The Odds of Getting Even, page 9
Jimmy opened his mouth.
“Don’t answer,” Jake whispered.
Jimmy closed his mouth.
Miss Retzyl read the menu. “Sorry, boys,” she said. “I don’t believe the Pilgrims served green Jell-O.”
“They didn’t?” Jimmy said, his eyes going round. “Mama does.”
Jake raised what would have been his eyebrows if he hadn’t already blown them off. “It’s not real? We’re shocked!” He went for a diversion—a good move. “Can we do a Thanksgiving play, then? Jimmy does a good turkey. Show them.”
Jimmy hunched his shoulders and gobbled. Harm and Dale clapped.
Attila flounced her hair. “For heaven’s sake, sit down,” she snapped. “You’re as lame as Miss Lana in her Pilgrim outfit. Where does she get those things anyway?”
“The Mayflower,” Dale said. “I think she looks nice.”
Dale standing up for Miss Lana after I’d practically turned Mr. Macon in on a whim made me feel worse.
I passed Dale a note: I’m sorry.
He read it and nodded without looking at me. Crud.
“We could have a talent contest this year,” I suggested.
Attila stuck out her lip. “You’re just saying that because Dale and Harm have talent and I don’t.”
True.
“That’s not true,” I replied. “We all got talent. You, for instance, got that incredible goldfish imitation.” She whipped around to stare at me, her mouth half open and her eyes slightly bugging. “See?”
“Actually,” Miss Retzyl said, “we’ll skip the play this year. We’re behind in our studies thanks to the Exums’ . . . explosive history presentation last month.” Jake and Jimmy smiled like stuffed animals. “I just wanted to mention the short week ahead, and your math test on Wednesday. Please take out your science books.”
No play?
I raised my hand. “Excuse me. Nobody hates school plays more than me, but now that we can’t have one, I feel like I lost something I might enjoy in a parallel universe. For me, public humiliation is part of the holidays.” Harm twisted in his seat to stare. Sal glanced up from her book, Deciphering Codes. “I think we should vote.”
“Sixth grade is not a democracy,” Miss Retzyl said. “Science books. Now.”
That afternoon we found Queen Elizabeth curled by our bikes. “How many little royals you think she’s carrying?” Harm asked, running a hand across her tummy.
“Somewhere between two and twelve,” Dale said. “I’ve been thinking about names. So far I got George, Victoria, Mary Queen of Scots. Not Henry VIII,” he continued. “He failed with family issues.”
Understatement. Henry VIII ran through wives like a coyote runs through chickens. Dale and me saw the PBS special.
Hannah strolled by. “How about African royalty? King Tut? Or royalty from another planet? Leto II?”
“Ming is good,” Sal said, sailing up. “From China’s famous Ming Dynasty. Here, Ming,” she called, clapping her hands. “Good Ming.”
Queen Elizabeth thumped her tail.
“Liz likes it.” Dale smiled at me. “You want to work on the Name List today?”
“I’d love to,” Sal said, her voice soft.
“I meant Mo and Harm,” Dale said, grabbing his bike. “The Names Committee.”
Another committee?
“Dale,” Harm said, “Sal could be on it. Or—”
“No. It wouldn’t look right,” Dale said, his voice stubborn.
Sal stomped her boot. “We have a deal,” she said. “I’m a puppy shoo-in.”
“Shhh,” Dale said, casing the schoolyard. “Nobody knows that. Sal, I like you, but you hanging with the committee doesn’t look right for the puppies.”
“Doesn’t look right? You never used to care how things look,” Sal said. “It was one of your best traits.”
“I never had puppies to watch over before.”
Sal put her hands on her hips. Or where her hips will be when puberty hits. “You’ve changed, Dale. And not for the good.” She slid her Piggly Wiggly glasses over her eyes and stalked away.
Dale stared after her. “What just happened?”
“We’d be old men before I could explain it,” Harm told him as Sal turned to glare at Dale from the edge of the playground.
I hopped on my bike. “I got to help at the inn. We can think up names over there.”
“Race you, Casanova,” Harm said.
Dale frowned as Harm sped away. “Casanova? What kind of name is that?”
We pedaled out of town and down the curved, cedar-lined drive to the ancient, two-story inn just outside town. It looks nice, I thought as I hopped off my bike. White clapboards, tall windows, a wide porch lined with rocking chairs. We pushed inside to red-gold pine floors, high ceilings, and ancient leather sofas and chairs facing a fireplace and piano.
“Make yourselves at home,” I invited, and grabbed a dust cloth.
A half hour later Harm collapsed in the inn’s parlor, a history book on his lap. “Maybe you could add Queen of Sheba to the list,” he said, flipping a page as Dale and I dusted. “Margaret, Beatrix, Francis, Louis . . .”
The front door swung open. A thin bald man and a plump rosy-faced woman stepped into the vestibule, smoothing the ride from their clothes. “Welcome,” I said as the Colonel struggled in behind them with an ironing board under his arm.
“Blast it,” the Colonel shouted as the door slammed on the end of the board. “Capers asked for this. Don’t ask me why. She looks like she slept in her clothes.”
“Maybe that’s why,” Harm said.
The Colonel stomped upstairs and I smiled at the strangers. “Welcome to the inn. We prefer cash but will accept US dollars. Sign here,” I said, offering the guest book. “Your room includes supper. Tonight we feature Miss Lana’s famous collard bisque.”
Upstairs something crashed.
“There’s a Holiday Inn in Greenville,” the woman said, edging toward the door. “The newspaper says there’s rumor of a reward for Macon Johnson and I’d love to spot him, but I’m not this curious.”
“A reward?” Dale said, going pale.
I was losing them. Crud.
“In addition, our senior guide Dale is conducting a walking tour of Tupelo Landing at seven tomorrow morning, weather permitting.”
Dale shook his head. Dale carries his stress in his shoulders, which now nearly touched his ears. “Tips are encouraged,” I said, and he relaxed. He nodded. “Sign here,” I said, pushing the guest book toward them. “The bellhop will carry your bags for five dollars.”
Harm hopped to his feet.
“Five dollars is outrageous,” the woman said, and Harm sat back down.
“Blast it!” the Colonel bellowed upstairs. Another crash. The Colonel dragged the ironing board across the floor and bumped down all thirteen steps.
Harm closed his book. “You know, Colonel, we could put that at the end of the parlor. I saw a screen that would look nice.”
Harm carried the board over, reached underneath, and gave a smooth dip. The legs clicked down. “There you go, sir,” he said. “Where’s the iron?”
The vein in the Colonel’s forehead rose like a newborn mountain range. “I’ll get one,” he said, barely moving his lips. “As soon as I take out the trash.”
Some folks are cut out to be innkeepers. Other folks are the Colonel.
“A reward?” Miss Lana said an hour later. “There was a rumor earlier in the day, but it’s died down,” she said, giving Dale a quick hug. “Strangers brought it to town.”
She beamed at me. “And you signed in new guests? Wonderful!” she cried, hurrying a bowl of collard bisque to Lavender’s mechanic, Sam. “I’ll make sure they have fresh towels.”
Attila perched by the window sipping something a putrid shade of green.
I glanced at the Specials Board:
COLLARD SMOOTHIES! $2
“I’ll handle the towels, Lana,” Capers said, jamming her papers in her notebook. “I’m going to the inn anyway. We Charleston women have to stick together.”
“We also offered them a town tour tomorrow, weather permitting,” I said, glancing at Thes, who sat hunkered at the counter.
A stranger rattled his newspaper, flashing a headline: Racecar Driver’s Father Is Escaped Con. “A tour?” the stranger said. “Does it include Macon Johnson’s farm?”
“Daddy doesn’t have a farm,” Dale said. “It’s Mama’s.”
“A tour?” Miss Lana shrieked. “When will I have time to give a tour?”
Attila smiled, her mustache a shimmering green.
“Don’t worry, Miss Lana, the Desperados will give the tour,” I said. “Thes, you’re famous for your weather skills and television-worthy suit,” I said, trying to make nice. “What’s the forecast?”
He ignored me.
“Thes,” Miss Lana snapped. “Weather report! Now!”
“Ninety percent chance of rain,” he said. “Egg sandwich and okra to go.”
Outside, Attila’s mother tooted her horn. Attila plunked two dollars on the table and smirked at Capers. “I wish you’d stop writing about us. You bring too much riffraff to town. And I, for one, think a reward is a lovely idea. I heard somebody spotted your daddy today, Dale. It turned out to be your uncle Austin. Pity.” She swayed out, her hair swishing like a blond curtain of evil.
“That girl’s a piece of work,” Capers said, watching the Cadillac prowl away. She stuffed her dictionary in her saddlebag. “Oh well, what goes around comes around.”
A paper slipped from her bag and I scooped it up. Another odd collection of numbers and letters. “What is this?” I asked.
Dale peeked over my arm. “Numbers,” he said. “Sometimes I feel like they’re stalking me.”
She snatched the paper from my hand. “Just a game. Like Sudoku,” she said, and hurried into the night.
“Must be a city game,” Dale said, heading for the door.
“Dale, wait,” I said, grabbing his arm. “I’m sorry I named Mr. Macon last night. You’re right: I couldn’t see who was standing outside Lavender’s garage.”
He looked out over the parking lot. “I forgive you,” he said, “but we got to start thinking different, Mo. If we don’t, this case will pull my family under.”
Chapter 13
Footprints Never Lie
I awakened the next morning to thunder galloping across heaven and curtains of rain pounding across my roof. I dreamed up a To-Do List: Make nice with Thes, Avoid giving a tour, Find a new lead.
Thes had nailed the forecast—a chance to make nice. I grabbed my phone. He picked up on the second ring. “Good job,” I said, and hung up.
I dressed, grabbed my Graceland umbrella, and sloshed to the café. Capers’s little rental car already sat outside. “Happy Saturday! Great day if you’re a duck,” I called, splashing through the door.
Was Capers wearing Miss Lana’s sweater? Does Miss Lana think every woman from Charleston is her sister?
I looked into Miss Lana’s stricken eyes and my To-Do List fell to dust. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Where’s the Colonel? Is he okay?”
“He’s fine,” she said. “Mo, Priscilla just called.”
That’s all. A teacher alert. My heart slowed to normal.
“I can explain once I hear the baseless accusations against me,” I replied, brain-scanning the past few days for academic crimes.
Miss Lana took a deep breath. “Another break-in—”
Capers cut in, smiling like she was announcing a birthday party. “You’ll never guess who got hit. You’ll love this. That snooty girl who was in here yesterday.”
“Anna Celeste?”
“Mo, she’s fine,” Miss Lana said, shooting Capers a Be Quiet Look and putting an arm across my shoulder. “Someone broke in while they were sleeping. And there’s nothing to love about it, Capers,” she said. “It’s dreadful.”
Capers scowled. “Someone broke in?” she shot back. “Macon Johnson broke in.”
While they were sleeping?
“I got to get to Attila’s,” I told Miss Lana. I stared out at the pouring rain. One good thing about being a kid: You get to ride your bike everywhere. One bad thing about being a kid: You got to ride your bike everywhere.
“You’re in luck,” Capers said, like she could read my mind. “I can drop you off on my way to town.”
The door slammed against the wall and Dale and Harm blasted through, both of them dripping. “Good news,” I said. “No tour. We’re rained out.”
Dale bobbed beneath his yellow slicker like a happy duck.
“Bad news,” I added, grabbing my camera. “Break-in at Attila’s.”
Dale gasped.
“Capers is giving us a ride to the crime scene,” I said, and scoped the takeout bags lined up by the cash register. “Miss Lana, I’m starving.”
“Here you go, sugar,” she said, handing me the mayor’s bag. “I’ll make Mayor Little a new one.”
Excellent. Mayor Little and his mother eat huge.
“Forgive my mess,” Capers said moments later, scooping an armful of papers off the front seat for Harm. We piled into her tiny car. “Bird-watching’s a junky hobby. Just push everything on the floor.”
She’s a definite pack rat, I thought, shoving the backseat jumble aside—binoculars, fedora, gray leather gloves. I checked out the dashboard: road map, half a fast-food burger. I tilted my takeout toward Dale, who grabbed a cheese biscuit.
Capers chugged to the road.
“Take a right,” Dale said as I bit into a bacon and egg sandwich.
Harm pushed his hood back, the rain curling his hair. “Who do you think’s doing these robberies?” he asked Capers.
“Macon Johnson. Sorry, Dale. Most people agree.”
Dale polished off his biscuit and fished in the bag. “Your articles make it seem that way. But a lot of people thinking flat don’t change round,” he said. “Christopher Columbus proved that.”
It’s surprising what Dale picks up at school. Sometimes I wonder if we’re in the same classroom.
“Besides, why would Macon risk a break-in?” Harm asked. “If he’s smart, he’s long gone from here.”
She shrugged. “Adrenaline’s addictive. That’s why criminals get more daring—they crave the rush.”
Dale went the color of stale oatmeal. Mr. Macon’s good at addiction.
She turned on Cul-de-Sac Drive. “So, an adrenaline junkie might go from robbing an empty house, to robbing a church, to robbing an occupied house, to . . . who knows?”
“Interesting,” Harm said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s Mr. Macon.” He pointed to Attila’s house. “We’ll hop out here.”
Capers squeaked the little car to a halt. “Listen, I’d love to tag along, maybe pick up a quote or two. What do you say?”
So that’s why she offered us a ride! “No paparazzi,” I said. “Sorry.”
We scrambled out and I popped my umbrella open. Harm and Dale crowded close. “Nice digs,” Harm said as she pulled away.
“Very nice,” Dale said from somewhere inside his yellow hood.
True. The two-story brick house sat back from the street, overlooking a manicured lawn. Starr’s Impala loafed on the long brick drive. We sloshed to the door and rang the bell. The door swung open. Mrs. Simpson stared down at us—perfect makeup, excellent hair, shiny beige robe.
“Greetings,” I said. “Desperado Detectives extends our deepest sympathies on your losses, which we assume as rich people you have insurance. We are here out of respect to a classmate. An enemy is almost as dear as a friend.”
“And we’re sorry,” Dale added.
She narrowed her eyes. “You should be sorry,” she said, her voice like a knife.
Harm interrupted. “Mrs. Simpson, may we come in?”
“Anna,” she shouted over her shoulder. “It’s Mo and Dale and that tall boy.”
That tall boy? Give me a break. She knows Harm.
Anna Celeste came to the door, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed. “You,” she said, glaring at Dale. “What do you want?”
“We want to see if you’re okay,” Dale said.
“Oh.” Niceness confuses Attila like bright light confuses raccoons. “Somebody broke into our house last night,” she said, her voice going off-key. “While we were sleeping. He took my jewelry and Daddy’s cash off the laundry room counter. Why would he want my jewelry?” she demanded. “What’s wrong with you people?”
“Anna,” Harm said, “we want to help. If you tell us exactly what’s missing . . .”
“You know what’s worse than what he took? Knowing he picked up things and left them behind.” She took a step toward Dale. “Your daddy came in my house,” she said, her voice rising. “He touched my life with his filthy white-trash hands. You don’t know how that feels,” she shouted, her pretty face twisted.
“I do know,” Dale shouted. “He came in my house too.”
His words slapped me across the face. I hadn’t thought of it like that.
Attila slammed the door.
We stood on the porch, listening to the patter of rain. “That could have gone worse, but I don’t see how,” I said as Joe Starr barreled around the corner.
“What’s all the noise?” He stared at us bleary-eyed. “What are you doing here?”
Joe Starr ain’t hitting on much without morning coffee. “We’re detectives. This is our life’s work,” I replied. “And we’re checking on an alleged friend.”
“Two dogs with one bone,” Dale explained.
“Or two birds with one stone,” I continued. “Your choice.”
Joe Starr blinked.
“We have clues, if you want to swap,” I said. Not exactly a lie. More like a bargaining position. “First, we know the crime occurred after nine—Attila’s bedtime.” A guess. “Let’s see,” I said, flipping open my blank clue pad. “We got missing jewelry—mostly ugly costume stuff. Hideous turkey earrings, suggesting a thief with bad taste. A little pocket change from the laundry room and . . .”
