by Janice

Author’s notes: This is my contribution for both Anna, Kate and Dana’s Dia de los Muertos Challenge and Meagan’s Hundred Point Challenge. Details on both are at the end. A big thank you to Mary N. (aka Dianafan) for editing and pointing out some really dreary habits I seem to be forming!

 

Wednesday evening

A chilly breeze ruffled Trixie’s curls as she bounced up the stairs to her brother Mart’s front door. From inside, she could hear the sound of his children arguing and she peered through the sidelight, trying to catch their attention.

“Aunt Trixie!” screamed six-year-old Hannah, leaving her brother alone so suddenly that he fell over. “Mommy! Aunt Trixie’s here!”

There was a sound of children scrabbling to open the door, followed by adult footsteps. It opened a moment later to reveal her sister-in-law, Honey. Both kids immediately grabbed their aunt, talking at the tops of their lungs.

“Hi, Trix. Come on in,” said Honey, herding the group back inside. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight. Is anything wrong?”

“Nothing serious,” Trixie replied, picking up her nephew Anthony and giving him a squeeze. “Can I give you a hand in the kitchen? We can talk as we work.”

“That would be great,” Honey said, with obvious relief. “You kids play nicely, you hear?”

From the voluminous pocket of her jacket, Trixie produced a little car for the three-year-old and a small slide-puzzle for his sister. As the adults entered the kitchen, the living room was filled with the little boy’s sound effects for his new toy: “Brrm! Brmm! BRRRRMM!”

“Mart will be here any minute,” Honey explained, as she continued the food preparation that Trixie had interrupted. She handed her friend a peeler and a pile of potatoes. “The kids have been so ratty this afternoon that I’m way behind. So, what’s the trouble?”

“I just heard from Moms that Aunt Myrtle sprained her ankle - she’s Moms’ aunt; the one who lives in Maine.” The other woman nodded, suddenly understanding. “Moms says that she talked to the doctor on the phone and he said that Aunt Myrtle’s having a bit of trouble with keeping up the place - the house and the garden and the chickens and things - and could do with a little bit of help and I thought that the Bob-Whites--”

“Oh, no! Not ‘the Bob-Whites.’ Please, Trixie, don’t say that you’ve volunteered us all again. Mart and I can’t go to Maine - he’s in the middle of a huge publicity campaign at work and you know he’s responsible for the whole publicity department - and I’ve got the kids to look after and surely you’ve noticed that we’re all busy with our own lives, now. It does you credit that you’re still thinking about other people,” Honey continued, more gently, “but the Bob-Whites can’t do that sort of thing anymore.”

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

Honey grinned. “I know you by now, Trixie, and I know that you were going to say that you want us all to go to Maine. It’ll be just like old times,” she mimicked.

“Y-e-s,” Trixie dragged out the word. “Yes, I was going to say that - but I do know all that stuff you just said and I think I’ve got the solution.”

Her best friend looked at her for a long moment, thinking. “Trixie, if you say that you’ve said we’ll all go up there for the weekend, I think I’m going to scream.”

“Hey, sweetheart, I’m home,” said Mart, wandering into the kitchen. “Oh, hi, Trix. I thought I saw your car.”

“You’d better block your ears,” his almost-twin informed him, giving his wife a sweet smile.

He stopped in the act of leaning to kiss Honey, a wary expression coming onto his face. He muttered, in resigned tones, “What has she gotten us into, this time?”

“Maine. For the weekend,” Honey replied, with a glare at Trixie. “Your great aunt sprained her ankle and your darling sister has volunteered us all again.”

“We can’t go away this weekend,” he said, firmly. “It’s Ralph’s birthday.”

“Who’s Ralph?” asked his sister. Realisation dawned on her. “You mean Anthony’s imaginary turtle? It’s his birthday practically every day. That’s no reason not to go.”

“You’ll never convince everyone,” said Mart, with a shrug. “I don’t think there’ll be anyone going, except for you.”

“We’ll see,” said Trixie, with an optimistic grin.

Friday evening

“How far is it from the airfield to the house?” asked Jim, as they were gathering their luggage. As a single man, he had just one small case to carry, but the others had amassed a large quantity of goods.

“Maybe half an hour’s drive,” Brian suggested. “Honey, do you need a hand?”

“Yes, please,” she replied, letting him take the sleeping child from her arms. “Thank you. He’s getting so heavy and Mart can’t really carry him and half of the luggage.”

“Mommy, I’m sleepy,” said Hannah. “Can you carry me?”

“Just walk a little longer, sweetie,” said her mother. “Not long, now.”

Jim turned to help Di and Dan, whose three children apparently required a huge amount of luggage. He took one of the suitcases from them, leaving Dan free to carry their youngest child, who was also asleep.

Soon they were outside, braving a chilly breeze and packing their belongings into the three vehicles they had hired. Mart and Honey strapped their children into a dark blue sedan, while Dan and Di loaded their family into a slightly larger model. The remaining four adults were left with the last vehicle, a white Ford.

Night had fallen hours before and there was little to see as they travelled the last half hour to their destination. Brian’s Ford led the way along quiet country roads until, finally, he pulled off to one side and waited for the other two cars to catch up. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled, long and mournfully.

“Is this it?” asked Carrie, his wife of three years. “I can’t see a house.”

“It’s behind a stand of trees,” Brian replied. “I think we’re all here, now. You’ll see it in a minute.”

He turned into a long driveway, the headlights shining on a bright white sign with ‘100’ painted on it in black. The other two vehicles followed. The unpaved road skirted the edge of a grove of pines, sketching a wide curve. A breeze ruffled the branches above, making a scratchy sound. To the right, an old, rambling farmhouse came into view. Brian carefully chose a place to park, leaving room nearer the house for the other two vehicles.

“Let’s get inside,” cried Trixie, jumping out before Brian had completely stopped. “I hope Aunt Myrtle’s been okay by herself.”

She raced up the stairs, not bothering to wait for anyone else, rapped on the door and called out a greeting.

“It’s open,” the old lady replied. “Come in, dear. I’ll be there in a minute or two.”

The door opened to Trixie’s touch, swinging inwards with an eerie creak. The others were following her up the stairs, but she stood rooted to the spot. Just inside the house, opposite the front door, was a photographic portrait of a severe-looking woman in the dress of the turn of the last century.

“What’s the date today?” she asked, in a shaky voice, as Brian came up behind her.

He let out a surprised laugh, much to his wife’s and Jim’s confusion, but did not answer the question.

“I’m going back to Sleepyside for the night,” said Trixie, backing away from the door. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

“What’s that?” asked Honey, walking up the stairs in time to hear the last remark. “We just got here, Trixie. You were the one who insisted we all come. There’s no way you’re leaving now!”

“I am, really,” said Trixie, turning to run back to the car. Mart was in the way, however, with Anthony in his arms. The way was blocked. “Please, Mart, let me past.”

“Get out of the way,” he grumbled, pushing her back up the stairs with his sleeping son’s foot. “Honey’s right: you’re not going anywhere.”

“But the date-”

“I don’t care about the date,” he said, giving her a final push and striding inside the house. “Hello, Aunt Myrtle. Is there somewhere I can put my son down to sleep?”

“Come in, come in,” said his aunt, hobbling up to them. “Welcome to Hundred House. Mart, you go right through and up the stairs. You can put him in the first room you come to - the little girls, too. Brian, you and Carrie can have the room at the end. Honey, you and Mart will be in the room next to the children, dear. And this must be Diana.” She welcomed the newcomers into her house. “I’m afraid there aren’t enough rooms upstairs for everyone, but you and your husband will be comfortable in the guest room, I’m sure. It’s through this way.”

She turned to her great niece with a smile, saying, “Trixie, you’ll be in the living room, if that’s all right, dear. The sofa doesn’t convert to a bed, but it should be quite comfortable enough for you to sleep on. Now, who’s left? This big boy - and this must be Jim - the two of you can share the sun room, I think.”

Throughout the confusion of the next half hour, while the others put their children to bed and brought their belongings inside the house, Trixie sat in the front room, glaring at the portrait. She barely looked away when her two best friends dropped, exhausted, next to her.

“The next time that Trixie has one of these hare-brained ideas,” Di remarked, “she can come to my place and do the packing and get the kids ready to go for me. I’ll go to her work and solve a mystery or two.”

“Count me in on that scheme,” agreed Honey, with a sigh. “Solving mysteries is a breeze, compared to getting kids ready for a weekend away. I don’t know how you did it, Di, and managed to work part time, too. I’m sure I never could.”

“Actually,” said Di, “I think, next time, I’ll send the kids away with Trixie and I’ll stay home - after she’s packed for them, of course.”

“Oh, that sounds so good!” her friend agreed. “Is that a deal, then?”

They both looked expectantly at Trixie, who was still glowering at the picture.

“Speaking of solving mysteries,” Honey said, in teasing tones, “what about the mystery of the frowning friend? What’s up, Trix? Don’t you like the interior decoration here?”

“I can’t stay here tonight.”

“Of course you’re staying here tonight, Trix,” Di protested. “You brought us here, remember?”

“I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“You’re not leaving tonight,” stated Brian, in his most authoritative I-am-a-doctor-and-you’ll-do-what-I-say tones. He had joined them just in time to hear her last remark. “You won’t get far without a vehicle and, in case you haven’t noticed, you don’t have the keys.”

“I’ll steal them while you’re asleep,” Trixie muttered, glaring at the picture even harder.

“Oh, Trixie, you’re not worried about the old story, are you?” asked her great aunt, hobbling into the room. “You’re far too old to be believing in such nonsense.”

“I don’t really want to take the chance,” said Trixie, looking rather sheepish. “I’m sorry, Aunt Myrtle. I had no idea that tonight was the night. I just didn’t think about it.”

“You’ll be fine, child,” the old lady responded, giving her niece a friendly pat on the shoulder. “With all these friends to look after you, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Trixie said nothing, but nodded glumly.

“Now, if there’s nothing more you young folks need, I think I’ll be taking myself off to bed - and don’t you worry, Trixie. I’ve been widowed for sixteen years, now, and I’ve never had any trouble from old Bess.”

The young woman bid her a half-hearted goodnight, which was echoed by her friends, though with rather more enthusiasm. Before long, all of the younger adults were gathered in the front room to talk.

“So, who’s Bess?” asked Honey, when her curiosity could be constrained no longer. “Why is Trixie afraid of her?

“Ah, but that’s an old family secret,” said Mart, his face split by an enormous grin. “I’m not sure that I should be telling--”

“Tell, or else,” demanded his wife, leaning to whisper her threat in his ear.

“Okay, Honey. You win,” he conceded, so quickly that it set the others laughing. “I’ll tell. Elizabeth Baker, better known as Bess, lived in this house around a hundred years ago and was known to be wild and rebellious. She insisted on running the farm after her father died, had a habit of hitching up her skirts to show her ankles - quite shocking at the time - and became notorious in the town for her various unbecoming deeds.

“Now, there was a man who was willing to overlook the less feminine of Bess’s behaviours, a respectable gentleman by the name of Edmund Hill. He spent a number of years trying to woo Bess, but to no avail. She resisted all of his efforts, telling him that she had no intention of settling down to be someone’s wife.

“Then, on this day, in 1905,” he continued, “there was a terrible accident. Bess was helping to load the potatoes onto a cart to take to market, when a shot rang out close by and the horse bolted. Her skirt caught in the workings and she was crushed under the wheels, horrifically injured and with no hope of recovery. She was filled with a terrible regret. As she lay dying, she drew Edmund’s initials on her arm in her own blood: EDH. Legend has it that any single woman who spends the night here on the anniversary of Bess’s death will awake to find the initials of the man she should have married on her arm, written in Bess’s blood - but, no matter what she does, the blood will not wash away.”

“Tonight is the anniversary?” asked Honey, eyes wide. “The hundredth anniversary? Ooh, and Aunt Myrtle called this place Hundred House! Maybe there’s some special significance! Bess will be here tonight, for sure!”

“And that’s why Trixie doesn’t want to stay here?” asked Di, in disbelief. “I didn’t know she was so afraid of ghosts.”

“Maybe it’s blood she’s afraid of,” suggested Honey. “Or ghostly blood. Well, I for one don’t need to see ghostly blood written on Trixie’s arm. I know who she should have married.”

“Oh, be quiet,” said Trixie, crossing her arms in front of her chest and trying to ignore the pained expression which had passed over Jim’s face. “I’m too young to be settling down just yet. I’ve got plenty of time.”

“You’re thirty-two,” pointed out Di. “Your two best friends have both been married for over ten years. How late were you thinking of leaving it?”

“You know, I did hear of a woman who married for the first time, aged 92,” remarked Honey. “Maybe Trixie’s thinking of doing something like that. She’s still got sixty years, that way, and you can’t deny that that is plenty of time.”

“I think I’ll go to bed,” Trixie muttered, almost to herself. “If people are going to talk about me as if I weren’t here, I might as well go. See you all in the morning.”

“Good night!” they all called, as she walked away.

“Sweet dreams,” added Honey, as if she were talking to her children.

Outside the farmhouse, a long, slow scraping sound could be heard, followed by a muffled thump. Trixie shivered a little and tried not to imagine just what might be abroad on a night like this.

Next morning

The sun was just peeking over the horizon when Trixie awoke. The birds were singing outside the living room window and it was promising to be a beautiful day. She stretched luxuriously, squeezing her eyes shut as she did so. A moment later, she sat up in her makeshift bed and looked down.

There was something on her arm. She pushed her sleeve back, then let out a frightened squeak. Blood on her arm. Blood, in the shape of some letters: JWF II. She rubbed at them, but they would not budge. Leaping out of bed, she ran for the bathroom.

“Come off, please,” she begged, aloud, as she scrubbed her arm under the cold running water. “Please, come off.”

It was not working. The red letters were still there, completely unmoved by soap and water. The surrounding skin was beginning to redden as well from the friction, and she was shivering with cold and fright. Just as the legend said, the letters would not come off.

She rummaged through the medicine cabinet, pushing aside castor oil and sodium bicarbonate, searching for something which might remove that dreadful sign. Nothing that came to hand seemed of the least use. She did not, after all, want to cure indigestion.

“Aunt Myrtle?” she called, heading for the old lady’s room. “Aunt Myrtle, what’s the name of your doctor and where does he live? I think I need to see him right away.”

“Doctor Jackson, dear,” her aunt replied, from her bed. “Down the road a way, then left at the crossroads. Past the old Pacheco place, then it’s the big brick place on the right.”

“Thanks!” Trixie cried, giving her aunt a kiss.

The next stop was Brian’s room. She barely stopped to knock before barging in on him, demanding that he hand over the keys. Beside him, Carrie sleepily raised her head, her short, dark hair falling perfectly into place. Trixie barely noticed the familiar irritation: Brian’s wife had hair that looked sleek and beautiful, even when she was half asleep, while Trixie’s own hair was never completely under control.

“On the dresser,” her brother said, obviously irritated. “And next time, wait until I answer before you come in.”

“Whatever,” Trixie answered, over her shoulder as she left the room.

She was out of the house and into the car before anyone else had time to ask what was going on. With a pounding heart, she followed the directions Aunt Myrtle had given, arriving at the doctor’s house in a little under ten minutes.

“Is the doctor in?” she asked the woman who answered the door in her pyjamas. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you,” Trixie added, belatedly. “My name’s Trixie and I’m Myrtle Brown’s great niece. I have something that I need him to take a quick look at.”

“Come on in,” said the woman with an indulgent smile. “I’m Mrs. Jackson. He’ll be with you in a few moments.”

The older man who arrived a few minutes later had a kindly smile, too. “And what can I do for you, young lady?” he asked.

“I stayed last night at Aunt Myrtle’s,” she said, shivering a little. “You know the story, don’t you?”

“I take it you’re single, then,” smiled the old doctor. “Yes, I’ve heard many a version of that old story. Which one of them was told last night?”

In answer, Trixie hitched up the sleeve of her shirt, revealing the red letters.

“Ah,” he said, running a finger over the mark. “Initials written in Bess Baker’s blood. Well, well. I haven’t seen anything like that for quite a while.”

“Make it go away, please,” Trixie implored. “It’s got to go away, but I can’t get it off. I can’t go around with blood on my arm.”

“Paint, I’d say,” said Dr. Jackson, continuing his examination. “Some sort of dye? Or, perhaps, ink. Yes, that would make more sense. I think it’s red ink. Just wait here and I’ll see if I’ve got anything that will get it off.”

“Ink?” she cried, incredulous. “It’s just ink? Not blood?”

“You had some friends there with you, didn’t you?” he asked. “Happens now and again. Dare say the story was told last night, in all its gory detail, and they thought it would be funny for it to come true. Very nicely done, too. One of your friends must be quite an artist.”

He returned a few minutes later with an assortment of bottles and some wads of cotton wool. A further few minutes experimentation left Trixie feeling rather ashamed of herself and terribly glum: the letters would not come off.

“Well, I’m sorry, my dear,” the old man apologised. “You’ll just have to wait for them to disappear by themselves. I’d say it’ll be a few days.”

“Thank you for trying, Doctor,” she replied, as she prepared to leave. “I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

“Not at all,” he said, handing her into the car. “You give Myrtle my best and tell her I’ll see her on Monday. None of that,” he added, waving away her attempt to pay him for his services. “On the house. I like a good joke as much as the next man.”

Trixie’s face flamed hot as she drove back to her aunt’s house, wondering how she would ever live this down. For more than a decade, now, everyone had expected her to one day admit her feelings for Jim and marry him. The rest of the group had dated, broken up, dated other people and settled down. Dan and Di’s eldest child was now twelve, while Mart and Honey’s was six. Even Brian had found someone to spend his life with. The only ones who could not seem to find the right person were Jim and Trixie.

“What am I going to do?” she wondered, pulling into the driveway. As the house came into sight, she saw that the kids were already out playing in the yard. Twelve-year-old Sean Mangan was throwing a basketball into a dilapidated hoop on the side of the barn, while the three girls were playing an improvised game of hopscotch. Three-year-old Anthony was most interested in the older boy and was trying to join his game.

“Hey! Aunt Trixie’s here,” called the older girl, ten-year-old Bryanna Mangan. In moments, all five kids were crowded around her car door.

“You going to give me room to get out?” Trixie asked, good-humouredly.

She smiled at them as they stepped back, two dark heads, two fair ones, and one red. They were all talking at once, but that didn’t bother Trixie. She considered their looks: handsome Sean, very like his father Dan; pretty Bryanna, so like Di; Tara, red haired, freckled and cute; fair haired Hannah and Anthony, with a mixture of Belden and Wheeler traits.

“So, are you going to show us the ghost’s mark?” asked Bryanna, at the top of her lungs. “Can we see, please?”

Trixie considered. “I’ll show Anthony,” she said, “but not the rest of you.”

“Oh, but that’s not fair!” cried the three girls together. “Why can’t we see?”

“Because Anthony can’t read,” replied their aunt - honorary, in some cases - triumphantly.

She drew the little boy aside, pulling up her sleeve so that he could see.

“That a J,” he said, poking the letter in question. “An’ that a--”

“That’s enough,” said Trixie hastily, putting a hand over his mouth and shaking the sleeve down at the same time. “I didn’t know that you knew your letters.”

“I know lotta things,” said Anthony proudly. “Hey! Why you got a wubble-you and a J on your arm?”

“Cause she’s gonna marry Uncle Jim,” said Hannah, in a matter-of-fact voice.

“Hey! That’s not right,” protested Trixie, back-pedalling furiously. “I’m not getting married to anyone.”

“Not ever?” asked Bryanna.

“Well, I don’t know about that. It’s hard to say about ‘ever.’”

To her enormous relief, Honey appeared at that moment, yelling, “Breakfast!” At once, the children were all scrambling towards the house, as fast as they could go.

“Sleep well?” Honey inquired sweetly, as Trixie neared the top of the stairs.

“Just fine,” replied her friend. “I wasn’t visited by any ghostly apparitions at all.”

“Nothing appeared on your arm, then?” asked Di, joining them. “No mysterious initials?”

“Not a one,” said Trixie, with a scowl. She sat down at the table with a look that defied anyone to talk to her.

The conversation flowed freely around her, however, and Trixie could not keep her bad mood for long. Soon, it came time to divide up the tasks for the day.

“What’s on the list of things to do?” Di asked, as she began to clear the table.

All eyes turned to Aunt Myrtle, who blushed. “I’m not sure what to have you all do,” she said, with an embarrassed smile. “I’m not used to having people help.”

“I thought I might help you around the house,” suggested Honey. “Maybe Mart or Brian could do some repairs, too. I saw one or two things that needed fixing.”

“I’ll watch the kids,” offered Di, addressing Honey. “Though, Sean would probably rather go with the men, if they’re doing some repair work and Bryanna’s old enough to help around the house.”

“How about some yard work?” asked Brian. “There must be something that needs doing outside. The vegetable garden probably needs some work.”

After a few minutes discussion, the tasks were appointed: Honey and Carrie to give the house a thorough cleaning, Di to care for the younger children, Brian to do inside repairs, Mart and Dan to do outside repairs and gardening, Trixie to run an errand to a neighbour and Jim to find the source of some strange noises which had been heard during the night by several of the group.

“Not that I would worry too much,” added Aunt Myrtle, referring to the noises. “They probably just came from the barn.”

“Why don’t you join Jim when you get back from your errand, Trixie?” asked Honey, with an entirely too-innocent air, as they helped to clear the table. The men had already gone to their tasks. “I’m sure that tracking down strange noises is right up your alley and he could probably use the company.”

“If he’s so lonely,” Trixie objected, “why didn’t he bring Juliet - Gillian - Jemima - whatever her name was.”

“Oh, Trixie!” laughed her sister-in-law. “If you mean Julia, she didn’t last past the second date and that was six months ago, at the very least. Jim is single. Very single. I’m sure he would like some company while he looks, and who better than a trained detective?”

“Fine,” Trixie muttered, as she stomped off to see the neighbour. “I’ll just go and sit in the barn and say, ‘Oh, Jim! You’re so strong and masculine! I just melt into a puddle every time I look at you!’ As if I’d ever admit to that!”

She reached the house next door after a brisk ten-minute walk and knocked loudly on the door. At first, it seemed that there was no one home. After calling a couple of times, she was answered by a small, dark-haired boy of about six.

“Hello,” she said, smiling down at him. “My name’s Trixie and I’m visiting next door. I’ve got a message for your mom.”

“She’s in the garden,” said the boy. “C’mon.”

He led the way along a rough stone path, to a neatly set out vegetable garden where a young woman was working. She looked up in surprise to see a stranger.

“Please, don’t get up,” said Trixie, coming towards her. “I’m staying next door with my aunt and she’s sent me with a message.” She proceeded to explain a matter concerning some chickens, receiving a message in return for the information and volunteering to deliver some baked goods which the neighbour had prepared.

“Toby,” called the woman to her son. “Could you please take this lady to the house and give her the package for Mrs. Brown? It’s on the kitchen counter.”

“Okay, Mommy,” said the boy. To Trixie, he repeated his earlier instruction, “C’mon.”

She said her goodbyes, before following him into the house. He led the way in through the back door, passing into the kitchen, where a number of pieces of Mexican pottery were displayed along the top of the cabinets.

“I saw some pots like these once when I was in Arizona,” she said, pointing them out to him. “They’re beautiful.”

“There’s nothing special about them,” said Toby, handing her the package. “We’ve got heaps of ’em. My parents used to live in Mexico.”

“You remind me of a boy I met when I was there,” she told him, thinking of Petey. She stopped, finding him staring at her in something like awe. “What is it?”

“She got you?” he asked. “The ghost got you? Wow! Just wait till I tell the boys at school. The ghost really got someone! An’ now she’s gonna track you down and make you eat up her bones, so you’ll be her and you’ll go ‘round writing on people in blood.”

Trixie looked down to find that the inked letters were peeking out at the end of her sleeve. A blush stole up her cheeks, despite her effort to stay calm.

“It wasn’t really the ghost,” she replied, tugging the sleeve down to cover them. “Somebody tried to play a joke on me, pretending to be her. It’s not real.”

“Then why won’t it come off?” asked the boy. “If it was a joke, you could get it off. I bet it really was the ghost. Hey! I saw something, too. Mommy says it wasn’t real, but last night I looked out my window when I was supposed to be sleeping and I saw a light in Mrs. Brown’s barn. I bet that was the ghost, too! Was yesterday that dead day?”

“Dead day?”

“They have it in Mexico. Daddy told me about it, but I forget what it’s called.”

“Dia de los Muertos?” asked Trixie. “The Day of the Dead? No, it wasn’t. It’s just the day that’s associated with the ghost at my aunt’s.”

“Wow! She has her own dead day? I can’t wait for school on Monday!”

Despite her embarrassment, Trixie was smiling at his enthusiasm as she thanked the boy and took her leave. She was still smiling when she entered the kitchen of her aunt’s home, meeting Honey.

“You look happy,” commented her friend.

“I’ve just had a conversation with a little boy who reminds me so much of Petey - from Arizona, remember?”

“Trixie, Petey is the same age as your brother Rob. He’s not a little boy, anymore. In fact, he’d be about old enough to have a son that age - Sean was two or three when Dan was the age that Rob is now and you know that he and Di got married before they thought about having children.”

“I know that! It’s just that he’s just how I remember Petey - right down to the nonsense talk about ghosts and bones and things. He did say something interesting, though.”

“Here we go again,” said Honey with a giggle. “You’re listening to little boys and using their ramblings as clues to build up a mystery where there isn’t one, aren’t you?”

“Never mind,” said Trixie, offended. “I’ll just go out to the barn and check it out for myself.”

Too late, she realised that there was nothing that Honey would like better than for her to do that: Jim was in the barn, looking for the source of strange noises. She trudged down there, almost unwilling to look, now that she knew that the others wanted her to be there. She stepped into the dim interior, waiting just inside the door for her eyes to adjust to the low light.

“Jim?” she called, uncertainly. “Are you here?”

“Yup,” he replied, from somewhere very close by. “Watch your step, or you’ll fall on top of me.”

A gaping hole was opened up in the floor, revealing a disused root cellar below. The trap door lay a short distance away, its metal handle rusted and broken. Through swirling dust motes in a shaft of bright sunlight, Trixie could make out a patch of red in the cellar, which was Jim’s hair.

“Give me a hand out?” he asked, reaching up to her.

She took the large hand and braced herself as he pulled himself out of the hole. He stepped outside into the sunshine and she followed, not knowing quite what to say.

“I think I know what the problem was,” he said, dusting himself off. “Rodents. Really large rodents. With spades.”

“Not shovels,” she agreed, with a reminiscent smile. Long ago, Jim had told her to use a spade for digging, after she and Honey had tried to excavate the gatehouse floor with shovels. “I remember.”

For a moment, Trixie was lost in her memories of those long ago adventures: finding a diamond in the gatehouse, her ‘yen for Ben’ and using Jim’s ring as the collateral for Brian’s jalopy, thinking that Mr. Maypenny was a unicycling poacher. The memories faded, leaving a bittersweet smile on her face.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“What?” she asked. “Oh, I was just remembering those early days.”

Jim nodded, looking just a little regretful. “We’d better go and tell your aunt what we’ve found,” he said, walking away before she could decide what to say.

They found Myrtle sitting on the porch swing, her bad foot propped on an old apple crate with a pillow on top. She looked pleased to see the two of them, calling a greeting as they approached.

“Now, don’t tell me you’ve been down in the root cellar,” she guessed, as Jim tried once again to dust himself off. “Is that where the trouble was?”

“I’m afraid it looks like someone’s been digging,” he said.

“Will people never learn there’s no truth in that rumour?” the old lady wondered aloud. “Year in, year out, for longer than I can remember, people have been trying to find that ring.”

“What ring?” asked Trixie dropping onto the step and leaning against the railing. “Why would people be digging in your barn?”

“You’ve never heard that part of the story?” asked Myrtle. “I suppose, last night, it ended with the initials written in blood. The rest of the story is that after Bess died, Edmund took the engagement ring he’d bought her and hid it in the root cellar, so that no one would find it. Aside from writing on girls’ arms in blood, Bess is supposed to help young men find her ring, so that they can win their true loves. Practically every year, someone tries to find the ring.”

“How do you know they won’t?” asked Trixie, who was hanging on every word.

“Well, that would be because I know the true story of Bess Baker,” said her aunt, with a grin. “Now, I don’t know quite how the other story came about, but in real life, Bess was not so bad as she was made out. Mind you, she was pretty wild for those days. She led Edmund on a merry chase, trying to woo her.

“A hundred years ago yesterday, she did have something of an accident, but it was nothing like the story that Mart told you last night. She certainly didn’t die. In fact, it gave her such a shock that she agreed right away to marry Edmund. They had eight children, including your great-grandmother, my mother.

“The ring most certainly was never in the root cellar. In fact, it’s right here, on my finger.”

“And the whole thing about writing in blood?”

“Well, I’m not certain, but I think Edmund and Bess might have thought that a good joke. They were my grandparents, remember, so I knew them. They fostered the story of a ghost to give the place a bit of history - and to scare the neighbourhood children at Halloween. I knew, of course, that Bess didn’t die in the accident, but the other children, younger than I was, couldn’t know that. Children didn’t speak of adults by their first names in those days.”

“I like that story a lot better than the other one, Mrs. Brown,” Jim remarked, as he stood up. “I’d much rather that stories have a happy ending.”

He wandered inside the house, leaving the two women alone.

“Of course, Trixie,” said her aunt, “the true moral of the first story is to not leave things too late.”

“I’m not leaving anything too late,” protested Trixie, rather defensively. “My life is going completely to plan.”

“Are you sure about that?” Myrtle asked. “Seems to me that there’s someone that you’ve been avoiding.”

“There’s nothing left to say,” she replied, sadly. “I left that so late that he’s lost hope.”

“Where there’s life, there’s hope,” said the old lady. “Speak your mind to him, child. See if there is something left to say.”

“I’ll think about it,” Trixie answered.

Some time later

“Mail for you,” said Mart to his wife, as he wandered into the house one evening. “A package.”

“From Jim,” Honey replied, rather perplexed, as she took it. “I wonder what he could be sending me?”

She tore the tape from the small box. Inside was an amount of packing material and a bundle wrapped in bubble wrap. A few minutes’ struggle revealed a small bottle filled with dark liquid.

“What is it?” asked Mart.

“Red ink,” Honey told him, with a surprised laugh. “He’s sent me some red ink. I wonder what it could mean?”

“You don’t think it’s to do with that trick you and Di played on Trixie, do you?”

“Could be,” she mused, turning it over in her hand. “This says that it’s permanent. Do you think that could mean…”

Mart took the packaging from her and started inspecting it. “There’s a sheet of paper here,” he said, pulling it out. “Is that Jim’s writing?”

“It’s a note,” she replied, nodding. “It says: ‘Something tells me that I shouldn’t encourage you, but thank you, anyway. JWF II.’”

Understanding dawned on her face. She turned and said to her husband: “And you thought matchmaking never worked.”

The same day, across town

Diana Mangan arrived home from work to find her husband and children waiting for her. Despite the urgent entreaties issued by the two girls that she come and open her mail, she took the time to put away her handbag and change into more casual clothes. It seemed like a war was about to break out in the living room by the time she was finished.

“Mom!” cried Bryanna, coming over all dramatic. “Finally! There’s a package from Uncle Jim and it’s addressed to you and Dad said we couldn’t open it and that we’d have to wait until you got home and can you please open it right now?”

Di grinned. There was nothing like a package to reduce her older daughter to near incoherence. “If it’s addressed to me,” she replied, “it’s probably not anything you’d be interested in.”

“Oh, Mom, I’m sure it would be.”

“It will,” echoed little Tara. “I’m sure it will, Mommy.”

Smiling indulgently, Di took up the small package and began to open it. Taking a Stanley knife from an upper shelf in the kitchen, she made short work of the wrappings and revealed a bottle of red ink, just like the one received by Honey.

“Is that ink?” asked Bryanna, in disgusted tones. “Just ink? Uncle Jim goes to all the trouble of sending us a package and it’s just ink?”

“No,” said her mother. “Uncle Jim went to all the trouble of sending me a package. There’s a difference.”

In the meantime, she had discovered a note. Dan walked up behind her, curious to see what all the excitement was about, and read over her shoulder. ‘I’m sure you can put this to another artistic use. With thanks, JWF II’ it read.

“I hope he kept some for himself,” said Dan.

“I’m sure he did,” Di replied with a smile.

In yet another location, on the same day

Jim took a step back and admired the arrangement of bottles of red ink. That carton was a good investment, he thought to himself. I won’t run out for months, probably years. A slight sound alerted him to the fact that he was not alone and he turned, a smile on his face.

“You’re very pleased with yourself, aren’t you?” Trixie asked, advancing on him.

“I am,” he agreed. He took her left hand in his right and admired the ring that he found there. “I have a good supply of red ink and you’ve finally agreed to be my wife. What more could I want?”

“You could’ve put the ‘wife’ bit before the ‘ink’ bit,” she grumbled, good-naturedly.

He lifted the bottom hem of her T-shirt, revealing a very crooked set of his initials across her stomach in red ink. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m quite attached to the ink and you’ve got plenty more skin for me to practice on.”

“Do you think we should tell them?”

“About the ink?” He looked alarmed.

“No!” she giggled. “I meant about the engagement.”

“Let them wonder,” he said, thinking of the packages he had sent. “They had their fun; now it’s time for ours.”

The End

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