Three Times Lucky (11 page)

Dale shifted. “It sounded better when I first wrote it.”

“A
murder suspect
?” she said, her voice rising.

“I’m innocent,” he said.

“You know, Miss Rose, you could say this is my fault, in an odd way,” I said, easing into the situation. “You’ll probably be surprised to learn I’m the one that called Dale last night about the murder suspect situation. As it turns out, Dale ain’t actually been named. So it’s a false alarm, in a way.”

“
You
had a hand in this, Mo?” she said in a voice shaved from ice. “Really?”

“Yes, ma’am. I probably shouldn’t have called so late.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” she said. “And Dale shouldn’t
have left without asking. What do you have to say about that, Dale? Why didn’t you ask? Did you think I’d want to tag along?”

“No, ma’am,” he sighed.

“Then why …” She stopped and tears flooded her eyes.

Miss Rose’s tears are like truth serum to Dale. He blurted out his answer: “I didn’t ask because I knew you wouldn’t want me to go.”

I winced.

“I wouldn’t want you to go? Because?” she said.

Dale looked like a condemned man tying his own noose. “Because it was past my nine o’clock curfew.” She waited while he studied the linoleum’s faded yellow peonies. “And because it wasn’t safe,” he said.

“You got a nine o’clock curfew?” I asked. “Miss Lana gave me eight o’clock.” Neither of them looked at me. “Not that my curfew matters right now,” I added.

“You could have been killed,” she said. If her voice went any higher, Queen Elizabeth would need ear plugs. “Thank heavens Lana called me this morning to let me know where you were. I would have been worried to death if …” She took a shaky breath. “What am I going to do with you?”

Fear clouded his eyes. “You ain’t telling Daddy, are you?”

“Your daddy isn’t in this anymore,” she snapped. “You’re grounded. No races, no trips to the café, no bicycle riding.”

“Grounded?” he wailed. “For how long?”

“For until I say you’re not grounded, that’s how long,” she said, snatching another paper from her pocket. “And as long as you’re staying home for the foreseeable future, I have a few chores for you. First of all, I’d like you to clean out the tobacco barn.”

“The
tobacco
barn?” Dale said, surprise ringing in his voice. “I thought you’d make me weed the garden or cut the grass.”

“Hush,” I whispered.

“Why clean out the tobacco barn?” he said. “Nobody’s used it in years.”

“I’d also like you to repair the things under the shelter.”

“What things?”

“Things I’ve had put there. And I want the stable cleaned out. The manure behind the stable should be composted by now,” she said. “I’d like for you to take it to the garden. You can use my wheelbarrow.”

“Miss Rose,” I said. “I hate to interrupt, but the truth is Dale and me got plans. We just opened a detective agency. Maybe you’ve heard of us? Desperado Detectives? We got a murder to solve.”

She didn’t even look up. “In that case, Mo, I suggest you open a branch office in the tobacco barn. Because that’s where Dale’s going to be for a long time to come.”

“Ah, Mama,” he said.

“Don’t ‘ah, Mama’ me,” she replied, her hands going to her hips.

We froze until she turned and headed for the kitchen. “Dale, that barn’s not cleaning itself. You see any snakes, sing out and I’ll come running,” she said, nodding toward the shotgun by the door. Miss Rose shoots better than anybody in the county, save the Colonel. “I’ll be out in a little while to see how you’re doing. And,” she said, “you had
better
be there, and you’d better be busy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She glanced at me. “What are your plans today, Mo?”

“I figured me and Dale would look into Mr. Jesse’s murder today, maybe crack the case,” I said. “If there’s a reward, we’re hoping to share the money with you.”

“Isn’t someone else working on that?” she asked. “An adult, perhaps?”

“Yes ma’am, Detective Joe Starr,” I said as she turned on the tap at the sink and grabbed a bottle of Joy. Dale’s daddy refuses to buy a dishwasher. He says if he bought a dishwasher, he wouldn’t need a wife. “The thing is, Dale and me are privy to information Joe Starr ain’t. Like, Mr. Jesse had a girlfriend. Starr doesn’t know that.”

Miss Rose just stood there.

“And the girlfriend has a husband,” Dale said. “Starr doesn’t know that either.”

Nothing! The gossip of the century, and she didn’t even flinch!

“Dale?” she said, without looking up. “Are you still standing there?”

“No, ma’am,” he sighed, and shuffled toward the door.

Queen Elizabeth II joined us halfway across the backyard. Dale side-armed a stick into a field of deep green, knee-high tobacco plants. “Fetch it, Liz,” he said. Sweat trickled down my back and heat monkeys shimmied like ghosts between the rows as she brought it back and spit it at his feet. “Good dog,” he said, ruffling her ears. “She’s smart, ain’t she, Mo?”

“She’s brilliant,” I lied.

“Practice me,” he said, flipping me a pinecone and setting up to my left as we cleared the stable. But I froze, horrified, staring at the tobacco barn dead ahead.

“Holy moly,” I whispered. “Your mama’s lost her mind.”

The barn stood tall and windowless, its tin sides draped in rust. Beneath its lean-to shelter lay a terrifying jumble of wood and metal. A wooden cart lay on its side, its axle busted, boards sprawling like pick-up sticks over the cart’s tongue. Rusting chains and worn leather cord
decorated a heap of broken chairs and old-timey plows.

Dale’s shoulders sagged. “You’re going to have to work the murder scene by yourself, Mo. In fact,” he sighed, “you may have to go to high school by yourself, because that’s how long it’s going to take me to finish these chores.”

“It might,” Miss Rose said cheerily, walking up behind us. “Come on, Mo,” she said. “We’ll give you a ride home.”

I settled into the Pinto, mourning Dale’s cruel fate and thinking of the crime scene just two impossible-to-get-to miles down the road.

Within minutes I was reduced to begging. “But Miss Lana, I
got
to get to the crime scene. Please.”

“Sorry, sugar,” she said, lining up the saltshakers. “It’s not safe for you to go out alone.” She reached beneath the counter and dangled a gold shopping bag from her fingertips. “I forgot this last night,” she said, smiling. “Go ahead, open it.”

If Miss Lana doesn’t take me to Charleston with her, she always brings me something when she comes back. “Is it a T-shirt from Rainbow Row?” I asked. “Because my old one’s down to its last sleeve, thanks to Miss Blalock’s barbed-wire fence.”

“You tore it on Lucy Blalock’s fence?” she asked, opening the salt.

“Last March, remember?” I said, steadying a saltshaker as she poured. “Dale and me picked you some narcissus from under that squeaky old water tower of hers. You know the one:
ScreeEEEEk. ScreeeEEEk
.”

“That’s right,” she said absently. “I remember.” She
glanced at the bag. “Go ahead, open it. I can’t wait to see your face.” I tugged the bag’s corner and a green scrapbook spun across the counter. “For your autobiography,” she said, flipping it open. “I slapped it together in Charleston. This page is blank, for your Coming Ashore Announcement. You do still have it, don’t you? A girl should keep her publicity.”

I nodded and she turned the page. “This is the story of the Colonel’s crash. And these articles are from the old
Tupelo Times
: the café’s grand opening, our housewarming, your kindergarten graduation.

“Here’s Cousin Gideon, going to court.”

“He’s handsome,” I said, “even in handcuffs.”

“And here’s the Colonel.” I leaned over the book. A young Colonel sat at a table, camo-clad and scrawny. He bounced an unusually good-looking baby on his knee. Behind them, an open suitcase spewed baby things across the table. “Is that the suitcase that started the rumors about the Colonel’s money?” I asked.

She laughed. “I suppose so,” she said. “Macon started that lie. There’s no limit to what some people will say, and what others will believe.”

She uncapped the pepper shakers. “Who’s this?” I asked, peering at a photo of a thin-faced girl about my age. She stood barefoot, in knee-pants and a trim white blouse, heat curls framing her solemn face.

Miss Lana sneezed. “That’s me prior to blossoming,” she said. “I was just about your age.” I turned the page. “And these are my parents sitting in the shade of our oak tree. There’s no telling how many Sunday afternoons we spent there. This was before we had air-conditioning—a hundred degrees, a hundred and three …” Her quiet laugh sounded the way she looks without her makeup. “All of us sitting and talking, and moving with the sun.”

I studied her parents’ faces: strong faces, with eyes that peered straight into my heart. I wondered if my own people would look into my heart too. “Your people have kind faces,” I said. “I wish I’d known them.”

“I do too, sugar,” she said. “They would have loved you.”

She flipped the page. “And here’s where I discovered the drama club, and came into my own.” It was the girl from the first photo, only shinier: putting on makeup. Standing in a spotlight. Holding a bouquet of roses. “Always remember Bill’s advice,” she said.

“Bill Watson? At the hardware store? But the Colonel says he’s an idiot.”

“Bill
Shakespeare,
” she said. “All the world’s a stage, sugar, so hop on up there.”

She glanced at the clock. “My goodness! The lunch crowd will be here before we know it, and I still have to set the stage and change!”

I closed the scrapbook. “Thanks for this. I love it,” I said. I meant it too. “I’ll study it tonight. Right now, I need to go to Mr. Jesse’s—if you can handle lunch.”

She glanced at the 7UP clock. “I suppose I can. We’re so slow. … If I need some help, I can ask someone. But you are not to go out alone, Mo. I mean it. Be patient,” she said. “Someone will drop in for a glass of tea, and offer you a ride.” She glanced outside as I picked up a few order pads, to hold my clues. “Where on earth is our mid-morning crowd?”

“Beats me,” I said.

It took me about fifteen minutes to find out.

As I unloaded my bike from the back of Redneck Red’s truck I saw half the town milling about the top of Mr. Jesse’s tree-lined drive. “Hey, Skeeter. Is my competition here yet?” I asked, looking toward Mr. Jesse’s house.

Skeeter nodded. “Starr and two plainclothes cops. A young guy and a dark-haired woman of undetermined age.” Skeeter has a good eye for detail. “They’ve been in there about an hour, to the best of my knowledge.”

I surveyed the crowd. The café’s customers stood in dwindling patches of shade, asking questions, making up answers, and passing them along as fact.

“Starr says he’ll arrest anybody that crosses his crime scene tape,” Skeeter added.

Sal darted out of the crowd with two bottles of icy
water and handed one to Skeeter. “Hey, Mo.” She smiled, her gray eyes shy and hopeful. “Where’s Dale?”

“Grounded,” I said. “Maybe for life.”

“May be just as well,” Skeeter said, cutting her eyes toward Attila and her mother, who had set up chairs by a crepe myrtle. Attila had crossed her arms and slouched in her chair, scowling. I zeroed in on Mrs. Simpson—pinch-faced, shrill, beige—as she closed their cooler. “I don’t care whether you want to or not, Anna,” she was saying. “Our family sings, and you will too. You just need to get over being self-conscious.” I smiled at Attila, who turned an unflattering shade of red.

“I’ll try, Mother,” she said, her voice loud. “At least I know who our family is, and what we do.” Her mother glanced at me and hid a smile.

I hate Anna Celeste.

“Hey Mo,” Thes said, wandering by. “Have you found Spitz yet? Because he’s mostly an inside cat, and we got eighty percent chance of rain tonight. Plus he’s a very finicky eater. He only likes canned.”

“We’re on it, Thes,” I said. “But you’re right: The first twenty-four hours are critical.” He nodded and wandered back into the crowd.

I scanned the rambling drive. Mr. Jesse’s old Tahoe had crushed the gravel to silvery gray dust; grass crept
hungry and thin along the path’s ragged center line. Starr’s stark yellow crime scene tape looked out of place, stretching across the drive and meandering through the pines. “How far does that tape go?” I asked.

“All the way around Mr. Jesse’s, down to the creek. That’s alleged,” Skeeter said quickly. “I ain’t seen it myself. In North Carolina, waterways belong to the people. Which is probably why they stopped at the creek.” I nodded, but it was news to me.

“It’s almost dinner time,” Sal said, easing into the shade. “Are y’all gonna cater out here? Folks won’t want to leave until Starr heads out.”

“That’s right,” Skeeter said. “They’ll be hungrier for information than for Miss Lana’s special.”

An idea sat down before me, fat and sassy as Thes’s brainless cat. “Sure. We can cater a crowd this big.” I grinned. “You two want a free lunch?”

Skeeter’s eyes became guarded. “I don’t know. I’m not personally hungry.” Skeeter’s negotiation skills are legendary.

“It’s not so much a free lunch I’m offering as it is a Wonder Bread retainer of sorts,” I said, and she perked up. I handed them order pads from my bike’s basket. “Canned drinks and burgers only. Fries if they beg. One dollar per item. Take the orders to Miss Lana and I’ll
handle it from there. If I ain’t back with the eats by twelve thirty, tell them the cater’s been canceled and they have to go to the café.”

“Deal,” Sal said as an orange cat slunk out of the underbrush, pale gray feathers stuck to his round face. Somehow, he didn’t look like such a finicky eater to me.

“Hey Thes, here’s your cat,” I called. “Courtesy of Desperado Detectives.” I pushed off and pedaled down the highway, zigzagging to keep in the shade as I raced the length of Mr. Jesse’s property.

I ditched my bike in a ramble of honeysuckle, by the creek, tucked my last order pad into my pocket, double-tied my plaid sneakers, and scanned the bank for water moccasins. The warm water crept to my knee as my foot sank into the soft creek bed and I stepped forward, mud slurping at my shoes.