Three Times Lucky (16 page)

He stretched, his arm muscles twisting like cables, and tucked his pale yellow T-shirt into his faded jeans. “I’m just slow starting this morning, Mo. I’m fine.”

Dale glanced around. “Did the twins do this?” he asked.

“The twins have been scarce since the crash, little brother.”

“I’m not surprised,” I said as Lavender sank into a chair. “Those girls are like crows. Probably saw something shinier on the other side of town.”

“Yeah,” he said, “there’s not much to a racecar driver when he’s walking.” His smile didn’t erase the lines
beneath his eyes. “How’s your life unfolding, Miss LoBeau?”

“Not so good,” I admitted. “We ain’t heard from the Colonel, and yesterday made three days. We got to do something, I just don’t know what to do.”

He leaned forward. “What does Miss Lana say?”

“She says not to worry, but I do. We could tell Starr, I guess, but the Colonel don’t like Starr. We could tell Deputy Marla,” I said, scanning Lavender’s face. “She’s nice, and she likes me.”

He pushed his hair back. “That sounds like a good plan,” he said. “It might be worth running by Miss Lana, anyway.” I relaxed. I like to have a plan.

Lavender took a sip of his tea. “You sounded great yesterday, Dale,” he said.

Dale grinned. “Thanks.”

“I was really proud of you. I bet Mama un-grounded you as a reward.”

“No,” he sighed. “I’m still grounded, just off for good behavior. I never been so sick of fixing things in my life.” He looked around. “You ought to clean up in here.”

“He can’t, Dale,” I said. “He’s depressed.”

Lavender snorted. “I am not.”

“Sure you are. This is classic. You ain’t shaved, your car’s wrecked, your love life’s a disaster. Next you’ll
maybe start eating out of control and have to get hoisted out of here with a crane. Look at those fingernails,” I added. “They’re filthy.”

“Whoa,” he said. “Cut me some slack. Sam and I were up until two o’clock this morning, working on my car. I haven’t had time for a manicure.” He jumped up and scooped some dirty dishes from the floor. Lavender moves like a big, blond cat.

Those twins are idiots. Even depressed, Lavender is melt-down gorgeous.

“Well, if you’re working on your car I guess that’s a good sign.”

He headed for the kitchen. “Maybe,” he said, letting the dishes clatter into the sink. “But the Sycamore 200 is just two weeks away. I already paid my entry fee, but it looks like I’ll have to drop out. We just can’t get the car together in time.”

Dale frowned. “But you and Sam are the best mechanics in the county.”

“It’s not talent we’re short on,” he said. “It’s money for parts. I’ve fixed every car I can find, including the Underbird—which is ready, Mo, if you want to tell Miss Lana. Even after she pays me, I’m short a thousand bucks, and slam out of credit.”

“So?” I said. “Since when did you race for money? You’ll run a different race.” Silence hung on the air like
stale tobacco smoke. I looked from one brother to the other. They both avoided my eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Dale said. “It’s just Mama’s money ain’t right lately, with Daddy acting the way he is. And I’m no help,” he added.

“You might be,” I said. “If we solve Mr. Jesse’s murder, and if there’s a reward.”

“That’s a lot of ifs, Mo,” he said, slumping in his chair.

Uneasiness ran its fingertips across my shoulders. Dale’s people never had much money, but I’d never known them to worry. Lavender grabbed a T-shirt off the floor. “That race is a long shot, but I was hoping it would pay off,” he said. “It’s good money if you can win it.”

“Would that fix things for Miss Rose?” I asked. “If you won, I mean?”

The Colonel says trying to drive your way out of being broke is like trying to starve your way out of being skinny. It takes real money to put a car on the track, and good money to race. You got to buy fuel, tires, and spare parts for every race. A good-running car is worth good money. A wrecked one ain’t worth nothing.

“It would help,” Lavender said. “But like I said, it’s a long shot.”

I made a decision. “So? My entire life’s a long shot. Dale, we’ll come up with the thousand dollars. We
might as well,” I said as his mouth fell open. “We can’t do much detective work with you grounded and with Plainclothes Phil following us.”

“Us? Raise a thousand dollars?” he gasped. “How?”

Good question. “I ain’t ready to unveil my plan yet,” I said.

Dale rolled his eyes. “That means she ain’t got one,” he told Lavender.

“Naturally I got to hone the particulars,” I replied. “But I’m thinking we’ll strike at this year’s Mimosa Festival.” Actually, it was a no-brainer. The festival opened in just a few days. Normally Dale and me hit the rides and food booths, and avoid the crafts and raffles. “A town full of folks with spending money seems like a good place to start.”

Lavender laughed. “Thanks for offering, Mo. You’re a true friend. But don’t worry your pretty head. Sam and I will come up with the cash for the car. All you got to do is keep my desperado brother here out of trouble.”

A pretty head? Me?

“Nope,” I said, heading for the door. “We’ll raise the money. You fix the car.”

He tossed his dirty socks toward the hall. “If you do I’ll pay you back every penny,” he said. “Twice. But there’s one thing.”

“A contract?” I guessed.

“A loophole. If you don’t come up with the cash, it’s no big deal. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” I grabbed the ring on a dusty window shade. It snapped up, rolling itself dizzy at the top of the window. “We’ll be in touch,” I said, and we stepped outside, the heat slamming into me like a steamy sponge as he closed the door behind us.

“Hey, Dale,” I whispered, peering across the street. “There’s your bodyguard. Act like you don’t see him.”

“I didn’t until you pointed him out,” he muttered. He hesitated, and then waved. “He’s not very friendly,” Dale said as Plainclothes Phil darted behind an azalea.

I jumped off the porch.

“Let’s stop by the church and see if we missed any clues. Thes will let us in,” I said. “He owes us for finding his halfwit cat.”

“Yeah,” Dale said. “He owes us big.”

Thes sat on the church steps, dangling a toy mouse in front of his cat.

From beyond the church door, a weak voice followed a plink-plink piano tune like a tired dog trailing a rabbit. Lots of kids come to the church for Miss Currie’s music lessons. Happily, I’m not one of them. “Hey Thes,” I said. “How’s the weather?”

“Hot,” he said. “Thunderstorms tonight. Hurricane Amy’s turned in the Atlantic. She’s going to miss us.”

“Great,” I said, settling in beside him. “Any word on Mr. Jesse?”

“Nothing much. Except it turns out Daddy hadn’t deposited Mr. Jesse’s last hundred-dollar bill after all. He thought he had, but he found his bank bag under his front seat this morning. With Mr. Jesse’s cash in it.”

A clue! “We’d like to take a look at it,” I said.

“Can’t,” he said as Spitz leaped for the mouse. “Daddy gave it to Joe Starr.” He reached into his pocket.
“I thought you might want this, though,” he said. He handed me a wrinkled photocopy of the hundred-dollar bill, including its serial number.

“Thanks,” I said. “We’ve been hoping for a break like this.”

I slid the photocopy into my pocket, trying to look like I knew what to do with it. “As long as we’re here,” I said, “I thought I might look around the sanctuary, see if I overlooked anything Sunday.”

He shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “Hey Dale, watch this.” Spitz pounced, and Thes and Dale both laughed as Spitz grabbed the toy and rolled across the porch.

As I reached the top of the church steps, the door flew open. Miss Currie swept past hugging an armload of music. “Hey,” I said.

“Hello, Mo,” she murmured, and hurried by, humming.

I heard the voice when I cracked open the door—a harsh voice, high-pitched and demanding, from the front of the dim church. “Was that the
best
you can do?”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” a girl replied. The voice sounded familiar. Like someone I knew talking through Jell-O. “I just don’t have a good voice.”

“Everyone in our family sings,” the woman said. “You have the talent. You just need to apply yourself. Practice.”

“I do practice.”

“Stand up straight when you sing. Look like you have some confidence.”

“But I don’t,” the girl wailed.

“Then
find
some,” the woman snapped. “Your father and I aren’t paying for these lessons because we’re tired of looking at the money.”

That did it. Nobody talks to a kid like that. Not when I’m around.

I swung the door open and stepped into the dim sanctuary. “I don’t think you ought to talk to a kid that way,” I said, my voice echoing. My eyes adjusted to the light. If I could have un-opened that door, I would have. “Oh. Hey, Anna Celeste.”

Attila looked away, and my eyes traveled to Mrs. Simpson—hard-eyed, unsmiling, beige Mrs. Simpson. “Oh,” Mrs. Simpson said. “It’s the girl from the café.”

The girl from the café?
She knows my name.

My heart pounded like a crack-head chimpanzee with a bongo. For a brief moment, my anger outweighed my hatred of Anna Celeste. I took a deep breath. “I didn’t know you took voice, Anna,” I said. “That explains a lot.”

Mrs. Simpson’s eyebrows arched. “Really?”

“Sure,” I said. “Anna Celeste has the best girl’s voice in our class.” It was true-ish. Sort of. We all sing like
bullfrogs. “I bet you’re proud to have her in your family, Mrs. Sampson. You should be.”

“Mrs.
Simp
son,” she snarled, and Attila almost smiled.

“Right. Sorry.” I glanced around the church. It had been tidied, vacuumed, and polished since Mr. Jesse’s funeral. Any clues were long gone. “See you around, Anna,” I said as the door swished shut behind me.

I filled Dale in as we walked to the café, sweat trickling down my back. “Mrs. Simpson would make a terrible mother-in-law,” he said, looking worried.

I snorted. “Not that it will ever matter to you. Anna Celeste will forget your name the instant your fame wears off.”

“Maybe.” We walked in silence, the heat rising like ghosts along the blacktop. “You think Miss Lana will call Starr? About the Colonel?” he asked.

My stomach fluttered. “I hope she already has.”

She hadn’t when we got back to the café at 11:30. She still hadn’t when Deputy Marla dropped in for lunch at 12:15.

The Rolling Stones rocked the jukebox, and lava lamps graced the tables as Deputy Marla slipped onto a bar stool and glanced at the Specials Board.

“Hey,” I said, pouring her water. “How’s your investigation going?”

“Funny you should ask. I just talked to Joe,” she said. “Your oar
is
the murder weapon, Mo. But there were no fingerprints. We’re following a couple other leads.” She looked around. “1960s diner theme?” she guessed as Miss Lana swished by in a tie-dye blouse and Gypsy skirt, the locks of her glossy black Cher wig swinging.

“Café circa 1968,” I agreed as Dale darted by with a dish of hot apple pie, his hair combed back in a ducktail. “Dale went retro. Welcome,” I said, standing up straight and draping a napkin over my arm. “Today we’re featuring the Groovy Chick Trio for four ninety-nine,” I said. “Your choice of fried chicken, chicken pastry, or chicken salad. The first two come with two garden vegetables: okra, cucumbers, potato salad, or turnip greens. The chicken salad comes on pale lettuce slivers, with chips or saltines. All dinners come with cheese biscuits and tea. May I take your order?”

“Fried chicken,” she said. “With okra and cucumbers. And sweet tea. How’s
your
case going?”

I slid her a basket of cheese biscuits. “The murder?”

“Actually, I was thinking of your mother,” she said.

I poured her tea and avoided her eyes. “Nothing new.”

“Well, I know how
that
feels. Hang in there,” she said, squinting at the Desserts Board. “That’s probably why I like the police force. It gives me a feeling of family.”

I slid her silverware to her. “What do you mean?”

“Is that apple pie homemade?” she asked, and I nodded. “I’ll try it,” she said. “I just mean I understand what you’re going through, Mo. I grew up in a children’s home. I know what it’s like to wonder. That’s just between us. Okay?” She winked. “Put some ice cream on that pie,” she said. “You only live once, right?”

“And I’d like some of Lana’s chicken salad,” Miss Retzyl said, sliding onto the stool beside her. Dale dropped a plate on the other side of the room. He falls apart around teachers, even if he can’t see them. It’s like radar with him.

“Hey, Miss Retzyl,” I said. “What’s up? You don’t eat here.”

“Not usually,” she agreed, cool as sherbet. “But I heard Marla was coming by, and thought I’d surprise her. I’ll have un-sweet tea with that chicken salad, please.”

The lunch crowd swept me away, but as I served lunches and poured tea, I kept my eye on Deputy Marla. No wonder she understood my search for my Upstream Mother. She had searched too. She’d understand about the Colonel being gone too—probably. Miss Lana cruised by. “Miss Lana, can we talk?”

“After lunch, sugar,” she said, ringing up a customer. “I’m swamped.”

I looked up to see Deputy Marla and Miss Retzyl heading across the parking lot, and made an executive
decision. I grabbed the photocopy of Mr. Jesse’s Final Contribution, and jotted the C-note’s serial number on my order pad. Then I jammed the photocopy in my pocket. “Hey,” I called, rushing outside as Miss Retzyl pulled away in her very normal, dark blue convertible. “Deputy Marla, I want to ask you a hypothetical,” I said, skidding to a stop in front of her. “One professional to another.”

“Shoot, Detective.”

I ignored the crumbs on her blouse. Even professionals make mistakes. “Say somebody was supposed to be home or call last night, and he ain’t been heard from yet. What would you do, given the current Killer-on-the-Loose Situation and so forth? Hypothetically speaking.”

She frowned. “Mo, is everything all right?”

“Yes ma’am. I’m totally theoretical on this.”