Read Online The Mystery of the Queen's Necklace by Julie Campbell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Julie Campbell
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dark red sedan drew up under the portico of the Garden Hotel, and McDuff got out of the driver’s seat on the right side of the car. Then he walked around to open the door for Miss Trask, who, even Trixie had to admit, certainly didn’t look as if she’d been kidnapped.
“I’m so sorry,” Miss Trask said. “We didn’t notice the time.” Her short gray hair was blown every which way, and her blue eyes were shining. Her brown tweed suit was adorned with a yellow chiffon scarf that Trixie had never seen before.
The Bob-Whites couldn’t believe their ears. Miss Trask, the efficient manager of the Wheeler estate— forgetting the time?
McDuff was peeling a five-pound note from a fat roll of bills. “Here ye are, lass,” he told Trixie. “I certainly appreciated the loan.”
Trixie turned bright red. Gleeps, she gulped silently. I really goofed this time. How wrong could she get? He wasn’t a crook, or a con man, or a kidnapper, or even a fortune hunter, since Miss Trask didn’t have a fortune. He must be what he appeared to be—their friend. I’ll just have to make it up to him, she resolved. From now on, I'm going to be as nice as pie.
... Even if I don't like him all that much, she couldn’t help adding to herself.
Aloud she mumbled, “You’re quite welcome.”
The car McDuff had picked out for them was a four-door with just enough room for the six of them. “I wasn’t sure whether ye wanted an estate or a saloon,” he said.
“What do you mean, saloon?” Mart asked. They were all standing around the car, admiring it. Its bright chrome sparkled in the sunlight.
Miss Trask laughed. “Mr. McDuff says that an estate is what a station wagon is called here,” she explained. “And a saloon is a sedan.”
“A saloon?” giggled Honey. “I thought a saloon was where the cowboys are always going in Western movies.”
“Got it!” Mart snapped his fingers and ran his hand fondly over the gleaming, dark red fender. “Remember when we went to Vermont, and Di and I named our beige Volkswagen the Tan Van? Well— get this—I hereby christen this car the Maroon Saloon!”
“Oh, Mart, that’s neat!” squealed Honey.
“If Di were here,” Trixie teased, “she’d think Mart’s wit was second only to Shakespeare’s.”
Mart pointed a finger and ordered, “ ‘Get thee to a nunnery!’ ”
Instead of obeying, Trixie made a face at him and got into the car.
In a short while, the Maroon Saloon was heading north, Gordie McDuff at the wheel and Miss Trask sitting beside him. The four Bob-Whites were a little cramped in the backseat, but they didn’t mind. It was a sunny day, and the countryside was greener than the emeralds in Honey’s necklace. Soft white clouds sailed across an azure sky.
When McDuff’s deep voice broke into a Scottish song, they all joined in:
“Speed, bonny boat, like a bird on the wing,
‘Onward,’ the sailors cry.
‘Carry the lad that was born to be king,
Over the sea to Skye.’
Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,
Thunderclouds rend the air.
Baffled our foes stand by the shore,
Follow they will not dare.”
“That song’s about Bonnie Prince Charlie, right?” Mart asked.
“Now, there’s a brainy laddie,” said McDuff. “Aye, the Young Pretender he was called by those who didn’t agree that he was the rightful king. Those people won out, too, and defeated Charles in battle at Culloden Moor.”
“Did Prince Charlie escape?” Honey asked.
“He probably got his head chopped off,” Trixie guessed, “like Mary Queen of Scots.”
“No, no, he escaped to France,” McDuff said.
Kindhearted Honey breathed a sigh of relief.
“Were you born in Scotland, Mr. McDuff?” Trixie asked politely.
“Aye, little girl, that I was.In Glasgow.” McDuff’s big hands swung the car easily around one of the grassy circles that punctuated the straight and narrow motorway.
“When did you move to Canada?” Trixie persisted.
“Really, Trixie,” Miss Trask
“I’m so sorry,” Miss Trask said. “We didn’t notice the time.” Her short gray hair was blown every which way, and her blue eyes were shining. Her brown tweed suit was adorned with a yellow chiffon scarf that Trixie had never seen before.
The Bob-Whites couldn’t believe their ears. Miss Trask, the efficient manager of the Wheeler estate— forgetting the time?
McDuff was peeling a five-pound note from a fat roll of bills. “Here ye are, lass,” he told Trixie. “I certainly appreciated the loan.”
Trixie turned bright red. Gleeps, she gulped silently. I really goofed this time. How wrong could she get? He wasn’t a crook, or a con man, or a kidnapper, or even a fortune hunter, since Miss Trask didn’t have a fortune. He must be what he appeared to be—their friend. I’ll just have to make it up to him, she resolved. From now on, I'm going to be as nice as pie.
... Even if I don't like him all that much, she couldn’t help adding to herself.
Aloud she mumbled, “You’re quite welcome.”
The car McDuff had picked out for them was a four-door with just enough room for the six of them. “I wasn’t sure whether ye wanted an estate or a saloon,” he said.
“What do you mean, saloon?” Mart asked. They were all standing around the car, admiring it. Its bright chrome sparkled in the sunlight.
Miss Trask laughed. “Mr. McDuff says that an estate is what a station wagon is called here,” she explained. “And a saloon is a sedan.”
“A saloon?” giggled Honey. “I thought a saloon was where the cowboys are always going in Western movies.”
“Got it!” Mart snapped his fingers and ran his hand fondly over the gleaming, dark red fender. “Remember when we went to Vermont, and Di and I named our beige Volkswagen the Tan Van? Well— get this—I hereby christen this car the Maroon Saloon!”
“Oh, Mart, that’s neat!” squealed Honey.
“If Di were here,” Trixie teased, “she’d think Mart’s wit was second only to Shakespeare’s.”
Mart pointed a finger and ordered, “ ‘Get thee to a nunnery!’ ”
Instead of obeying, Trixie made a face at him and got into the car.
In a short while, the Maroon Saloon was heading north, Gordie McDuff at the wheel and Miss Trask sitting beside him. The four Bob-Whites were a little cramped in the backseat, but they didn’t mind. It was a sunny day, and the countryside was greener than the emeralds in Honey’s necklace. Soft white clouds sailed across an azure sky.
When McDuff’s deep voice broke into a Scottish song, they all joined in:
“Speed, bonny boat, like a bird on the wing,
‘Onward,’ the sailors cry.
‘Carry the lad that was born to be king,
Over the sea to Skye.’
Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar,
Thunderclouds rend the air.
Baffled our foes stand by the shore,
Follow they will not dare.”
“That song’s about Bonnie Prince Charlie, right?” Mart asked.
“Now, there’s a brainy laddie,” said McDuff. “Aye, the Young Pretender he was called by those who didn’t agree that he was the rightful king. Those people won out, too, and defeated Charles in battle at Culloden Moor.”
“Did Prince Charlie escape?” Honey asked.
“He probably got his head chopped off,” Trixie guessed, “like Mary Queen of Scots.”
“No, no, he escaped to France,” McDuff said.
Kindhearted Honey breathed a sigh of relief.
“Were you born in Scotland, Mr. McDuff?” Trixie asked politely.
“Aye, little girl, that I was.In Glasgow.” McDuff’s big hands swung the car easily around one of the grassy circles that punctuated the straight and narrow motorway.
“When did you move to Canada?” Trixie persisted.
“Really, Trixie,” Miss Trask
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