But late the next afternoon, when I went into the parlor and sat down to prepare for my next lesson with Mr. Wittleman, I touched the piano keys and then screamed in shock. Both Mrs. Stoddard and Aunt Bet came running in from the kitchen. And the twins came flying down the stairs.

"What's wrong?" Aunt Bet asked grimacing. I was holding my hands up, bent at the wrist, my fingers dangling.

"Someone . . ." I couldn't speak for a moment.

"Someone poured gobs and gobs of honey over the piano keys!" I cried. "They've ruined my piano."

Richard and Melanie approached and stared down at the keys. Melanie touched one and smelled the tip of her finger.

"Ugh," she said, turning to show Mrs. Stoddard and Aunt Bet.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Stoddard said, shaking her head. "How dreadful."

Aunt Bet's face turned pink with rage.

"That's a horrible, horrible prank," she declared.

"I must tell Philip immediately." She marched out of the house. Mrs. Stoddard ran to the kitchen for some washcloths, but it was futile to try to repair the damage, for the honey had dripped down in between the keys and under them, making them stick.

"It's no use, Mrs. Stoddard," I said. "We've got to have someone come to take it all apart."

"I'm so sorry, dear. It's such a cruel and vicious thing for anyone to do."

I nodded and gathered up my sheet music, and then I went to phone Mr. Wittleman to tell him so he could make other arrangements for me and find someone to repair the piano. He couldn't believe what I told him. He was outraged.

"It's an inexcusable violation," he declared.

"Whoever did such a thing is barbaric."

A few minutes after I spoke with Mr.

Wittleman, Aunt Bet returned with Uncle Philip and took him into the parlor to show him the piano. He shook his head and grimaced with disgust.

"I'm sorry about this, Christie," he said. "We'll get to the bottom of it fast."

"I just spoke with Mr. Wittleman. He's getting someone to clean the keys."

"Good."

We all turned at the sound of Richard and Melanie pounding down the stairway. They both appeared in the parlor door, out of breath with excitement.

"Father," Richard said, "look what I found." He held up a small dish towel. Aunt Bet took it from him slowly.

"It's full of honey," she said. "Someone's wiped his hands in it. Where did you find this, Richard?"

"On Jefferson's side of the closet," he said smugly and nodded as if he had always known.

"That can't be," I said. "Jefferson would never do this."

"That's where I found it," Richard insisted.

"You're lying. My brother wouldn't do this." Aunt Bet turned to Uncle Philip.

"Where is he?" she demanded.

"With Buster," he replied.

"Go get him this instant," she commanded.

Uncle Philip glanced at me and then nodded. "No!" I shouted. "I'll go get him myself." I fixed a hateful gaze on Richard, who continued to look quite smug and confident.

I turned away and ran out of the house to fetch my little brother. It was true that Jefferson could be mischievous, but his pranks were always pranks of fun and never vicious and mean. He hated to make anyone else cry and I knew he loved me more now than ever and would never do anything to upset ne so.

I found him by the tool shed. Buster had put him to work sh.e.l.lacking a new door. He was obviously very proud of his a.s.signment and work.

"Jefferson, you've got to come home with me right away," I said. He looked up disappointed.

"Why?"

"Someone poured honey over the piano keys and ruined them," I said. He widened his eyes. "Richard found a dish towel on your side of the closet filled with honey and he's got Aunt Bet and Uncle Philip believing you did it."

"I did not!"

"I know you didn't. I'm sure he did it," I said.

"We'll go back there and make them see the truth."

"I don't wanna," Jefferson said. "I gotta finish this door." I could see the fear in his eyes.

"It's all right, Jefferson. She won't hurt you," I promised. "I won't let her."

"If she does," he said. "I'll run away forever."

"She won't. I promise."

Reluctantly, he put down the brush and wiped his hands on a rag.

"Buster's going to be mad," he muttered.

"Uncle Philip will explain what happened.

Don't worry." I took his hand and we walked home.

Aunt Bet conducted her mock trial in the living room. We were all commanded to take seats, even Uncle Philip and Mrs. Stoddard. The twins sat on the sofa and glared with simultaneous expressions of indignation and accusation at Jefferson, who sat beside me on the matching settee. If the air wasn't so filled with tension, I might have burst out laughing, for Aunt Bet paced about cross-examining everyone like Perry Mason in a courtroom. Even Uncle Philip sat back and stared up at her in fascination.

"This terribly cruel deed was performed some time between last night and this afternoon," she began and stopped to rest her palm on the piano. "Mrs.

Stoddard and I have checked the kitchen cabinet and found a nearly empty jar of honey." She nodded at Mrs. Stoddard, who then unfolded her hands to reveal the jar in her palms. "Mrs. Stoddard and I recall the jar was nearly three-quarters full. Isn't that correct, Mrs. Stoddard?"

"Oh yes, ma'am."

Aunt Bet smiled as if that was enough to solve the case.

"Since Mrs. Stoddard was in the kitchen at six-fifteen this morning, whoever did this, did it before then."

"Unless the jar was taken earlier and replaced afterward," I said. Aunt Bet's self-satisfied smile faded.

"She's right about that, Betty Ann," Uncle Philip said, smiling at me.

"This deed was done last night after we had all retired to our rooms," Aunt Bet insisted. "Now then,"

she continued, crossing the room first to pick up the dish towel lying on the floor beside the sofa and then to stand in front of Jefferson and me, "how did that dish towel get into your closet, Jefferson?"

"I don't know," Jefferson said, shrugging.

"Didn't you get up last night and come down here to do this to the piano?" she asked outright.

Jefferson shook his head.

"Didn't you go into the kitchen, get the jar of honey, spill it into the piano keys, put the jar back, grab this dish towel to wipe your hands, run back upstairs and throw the dish towel into your closet, hoping that no one would find it?" she followed, stabbing down at him with her questions and her accusing eyes. Jefferson shook his head and began to cry.

"You're crying because you did it, aren't you?"

she demanded. Jefferson started to cry harder. "Aren't you!" She seized his little shoulder and started to shake him. "You did this!" she screamed.

"Leave him alone," I cried and ripped her hand off his shoulder. Jefferson threw his arms around me immediately and I hugged him and glared back at Aunt Bet. "He didn't do it. He couldn't have done it.

He wouldn't do such a thing."

She straightened up and smirked, folding her arms under her small bosom. I turned to Uncle Philip.

"He's never gone wandering through the house alone at night, Uncle Philip. He's afraid to do that.

He's just a little boy."

"Not too little to try to destroy a valuable piano," Aunt Bet snapped.

"He didn't. Mrs. Stoddard," I said. "Let me see that honey jar, please." She looked up at Aunt Bet who indicated it would be all right. Mrs. Stoddard handed it to me and I looked at it and then flicked a quick glance at Richard, who sat expressionless. Not even his eyes betrayed any emotion.

"Was the jar this clean or did you wipe it off, Mrs. Stoddard?" I asked.

"It's the way we found it," she replied.

"Even if Jefferson did such a thing, which he didn't," I said firmly, "he would never be this neat about it. There's not a drop outside the jar."

"That's a good point, Betty Ann," Uncle Philip said.

"He wiped it off," she replied quickly. "With that towel he threw in his closet."

"You can't wipe honey off a jar with a dry towel and not have it still be sticky," I insisted.

"Whoever put that towel in Jefferson's closet," I said, glaring at Richard, "simply poured some honey into it and rubbed it around."

"That's . . . that's . . . ridiculous," Aunt Bet said, but Uncle Philip didn't think so. His gaze moved swiftly toward Richard.

"Did you do this, Richard?" he demanded. "Of course not, Father. Would I vandalize something?"

"I hope not. Melanie, did Richard get up during the night and come downstairs?" Uncle Philip asked.

She shifted her eyes to Richard and then back to Uncle Philip and shook her head. "Are you sure?" She nodded, but not firmly.

Uncle Philip stared at his twins for a moment and then looked up at Aunt Bet.

"I think we'll have to leave this where it is," he said.

"But Philip, that piano . ."

"It's going to be repaired. From now on," he said, "I don't want to see anyone but Christie near it.

Understand? No one is even to touch it." He glared at the twins and then turned back to Jefferson and me.

Jefferson had stopped sobbing and had lifted his head from my shoulder.

"I hafta go back and help Buster," Jefferson said.

"Go on," Uncle Philip replied.

"He should be punished," Aunt Bet insisted.

"He should . . ."

"He didn't do it, Aunt Bet," I cried and threw my hateful glare at Richard.

"But he . . ."

"Betty Ann!" Uncle Philip shouted. "Let it be,"

he said slowly and firmly. She bit down on her lower lip.

"Very well," she said after a moment. "I believe we have established our unhappiness and given fair warning that if anything like this should ever happen again . . ."

Her words were left hanging in the air.

Jefferson walked out of the living room slowly, rubbing his eyes. I handed the jar of honey back to Mrs. Stoddard and the twins scurried out of the room and up the stairs like two mice who had miraculously escaped the claws of a cat.

Aunt Bet was terribly frustrated by her failure to prove conclusively that Jefferson had vandalized the piano, and she demonstrated that frustration in many ways, the chief one being her tone of voice whenever she spoke to my little brother. Whereas she would speak softly, kindly, respectfully to the twins, she wouldn't speak to Jefferson without snapping at him and making her eyes like two cold, polished stones. She criticized him every chance she had, still finding fault with the way he ate, with what he wore and how well he washed his face and hands. She even criticized his posture and walk. If there was a smudge on a wall or a spot on the floor, it was always Jefferson's fault. Jefferson tracked in dirt; Jefferson touched things with stained hands. The peace of the day and night was continually shattered by Aunt Bet's shrill voice crying, "Jefferson Longchamp!" Her scream was always followed with some accusation.

When I complained to her about the way she was picking on him, she gave me her small, icy smile and replied, "It's only natural for you to defend your brother, Christie, but don't be blind to his faults or he will never improve."