Three Times Lucky (23 page)

He bit his lip. “I don’t know. I hear the Blalock place’s haunted, that everything’s just like she left it. And Lavender says Miss Blalock’s TV comes on at odd times, and she changes the channels herself.”

I snorted. “Don’t be a baby. Five minutes. You’ll be a hero.”

He sighed. “Five minutes, Mo, but that’s all.”

Ten minutes later we ditched the bike and hid behind a hydrangea. “Stay low,” I whispered, glancing at the wooden water tower in the side yard. “Slate’s been here sure as my name’s Mo LoBeau,” I added, nodding toward the tire tracks in the drive.

“Anybody could have left those tracks,” he said. “What’s your foolproof plan?”

“I’m getting to that,” I said, trying hard to think of one. “First I do my surveillance. Then I’ll explain my strategy, which is genius quality, believe me.”

His shoulders slumped. “You don’t have a plan, do you? I knew it,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. “I knew not to come to a ghost farm with you during a hurricane.”

“Shhh. I’m casing the place,” I said, my gaze taking in the neat white house and lingering on the padlocked front door. “It’s locked tight, just like people say.”

“What was that?” Dale whispered. “Did you hear a TV?”

“No, I didn’t hear a TV,” I said. Still, an uneasy feeling settled cool hands against my neck. I swallowed hard and turned my attention to the side yard and the old water tower, with its bandied legs and potbelly. Its windmill had lost an arm, but it whirled to battle each gust of the approaching storm.

Faintly I heard it:
screeEEeek. ScreeEEEEK
.

“It was the water tower I heard, no doubt about it,” I said. “Only there’s no way you could hear it from inside Miss Blalock’s house. Slate wasn’t inside when he called.”

“Thank you, Jesus,” Dale whispered.

“He must have been closer to the tower.” I glanced at the pump house. Its thick curtain of kudzu was torn. Someone had opened that door. “She’s in that pump
house,” I said, my heart pounding. “Come on. We’re on Search and Rescue. If you see Slate, give me a signal.”

“I do a nice owl,” he suggested.

“Fine,” I told him. “If you see Slate, hoot like an owl. Now fan out.”

Dale shook his head. “There’s only two of us,” he said. “You got to have three to fan, and that’s at the very least.”

“Okay,” I said. “Forget fanning. We’ll surround the pump house. You go around back, and I’ll take the door.”

“No,” he said firmly. “It’s too snaky in back.
I’ll
go to the door. Snakes are mean enough in good weather; there’s no telling how they think with a hurricane coming.”

I took a deep breath. The Colonel says sometimes all a leader can do is see which way everybody’s going, and try to get in front. This looked like one of those times. “Okay,” I said. “We’ll both take the door. Follow me.” I crouched low and sprinted across the yard to the pump house, Dale on my heels.

“Miss Lana?” I whispered. “Are you in there?”

Scree-EEeeeek
.

I grabbed the door’s rusty latch. “Miss Lana?” A shaft of light pierced the shed’s gloomy heart. Inside, I could just make out a case of old Mason jars, a rusted rake, and a wooden bucket rotted half through. “She ain’t here,” I said, my heart tumbling.

“No,” Dale said, kicking at an old Nehi bottle. “I’m sorry, Mo. Let’s go home.” Behind us, a tree limb thunked against the side of the house. “What the …” He glanced back at the house and screamed, the sound slicing me like razors as he dove to my feet.

“What?” I shouted, falling to the ground beside him. “Did you see Slate? I thought you were going to hoot like an owl.”

“It’s Miss Blalock’s ghost!” he cried, his face ashen.

“Where?”

“In the house,” he said, his eyes glassy with fear. “She flitted past the window.”

Thunk
.

I squinted past the dancing broom straw. “That ain’t no ghost,” I told him. “Somebody’s in there.”

I sprinted across the yard, to the back porch.

Miss Blalock’s heavy back door scraped across the kitchen’s faded linoleum. The rumors were right. The kitchen stood just as Miss Blalock left it the morning she died: table set for one, a paper-dry daffodil in a Mason jar, a cast-iron frying pan on the stove.

“Miss Lana?” I whispered. The wind groaned and the roof rattled. “Let’s try the living room,” I murmured, looking away from the table. It looked too lonely, too abandoned, too close to being alive.

Dale grabbed my arm. “What’s that smell?” he asked, sniffing the air.

I scanned the kitchen. Pizza boxes littered the counter.

“Pizza Hut delivers out here?” he gasped. He tiptoed to the boxes, opened the top one, and sniffed again. “Empty, but fresh.”

“At least Miss Lana ain’t hungry.” I crept to the living room. The room sat prim and proper. A torn curtain fluttered by a cracked windowpane. “There’s your ghost,” I said. Then, as my eyes adjusted, I saw something else: Blood. Blood on the floor, blood on a shattered lamp, blood on the faded wallpaper.

“Miss Lana!” I screamed. “Where are you?”

We tore through the creaking house, yanking open doors, calling her name. “She ain’t here,” Dale panted, his face pale as his forgotten ghost.

“Follow the blood,” I said, heading back to the living room’s wallpaper and placing my hand against her handprint. “There,” I said, pointing. We followed a faint smear of blood across the room, down a hall to a door. As I pushed the door open, the wind grabbed it, jerking me onto the porch.

Scuff marks scarred the dirt drive and disappeared in a crisscross of tire tracks. “She was fighting,” Dale said, his voice shaking. “Fighting’s good.”

The pecan trees flailed at a darkening sky, and an old fertilizer bag cartwheeled across the yard. The storm’s first raindrops spattered into the dust, the size of dimes.

“He’s moved her. We got to get some help,” I said.

“Come on. Mama’s closest,” he said, running toward his bike. “She’ll know what to do.”

“Mama!” Dale panted minutes later as we blasted through her door. “Help us!”

Miss Rose stood, phone to ear, in the living room. “Where on
earth
have you two been?” she cried, lowering the phone. “Where’s Deputy Marla?”

“Miss Lana’s hurt,” I gasped.

“Lana? Where is she?”

“Blood,” I said, my voice sounding far away. “At Miss Blalock’s place.”

“Who’s on the phone? Is it Lavender?” Dale asked, reaching out. “Let me talk.”

Lavender?
I hugged the packet beneath my shirt and sobbed.

Miss Rose lifted the phone. “Lavender? They’re back and … Hello? Hello?” She dropped it. “The line’s gone dead.” She pushed me gently onto the settee. “Tell me what’s happened.” Dale sat beside me, and she pulled a chair close. “Take a deep breath and start at the beginning.”

I went through the story step by step. She listened, her green eyes searching our faces as the words tumbled out. “Where’s Slate now?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “The Colonel said he’d lead him away from Miss Lana, and save her. The next thing I knew, Slate was in our house. That’s all I know.”

She sat back and stared out the window. The wind charged across the tobacco field behind a ragged band of rain and slammed the house, rocking it. In the distance I heard a crash—a tree hitting the ground. The lights flickered. A lawn chair tumbled across the yard, to a barbed wire fence. “If the Colonel said he’d rescue Lana, he’s probably done exactly that,” she said.

“But you didn’t see the blood. On the floor, on the wall … We have to save her.”

She put her hand on mine. “We don’t know whose blood that was.”

“I do know. I saw Miss Lana’s handprint.”

“If that
was
her handprint, we know she had blood on her hand. And that’s all we know. We don’t know whose it was or how it got there. If we’re going to assume, let’s assume in a positive direction. My money’s on the Colonel,” she said. She headed down the hallway, and returned a moment later with her shotgun. “But in case Slate wants to come calling, let’s ready a welcome.”

“What about Joe Starr?” Dale asked.

Her eyes went hard as emeralds. “Marla had me fooled,” she said. “Joe Starr could have fooled me too. We’ll assume they’re working together until we know different, and hope he doesn’t drop by.”

“He won’t. He’s staying at Miss Retzyl’s,” I said. “He radioed in while I was flattening Deputy Marla’s tires.”

“You flattened her tires?”

She flipped into Mother Mode just like that, like a werewolf growing hair beneath a full moon. “Maybe,” I said, sliding the Colonel’s packet onto the coffee table. “Let me try to remember.” I studied her a moment. “Just out of curiosity, how would you feel about flattened tires, if it was true?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Let’s see. Marla sat at my table and plotted against us, helped kidnap my friends, and held a gun on you and Dale. If you flattened her tires, Mo, I believe I could take it in stride.”

“She’s on the rims, all the way around,” I said, and she smiled, unleashing dimples. “So,” I said. “What’s our plan?”

“Our plan is to stay safe, and wait out the storm.” She held up her hand like a traffic cop, stopping my words. “It’s too late to go out there,” she said. “It’s too dangerous. We’ll stay here until the storm passes, and then we’ll find the Colonel. Would you put the candles around, please ma’am?” she said, handing me a box of matches
as the lights flickered again. “Dale, I need a hand in the kitchen.”

I hated it, but I knew she was right. I set the candles out just in time. The lights died as Miss Rose and Dale spread armloads of treats across the coffee table: Oreos, cheese puffs, chips, pretzels. Dale grinned. “We normally eat boring during a hurricane, but Mama’s making you feel at home. She’s a natural born hostess.”

“Thank you, Miss Rose.”

Miss Lana’s hurricane parties are famous county-wide, as well as in Charleston. On hurricane days, when most women fill their grocery carts with bread and milk, Miss Lana loads ours with candy, cakes, and tapered candles. “If I die in the storm, I’ll drift away in the arms of a sugar coma and candlelight,” she always says.

Miss Rose pulled the card table out of the closet. “My pleasure, Mo. Dale, get the cards,” she said. “I need a party.”

For the next few hours Hurricane Amy battered the house and screamed through window screens. Razor-colored rain slashed sideways, shredding leaves, toppling trees.

Anybody that says he ain’t scared in a hurricane is a liar or a fool. That’s what the Colonel says. A hurricane spins up like you’re nothing, and takes your world apart
like it’s nothing too. There’s no time in it, no sense of the sun moving, no waxing or waning light. All you can do is breathe, and ignore the world flying to pieces beyond your door.

To keep calm, we played cards, ate junk, and laughed too loud.

After a parade of losing hands I found myself staring at four fat aces. Dale bit his lip, a sure sign he’s bluffing. “All or nothing,” he said, pushing his pitiful three chips into the pot.

“Fine,” I said, nudging a double handful of chips to the center of the table.

Miss Rose stared from behind her mountain of chips. “I think you’re both bluffing,” she said. “All or nothing. What you got?”

Dale flipped his cards over. “A pair of fours,” he said, looking pleased.

I snorted. “Four aces.” As I reached for the pot, the door slammed open and the storm screamed into the room, snuffing out candles, knocking over lamps. Queen Elizabeth jumped up barking as Miss Rose leaped to her feet. “Dale! The door!”

Dale rushed the door, the wind pinning his shirt against his lean chest. A man stepped into the gloom, his face hidden by his hood. “Dale!” I cried. “It’s Slate!”

Miss Rose lunged forward, yanking Dale behind her. “Get out!” she shouted, throwing her weight against the man’s chest.

He staggered back, rocked forward, and grabbed her shoulders. “Shut up,” he growled, and shoved her across the room.

As he stepped inside, his hood fell from his face.

“Daddy,” Dale said, backing away. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you
think
I’m doing here, you little nothing?” Mr. Macon slurred, pulling the front door to. “You think I’m standing outside in this weather when I got a loving family to come home to?” He swayed like the pines outside, water dripping from his jacket.

“Dale,” I said, making my voice soft. “Back up.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Miss Rose rise unsteadily to her feet.

Dale took a ragged breath and stepped back. Miss Rose pulled him behind her. “Macon,” she said, “you’re drunk. And you’re not supposed to be here.”

He looked at her the way a cat looks at a bird, his eyes glinting. “So?” he said. “Why don’t you call that detective boyfriend of yours and complain? You think I don’t know about him?” He leered at her. “Go ahead and call.”

So that was it. “Detective Starr ain’t Miss Rose’s boyfriend, Mr. Macon. He’s got the hots for Miss Retzyl. Of course,” I added, “you don’t need to take my word for
it. He’ll be back in a few minutes and you can ask him yourself.”

“Shut up, Mo,” he growled, keeping his eyes on Miss Rose. “You talk too much. If you were my kid I’d knock some sense into you, wouldn’t I, Dale? Go ahead, Rose, call for help.” When she didn’t move, he sneered, “What’s the matter? Phone out?”

She glanced at us. “Dale, Mo, light the candles. It’s dark in here.”

I reached for the matches. I’d seen Mr. Macon drunk plenty of times, but I’d never seen him like this. Not this mean, not this bold. Outside, a tree crashed to the ground, but the storm outside no longer mattered. “Macon,” Miss Rose said, “if you insist on staying, we can at least sit down and act like—”

“Hey, boy, your mama tell you she took papers out on me?” he demanded, his face twisted. “Threw me out of my own house? She tell you that?”

Dale’s hand shook as he lit a candle. “She told me you don’t live here anymore.”

“Well,” he said. “Today’s your lucky day. I just moved back in. You,” he said to Miss Rose. “Get me something to eat.” She hesitated. I knew she wouldn’t leave us alone with him. “Did you hear me?”