Three Times Lucky (18 page)

“The usual,” he murmured. “The swirl of crickets, the whirl of stars. …

“Listen to me,” he said. “We’re born over and over, day by day. When you feel lost, let the stars sing you to sleep. You’ll always wake up new.” He looked at me, his face fierce and beautiful as a rocky crag in the moonlight. “Do you understand what I’m telling you, Soldier?”

I touched his hand. “I don’t know, sir,” I said. “But I admire the way it sounds.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Right-o!” he said. “You are honest as granite, my dear. Get the marshmallows, then. Let’s build us a roaring good fire.”

“Mo?” Starr said, dropping a clumsy paw on my shoulder and shaking me like a bear. “Can you hear me? She’s going into shock,” he told someone. “Call a doctor.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Miss Rose said from the door.

“Mama!” Dale cried.

Miss Rose sailed across the kitchen, her green eyes worried. “Oh, Mo,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” Her arms closed around me, and my eyes filled with hot, frightened tears.

I sobbed like a first grader.

“We’ll find Miss Lana,” she said, smoothing my hair. “Don’t worry. We’ll find her.”

“Mama, where’s Lavender?” Dale asked, looking up from Starr’s laptop.

“He’s searching, like everybody else,” she said. Knowing he was near helped. “Dale,” she said, “what are you doing?”

“Checking out mug shots,” he said, hunching forward to peer at the computer’s screen. “Mo and me got here right after the killer. Maybe we saw him and just don’t remember. That’s why.”

“Rose, we’re doing everything we can to find your friend,” Starr said. “I have people scouring the woods, and we’ve set up roadblocks on US 264 and I-95. Deputy Marla is preparing to search the area’s vacant houses and barns. Rose, has Lana mentioned having difficulty with anyone? At the café, or in Charleston?”

I leaned against Miss Rose. Her blouse smelled like just-cut grass. “Lana came by yesterday,” she said, “but she didn’t mention anything out of the ordinary. She was worried about Jesse’s … situation, and when that would be resolved.”

“Did she mention the Colonel?”

Miss Rose’s hand went still in my hair. “I might as well tell you,” she said. “The Colonel’s been away since late Thursday night. She said he called Monday, and sounded … strange.”

“Strange, how?”

“He called her baby. And he called Mo Moses. He never does that.”

“Moses?”
Dale said. “That’s weird.”

Starr scribbled a note. “Anything else?”

She shrugged. “Not really. She didn’t like him leaving, under the circumstances, but those two have always spent more time apart than together.”

“Meaning, they fight?”

“No,” she said. “Meaning they don’t fight, because
they spend time apart. Believe me, Detective, some things that will cure you in a small dose will kill you in a larger one.”

Starr clicked his pen. “Rose,” he said. “If you know where the Colonel is …”

“If I knew,” she said, “he’d be on his way home.”

“Hey,” Dale yelped. “Why is Plainclothes Phil in here?”

I pushed away from Miss Rose to peer at the photo on the computer screen.

“What’s your undercover man doing in there?” I demanded, glaring at Starr. “I don’t think you should ask Dale to help you, and then try to trick him.”

“My undercover man? What are you talking about?” He spun the laptop around and squinted at the mug shot. “That’s Robert Slate, a bank robber. He broke out of prison a few weeks ago. He’s a wanted man.”

“If you wanted him, you should have come to the festival,” Dale said.

Starr jumped to his feet. “Slate’s here?” He turned to Deputy Marla. “You were watching Dale. Did you see him?”

“No,” she said, looking bewildered. “I didn’t.”

Gooseflesh walked across my arms. “You were watching us? I never saw you.”

“That’s the idea, Mo,” she said. “I was undercover.”

“And you didn’t see Slate?” I said, my voice rising. “He
was at Mr. Jesse’s funeral. At the festival, in the azaleas across from Lavender’s …”

She studied the photo, and then glanced at Starr. “I don’t know what to say, Joe. I could have missed him, I guess, but it doesn’t seem likely.”

“Are you two sure?” Starr demanded, and we nodded. He ran his finger across his eyebrow. “Better safe than sorry,” he said. “Marla, notify the Highway Patrol. Tell them Robert Slate has a hostage and may be headed to Winston,” he said. “And tell them he might be driving one of Dolph Andrews’s missing cars.”

“Dolph Andrews? The dead guy from Winston-Salem?” Dale whispered.

I stood up. “If this guy hurts Miss Lana …” My voice crumbled, and Starr put his hand on my arm. His hand was strong, like the Colonel’s.

“Mo, Miss Lana’s safety is my top priority. Dale? Thanks for your help, son,” he said. “Rose? I’d appreciate it if you took these children home so I can get to work. I’ll have someone watch your place until morning.”

“No,” I said. “This is my house and I ain’t leaving unless you promise to find Miss Lana.”

He took a deep breath. “Mo, I’ll do everything I can, and I’ll stop by Rose’s in the morning, to tell you what I’ve learned,” he said. “I promise.”

Miss Rose put her arm across my shoulders. “Thank you, Detective. Come on, Mo,” she said. “Let’s get your things.”

I felt like a stranger in my own room. My unmade bed stared as I dragged my old-timey suitcase from the chifforobe and popped its brass latches. Its navy-blue lining had faded to indigo splotches. I stood there, running my finger along its rough tan stripe, not sure what to do. “Miss Lana says never go anywhere without money to get home,” I finally said, checking the suitcase pocket for cash. “This Emergency Five’s brought me home every time,” I said. “I sure wish Miss Lana had it now.”

“Lana’s smart,” Miss Rose said, folding my karate pants into the suitcase. “She’ll find her way home. She’ll be proud of the way you’re handling this. You’ll see.”

I tossed Volume 6 into the suitcase as she added a stack of T-shirts. “I won’t need those,” I said. “Miss Lana will be back before daylight.”

“Probably, but Starr will want to work here even after she comes home.”

After she comes home.
Please let her come home,
I thought.

I felt like a leaf, falling.

“Mo, can you think of anything else you might need?”

I grabbed my green scrapbook, the one Miss Lana put
together in Charleston. “This is the last thing she gave me before …” My words collapsed.

“It’s all right, Mo,” she whispered, wrapping me in a hug.

“No, it’s not,” I said, tears rolling hot down my face. “They
have
to find her. Without Miss Lana, nothing will ever be all right again.”

Later that night, Dale’s bedroom door creaked open, shooting a dart of light to the bed where I lay, pretending to sleep. I propped up on my elbow, the bedsprings grumbling. “Dale?”

Queen Elizabeth’s toenails
tick-tick-ticked
across the floor. “Hey girl,” I whispered, putting my hand out. “Come on up.” She leaped onto the bed and squirmed in beside me. I ran my hand down her velvety ears and she nudged my wrist, comforting me. I snapped on the lamp—a homemade one, from Miss Rose’s wine-bottle-craft phase.

Dale’s room is okay unless you’re squeamish, which I ain’t. It smells rich and clean, like a just-plowed field, thanks to the earthworm farm in his closet—refugees from last summer’s get-rich-quick scheme. His sheets smell like wind.

His newt, Sir Isaac, stirred in the terrarium. I leaned down and scooped my scrapbook off the floor. “Here, Liz,” I said, opening the book. “Sniff out a clue.”

“What’s up?” Dale whispered from the door, and Liz and I both jumped.

“We’re looking at photographs,” I said. “What are you doing up? Your mama’s gonna skin you alive if she finds you wandering around this house.”

It was true. Once we got to her house, Miss Rose barked out sleeping assignments like the Colonel himself: I got Dale’s room. She gave Dale and Lavender, who stayed to protect us, Lavender’s old room. She kept hers. “Doors locked, lights out, everyone in bed until morning,” she’d ordered.

“Liz got hungry. I got up to make her a peanut butter sandwich,” Dale said. “I made us one too. You seen her?”

“She’s over here,” I said as Liz’s tail thumped the mattress.

Dale dragged a cane-bottomed chair to my bedside. “Here, Liz,” he said as she jumped to the floor. She gently took the sandwich from his hand and stretched out at his feet. She held the sandwich between her paws and nipped it. “She eats ladylike,” Dale said, tossing a sandwich to me. Extra-crunchy—my PB of choice.

“You’re not sleepy?” I asked.

He yawned. “It ain’t that,” he said. “Lavender talks in his sleep.”

My heart jumped. “Really? Did he mention me?”

“Not unless you’ve changed your name to the Sycamore 200. What kind of photographs you got?” he asked, peeping at the scrapbook.

“Some Miss Lana brought from Charleston.” Dale munched his sandwich, his hair spiked in a jagged halo, his pale blue pajamas mis-buttoned and lopsided. I looked around his room, at the faded wallpaper, at the NASCAR models his daddy gives him every year for his birthday even though he really wants a guitar, at the small rack of weights. “Since when do you lift weights?” I asked him.

“Since never. Lavender gave them to me. He said to let them collect dust until I hit puberty. Then I can use them or sell them, whichever I want.” He stuffed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and licked his fingertips. “So,” he said. “When do we start?”

“Start what?”

“Talking clues,” he said, taking my notebook from the nightstand and handing it to me. “About Miss Lana.”

He frowned and leaned toward me. “She’s—been—kidnapped?” he said slowly, raising his voice at the end, as if I had gone dense. “We—are—detectives?”

“Some detectives,” I said. “We can’t tell a bank robber from a bodyguard.”

“We’ll find Miss Lana, Mo,” he said. “We’ll do like
Miss Retzyl taught us. Remember? Define the problem, then solve it. Problem?” He tilted his head the way Miss Retzyl tilts hers when he gives up in math.

I sighed. “Miss Lana’s been kidnapped by Slate.”

“Because?”

“How should I know?” I wailed. “Nothing makes sense.”

“Shhhhh. You’ll wake Mama.”

He pulled Miss Lana’s scrapbook toward him. “Why would anybody want to take Miss Lana? I mean, she’s nice, but she drives the Colonel so crazy he stays away half the time.” He glanced up from the scrapbook. “I mean that in a good way,” he said. “I love Miss Lana.”

“I know. I love her too.”

“It could have been accidental,” he said. “Maybe Slate thought she was a movie star. Cher, maybe. She does wear wigs. No,” he sighed, saving me the trouble of shooting him down. “That’s not it.”

“Maybe she surprised him,” I said. “Maybe she found him ransacking the living room, looking for … something. Or for the Colonel. Slate had already been to our house once. Remember? The night Mr. Jesse died.”

“That’s right,” he said, and turned a page in the scrapbook. “Who’s this?”

I glanced at the photo. “Miss Lana, prior to blossoming.”

He turned to her drama club collage. “Wow,” he muttered.
“Way to blossom.” He yawned. “Why would a bank robber take Miss Lana? What do bank robbers want?”

“Money?” I guessed as he turned to the photo of the young Colonel, with me on his knee. “Only she ain’t got none. Neither has the Colonel, unless …” I stopped, staring at the photo, at the open suitcase on the table.

Dale looked up. “Unless what?”

“Unless Slate believes that old rumor. About the suitcase full of cash.”

He snorted and closed the scrapbook. “He can’t be that stupid. Daddy started that rumor so people would be nice to the Colonel when he first came to town.”

“Never underestimate the power of stupid, Dale. What if Slate thinks that rumor’s true? What if he kidnapped Miss Lana to get money that isn’t even real?”

Dale scratched his head. “Even if he did, we still got to find a way to get her back.” He stood up and stretched. “Let’s sleep on it, Mo,” he said, picking up the scrapbook. “Can I take this? I can study it while Lavender mutters.” I nodded. “Don’t worry. We’ll find her.” Queen Elizabeth jumped to her feet. “Liz,” he said, “you stay with Mo.”

A photo fluttered from the scrapbook as he closed the door. In it, a young Colonel and Miss Lana stood arm in arm in front of an old church, smiling at me. The wind
whipped Miss Lana’s hair around her face. I laid it on the table, clicked off the light, and settled back into bed.

I closed my eyes and tried to sense where Miss Lana was.
Please Miss Lana,
I thought,
think to me. I’m at Miss Rose’s house.

Finally I shoved the sheet away and walked to the window overlooking the barnyard. The night sky stared back at me patient and black, dressed in wide sweeps of stars.

The Colonel’s voice found me, steady and clear:
“When you feel lost, let the stars sing you to sleep. You’ll always wake up new. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Soldier?”

“I think I do now, sir,” I whispered.

I dragged Dale’s beanbag chair to the window and fell asleep listening to the stars.

“Miss Rose,” I said the next morning, “I want to tell Joe Starr about the Colonel’s suitcase of money, and about the night he crashed at the edge of town.”

She sat at the kitchen table, stirring cream into her coffee. “That old story?” she said, looking startled. “Why?”

“Because,” I said, “Slate might think that old story’s true. It’s the only reason I can think of that he might have stole Miss Lana. And we can’t tell that story without telling about the Colonel’s crash.”

Lavender ambled in and slid my scrapbook across the table. “Nice photos,” he said, taking a basket of eggs from the refrigerator. “You want some eggs, Mama?” She shook her head. “Mo, you think you can make toast?”

Can I make toast? Is he kidding me?

As I popped two slices of Wonder Bread into the toaster, the bathroom door slammed. “Dale’s up,” I said, taking two more slices from the bag and twisting it shut. I glanced at Lavender, who’d tied a gingham apron over his jeans. “What do you think we should do, Lavender?”