Mystery of the Secret Message (2 page)

“You children remember Miss Pepper?” he asked.

The Alden children nodded politely and said hello.

Sylvia Pepper was hard to forget, Jessie thought. The woman had shiny black hair pulled back in a tight bun. Red-rimmed glasses framed her snapping dark eyes. Scarlet lipstick matched her silk dress.

Ignoring the children, Sylvia went on with her conversation.

“Don’t you agree, Mr. Alden?” she demanded.

“Well — I — ” Grandfather began.

“My building is one of the oldest in Greenfield,” she said, waving scarlet-tipped fingers as she talked. “It would be logical to put the Minuteman statue in front of
my
store, don’t you think?”

“I really can’t say,” Grandfather said. “It’s up to the townspeople to decide whether the statue will be moved.”

“I’d plant flowers around the statue,” Sylvia rattled on, not listening. “Wouldn’t pink petunias be nice?”

Jessie started to giggle. The thought of Josiah Wade, Greenfield’s Revolutionary War hero, standing in a tub of pink petunias was just too funny.

When Sylvia looked at her sharply, Jessie turned the laugh into a cough.

“We’ll know if the statue will be moved the day of the festival,” Grandfather told Sylvia. “Thanks for displaying our poster in your window.”

“Don’t forget I’m also donating decorations for the festival,” Sylvia reminded him. “I hope you’ll remember that when you decide where to move the statue.”

“We don’t want to move the statue,” Benny piped up. “We like it in the square. It’s always been there.”

Sylvia Pepper noticed him for the first time. “Well, it’s time for a change. That’s the trouble with this town. Everything has been exactly the same for the last two hundred years.”

“I think that’s what’s great about Greenfield,” said a new voice. “That’s why I moved my business here.”

Everyone turned to see a slender woman coming across the square. She wore jeans and a bright orange sweater. A yellow scarf held back her long blond ponytail.

“Miss Wellington,” Grandfather greeted. “I don’t believe you’ve met my grandchildren. This is Henry, Jessie, Violet, and Benny.”

“Are you the new photographer?” Violet asked. Grandfather had told her a professional photographer was coming to Greenfield.

“Yes, I am. And please call me Dawn,” she said. “I don’t have my sign up yet, but my studio is open.”

Violet stared at the small building on the other side of Cooke’s Drugstore. It was nice having a real photographer in town. Maybe Dawn would give her some pointers.

“What do you think about the statue?” Henry asked Dawn. “Should we move it?”

“I’m new here,” the young woman replied, “but I believe the statue ought to stay in the square. It belongs there.”

“We think so, too!” Benny answered for the Aldens. “But Miss Pepper doesn’t!”

“Benny,” Grandfather said. “We’re all entitled to our own opinions.”

Sylvia Pepper turned a dull red. “Well!” she said huffily. “Some people can stand around gabbing all day, but I’ve got a business to run!”

With that, she wheeled and went inside her shop, slamming the door.

“Gosh, I hope I didn’t make her mad,” Dawn said. “I’d like us to be friends.”

“I’m sure you will,” Grandfather said smoothly. “Sylvia can be a little forceful at times, but that’s just her way.”

“I have to get back to work myself,” said Dawn, heading toward her studio. “Please come see me. I love company.”

Grandfather checked his watch. “I still have to visit Reit’s Jewelry this afternoon.”

“And we have to go back in the drugstore,” Violet told him. She hadn’t forgotten about the strange photograph.

“When you’re finished, meet me in front of town hall,” Grandfather said, striding across the square.

The Aldens went back into Cooke’s Drugstore. Mrs. Turner was unpacking a carton of first-aid supplies.

Mr. Kirby was talking in a low voice on the phone. When he saw the children, he spoke a few terse words into the receiver and hung up.

Violet put the packet of photographs on his counter. “Mr. Kirby, one of the pictures in this envelope isn’t mine.”

“What do you mean?” the druggist asked, rather impatiently.

Henry figured Mr. Kirby thought they were wasting his time. “Violet counted her pictures,” he said. “She took twelve photographs and there are thirteen in the envelope.”

“Let’s see it,” said Mr. Kirby with a sigh. Violet slid the strange photograph out of the envelope. “Not very interesting, is it?” he remarked critically.

Now Mrs. Turner came over. “I bet that picture fell out when the envelopes got all mixed up.”

“Mixed up?” Henry repeated. “What happened?”

“The man who makes the photo deliveries came at a bad time this morning,” Mr. Kirby explained. “The store was crowded with people and other deliveries. The photo lab man tripped and dropped the box.”

“Envelopes flew everywhere,” Mrs. Turner put in, shaking her head. “Mr. Cooke would never leave boxes in the aisle.”

Mr. Kirby frowned at her. “Everyone pitched in and helped sort out the envelopes. Several customers had come in to pick up their photographs.”

“The picture probably fell out of another envelope,” Jessie suggested. “And that person hasn’t picked up his or her pictures yet.”

Mrs. Turner shook her head. “Nope. The bin where we keep the photo deliveries is empty. Violet, you were the last person to pick up photographs from this delivery.”

“Then we don’t know who lost this.” Violet tucked the mysterious photograph into her own envelope. “If anyone reports a missing picture, please let me know.”

“I’m sure no one will claim that dull picture,” Mr. Kirby said, turning away.

“Thanks anyway,” Henry said. When they left the store, he added, “Boy, that guy’s sure not much help. I’ll be glad when Mr. Cooke comes back.”

Jessie glanced back through the window. Mr. Kirby was dialing the phone again.

“He couldn’t wait to get us out of there,” she said. “I guess he didn’t want us to hear his phone conversation.”

“I don’t think he likes kids,” said Benny as they crossed the square to the town hall building.

Henry agreed. “I think you’re right, Benny. Mr. Kirby is one of those grown-ups who is impatient around kids. Like nothing we say or do is important. Some grown-ups are like that.”

“I hope you don’t mean me,” said a cheerful voice behind them. “Am I one of those awful grown-ups?”

Benny recognized the young man first. “Mr. Bass!” he exclaimed. “You’re not awful!”

Rick Bass pretended to wipe his forehead. “Whew! For a minute there, I was worried you thought I was an old grouch.”

Jessie laughed. Rick Bass could never be an old grouch. He was too young, for one thing. And he was always smiling. His chestnut hair was the same color as the leaves blowing across the square today.

“When will the museum be open?” she asked him.

Rick shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his denim jacket. “When I was hired, I thought I’d have the Greenfield Historical Museum open in a month. I’ve been here three months and I’m still digging my way through the artifacts.”

“The art — what?” asked Benny.

“Artifacts are objects. Anything that is part of Greenfield’s history,” replied Rick. “It can be something really old, like a pewter cup from the seventeen-hundreds. Or something not so old, like the first phone book.”

Just then Grandfather joined them. “Mr. Bass,” he said. “How is the museum coming along?”

“As I was telling your grandchildren, it’s a bigger job than I thought it would be,” he replied.

James Alden nodded. “People have been donating items to the historical society for many years. I imagine there’s quite a pile of stuff in the town hall basement.”

“Yes, sir,” Rick agreed. “But I love rooting through old things. You’d be surprised at some discoveries I’ve made. One is
very
interesting.”

Benny was instantly curious. “What is it?”

“Tell us!” Violet urged.

“Not today,” said Grandfather. “We must be going.”

“We’ll be back here tomorrow,” Benny informed Rick. “Will you come see us?”

Rick made a thumbs-up sign. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

Benny hated being kept in suspense. “Can you give us a little hint?”

Rick smiled mysteriously. “This town is full of secrets!”

W
e need a new mystery,” Benny said. The four Alden children were sitting and talking in their boxcar, and Benny was feeling restless.

“We have to help Grandfather with the Winter Festival. We don’t have time to solve a mystery, too,” said Jessie.

She wrote something in a green binder. Knowing that Jessie was organized and responsible, Grandfather had asked her to keep track of preparations for the festival. As Grandfather’s assistant, Jessie kept notes in the festival notebook.

“Can’t we do both?” Benny said.

“Well, Benny, mysteries don’t just fall out of the sky,” Violet said.

“What about your picture?” asked Benny. “That’s a mystery.”

“Violet’s picture is just a weird mistake,” said Henry.

Jessie closed her notebook. “We promised to clean the statue today. Is everyone ready?”

“I have the lunch Mrs. McGregor packed us.” Violet held up a large wicker picnic basket. She slipped the strange photograph into her basket. Maybe Mr. Kirby had found the rightful owner.

“And I’ve got the cleaning stuff.” Jessie wheeled her bicycle out from the garage. The tote bag containing her notebook swung from her handlebars.

She handed Henry the bucket of cleaning supplies to hang from his handlebars.

Benny climbed on his bike. “Let’s go!”

The children pedaled quickly in the crisp morning air to the center of Greenfield.

They parked their bicycles in the lot on one side of the square. Shops and businesses lined two sides. The town hall, with its wide green lawn, occupied the fourth side. In the center of the brick-paved common area stood the statue of Josiah Wade.

Violet wished she had brought her camera. The square looked so pretty today. The copper spire of the town hall gleamed in the bright sunlight.

“What a great day,” Henry said.

“Maybe we’ll find a new mystery,” Benny said hopefully.

“Work first!” Jessie chided gently. Secretly, she also wished they had a new mystery to solve. Life was so much more exciting when they were searching for clues.

They unloaded the cleaning supplies at the base of the statue.

“He sure is dirty.” Jessie swiped a finger over one bronze sleeve. “Well, we’ll make him clean again.”

She handed the bucket to Henry. “Mrs. Turner in the drugstore should let you fill this.”

Henry returned a few minutes later with a bucketful of hot water. He squirted in detergent to make suds. Then they each grabbed a brush and began scrubbing.

After working for about a half hour, the children stopped to eat lunch.

After everyone washed their hands at Cooke’s Drugstore, Violet passed around turkey and cranberry sauce sandwiches on whole wheat bread. Henry poured them each a cup of hot chocolate from the thermos.

“And we have oatmeal cookies for dessert,” Violet said.

“Look how shiny Josiah’s boots are,” Benny said proudly, munching a carrot stick.

“You did a good job,” said Jessie. “That musket is tough, but I’ve almost got it cleaned.”

Across the square, a familiar figure emerged from a side door of the town hall.

“It’s Rick!” Benny said, waving excitedly. “Now he’ll tell us the secret.”

“Looking good,” Rick Bass said. “I bet old Josiah loves getting a bath.”

Violet offered him an oatmeal cookie. “You said you know something about the town.”

“So I did. Boy, these are good cookies. Please give my compliments to your Mrs. McGregor.” Rick’s brown eyes crinkled at the corners. He loved to tease.

“Rick!” Benny wailed. “Tell us!”

Rick laughed. “All right! I’ve kept you in suspense long enough.”

The children leaned forward eagerly.

“Josiah Wade,” Rick stated, “was not a Minuteman.”

“He wasn’t a soldier?” Henry asked. “Why is his statue dressed like one?”

“Good question,” said Rick. “I think it’s a joke the sculptor played on Greenfield.”

“What kind of a joke is that?” Violet wondered.

Looking at the children’s blank faces, Rick explained, “I’ve been reading about the history of Greenfield. This statue was created by Franklin Bond.”

“Here’s the marker,” said Jessie, pointing to a small brass plate at the base of the statue. “It says, ‘Sculpted by Franklin A. Bond, June 4, 1855.’ ”

“Now, think about these dates,” Rick told them. “Josiah Wade was born in 1763. The Revolutionary War took place between 1775 and 1783.”

Henry did the math quickly in his head. “Josiah was only twelve when the war began.”

“Exactly!” Rick was warming to his subject. “Josiah Wade was a teenage boy during the period. He probably remembered the war quite well, but I doubt he actually fought in it.”

Benny was confused. “Then why would Franklin Bond make Josiah a soldier if he wasn’t?”

“Franklin Bond grew up in Greenfield,” replied Rick. “When he was a young boy he knew Josiah Wade. By the time Franklin created the statue, Josiah was an old man. Franklin probably listened to Josiah’s stories about the war. Maybe Josiah told Franklin he fought with the patriots.”