Helen Belden loved her family. She enjoyed the home she’d made for her husband and children, the garden she lovingly tended each spring, the seedlings she started for it, and the meals she prepared. She loved every part of her life at Crabapple Farm, except for one thing. Mysteries.

There was no denying her daughter was a mystery magnet. She had no idea how Trixie managed to attract mysteries. She had been delighted at that early morning hour when the doctor had announced to her and Peter that they had their first daughter. She had visions of ruffled socks, smocked dresses, and knitted bonnets. They would sew and cook together. She even imagined her daughter as her best friend. They would giggle and gab about celebrity gossip, the latest fashions; perhaps her daughter would share her interest in painting. She had visions of guiding a small hand through her first watercolor. However instead of a sweet and gentle fashionista, the beautiful, white-haired daughter she’d delivered, the one Peter always called his princess, would grow up to be a tomboy, one that was just as rough and tumble as her sons. She’d wondered if that’s what made her such a rough and tumble little girl, the two older brothers, but they were very protective of her at the same time.

Helen had her first inkling the week before she enrolled Trixie in kindergarten. Trixie. Somehow the lovely and refined name of Beatrix had become Trixie. It had been her brothers that started calling her by the nickname. While he always deny it, Trixie was Mart’s first word. It was hard to make that connection, but when her daughter, her darling Beatrix, asked her with a trembling lip if her teacher would call her Trixie or Beatrix she’d been taken aback.

“Darling, Beatrix is a beautiful name. What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, Momsy,” her little girl stammered. “But I like Trixie better.”

“But why?”

“Because when I’m in trouble then I’m always Beatrix,” she finally managed to explain through quivering lips. “But Mart and Brian, they call me Trixie, and so do you and Daddy, unless I’ve done something wrong, then you call me Beatrix. I don’t want to think I’m in trouble all the time at school.”

Helen bit her lip. Her daughter had a point, but still, she had to make one more try. “Dr. Ferris calls you Beatrix,” she pointed out. “Does that make you feel like you’re in trouble?”

Trixie shook her head. “No, because he gives lollipops at the same time. If someone is giving you candy, then you know you’re not in trouble.”

Her daughter had a point. “Very well, Trixie. That’s what we’ll tell them at the school then, your name is Trixie.”

“Thanks Momsy! You’re the bestest!” Her daughter scampered off, a smile on her face as she went to search out her almost-twin. Helen leaned back in her chair and sighed as she realized that Momsy would probably be the next thing to go.

 

 

Now here it was almost nine years later, and her daughter seemed to finish one mystery and exchange it for another. It didn’t matter if the girl was safe at home in Sleepyside, or off with her friends to Arizona, the City, Iowa, or the Mississippi River, she was going to find a mystery. “We should’ve just bought her a horse,” Helen muttered as she slammed the ham down on the counter with more force than necessary. The cut of pork was entirely too big, but now that she never knew if she’d be serving her own family of six or her children’s friends as well, she erred on the side of caution. It was much easier to plan with leftovers than not to have enough.

Things had been bad enough after the incident in New York, but then when her daughter actually had to spend the night in the hospital, she thought she’d never let Trixie go on another trip with Matthew Wheeler again! The nerve of that man, off doing business with another company while her daughter had been targeted by gun runners. Really! Helen had found the opportune moment to give him a piece of her mind and hoped that would ease her feelings about the situation, but it hadn’t helped in the least. Mr. Lytell had tentatively mentioned the situation at the cash register when she’d bought the damn ham, and she’d unleashed more than a tongue lashing on him when he suggested that it had been worth it for the good it had done. Why, even sweet Mrs. Vanderpoel had implied that despite the adventures, Trixie had probably done more for the safety of the country that any soldier.

None of the Johnson family ever had adventures, they were as boring as the Sackville Baggins in the Hobbit story, never daring to leave out and seek their fortunes. It was one of the many reasons why she was content to be Moms and run her own kingdom named Crabapple Farm. Trixie had to get it from the Belden side. Why, look at Andrew and Harold, gallivanting all over the word for various reasons. Andrew had certainly managed to do his part to encourage the mystery-itis that plagued her daughter with all that silly sheep business.

She stirred the brown sugar and honey together vigorously, intent on preparing the ham and getting into the oven. She liked her hams finished well before the dinner hour, the meat was always more tender when it had ample opportunity to rest. She was so absorbed in her task, she failed to hear the creaking board on the porch. It normally was her first signal that she had a visitor. She turned to check the temperature on the oven when the knock on the door sounded.

She glanced toward the back door, frowning as she tried to decide who would knock at her back door. The kids were off somewhere, they wouldn’t knock and neither would their friends. Even Margery and Bill would knock and then immediately crack the door to shout out a friendly greeting.

Wiping her hands on her apron, she moved to open the door. The man took her by surprise. He was well-dressed, wearing round wire-rimmed glasses along with a trim suit. The August heat would normally cause beads of sweat in such clothing, but he gave her a tentative smile, holding a hat in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. He was certainly no utility worker.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“I do hope so,” he answered, glancing at the paper. “I’m looking for Ms. Belden.”

She frowned. Why on earth a man in a suit would be knocking at her back door and looking for her. She thought carefully about her response.

“May I ask why you are looking for Ms. Belden?” she finally asked.

“Well, actually I would prefer to discuss it directly with Ms. Belden, seeing as how it’s a bit confidential.”

Confidential. There was nothing in her life that was confidential, not even her best recipes were kept secret. But now this stranger, he had to be a lawyer, although he carried an air about him of someone who would be more at home in a library, he wanted to discuss something confidential. Perhaps he was an antique book dealer. He didn’t act like a salesman, and it had been a long time since she’d been tricked by a salesman. Certainly, he was innocuous enough not to raise any real concern. Besides, Reddy had to be close by. If there had been anything untrustworthy about the man’s intentions, he would have raised an alarm.

“If you’d like to come in,” she pushed the door open wider. “I’m Ms. Belden.”

The man seemed surprised. Whoever he had been expecting it apparently wasn’t a motherly woman wearing an apron. “Thank you, ma’am. I’m Mr. Thomas.”

“Perhaps you’d like some lemonade?” she asked as she motioned him to the chair at the kitchen table. “Or some ice water. I’m in the middle of preparing supper, so the kitchen should suffice for your, uh, confidential discussion.”

“A glass of water would be just the thing,” he replied as he sat down. He removed a snowy white handkerchief from his breast pocket and began to polish his eyeglasses.

She quickly added ice and water to a glass and sat it in front of him, watching as he finished the task of making sure he was no longer looking through smudged lenses, she took her seat.

He took a sip of water and cleared his throat. “Honestly, Ms. Belden, I was expecting you to be a bit younger.”

That smarted and thus her response was sharper than normal. “Honestly Mr. Thomas, I wasn’t expecting you at all. Let’s quit beating around the bush and get to the point. What do you wish to discuss with me?”

“It’s come to my attention that you have certain … talents.”

“I’d like to think so,” she replied. “But what specific talent are you referring to?”

“You have what seems to be an uncanny ability to sense when something is wrong. A sort of sixth-sense that’s been mentioned in movies and the like. You may have heard it referred to as a spidey sense after the Spiderman super-hero. In biblical times, it was referred to as the spiritual gift of discernment.”

Helen leaned back in her chair and stared. This was confidential? He had to have her confused with someone else. Perhaps he was looking for Alicia, but nothing but the truth was in order, so that was exactly what she gave him. “Mr. Thomas, I have no idea what you are talking about. My talents, while humble at best, are not in those areas.”

“Oh come now, Ms. Belden,” he admonished. “Don’t be so modest. After all, did you, or did you not play a role in apprehending thieves on numerous occasions, busted a gun-running scheme wide open, found not one, but two missing heirs, and exposed an imposter? These exploits have been fairly well-documented.”

Her jaw dropped. No wonder he thought she would be much younger, he was talking about Trixie! But what on earth did he want to discuss with her fourteen-year old daughter? Her eyes narrowed.

“Perhaps among my friends and a couple of write-ups in the local paper, but that’s not the sort of news that’s garnered any kind of wide-spread attention. My goodness, there are babies born in Wal-Mart with more press than that!”

“Trust me, Ms. Belden, my friends and I, we keep close tabs on these types of stories, especially when one name keeps popping up. Why, I guess we’ve heard your name a dozen times in the last year.”

“Even if you have, what does that have to do with anything? You yourself said it was well-documented; how could it begin to be confidential?”

“Your home…” he paused. “This is your home, correct?”

“It’s been in the family for a long time,” she admitted. “But why does Crabapple Farm matter?”

“Your home here, the farm, it borders the river, am I not correct?”

“You can’t see the river from here, and actually we border a private game preserve and the preserve borders the bluffs along the river. We don’t keep a boat or anything, it’s not the right sort of access for that. Besides being in the hollow …” her voice trailed off. She was talking too much. “What does the river have to do with anything confidential?” Her eyes narrowed once again, and she found herself wishing she knew exactly where Reddy was now. “Exactly what do you want, Mr. Thomas?”

“My friends and I, we work with an agency that likes to, as we say, keep tabs on things. We wanted you to work with us to let us know when you felt like things might be going on along the river.”

“I don’t understand. Things happen along the river all the time. The Hudson is a very active waterway, everything from businesses, fishing, barges, to pleasure boats. Exactly what agency are you with?” None of it made sense.

“I’d rather not say,” he replied primly, folding his hands. “But we will pay a certain stipend for the information you provide.”

“Pay a stipend?” she echoed leaning back in her chair. Her mind was a mass of confusion now, her thoughts processing faster than she could make sense of the situation. The calm, bespectacled man, in his well-tailored brown suit suddenly seemed ominous to her. Whatever he wanted to pay for, it certainly wasn’t for the greater good of Sleepyside or Westchester County, or even the United States. Of that much she was certain. But how in the world could she get rid of him and make sure he never came back if he realized his error. She would not, she could not have him approach her daughter.

“Yes, a stipend,” he said. “We can set up regular monthly payments if you like.” His eyes glanced around the room, taking in the worn cabinets and floors, and outdated appliances. She saw it now through his eyes, and while parts of Crabapple Farm were shabby, it was still a cozy and comfortable place to live. They would update things when the need arose, but not to simply update for the sake of making changes. “Your family could likely use the money.”

The implication irritated her. Peter made an excellent living and they had plenty of money for everything that mattered!

“I appreciate your kind offer,” she finally said. “But there is simply no way I could agree to supply you information on a regular basis. There isn’t enough time in the day now for me to get done the things I must get done. Why only last week I had to tell the garden club that I couldn’t chair the fall bazaar.” She leaned forward and folded her hands in her lap. “Thank you, but no thank you, Mr. Thomas. Now, I simply must get this ham in the oven.” She stood as if to dismiss him.

He slowly stood as well. “Is there some way I could perhaps get you to reconsider?”

She shook her head.

“In that case, perhaps I could just leave my card with you, in case you change your mind?” He reached into his breast pocket and her heart sped up. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was not reaching for a wallet, but a weapon.

She pretended to be oblivious and moved toward the counter. The knives in their wooden block would be too obvious, and she hadn’t even pulled out the kitchen shears to cut the netting away from her ham. The heavy cast iron skillet she sometimes used was put away. She once again found herself desperately wished for Reddy.

“Ms. Belden, I’m afraid that I really must insist you reconsider.” His voice was determined and when she turned back around she saw him pulling on a pair of dark, leather gloves.

“Mr. Thomas, it’s time for you to leave,” she replied firmly. “I can promise you, there is nothing you can say or do that will change my mind.”

“We’ll have to see about that,” he growled as he stepped toward her.

Her response was automatic and in one swift movement, she had picked up the ham by the end of the netting. Gripping it tightly, she whirled around and brandished it like a cudgel. The ham struck Mr. Thomas right upside his head. He crumpled from the force of the fifteen-pound ham, clearly dazed as his hands went out to stabilize himself. It gave her the time she needed and in two seconds she had a knife at his throat and her apple corer shoved against his back. He couldn’t have seen what she grabbed from the drawer, and she only hoped he would think it a gun.

“You’re going to get up slowly,” she instructed him. “And you’re going to leave as fast as you can. Otherwise, I’m going to have to kill you.”

He swallowed. Could she possibly have convinced him she was completely ruthless? Perhaps that she’d already been recruited by the other side?

“Helen Belden!” the voice from the door startled them both. “What on earth is going on here?”

“Just getting ready to take out the trash, Willemina,” she answered. “There’s been a little bit of a problem here this morning with Mr. Thomas.”

“Mr. Thomas?” she asked sharply. “Here, in Sleepyside?”

“Do you know him?” Helen asked turning to stare at her elderly neighbor, who had lived in quiet Sleepyside all of her life?

“I know of him,” Mrs. Vanderpoel replied, her eyes narrowing. “I need to make a phone call, don’t let him move, and if he does, just shoot him.”

The phone call was cryptic and it certainly hadn’t been made to 9-1-1. Before Helen ever realized what was going on, Willemina Vanderpoel had taken charge. Within five minutes, Bill Regan was there with his hunting rifle. He had rope as well and had Mr. Thomas trussed up like her poor ham in no time.

Mr. Thomas only spoke four words. “You’re not Beatrix Belden.”

“No, I’m not,” Helen answered. “But I swear, if I ever find out you approached my daughter in any way, you will not have time to live to regret it. I may not have the talents she has, but if there is ever a next time, I can take you down with something far worse than a ham.”

The following hour was like watching a police procedural, with Willemina Vanderpoel as the lead detective. Helen half-expected the elderly woman to shove Mr. Thomas at the police and utter the phrase “Book him, Dan-o!”

But it wasn’t the police who finally showed up. If Helen had been forced to guess, she would’ve said FBI, but even then she wasn’t sure. But her house seemed suddenly populated with people she would never have expected to show up. Matthew Wheeler arrived, along with someone he called Mr. Brown and even Frank Lytell, who brought her a new ham.

The four of them, Matthew, Mr. Brown, Frank and Willemina talked in low tones after they’d sent Regan and Tom on their way. They all disbanded quickly, leaving Willemina to offer an explanation of sorts to Helen Belden.

“Let me make some tea,” she suggested as she shut the door behind the men. “I think you could use it.”

“I don’t need tea,” Helen said plainly enough. “I need an explanation.”

Willemina sighed as she sat next to her neighbor and friend. “Tea would be so much simpler than trying to explain.”

“Why? Why did he want information from Trixie? He offered to pay me money each month to feed him information. Why?”

“Helen, think about it for a moment,” Willemina said quietly. “He knew about what happened in Missouri. He knew about the gun runners that Trixie busted up.”

“Half the country apparently knows that story,” Helen answered. “Why does it matter?”

“Oh, Helen.” She sighed again, and as she exhaled; she shook her head. “Helen, Mr. Thomas is a spy, he was here to recruit Trixie. Our Government can acknowledge a ring of gun runners, but it’s ever so much more complicated to acknowledge the existence of an enemy spy.”

Helen laughed, but seeing the serious look on her friend’s face, the laugh died away. “You can’t be serious, why she’s only fourteen! They can’t possibly want to recruit a fourteen year-old girl to be a spy.”

“Yes, they can,” she answered. “And they do all the time. The younger the better.”

“How do you know?” she demanded. “How can you possibly know this?”

Willemina shrugged. “I’ve lived a lot longer than you, Helen. A lot longer. And this particular part of the country, with the river, it’s just like the Mississippi River, it’s a haven for smugglers, and criminals, pirates, and yes, spies. The nuclear plant is only 10 miles from here. I’ve seen things on this river, Helen, that would make you want to move.”

Helen gaped at her friend. “But …”

Willemina shook her head. “I’ve said all I’m going to say, Helen. You did a good thing here today. You helped to capture a spy, and a dangerous enemy to the United States. Mr. Brown will take care of things, but it’s important that you never speak of this to anyone.”

“But why, Willemina? I’m not being obtuse. I just don’t understand!” She reached for her friend’s hand. “Can’t you explain?”

Willemina sighed. “Oh, Helen. Sometimes it can’t be simple and easy, not even in Sleepyside. I can’t explain, other than to bluntly tell you that it won’t be safe for you and your family if this gets out. Don’t tell anyone, not even Peter, what happened here today. If anyone ever asks you, tell them it was me, understand? Tell them I apprehended Mr. Thomas and that the only reason you know is because you dropped in for a visit when it happened.”

A sound at the door caused Helen to roll her eyes. “That dog picked a fine time to show up!” she muttered. “Where was he when I needed him?” She got up and opened the door to let Reddy inside and returned to her seat. “If the situation arose and I did explain you aided in capturing some sort of criminal here, what will keep you safe?”

Willemina smiled softly. There would be no point in letting Helen know that Reddy had come to get her. This was the time to offer the weakest of explanations.

“I will keep me safe, Helen. She patted her hand. “You don’t need to worry about me. For one thing, I’m old enough that when my time comes, I’ll be ready. For another, no penny-ante super villain turned spy like Mr. Thomas is going to take me down!”

“Spy?” she uttered.

Willemina winked. “Just some thinking, or perhaps an example of what he might, or might not be.”

Helen nodded slowly, realization dawning. She sat there quietly for a few moments, before asking. “Not even, Peter? Really, Willemina, we don’t keep secrets from each other.”

“It’s not a secret, you had an intruder, Helen. It’s fine to tell them you took out an intruder with a ham and the community rallied, but the part about him recruiting you, or thinking he was recruiting Trixie. Please keep that part between us.”

The sweet elderly lady Helen had thought she knew so well reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “It’s important. More important than you think.”

They held each other’s gaze for some time, communicating like only two women can do for several seconds before Helen nodded.

“I understand,” she said finally. “I mean I understand and won’t say anything about that part of it, but I’ll never understand about spies and the rivers and things like that.”

“You don’t need to, Helen. It’s for the best if you don’t understand.”

Willemina stood to leave and paused for a moment. “By the way, Helen. I think I finally understand where Trixie gets it from.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Helen said, perplexed at this statement.

She put her hands on the table and leaned close. “You, Helen. Trixie gets it from you.” She stood and laughed. “Only you and Trixie would be able to take out an internationally known spy with a ham!”