Three Times Lucky (2 page)

Dale’s my best friend. By now, you can see why.

We barely had time to rev up the air conditioner and click on the ceiling fans before our first customer stumbled in. I won’t say our patrons are an ugly lot, but at 6:30 a.m., they ain’t pretty. I stepped up on the Pepsi crate behind the counter as Mr. Jesse came sauntering in, thin-shouldered and round-bellied, wearing a faded plaid shirt, khakis, and last night’s whiskers. “Morning, Mr. Jesse,” I said. “What’ll it be?”

“Hey, Mo,” he said, grabbing a menu. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“School ended last week, Mr. Jesse.”

“Oh? What grade will you … ?”

“Sixth.”

“Sixth grade? Good gracious, girl,” he said, looking at me for the first time. “You
are
growing.”

I sighed. “I’m standing on a Pepsi crate, Mr. Jesse. I ain’t grown that much since yesterday. You want to order? I got other customers to think about.”

He looked around the deserted café as the 7UP clock ticked loud and lonely on the far wall. “Other customers? Where?”

“On their way over here.”

“Oh. Lessee then,” he said. “I don’t know what I’m in a mood for. Some jackass stole my boat last night, took my appetite with it.” Dale dropped a glass. “Big-footed buzzard, too, from his prints,” he added. “I’m guessing he’s at least six foot four and a good two hundred twenty pounds.” Dale kicked his oversize sandals under the counter. Mr. Jesse licked his thin lips. “Miss Lana take her biscuits out of the oven yet?”

I made my voice gentle, the way Miss Lana does when I have a fever. “We ain’t having biscuits today, Mr. Jesse,” I said.

“Oh,” he said. Then: “Oh!” He sniffed the air like a hound, and a frown flashed across his unshaven face. “Doesn’t smell right in here,” he announced. “No coffee, no bacon, no biscuits …”

“Miss Lana’s taking some time off,” I said, keeping my voice low. “It’s probably for the best. Her biscuits are awfully fattening and you could stand to lose that belly, Mr. Jesse. You know you could.”

His eyes darted to the gray double doors leading to the kitchen. “Is the Colonel back there?” he demanded. I couldn’t blame him for being nervous.

“Want me to see if he’s in?” I offered, stepping off my Pepsi crate. I won’t say I’m short, but without the crate, I’m not tall.

“Disturb the Colonel?” he gasped. “No! Heavens no. I just like to know when he’s in town.” He dropped the menu. “What do you suggest this morning, Mo?”

I stood up straight, the way Miss Lana taught me, and draped a paper napkin over my arm. “This morning we’re offering a full line of peanut butter entrées,” I said. “We got peanut butter and jelly, peanut butter and raisins, and a delicate peanut butter/peanut butter combination. These come crunchy or smooth, on Wonder Bread, hand-squished flat on the plate or not, as you prefer. The special today is our famous peanut butter and banana sandwich. It comes on Wonder Bread, cut diagonal on the plate, with crust or without. What can I start you with?”

“The special,” he said.

“An excellent choice. Hand-squished or fluffy?”

“Fluffy,” he said. “No crust. And …” He gazed at the coffeemaker, his pale eyes hopeful. “Coffee?”

I shook my head. “Our drink du jour is Mountain Dew,” I said. “I got a two-liter breathing in back.”

His shoulders slumped.

“Morning!” Mayor Little sang out, the door slapping shut behind him. He smoothed his ice-blue tie over his
pudgy belly and flashed an unnaturally white smile.

“Hush!” Mr. Jesse barked. “Miss Lana’s gone and the Colonel could be in the kitchen!”

Mayor Little tiptoed to the counter, his polished loafers
tick-tick-ticking
across the tile floor. “Miss Lana gone? The Colonel back? An unfortunate turn of events, but put in an historical context, it’s nothing the town can’t handle,” he murmured. “Morning, Mo. Give me a special and drink du jour. No ice. My gums are giving me fits.”

“Coming up,” I said, turning away.

We always choose a Little for mayor in case a television crew ever comes to town. Littles like to talk and they’re naturally neat; even their babies dress good. As the mayor sipped his Mountain Dew, the breakfast crowd trickled in.

Grandmother Miss Lacy Thornton parked her Buick by the Underbird and strolled to a table by the window. Grandmother Miss Lacy Thornton always wears a navy-blue suit and shoes. Their color offsets her white-blue hair, which she sweeps up in a halo around her heart-shaped face. She stands just a little taller than me, but somehow looms above everyone in the room.

Tinks Williams darted in next to grab a sandwich, leaving his John Deere tractor idling in a patch of shade. Then came slow-talking Sam Quinerly, Lavender’s
racing partner and mechanic. He already had grease on his hands. Before Dale could make Sam’s sandwich, in strolled Reverend Thompson and his boy, Thessalonians.

“Hey, Thes,” I said, sliding him a glass of water. “How’s summer school?”

He grinned, his carrot-colored hair glistening. “Wouldn’t know. I ain’t going.”

Like me, Thes doesn’t over-study. Unlike me, he’s F-prone. I keep my borderline straight A’s to myself, preferring to spring my brainpower on others when they least expect it. I take after Miss Lana that way. “How’d you wiggle out of that?” I asked.

“Makeup tests, and prayer,” Reverend Thompson muttered.

Thes beamed. “Hey Mo, we got three potential hurricanes off Africa this morning. I figure we got a thirty percent chance one will make it all the way to us.” Thes is a weather freak. He dreams of being a TV weatherman, and updates for practice. As far as I know, there’s no way to stop him.

“A couple of specials, please, Mo,” Reverend Thompson said.

“Coming up.”

By 7:30 half the town had crowded into the café and rising seventh grader Skeeter McMillan—tall, slender,
freckles the color of fresh-sliced baloney—had claimed the counter’s last spot.

“Morning, Mo,” Skeeter said, propping her law book open. “I’ll have the alleged special, please.” Skeeter, who hopes to one day be an attorney, loves to say “alleged” and “perp.” Rumor has it she’s already written to Matchbook University for a paralegal course under an assumed name. She won’t say if that’s true or false, only that unsubstantiated rumor won’t hold up in court.

“Hey Skeeter, the Colonel’s back,” Dale told her, speeding by.

She swept her law book into her bag. “Make mine to go,” she said.

The Colonel hates lawyers. We allow Skeeter to come in, since she’s only in training, but she keeps a low profile out of pride.

By 8:30, Dale and I were tearing around like our shirttails were on fire. I am permitted to serve meals since the café is a family business, but not to use the stove, which the Colonel says could be dangerous for someone of my height and temperament. The pre-lunch lull found me opening jars of Miss Lana’s Practically Organic Garden Soup—which, fortunately, serves up good cold in the bowl. “Miss Lana better come home soon,” I said, twisting the ring off a quart jar. “This is the last of her soup, and I ain’t no gardener.”

“You can say that again,” Dale muttered.

Dale gets his green thumb from Miss Rose. I, personally, am practically herbicidal. I’ve killed every plant I ever met, starting with my lima bean sprout in kindergarten.

As the lunch crowd drifted in, I plugged in the jukebox. The lunch crowd is the breakfast crowd shaved and combed, plus the Azalea Women, who call themselves the Uptown Garden Club. There’s six of them, all told. Add the Azalea Women to our regulars, and the café was bustling when the stranger parked his dirt-colored Impala out front and pushed open the café door.

“Afternoon,” he said, and the place went still as well water. I glanced at the clock. It was exactly seven minutes past noon.

The stranger looked slow around the café, his eyes the color of a thin winter sky. “Give me a burger all the way and a sweet tea,” he said, strolling to the counter.

Already I didn’t like him.

Didn’t like the starch in his shirt, or the crease in his pants. Didn’t like the hook of his nose, or the plane of his cheekbones. Didn’t like the skinny of his hips, or the shine of his shoes. Mostly, I didn’t like the way he didn’t smile.

I stepped up on my Pepsi crate. “Sorry, we’re out. You want the special instead?”

“What’s the special?”

I hooked my thumb toward the blackboard.

He frowned. “That’s all you got?”

“It’s good enough for us,” Tinks Williams growled from the stool beside him.

His eyes narrowed. “Give me the Carnivore’s Delight, then.”

Tinks handed me three dollars. “Keep the change,” he muttered, slapping his green John Deere cap on his head. “We tip good around here,” he said, directing his words in the stranger’s direction.

It was a bald-faced lie, but I appreciated it. “Thanks, Mr. Tinks,” I said.

I hadn’t even raked Tinks’s crumbs to the floor when Mayor Little took his spot at the counter. “Mayor Clayburn Little,” he said. “Welcome to Tupelo Landing.”

The room relaxed. The Littles are good with strangers.

“Starr,” the stranger said, introducing himself as he flipped open a gold badge. “Detective Joe Starr.”

The mayor formed his mouth into a perfect O. “A detective!” he said, shaking Starr’s hand. “Isn’t that wonderful? We don’t see many detectives around here.”

“My boat got stole last night,” Mr. Jesse said from down the counter. “You come about my boat?”

“It’ll show up,” Dale shouted, his voice raw and panicked.

Mayor Little forced a smile. “Your boat’s a local matter,
Jesse. I’ll look into it.” Then to Starr: “Where are you out of, Detective, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Winston-Salem,” Starr said.

“My, my. You’re a long way from home. Passing through, I imagine. On your way to … a crime scene, of some sort?”

“Something like that,” Starr said. He gazed at me. “What’s your name?”

I swallowed hard. I’m not good with authority figures. “Mo,” I said, a blush walking up my neck. Sometimes I could kill the Colonel for giving me a name like Mo.

“Unusual name,” he said.

“It’s Biblical,” I told him. “Don’t take this wrong, but the last person to make fun of it got swallowed by the Red Sea.”

An Azalea Woman tittered.

Dale slid Starr’s paper plate across the counter. “There you go: a Carnivore’s Delight. I gave you a cucumber strip, on the house.”

“Thanks, son,” he said. Starr’s gaze traveled from the dollar bill over the kitchen door, to the Colonel’s hand-lettered sign over the coffee urn: N
O
L
AWYERS
. Starr picked up his sandwich and studied Dale. “What’s
your
name?”

Dale blanched. “Me? My name is … Phillip. Sir.”

The café gasped, and I gave Dale a sharp kick in the shin. “I mean, it’s Dale,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. Dale’s family is like that. Let the Law come within twenty yards of them, and every male over the age of six—uncles, brother, father, cousins—starts lying his fool head off. Dale says it’s genetic. Miss Lana says that’s poppycock.

“So,” Mayor Little said. “To what do we owe the honor, Detective Starr?”

“Just passing through, like you said,” Starr said. “Headed for Wilmington. Who’s that?” he asked, glancing at a black-and-white photo on the wall.

“Miss Lana,” I said, ringing up Tinks’s bill and dropping the extra into my tip jar. “She doesn’t always look like that,” I added. “She’s dressed up like Mae West.”

Mayor Little propped his elbow on the counter and beamed at Starr. “Hollywood Night here at the café, don’t you know,” he said, crossing his chubby legs and waggling one loafer. “We’re a wonderfully creative community.”

“I see that,” Starr said, glancing around the room. “Miss Lana own this place?”

“Goodness, no,” Mayor Little said. “The Colonel does. He’s not in today. A bit under the weather, I suppose.”

The crowd’s attention swiveled to Starr, who sauntered toward the photograph. As he passed the Azalea
Women they leaned away from him, like rabbits shying away from a bobcat. “She looks familiar,” he said, squinting at the photo.

“Well, that was the idea, Detective,” Mayor Little said in a pained voice. “We had Hollywood Night here at the café, and we all dressed up. The whole town. Miss Lana came as Mae West, I chose Charlie Chaplin. I went silent for once, you see. Sort of an inside joke. We made an evening of it. Skits. Impressions.”

Dale seemed to have regained his composure, even with a detective within arresting distance. Or so I thought until he opened his mouth. “The boobs aren’t real,” he squawked.

Mayor Little frowned. “Dale!”

“In Miss Lana’s photograph, I mean. Those boobs aren’t real,” he babbled. “Neither is the hair.”

“Dale, go check our Mountain Dew supply,” I said, giving him a shove. The kitchen door swished shut behind him.

“Well, sir, what are you investigating?” Mayor Little asked as Starr settled back onto his stool. “Anything exciting?”

“A murder,” he said, and the Azalea Women shuddered.

“Where?” Mayor Little asked.

“Happened in Winston-Salem, a couple weeks ago,”
Starr said, picking up his soupspoon and leaning over his bowl. “Good soup,” he muttered.

“Miss Lana put it up last summer,” I told him. “It’s practically organic.”

Mayor Little smoothed his tie. “Who is the, uh, dearly departed?” he asked.

“Fellow named Dolph Andrews. Ever hear of him?” Starr pulled a photo out of his shirt pocket and slid it down the counter. The mayor and I leaned over the counter, studying it. Even upside down, Dolph Andrews was a good-looking man.

“Looks a little like George Clooney,” Mayor Little said. “No, Dolph Andrews has never been here. I’d remember.” He slid the photo back. “Who killed him?”

“Don’t know.” Starr nudged the photo toward me. “Go ahead, pass it around. Let everybody take a look.” The photo went from hand to hand, around the café.