatha’s letters to an Aunt Dora, with whom she was staying.

Each letter was headed as coming from The Bower House and neatly dated, but held no clue as to where it was located. The answer came to Trixie almost by accident. She was at the point of calling Celia to ask whether she could search some more when she found it.

I’ll just go through these one more time before I call, she decided. Maybe there’s something I’ve missed. Now, this first pile is letters from Agatha. There’s Aunt Dora, something about a lake, Shore Road, something about the mountains… Nothing that really helps.

Next pile - friends of Thelma’s. I don’t think any of them would know anything about it, she considered. I’d better go through them anyway. They might have known Aunt Dora.

Trixie quickly skimmed through the first few letters in the pile. The handwriting was tortuous and some of the paper had yellowed and become brittle, making the task doubly difficult. About halfway through her task she came across a two page letter which was less neatly folded than the others. As she tried to lift the first page off to reveal the next she discovered why.

Miss Henley had not kept the envelopes from any of her letters, but one from her sister had been preserved, having slipped between two sheets of the letter Trixie now held. Breathlessly, she freed it and turned it over to reveal a return address.

The Bower House
Shore Road
Old Forge, New York

To her even greater delight, the last letter in the pile was from Aunt Dora herself and gave the news that the event had happened that very morning. She even gave the name of the midwife who had attended.

Trixie could have danced for joy. She raced off to find a map and quickly located Old Forge about one hundred miles north and slightly west of Albany.

“I’ve found it,” she told the first person she came across - her brother Bob. He shook his head and walked on, unnoticed by Trixie who had danced right past him on her way to the telephone to share her discovery with Jim.

“I’ve got the date and the place,” she cried, as soon as Jim answered. “Old Forge, New York, on February twentieth, 1920.”

“Uh, that’s good,” Jim agreed hesitantly, unsure whether it was really good or not.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Trixie prompted. She continued without waiting for an answer, “The baby wasn’t born in a big city, so there’s a much better chance that I can find the right person.”

“Well, that is good news,” agreed Jim. “Maybe you’ll find this person after all.”

“I’m going to start researching right away,” she told him. There was a pause. “You are happy, aren’t you?”

Jim sighed. “Yes,” he said, “but I’ve had some bad news. The engineer says there are serious problems with the foundations and I’ve got to arrange for them to be excavated.” He sighed again. “This, on top of what’s happening at Rose Cottage…”

“Do you need anything?” she asked. “A shoulder to cry on?”

He laughed. “It won’t come to that,” he said. “Don’t worry about it, Trixie. Just concentrate on your investigation.”

The first thing that Trixie did was to take a trip to the Sleepyside Library. It was not as modern as the one she was used to at college, but it was still the best place to start to get information. She made her way to the old-fashioned card catalogue and began her search.

Fairly soon, she had found several books which detailed the history of the Adirondack region and one in particular which had a lot of information about Old Forge. To Trixie’s delight, the book, which was quite a new one, listed the contact details of various organisations in the region.

She wrote down some of the details and reshelved the books. This is great! she thought as she walked towards the public telephone. I never thought I’d find this sort of information in a book.

Her first call was to a genealogical club in Herkimer County, where Old Forge was located. Within two minutes, Trixie had made a friend of the club secretary, Ellen.

“I know just the place you need,” Ellen said, full of enthusiasm. “I’ve done some research into adoptions in that area for people and around that time they were mostly handled by the local minister’s wife. Her name was Dora McIlwain. She was a kindly soul, by all accounts.”

“That’s a coincidence,” Trixie said. “The expectant mother I’m looking for was sent to live with Aunt Dora.”

This snippet practically sent Ellen into raptures. “Oh, I’d love to hear all about this,” she cried. “Do you have time to talk?”

Trixie looked ruefully at the small collection of change that she had available and reluctantly said that she could not. “I’ll write you a full account, though,” she promised. “And I’ll keep you updated, if you like.”

“I’d love it,” Ellen replied. “Oh, and the place you need to contact is the Rome office of St. Leonard’s Mission. I’ll give you their address. When she died, Mrs. McIlwain’s relatives passed all of her records on to them.”

Trixie thanked Ellen enthusiastically and set off home to write two letters: one to the Rome office of St. Leonard’s Mission and the other to her new friend, Ellen.

Trixie was surprised to receive a reply to one of her letters only a week later. St. Leonard’s Mission was certainly prompt in their response times. With a feeling of anticipation, Trixie opened the letter.

Trixie was so excited that she set out to find Jim right away. A quick call to the Manor House revealed that he was at Ten Acres, in consultation with a contractor. She put on her coat and set off on foot to find him.

There was a spring in her step as she made her way up the hill, whistling softly. This has got to be the easiest mystery I’ve ever solved, she said to herself as she approached the boundary line. All I’ve got to do is send the letter, wait for the reply, and it’s finished.

Up ahead, she could see Jim talking seriously with an unfamiliar man. On the other side of the temporary fencing she could see a few workmen manipulating some strange equipment. As she approached, Jim ended his conversation with the man and was turning to leave.

“Jim!” she called, breaking into a run. “I got a reply!”

Her boyfriend turned and the worried look on his face was soon replaced by a smile. “Good news, I take it?”

She nodded vigorously. “If I send a letter to the agency, they’ll send it on to Agatha Henley’s child for me.”

“That’s great, Trixie,” Jim replied. “I’d like to meet him or her and give them the letters and things.”

She shoved the letter into his hand and looked around herself. A worker who had been standing quite close to them turned sharply and walked away.

“I thought they were waiting until spring to begin work. Is something wrong?” she asked.

Jim groaned. “It would be much cheaper if we could just wait until spring,” he said. “Some wacko started a rumour that the reason it’s collapsing is that the whole place is riddled with buried treasure.”

“You’re kidding,” Trixie replied, incredulous.

“I wish I was,” Jim replied. “Someone broke in last night. No matter what I do, I can’t make the site really secure, so I thought I’d better make it safe.”

“That’s terrible,” she exclaimed, taking his arm and leading him away. She continued in a whisper. “One of those workers gives me the creeps. Let’s get away from here.”

That very afternoon, Trixie wrote a letter to Agatha Henley’s child and made sure that it was posted in time to make that day’s mail. She carefully followed the instructions given; making sure that she transcribed the reference number correctly.

Before she posted it, Trixie made a photocopy of the letter to add to her file. Another job well done, she thought as she put it through the mail slot.

Turning to leave, a man behind her bumped into her so hard that she almost fell. “Watch where you’re going,” he said in a gruff voice.

Trixie was too surprised to say anything before the man had turned sharply and left. Now, where have I seen that man before? she wondered.

A few days later, Trixie received a large, thick envelope in the mail. Examining it, she discovered that it was from her new friend Ellen at the genealogical society. What could it be? she wondered, rushing to open it. Inside was a plastic sleeve full of documents and a short handwritten note.

‘Dear Trixie,’ it read. ‘I’ve checked the information you gave me against what I already knew and it’s quite certain that the Aunt Dora you referred to is the same person as the Dora McIllwain I was telling you about. From what I can tell, the adoption you’re researching was the very first one she handled. It might even have inspired her to look after unmarried mothers. I would love to know whether that is the case. It would be a wonderful addition to the histories I’ve researched. I’ve included copies of everything I have related to her. Please let me know if you find out anything further. Ellen.’

This is just wonderful, Trixie thought as she began to examine the documents. I wonder how I can find out more?

Weeks passed and Trixie had no response from her other letter, the one to Miss Henley’s child. She returned to college and recommenced classes, each day hoping to hear something and each day being disappointed. Finally the waiting was too much for her. She checked through her records to find the telephone number and placed a call to the adoption agency.

“I was wondering if you could check something for me,” she asked the receptionist politely. “I sent a letter a few weeks back, reference 27438-20, and haven’t received a reply. Could you check whether it has been sent?”

“Let me get the file,” the young woman responded. There was a brief burst of tinny music, then, “27438-20? We have received no correspondence for that client. Are you sure the reference number is correct?”

Trixie gave the woman some details.

“Yes, that’s the correct number,” she told Trixie. “When did you send your letter?”

“It was posted on Monday, January 18th,” she replied. “So, I guess that it should have arrived shortly after that.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the telephone. “That’s odd,” the woman said eventually. “I’m sure that’s right about the time that our mail was tampered with. Perhaps the person took your letter by mistake.”

“In that case, I’ll be sure to send another one,” Trixie replied, confused. “Thank you for your help.”

By mistake? Trixie asked herself. Or could it have been on purpose? But why?

After giving the matter some careful consideration, Trixie decided to keep quiet about her discovery. She reasoned that if someone had deliberately taken her letter then they must have known that it would be arriving. If she wrote a new letter and was careful about posting it perhaps she could outwit her opponent, whoever it was.

I’ll send this one by registered post, she decided silently. If I pretend that I need to buy stamps maybe whoever it is won’t be suspicious.

She casually made her way to the post office, mentioning once or twice that she was out of stamps, handed in her letter and made the necessary payment. After arriving safely back in her room she congratulated herself on a job well done. No one seemed to have been suspicious at all.

When next she visited home, Trixie’s suspicions that something was wrong were confirmed. She was sitting at the breakfast table, conversing with her parents when the alarm bells started ringing in her head.

“Did anyone collect the mail yesterday afternoon?” her mother asked. “I was expecting my new seed catalogue this week and I haven’t seen it yet.”

“I’ll go,” Trixie volunteered, when it seemed that no one had.

“Don’t forget to take the key,” her father reminded.

“Key?” Trixie asked. “What key?”

Her parents shared a look. “Didn’t we tell you, dear?” her mother asked. “We’ve been having trouble, the last few weeks, with someone tampering with our mail so your father decided to lock the mail box.”

Trixie was stunned. The only explanation she could see was that this was linked to her missing letter. Someone doesn’t want me to be in contact with this person, she decided. But why?

Aloud she said, “Okay. If you give me the key, I’ll go take a look.”

Her mind spun as she tried to find a reason why this was happening. Who could possibly know that I was looking? she asked herself. The only people I told were Jim and… An unwelcome thought intruded. There was someone standing close by when I told him, wasn’t there? A worker at Ten Acres.

She unlocked the box and retrieved, among other things, her mother’s seed catalogue and a letter addressed to her. Turning it over, she felt a thrill of anticipation: the return address was unfamiliar.

Racing back into the house she called, “Here’s your catalogue, Moms,” and continued upstairs to her room. She dropped down on the bed and quickly opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of floral paper, covered in feminine handwriting.

‘Dear Miss Belden,’ she read silently.

‘I was most surprised to receive your letter. It has been years since I contacted the agency and I had long given up hope of hearing from anyone because of it.

‘Thank you so much for your offer of information. I would very much appreciate any insights you can offer into my birth parents’ background.

‘Please call me at this number,’ (a local number was listed), ‘so that we can arrange to meet.

‘I look forward to hearing from you,

‘Sincerely,

‘Mrs. Winifred Harris (nee Pinkerton)’

A broad grin spread across Trixie’s face and she headed straight for the telephone to tell Jim about her letter. “It’s here!” she told him, without even saying ‘hello.’ “It’s finally here!”

There was a confused silence from the other end of the line. “What’s here?”

“The response to my enquiry, of course,” said Trixie. “I do wish you’d keep up with the conversation.”

“What enquiry?”

“Mrs. Harris, or Winifred Pinkerton.”

“Who?” asked Jim, perplexed.

“Agatha Henley’s baby,” said Trixie. “Aren’t you listening to me at all?” Once again there was a silence. Trixie continued regardless. “She wants to meets me. Do you want to come, too?”

Jim considered for a moment. “No, don’t worry about including me,” he decided. “I’ve got enough to do without adding anything else.”

“Now where have I heard that name before?” asked Trixie, apparently ignoring him. “I know! It’s from your family tree. Your great aunt’s maiden name was Pinkerton.”

“It was?”

“Oh, please pay attention,” said Trixie. “Do you think there’s any chance that they’re related? After all, it might be easier to adopt out your child to some relative that wants them.”

“I suppose so,” said Jim, seemingly resigned to agreeing with whatever Trixie said.

“Well, I’m going to call her now,” she told him. “Can we meet later?”

“I’ll be up at Ten Acres,” Jim said, sounding unhappy. “There’s been some more trouble there overnight and I have to go and look at the damage.”

“I’ll see you there,” Trixie said cheerfully, apparently oblivious to his mood.

First, she decided, I’ll have a look at that family tree. A few minutes search through her notes revealed that the Agatha Henley’s child had been practically under her nose the entire time.

While not included in Jim’s family tree, his Great Aunt Nell had played an important role in his inheritance of Rose Cottage. Trixie had compiled a small amount of information on Nell’s family with a view to writing the story of the relationship. Satisfied, she made her telephone call.

Minutes later, Trixie had arranged a time and place to meet Mrs. Harris. She sped from the house and up the hill to Ten Acres, full of energy. Reaching her destination, she discovered that Jim had not yet arrived and she spent the next few minutes restlessly pacing.

“That was quick,” she heard his voice say from the other side of a particularly scraggly evergreen. Momentarily, he appeared from behind it. “How did you get here before me?”

She shrugged casually, then threw herself at him for a hug. “It’s all working out so well,” she said, enthusiastically. “She’ll be in New York City on Wednesday and we’ll meet for lunch at that little cafe - you know, the one where I meet Honey on Thursdays.”

“Sounds good,” Jim said, smiling down at her. “Make sure you take the letters with you. Remind me if I forget to give them to you.”

Trixie laughed. “You really are turning into an absent-minded professor.”

Jim managed to look affronted. “What do you have there?” he asked, seeming to want to change the subject.

“Oh, that’s the best bit,” she replied, handing him the papers. “This is what we had on your Aunt Nell’s family,” she told him. “Winifred Pinkerton is right here,” she indicated the correct place, “including her date of birth.”

“So she was adopted by her birth mother’s cousin?” he asked. At Trixie’s nod he continued. “I remember my mother telling me something about that family. She said that Aunt Nell came from a truly great family. They were both intelligent and compassionate.”

“Sounds like something to aspire to,” said Trixie.

“I’ve always thought so,” he replied quietly. He laughed softly when he continued, “When I was younger my father used to tell me stories about his uncles, the inventors. I guess they were really Aunt Nell’s brothers. I used to imagine growing up to be like that. Kind of like the father in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”

“I always pictured you as the mad scientist type,” she replied. “I can see you now in your lab coat, with all sorts of strange apparatus around you.”

“Gee, thanks,” laughed Jim. “First, you call me an absent-minded professor, then a mad scientist. It’s nice to be so well thought of.”

“You’re most welcome,” Trixie said graciously, hiding a grin.

Behind them, the branches of the scraggly evergreen rustled slightly. Trixie peered at it nervously but said nothing. For a few awful moments she felt that someone was watching her. Stop imagining things, she told herself. It was just the wind.

The following Wednesday, after her morning classes, Trixie headed for the cafe as planned with the package of letters safely stowed in her bag. It was a beautiful day and Trixie was happy to be outside.

Rounding the last corner, she could see the cafe up ahead. Before she could reach it, however, the street broke into chaos. For no reason that Trixie could see, a car swerved violently, cutting off traffic and causing a chain reaction of accidents.

“Hey, stop!” she found herself calling, as the car which had caused it all sped away. She stared hard at the car, trying to memorise every detail of it and its driver.

She heard a whimpering sound from one of the cars next to her. All thoughts of her meeting with Mrs. Harris gone, Trixie began to help people injured in the crash.

By the time the ambulances had arrived and she had given her name, address and statement to a police officer, it was well past the time she should have been at the cafe. I’ll go down there anyway, she decided. Maybe she’s still there.

Not feeling especially hopeful, Trixie entered the cafe. The woman behind the counter recognised her at once.

“I’ve got a note for you,” she called. “There was a lady here to see you but she had to leave.”

Trixie took the note and thanked her. She ordered a sandwich and seated herself at one of the tables. The note was very simple. Mrs. Harris was very sorry, but she had another commitment. She hoped that the same place and time the next day would be suitable and suggested that Trixie call her if it was not.

As she ate her food, Trixie thought about the day’s events. Was that really an accident? she wondered. There didn’t seem to be any cause for it. But why should someone cause a crash on purpose? The same unwelcome thought kept bothering her. Maybe someone really doesn’t want me to meet Mrs. Harris.

The following day, Trixie made sure that she was early for the meeting. She did not want a repeat of the previous day’s events and an extra half hour in a cafe seemed a small price to pay. She settled at her favourite table with a coffee and a magazine to wait. Outside, the traffic surged and ebbed but she paid little attention.

The appointed time came and went with no sign of Mrs. Harris. Another half hour passed. Trixie ordered her lunch and ate it. An hour and a half after she had arrived, Trixie gave up. For whatever reason, Mrs. Harris had missed the meeting once again.

Walking slowly away, Trixie idly watched the traffic pouring past her. From the corner of her eye she saw something which triggered a memory of the previous day’s events. On the opposite side of the road was a parked car, similar to the one which had caused the crash.

Trixie pretended to look for something in her bag. Thinking hard, she brought to mind the car that had caused the crash. It was the same shade of dark blue as this vehicle. They were both station wagons, with dark tinted windows. They were similar models. Walking a few paces forward, Trixie tried to see the number plates.

Suddenly, the car she was watching pulled out into the traffic. Horns blared and tires screeched as drivers tried to avoid a collision.

Gotcha, thought Trixie, writing down the number. She watched as it drove away, hoping to catch a glimpse of the driver. His head appeared at the window for a moment and Trixie’s breath caught in her throat. Could that have been… she could not bring herself to complete the thought. He seemed so… evil.

Looking around herself, she quickly decided that the best course of action would be to go back to her room and call the police from there. Trixie was feeling decidedly pleased with herself as she approached. That was, until she realised that there were two police officers knocking on her door.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Beatrix Belden?” one of them asked.

Trixie winced and nodded.

“You are wanted for questioning over the abduction of Winifred Harris. Would you please accompany us to the station.”

“What?” Trixie practically squeaked. “Abduction? When?”

“Early this morning.”

So, someone didn’t want me to meet her after all, she thought, stunned.

Half an hour later, Trixie was seated in an interrogation room across from the two officers. She was only too happy to co-operate. Before long, she was relating the sequence of events which led her to set up a meeting with the missing woman.

“Then, when I left the cafe today,” she concluded, “I saw a car very similar to the one which had caused the accident and it almost caused another one. I have its number in my bag.”

One of the officers wrote down the number she read out and promised to pass the information on. He then asked, “Do you know of any reason why someone would want to harm Mrs. Harris?”

“If I’d thought she was in the slightest danger, I would never have asked to meet her,” she said miserably, suddenly feeling very guilty. “I guessed that someone didn’t want me to meet her, but I had no idea they’d go to these lengths. I can’t even guess what it’s about, except…”

Wheels were beginning to turn in Trixie’s head. She was sure that all of the pieces of the puzzle were within grasp, if only she could make them fit. Why would someone want to kidnap a harmless little old lady? she asked herself for what seemed like the hundredth time. What threat could she possibly be?

“Let me think for a moment,” she said to the officer.

In her mind, Trixie went through the sequence of events once again. Somewhere here was the key, she was certain. A half-remembered conversation teased the edges of her brain, defying her attempts to bring it into sharp focus. What was it that Jim had said?

“That’s it,” she said aloud, standing up abruptly. She sat down again and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ve just remembered something. It may have nothing to do with this, but my boyfriend once told me that his father knew some of Mrs. Harris’ relatives and that they were inventors. Maybe someone wanted to steal one of their inventions.”

The officer looked dubious, but Trixie was certain that she was now on the right track. And if that’s the motive, she thought grimly, that gives me a prime suspect as well.

That evening, finally at home, Trixie called Jim and told him about her misadventures. Delicately, she brought the conversation around to her suspicions.

“You know, Jim,” she said, hoping she sounded casual. “This kind of reminds me of what we went through after Jonesy was arrested. It kind of makes me wonder if we’ll ever see him again.”

“We could,” Jim admitted. “He’s out of jail.”

I knew it! Trixie thought. Aloud, she said, “Already?”

“Parole,” her boyfriend said, rather bitterly. “Good behaviour.”

Now, how to get at the other point? Trixie wondered. She let the conversation wander for a little while, then asked her other question. “Tell me more about your father’s uncles,” she suggested. “They sounded interesting.”

“I don’t know too much to tell,” Jim replied. “They’ve been dead for longer than I can remember.”

“But your father told you about them, didn’t he?” she persisted.

“A little,” he admitted. “I remember him saying that they were interested in everything electrical. He loved to visit their workshop and see all of the things they were working on. They even left him a patent, but I think he must have sold it before he died.”

A light went on in Trixie’s head. Is that what this is all about? she wondered.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “Is there any way to check?”

“What are you getting at, Trixie?” Jim asked, suddenly suspicious. “Why are you asking all these questions?”

“What if the person doesn’t want you to get in contact with Mrs. Harris?” she asked. “What if they’ve been keeping her from me because she knows something that could damage them?”

“Jonesy,” Jim said suddenly. “You think that Jonesy has Mrs. Harris.”

“It’s just a theory,” she said, quietly. “I’m sorry, Jim. I didn’t want to bring it up if I didn’t have to.”

“I’ll look into it,” he said, his voice soft. “I’ll let you know.”

The following morning, Jim made a call to his lawyer to find out about the patent. He did not think that there was any possibility that Trixie’s theory was correct, but he had too much respect for her to dismiss it out of hand.

“If the theory is right,” he told the lawyer, “call the police first and me second. I’ll give you the details of who to call.”

He was surprised, a few hours later, to hear from his lawyer. He was even more surprised to hear what he had to say.

“The theory was right,” was the first thing the lawyer said. “Richard Jones holds a patent which was transferred from Winthrop Frayne in 1984. The paperwork was signed by your father on January 18th, 1984.”

“But he died in 1980,” Jim said, his voice flat. “Do you mean that my stepfather forged the papers?”

“It certainly looks that way,” the lawyer said. “Our conversation of this morning concerned me greatly and I called in a favour from a friend of mine in the patent office. They will be investigating the matter as well.”

“Thank you,” Jim said, faintly.

After ending the conversation, he sank down on the sofa, unable to believe that this was really happening. Within the hour, he had been asked to assist the police with their enquiries.

Late in the afternoon, Trixie arrived at Honey’s apartment for a girls’ night. It had been arranged for weeks and she had been really looking forward to it but, considering recent events, now felt less than enthusiastic.

“You’ve got to see this,” Honey said, as she opened the door. “There’s a siege outside Albany and I think the gunman might be Jonesy! Doesn’t that look like his farm?” Years before, Jim had taken the Bob-Whites to see the place and Honey had recognised it immediately.

Trixie moved straight towards the television and sank down in front of it, her eyes glued to the screen. In front of her, footage from a helicopter showed a farmhouse surrounded by police cars while a reporter talked incessantly about nothing in particular.

“I tried to call Jim, but there’s no one at home,” Honey explained, quietly. “They say there’s at least one hostage in there and a gunman.”

“It’ll be Mrs. Harris and Jonesy,” Trixie said, without turning.

“What?” Honey asked, shocked. “Who is Mrs. Harris? And why would Jonesy want her?”

The television news shifted to another story and Trixie told Honey about what had been happening lately. “I guess Jim is with the police now,” she concluded. “They’ll want to know about the farm and stuff.”

“Poor Jim,” said Honey. “I hope they don’t keep him too long.”

On the television, the news returned to the siege.

Trixie froze as the news anchor said, “In breaking news, there have been new developments in the siege outside Albany. We cross now to our reporter on the scene, Hayden Drysdale. What can you tell us, Hayden?”

“Well, Lisa, we believe that shots have been fired. One emergency service vehicle has left the scene and initial reports suggest that a police officer has been injured. It is not certain, at this point, whether the injury is serious.”

“And what of the house’s occupants?” the anchor, Lisa, asked. “Has anyone left the building?”

“At this stage we don’t know,” he replied. “Wait, I can hear more shots. There’s a lot of shouting. I can see people running and - yes, the police have now entered the building. They have called for the paramedics. There’s confusion here; people running everywhere. I don’t know whether it’s the gunman or the hostage - wait, I think that’s the hostage leaving the building now.”

“Is there any news of the gunman?” Lisa interrupted.

“The gunman is still inside the building,” Hayden reported. “He may have been shot. At this point, we can only speculate.”

“Thank you, Hayden,” said Lisa. “We’ll cross back to the scene as soon as there are any further developments.”

To Trixie, the wait for the next update was interminable. She felt sure that Mrs. Harris was all right but she was deeply concerned about what might have happened to Jonesy. Despite his history, Trixie still viewed him as a human being with feelings and as an important part of Jim’s past.

Trixie and Honey stayed close to the television, unwilling to take a chance on missing the next piece of information. They spoke quietly although afterwards neither could remember of what.

Eventually, Lisa said, “We cross now to Hayden Drysdale, reporting from the scene of the siege outside Albany. What can you tell us, Hayden?”

“Police have now confirmed that the gunman, believed to be Richard Ernest Jones, has been shot dead. It is unclear at this stage whether the shot was fired by the police or by the gunman himself. His hostage, Winifred Harris, who was abducted at gun point from outside her hotel room yesterday morning, has been freed unharmed.”

“Jonesy? Dead?” Honey gasped. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

Trixie sat still, lost in thought. Her mind was with Jim, wondering where he was and how he was coping with this news. I wish I could be with him now, she thought. If there was ever a time he needed me, this is it.

It was the next day before Trixie’s wish was fulfilled. Jim arrived on Honey’s doorstep at a quarter to six in the morning, having received a message that Trixie would still be there. Honey rubbed her eyes sleepily as she opened the door to him, then promptly went back to bed.

“You know where everything is,” she told him. “And you didn’t want to see me anyway. Good night.”

A smile broke the tense look on Jim’s face. He made his way into the kitchen and started to make some coffee. Trixie was still asleep on the sofa and he thought it would be better not to wake her without an appropriate offering.

“Mmm, that smells good,” she said, yawning, as he was finishing. “Some for me?”

“I thought you were still asleep,” he replied, wrapping his arms around her. “And, yes, I made some for you.”

“You’re wonderful,” she told him. “Did I ever tell you that?”

“Once or twice,” he smiled.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, her face pressed against his chest.

Jim sighed. “Not much to say, really. He went too far and got shot for his trouble.” He released her and turned to take a sip of his coffee. “My mother loved him, you know. I guess he loved her, too. That’s the one thing we had in common.” He set his cup down on the counter. “I stopped hating him long ago.”

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice soft.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I’m sorry that he’s dead, but I’m okay.”

“Good,” said Trixie. “That’s the only thing that matters.”

It was several days before Trixie and Jim really pieced together what had happened. The first development concerned one of the workers at Ten Acres. Jim was once again looking over the work, which was nearing completion, when a police car came up the drive.

“Which is the foreman?” an officer asked politely, after stepping out of the car.

Jim pointed the man out and watched as the two officers made their way over to talk to him. Moments later, he was surprised to see one of the workers dash away from the site and into the woods.

“Stop!” the first officer yelled. There was a brief chase then, “Quiet now, come along.” The two officers re-emerged, prisoner in tow.

Jim was only faintly surprised to see that it was the same worker who had unnerved Trixie on one of their previous visits. Perhaps he really was listening to us, he thought. Maybe Jonesy paid him.

That evening, Jim shared his deduction with Trixie over the telephone. She enthusiastically agreed with it.

“There’s another thing,” she added. “I think Jonesy was probably snooping around Sleepyside, too - in fact, I think I saw him a couple of times. We probably couldn’t prove it now, but remember he did do that sort of thing before. He was probably the one who tampered with the mail and he might even have been the one who started the buried treasure rumour.”

“I guess so,” he replied. “Though, I’d say if he did that it was by accident.”

Trixie was intrigued by this idea. “You mean he might have done something or said something and another person interpreted it that way? That they told someone and it grew from there?”

“Something like that.”

“I wonder if I could do that,” Trixie mused aloud. “I’d like to try it sometime.”

Jim groaned and asked to be excused from that particular adventure.

A few weeks later, the long-awaited meeting with Mrs. Harris eventuated. Understandably, she did not wish to return to the cafe. At her invitation, Trixie and Jim went to her house. The sun shone brightly as the pair walked up a short path to the front door.

“It’s wonderful to finally meet you,” Mrs. Harris said, as she led the way inside. “I was beginning to think that this day would never come.”

Conversation quickly led to the discovery at Rose Cottage. When Trixie had told the whole story as she knew it, Jim presented Mrs. Harris with the items which had been recovered: the bundle of letters, the engagement ring, the war medal and the newspaper clipping of the train crash.

“I’d like you to have these,” he said, “since they belonged to your biological parents.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Harris said softly, taking the bundle from him. “Thank you so much. You don’t know what this means to me after all this time.”

“Have you been searching for a long time?” Trixie asked, curious as ever.

“Oh, yes,” the older lady replied. “Many years, now. My daughter wanted very much to find out something of her background. You see, she has a child with a hearing impairment and the doctors wanted to know about family history. Once we discovered that I was adopted, well, that was the end of matters as far as my side was concerned.”

“The Hamiltons didn’t know about you until I told them,” Trixie explained. “And on the Henley side, there was only the younger sister who had been in a nursing home for years and years.”

“Oh, I knew Thelma Henley,” Mrs. Harris said. “Aunt Thelma, I always called her. In fact, I visited her only two days before she died.” She picked up one of the letters and examined it. “I knew her sister as well - my mother. I remember she always looked so sad.”

She set the letters aside to examine the other items. As she did so, the engagement ring came into view.

“Oh, my,” she said. “I can’t take this.”

“Yes, you can,” Jim said, gently. “I wouldn’t dream of keeping it. It belongs in your family.”

Mrs. Harris looked genuinely touched.

“What I can’t understand,” Trixie said a moment later, “is why Miss Henley didn’t leave her whole estate to you.”

“Oh, that’s very easily answered,” Mrs. Harris replied. “When I was a very little girl, Aunt Agatha died and she left everything to me. I never knew why until now.” She looked slightly uncomfortable as she continued. “I sold the land a few years ago. In hindsight, perhaps I shouldn’t have. The two pieces together would have made a nice parcel.”

Her two visitors exchanged a glance.

“Do you remember the name of the person you sold it to by any chance?” Jim asked, casually.

The older lady’s brows knit. “Let me see,” she said. “It was something quite ordinary. I’m sorry, I can’t quite remember.”

“Matthew Wheeler?” Trixie suggested.

“Yes,” Mrs. Harris replied, obviously surprised. “I’m sure that’s the name. However did you know?”

Jim smiled. “Other than the fact that he owns all the land surrounding Rose Cottage? He’s my father.”

“What a wonderful coincidence,” Mrs. Harris cried. “How fortunate.”

“There’s one other thing,” Trixie said, moments later. “When we first found the box, I got in touch with Mrs. Hamilton - she’d be your aunt by marriage. She told me then that she would like to meet you if I found you and I called her to tell her that I had. She asked me to give you her phone number.” Mrs. Harris took the piece of paper which Trixie offered. “If you don’t want to talk to her, just say so and I’ll tell her,” she added quickly.

“No, no,” the older woman replied. “I would like very much to talk to her. Thank you both, so much, for doing this. I can’t begin to tell you how grateful I am for all that you’ve done.”

Both Trixie and Jim looked rather embarrassed, but managed to tell her that she was welcome.

An hour later, Trixie and Jim left Mrs. Harris’ house, having eaten their fill of home-made goodies. As they walked away, Trixie noticed a thoughtful expression on her boyfriend’s face. The got into the car and started to drive away before she decided to ask him about it.

“Is something wrong?” she asked lightly. “You look kind of-”

“Regretful?” he asked. “I’ve been wondering if I would have made different choices if I’d known that this was going to happen.”

“In what way?”

He sighed. “My lawyer says there could be quite a lot of money tied up in this patent, but I may never see any of it.” There was an expression on his face which Trixie could not quite fathom. “If I’d known before he died, maybe we could’ve done something about it. As it is, there probably won’t be enough money in the estate to cover the debt.”

Trixie was thoughtful. “What other choices would you have made if you’d known?”

For a few moments, Jim kept his eyes firmly on the road and remained silent. “Maybe I could’ve afforded to start a school after all,” he said finally. “Maybe, if I’d taken action years ago, I could’ve realised my dream.”

“It’s not too late, is it?” Trixie asked. “Maybe sometime in the future…”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Sometime…”

As they travelled along the seemingly endless highway towards home, they both had the same thought: Someday.

The End

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