Three Times Lucky (9 page)

The sound grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and shook me like a kitten, waking me from a deep sleep.

What was that? A killer on the porch?

Crack.

A phone line being cut?

Thud.

It came from the window!

Breathe, I told myself, breathe.

Snap-snap-snap
.

I squinted at my clock. Three a.m.? Already?

I grabbed my baseball bat and tiptoed to the window. The shrubs swayed crazily.

Tap-tap-tap
. The killer?

“Mo,” the killer rasped. “It’s me. Open the door.”

I pushed my curtain aside with the bat. Dale had chinned himself on my windowsill, revealing bloodless
knuckles and the top half of his strained face. “Open … the … door,” he panted as his grip gave way and he fell into Miss Lana’s gardenias.

I flipped my lamp on, marched to my porch door, and pushed the dead bolt aside. Dale shot in, his face drawn. “What am I going to do?” he demanded, scrambling past me. “They’ll try me as an adult. I know they will,” he said, his voice bitter. “I’ll get twenty years at least. I’ll be …” His eyes glazed over as he tried to add.

“Thirty-one?” I guessed, locking the door behind him.

“Thirty-one,” he wailed, sinking to the floor. “That’s almost dead.”

“Calm down,” I told him. “Attila Celeste only remembers a boy with light hair and a dark shirt, maybe black. She didn’t say it was you.”

“A black shirt? What am I going to do? Everybody knows I’m still mourning the crash at Daytona.” He grabbed the hem of his Dale Earnhardt memorial T-shirt and yanked it over his head, turning to hide the angry red smears across his rib cage.

I used to think Dale was clumsy. Then I realized he only got clumsy when Mr. Macon took drunk.

“Black’s all I got,” he said. I scooped a white T-shirt off my chair and threw it to him. “Thanks,” he muttered, slipping it on and smoothing his hair. “Mo, I swear I didn’t kill Mr. Jesse,” he said, his voice cracking.

“Of course not,” I said, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

“What am I going to do? You’re the smart one. Think of something.”

I took a deep breath. “Calm down. We’ll both think.” He settled into my rocking chair, the one Miss Lana used to rock me to sleep in when I was a baby. “We’ll do like in science with Miss Retzyl,” I told him.

“Science,” he moaned. “I’m sunk.”

“Remember what she told us. Define the problem, then solve it.”

“Right,” he said. “So. The problem is … the electric chair?” Dale goes dense when scared. He can’t help it.

I shook my head. “The problem is, Starr’s headed down the wrong path and you’re standing at the end of it.” I drummed my fingers against my knee. “We could tell the Colonel or Miss Rose about Mr. Jesse’s boat. They could talk to Starr.”

“No,” he said. “Starr don’t trust the Colonel, and Mama would kill me.” That was true. “Maybe Starr will find the real murderer, and get me off the hook.”

“Possible but not likely,” I said. “The Colonel says cops can’t figure out much of anything. And that’s pretty much a quote.”

He frowned. “Then how come my folks practically got a guest suite at the jail?”

I decided to let that one go by. “We only got one
option,” I said, leaning forward. “We’ll find Mr. Jesse’s killer ourselves.”

“Right,” he said, his voice going sullen. “Like we can out-detective Joe Starr. That’s nuts, Mo. I’m doomed.”

“It’s not nuts, and you’re not doomed. You’re desperate, is all. And it’s like Miss Lana says: Desperation is the mother of invention.”

He looked at me, his face thoughtful. “Who’s the daddy?”

If Dale ever starts thinking in a straight line, he’ll be a genius. “We’ll call ourselves the Desperado Detective Agency,” I continued. “I already got The Case of the Upstream Mother in progress. We’ll add on Mr. Jesse’s Murder. If there’s a reward involved, we’ll rent an office. Until then, we’ll set up at the café.”

He nodded. “Desperado Detectives,” he said, trying on the words. “I like it.”

I grabbed Volume 6 and an old putt-putt pencil from my nightstand. “We’ll need clues,” I said. “What do we know about Mr. Jesse?”

“He’s dead,” he said promptly. Dale has a nose for the obvious.

“Last person to see him alive?”

“The killer.”

“Before that?”

“Oh,” Dale said, his face falling. “That would be me. Only … only …”

I looked up. Dale had gone a ghastly shade of pale. “Are you all right?” I asked.

“The window,” he whispered, not moving his eyes.

The hair on my arms stood up. I let my gaze drift to the right—from Dale’s terrified face, to my window, into the ice-cold eyes of a stranger.

I screamed. Dale screamed.

I grabbed my Charleston snow globe and hurled it at the window. The man—round face, bald—jumped back as the globe bounced off the wall. I leaped to the center of my bed, and went into my karate fighting stance. “Dale!” I shouted. “Up here!”

“Why?” he bellowed, galloping across the sheets to stand by my side.

“We’ll go down fighting.”

“Not me,” he said, backing away.

Dale exasperates me to tears. He hates fighting. I figure it’s because of his daddy. Fortunately, I’m a good enough scrapper for both of us, most days. “Hands up!” I shouted. Dale raised his fists, looking awkward and scared.

I peered at the window. Nothing. The wind rustled and Miss Lana’s gardenias scraped against my window. “Where’s the Colonel?” Dale asked, his voice shaking.

“Asleep on the settee,” I said, glancing at the door the Colonel had left open for me. It was closed tight. My
heart pounded so hard, I went dizzy. Where was he? The Colonel sleeps like a gnat. “COLONEL!” I yelled. “HELP!”

Silence.

I grabbed Dale’s arm. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Probably not,” he said, pulling away. “I hardly ever am.”

“The Colonel must be wounded. Or dead. Let’s get in there.”

“See?” he said, his eyes going glassy with fear. “I’m not thinking anything like that. I’m thinking ‘Run.’”

“He needs us,” I said, leaping to the floor. I grabbed my Little League bat and opened the door, slicing the living room’s dark with my room’s soft glow. “There he is,” I whispered, pointing to the sheet-covered lump on the sofa. “Colonel?”

I reached for the light switch. “No,” Dale whispered, knocking my hand away. “With a killer outside, we’re safer with it off. Everybody knows that.”

“Colonel?” He lay still as death. My mouth went Sahara dry. “Wake him up,” I whispered.

“Me?” Dale gasped. “I’m not good with the dead.
You
do it. Use the bat.”

I crept forward, my pulse pounding. I lifted the bat and bounced it off the arm of the sofa. The effect was
electric. The body spun to face us, the moonlight playing on high cheekbones, penciled-in eyebrows, a wide-open mouth set in a creamy white face.

“Clown!” Dale shrieked. He ran squarely into the wall and crashed to the floor.

“Get up!” I shouted as the body wheeled to point at us.

“Dale Earnhardt Johnson III, get up off of that floor right this minute. Moses LoBeau, drop that bat. Both of you settle down! You’re enough to wake the dead.”

“Miss Lana?” I gasped.

“Yes, dear?” She reached beneath her pillow, pulled out a flimsy gray scarf, and deftly flipped it over her head. She switched on the lamp. “Dang these curlers,” she muttered, tucking strands of red hair beneath her scarf and patting them into place. “The things I do to make myself beautiful for you people,” she teased. “And you don’t even act like you’re glad to see me.”

“Miss Lana!” I cried, hurling myself into her warm, Noxzema-scented arms. “There’s a killer at my window! Thank heavens you’ve come home!”

“Mo, for heaven’s sake,” she said, squeezing me tight. “What’s wrong?”

“Where’s the Colonel?” I pushed free, ran across the living room, and threw open the Colonel’s door. “Colonel?” His closet stood open, his shirts exactly three inches apart on the clothes bar, his shoes snapped to attention underneath. Olive-drab blankets stretched tight across his empty bunk. “Where is he?”

“Gone,” she said, dabbing cold cream from her face. “Again.”

“Now?”
I said. “Gone where?”

“I’m not sure,” she said. “I’d barely walked in before he rushed out, muttering something about offense and defense and taking the fight to the enemy. That man makes me so angry I can’t hear half of what he says. Some days I can barely see his lips move.”

“Miss Lana,” I said, “there’s a man at my window.”

“I saw him too,” Dale said.

She looked from Dale to me. “You’re serious,” she
gasped. She shrugged into her robe as she rushed to my room. She checked my dead bolt and then hurried through the house, checking doors and windows. Dale and I trailed her like puppies. “Everything’s secure,” she said, grabbing the phone. “But better safe than sorry.”

“Who are you calling?” Dale asked. “Not Starr, I hope,” he whispered to me.

“Tinks Williams,” she said. “We have an agreement. I just hope … Hello? Tinks? It’s Lana. I’m sorry to wake you, but we’ve seen someone at our window and I wonder if you could … Thank you, dear,” she said. “Yes, I promise not to shoot.”

That’s another rumor the Colonel started: that Miss Lana can shoot.

“He’s on his way,” she said. “So, let’s settle down.” She crossed to a large suitcase at the front door. “Dale?” she said, slipping her hand through the handle. “Would you help me? Mo,” she said, “grab my valise and makeup case. We’ll move me into my suite while we wait. Then I’ll make some hot chocolate.”

Dale leaned against his end of the bag, his legs churning as he plowed it across the living room to Miss Lana’s door. She clicked on a lamp, sending soft light across a large room overlooking the creek. I swung her valise onto the bench by her dresser.

“Thank heavens Cher travels well,” she said, lifting her
glossy black Cher wig from her bag and giving it a gentle shake. She opened her closet door. On the shelf sat four stark, white mannequin heads, one wearing a Marilyn Monroe wig. “Can you grab Ava Gardner and Jean Harlow, sugar?” she asked. I passed the wigs to Miss Lana, completing her Hollywood Through the Ages collection.

Miss Lana has a flair for drama.

Now she gave Dale a puzzled glance. “Dale,” she said, “I’m glad to see you, but may I ask what you’re doing in Mo’s room at three forty-five a.m.?”

“Nothing,” he said, going shifty. “Whatever you’re thinking, I’m innocent.” As I may have noted, Dale doesn’t think well on his feet.

“Dale just now dropped by,” I said quickly. “We’ve started a small business—Desperado Detective Agency. Dale’s here to sort clues. Since school’s out, we thought it would be okay. Plus, that’s the kind of work ethic we got.” I changed tack. “I’m sorry you and the Colonel had a fight. And Miss Lana, I missed you.”

She kissed my face. Her kisses are soft as rose petals. “I missed you too, sugar,” she said. “And for future reference, your summer curfew is eight p.m. Sharp. And the Colonel and I didn’t have a fight, exactly.” She sighed. “What
is
it with that man?”

Dale perched on the edge of her bed. “What is it with the Colonel,” he said. “That’s a tough one.” Dale’s
a sucker for rhetorical questions, especially Miss Lana’s.

“Dale,” I said sharply. “We’ve worked on this.”

“Oh,” he said, his face falling. “Rhetorical?”

I nodded and glanced outside. “Where’s Tinks?”

“He’ll be here, sugar,” she said, eyeing her dresser. “Where are my hairbrushes?”

Dale looked at me. “Rhetorical?” he whispered.

“No,” I said, pointing to her makeup case.

As Dale plundered the luggage, Miss Lana prattled on—a nervous habit. “You were sleeping like a baby when I closed your door,” she told me. “The Colonel asked me to sleep on the settee, in case you needed me.” That explained why nobody came when we screamed: Miss Lana sleeps like a sack of concrete. “He didn’t mention that you’d attack me with a bat,” she added.

“I’m sorry, I thought you were dead,” I explained. “Miss Lana, did the Colonel take the Underbird?”

“No, he left it here. For me.”

“Why?” I asked. “You can’t drive.”

Her smile flatlined.

Miss Lana’s the only adult in the county who can’t drive. Maybe on the entire planet. It’s been a sore point with me since third grade, when my teacher asked her to help carpool my class to the NC Aquarium, near Morehead. Regular mothers drove. Miss Lana borrowed Grandmother Miss Lacy Thornton’s Buick and hired a
driver—Tinks Williams, in his navy-blue Sunday suit.

“The Colonel’s on foot, then,” I said. “Tracking the killer. Maybe.”

She frowned. “Tracking the killer? Surely Jesse’s in custody. Isn’t he?”

Mr. Jesse? In custody?

“Miss Lana,” I said, “what, exactly, did the Colonel tell you about Mr. Jesse?”

She sailed a wide-brimmed hat toward her closet. “Actually, he left a message with Cousin Gideon—who sends his love, by the way. Gideon said Jesse was involved in a murder, and you needed me. I hopped on the nearest Greyhound. The Colonel didn’t say who Jesse killed, but my money’s on a certain heavy-set beauty who visits him every Tuesday. Or her jealous husband.” She looked at me. “Selma Foster, of Kinston? Jesse’s girlfriend? It must be all over town by now.”

Mr. Jesse had a girlfriend?
I stared at Dale, stunned.

“Gross,” Dale said. “Only thing is, Mr. Jesse’s not the … ah …” He stopped, panic spreading across his face like butter across warm toast.

I sighed. “Miss Lana, Mr. Jesse ain’t the killer. He’s the killee. Mr. Jesse’s probably over in Greenville right now, getting himself autopsied. Or funeralized.”

“Someone killed Jesse?” she said, the blood leaving her face. “Why?”

“We don’t know yet,” I said as a car pulled into the café parking lot.

Miss Lana pushed the curtain aside. Two flashlight beams darted along our walk. “Good. Tinks brought someone with him. You two stay put,” she said, tying her robe. “I’ll talk with them. Then you can fill me in on the details of Jesse’s … on the details.”

For a half hour, Tinks and Sam flooded our yard with light and checked for footprints. Nothing.