The Pet Show Mystery

“Whew! For a minute there, I thought we’d hit our first real snag. I’m glad we managed to talk him into it.”
    “I’m afraid we may have said too much,” Brian said as he slid into the front seat of the station wagon next to Jim.
    “What do you mean?” Honey asked.
    “I mean that my outspoken younger brother promised Dr. Chang that we’d devise a separate category for each animal. That’s a lot of categories. Imagine sorting through all the entries to find the largest pet, then going through them again to find the smallest, and on and on, over and over again.”
    “Such lengthy labors will be unnecessary,” Mart said. “You see, yesterday in my computer programming class the teacher announced that we each have to come up with our own program. I’ve been wondering what mine would be. As soon as Honey mentioned all the prizes at the pet show, I realized that computerization was in order—indeed, indispensable. All we need to do is have each entrant fill out a detailed entry blank, with height, weight, type of animal, and special characteristics. I input the data into a program I’ve devised that will subsort by predefined categories. Then, the morning of the contest, I push a button, and it all prints out in a matter of seconds.”
    “Really?” Trixie asked, genuinely impressed. “The computer can do all that?”
    “The program can, if I write it that way,” Mart corrected her.
    “It’s hard to imagine,” Honey said.
    “Well, when the time comes, I’ll let you watch while I run the program,” Mart promised.
    When they arrived at the mall, everyone piled out of the car. Mart ran all the way to the main entrance, so he could get in out of the cold.
    “What did people do before there were indoor shopping malls?” Trixie wondered aloud, as she ran into the mall behind her brother.
    “They probably did a lot less shopping,” Brian replied.
    The mall was laid out like the letter I. The top and bottom of the I, each four stories high, were Sleepyside’s two big department stores. The two-story center area that connected them was lined with smaller stores, each with its own specialty: cheeses, candles, jewelry, fabrics, sports equipment.
    The Bob-Whites quickly fanned out to accomplish as much as possible in a short time.
    Within a half hour, they were gathered around a table in the snack bar, soft drinks in hand, toasting the success of their efforts.
    “We can have the sign-up table right outside the pet store,” Jim said.
    “The owner promised to have plenty of cracked corn on hand,” Mart added, “as well as instructions on the care and feeding of game birds, so people will know just what to do.”
    “And we have spots reserved for twenty posters,” Trixie reported. “I think the pet show is going to be the Bob-Whites’ most successful event yet.”

    Over the next couple of days, the truth of Trixie’s prediction became clear. On Thursday afternoon, Nick Roberts presented Trixie with a stack of posters that delighted her. The stick-figure dog she’d drawn had turned into a beautiful, intelligent-looking retriever. Nick had even managed to put a wag into the dog’s tail. And the tiny quail was so adorable and fragile-looking that it seemed to say, “Feed me.”
    “Oh, Nick, thank you!” Trixie said.
    “Thank you,” Nick replied. “It’s nice to feel that I’m helping you and your friends for a change, instead of the other way around.” Trixie took the posters directly to the school office. It was a strict policy at Sleepyside Junior-Senior High School that all posters had to be initialed by Miss von Trammel, the school secretary. The procedure itself was easy. Miss von Trammel always smiled, admired the artistry of the posters—whether it was admirable or not—and quickly initialed each one.
    At least, that’s what Trixie had always known her to do in the past. And that’s what she seemed about to do this time. Then, suddenly, she froze, holding her pen motionless a couple of inches above the top poster.
    “Dr. Chang.” Miss von Trammel almost spit out the words.
    “Yes,” Trixie said. “He’s our judge!”
    “That—that quack!” Miss von Trammel said angrily. “He’s no judge of animals. He shouldn’t even be allowed near them!”
    “W-what?” Trixie stammered, bewildered. “But he’s—he’s a veterinarian.”
    “He’s a quack,” Miss von Trammel repeated.
    Still the pen remained unmoving above the stack of posters. For a moment, Trixie