The Odds of Getting Even

KATHY DAWSON BOOKS

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Text copyright © 2015 by Sheila Turnage

Map copyright © 2015 by Eileen LaGreca

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Turnage, Sheila.

The odds of getting even / by Sheila Turnage.

pages cm

Companion to: Three times lucky and The ghosts of Tupelo Landing.

Summary: “Desperado Detectives—aka Mo Lo Beau and her best friend Dale, along with

newly appointed intern, Harm Crenshaw—must take on a new case when

Dale's daddy goes on the lam just before his trial is about to start”—Provided by publisher.

ISBN 978-1-101-59972-3

[1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Fathers—Fiction. 3. Crime—Fiction. 4. Community life—North Carolina--Fiction. 5. North Carolina--Fiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.T8488Od 2015

[Fic]—dc23

2015008293

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume

any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Jacket art © 2015 by Gilbert Ford

Jacket design by Jasmin Rubero

For Rodney, of course

Tupelo Landing Inside Out

Mr. Macon Johnson's kidnapping trial snatched Tupelo Landing inside out sharp as Miss Rose snaps a pillowcase before she pins it to her wash line. It gave my best friend Dale Earnhardt Johnson III a triple shot of worry before the courthouse even opened its doors.

In the first place, Mr. Macon Johnson is Dale's daddy.

In the second place, Dale and me—cofounders of Desperado Detective Agency—helped put Mr. Macon behind bars last summer, making us top witnesses against him.

And in the third place, Dale's the first in his family ever to testify on the side of the law.

The idea of his daddy's trial twisted Dale so hard, he forgot how to sleep.

As for me—Miss Moses LoBeau, a sixth grader in her prime—I looked forward to sending Mr. Macon to the slammer where he belongs. Nobody hurts Dale without hearing from me. Nobody kidnaps the Colonel and Miss Lana without answering to me, either. The Colonel and
Miss Lana are my family-of-choice, and I am theirs. As best friend, Dale is family too.

Besides, a conviction would look good for Desperado Detective Agency.

“This case is a slam dunk,” I reminded the Colonel the day before the trial. “Dale and me
heard
Mr. Macon confess.” He closed the trunk of our vintage Underbird (which used to be a Thunderbird until the
T
and
H
fell off) and sent the Piggly Wiggly grocery cart careening across the parking lot.

“A slam dunk?” The Colonel snorted. “There's no such thing, Mo. An infinite number of things can always go wrong.”

The Colonel's handsome in a rugged, don't-mess-with-me way. He wears his hair short and bristly and his muscles strong and lean. “Fasten your seat belt, Soldier. And don't get your hopes up over this trial.”

We zipped through Tupelo Landing, NC—population 148—and headed for the café we run with Miss Lana, at the edge of town.

“Cat,” I said, reaching across the Colonel's arm and hitting the horn. An orange cat shot to the sidewalk. The Colonel likes to pretend he wouldn't have swerved.

I know better.

I waved at Dale's brother, Lavender, the dashing
racecar driver I will go out with in just seven more years, as he tooled by in his blue 1955 GMC pickup truck. Miss Lana says nobody's perfect. I say Lavender proves her wrong.

“What do you think will happen tomorrow?” I asked the Colonel.

“I think we'll be good friends to Dale,” he said. “It can't be easy to send your father to jail, even if he's Macon Johnson. And I think we'll tell the truth. Beyond that, it's a crap shoot. But
if
everything goes as expected, we all testify, the judge rules, and Macon goes to prison for a very long time.”

Of course, nothing went as expected.

By sundown the next day, Dale and his mama needed a bodyguard, Lavender's life hung in the balance, and the Desperado Detective Agency had a case we'd never want in a million years.

It's hard to say when things started going sideways.

Life still felt on track as the Colonel and me lugged our groceries around the side of the café and into our home in the back half of our building. We seemed on track an hour later when Miss Lana peeked in the door to my flat—which my enemies say is nothing but a closed-in side porch opening off our living room.

“Do you have your courtroom outfit ready, sugar?”
Miss Lana asked, smoothing her Marilyn Monroe wig. Costuming counts with Miss Lana, a former child star of the Charleston community theater. So do staging and dramatic pauses.

“Yes ma'am,” I said, nodding to my rocking chair. I'd laid out my new blue jeans and my clean-enough red sweater. “I'm going as a normal sixth grader,” I added as my phone jangled.

She sashayed off as I scooped up the receiver. “Desperado Detective Agency. Felonies are our delight, lost pets our duty. How may we assist you?”

“Mo, it's me. Dale.” Like I wouldn't recognize my best friend's voice. “Meet me outside. Daddy's invited us over, but we ain't got much time.”

Over
would be to the county jail.

“Harm's going too,” he said. Harm, who's new in town, is my best friend next to Dale.

I hesitated. Miss Lana says be sensitive and the Colonel says tell the truth. It can be a mind-pretzeling combination. “No thank you to visiting your mean-as-a-snake daddy, but I appreciate the invitation. And I can't believe Miss Rose is taking you to county lockup,” I added.

“Mama's not taking me,” Dale said. “Lavender is.”

Lavender?

“I'll get my jacket,” I replied, and hung up the phone.

Five minutes later Lavender wheeled his graceful old pickup truck into our parking lot. Lanky Harm Crenshaw, who has manners, hopped out and held the door for me. “Afternoon, LoBeau,” he said, swinging his tattered gray scarf over his shoulder.

Harm's tall for a sixth grader. Lately he's been too fashionable to wear a coat, preferring to go scarf-and-sweater for a manly look. If Harm was old enough to shave, he wouldn't. Ever since him and Dale formed a singing group, he's trying to be popular with girls older than him.

He's already popular with me. “Hey yourself, Harm Crenshaw.”

I peered inside the cab. “Excuse me, Dale. You're in my seat.” Dale rolled his eyes, which are as blue as Lavender's, and slid out. Even his freckles looked peeved.

I slipped in next to Lavender, who smelled like motor oil. Lavender will one day be NASCAR famous. Until then, he fixes things. Dale and Harm crowded in and slammed the door. If we fit any tighter, we'd have to alternate breathing.

“What's Mr. Macon want?” I asked.

“Nothing good,” Lavender said, heading through town. “I wish you'd change your mind about visiting him, little brother.”

Dale shook his head. “I got things to ask. Some I can ask you and the Colonel, but some just Daddy knows. This is my last chance.” He peeked at Lavender. “I wish you'd come. It's mostly you he wants to see. He says it's important.”

Lavender took the truck through her gears smooth as water. “Sorry, Dale. Whatever Macon wants, I don't have it anymore.” He poked at a newspaper on the dash. “You Desperados made the paper again.”

Harm read the story out loud:

MACON JOHNSON TRIAL OPENS TOMORROW

Small-time crook Macon Johnson goes to trial tomorrow. He's accused of helping Robert Slate and Deputy Marla Everette kidnap two of Tupelo Landing's citizens—Miss Lana and the Colonel, of café fame.

Eleven-year-olds Mo LoBeau and Dale Earnhardt Johnson III of Desperado Detective Agency helped capture Macon Johnson, and are top witnesses against him.

“Daddy's mean to me and Mama, and people say we're better off with him in jail. But don't write that down,” Dale told reporters at the time of the arrest. “I only turned Daddy in because he confessed to the kidnapping.”

Mo had a different take: “I can't wait to testify. I'll get even with Mr. Macon if it's the last thing I do.”

The Desperados also captured Deputy Marla Everette and Robert Slate, who will stand trial next year. Their list of alleged crimes includes breaking and entering, bank robbery, kidnapping, and murder.

Dale slumped. “It sounds bad when you read it in that newspaper voice.”

We wheeled into the jail's parking lot.

“Dale, if you're determined to do this, I'll wait right here for you,” Lavender said, cutting the ignition. “I know I've said it before, but I wish you wouldn't go in there. Not this time, little brother.”

“I got to,” Dale said. Dale can be stubborn. He looked at Harm and me. “Daddy got this set up special for us. Visiting hours are almost over. Let's roll.”

Mr. Macon sat in the cafeteria-style visiting room, tense as a snarl of wire. Dale took a seat across from him. Harm and me sat, flanking Dale like bodyguards.

“Thanks for calling,” Dale said. “I been wanting to talk. I guess my messages didn't get through.” He slipped a paper from his pocket.

I peeked over. At the top it said,
Things to Ask
. Underneath lay a haphazard spatter of words and squiggles.

Dale ain't a linear thinker.

Mr. Macon shot a look at the door. “Where's Lavender? It's Lavender I need to talk to, not you.”

Miss Lana says never plunge into business without exchanging pleasantries.

I smiled at Mr. Macon, who pretty much hates me. “I love what you've done with the place,” I said. “Is that new paint? Because the gray tones really make your orange jumpsuit pop. As for Lavender, he can't make it due to the fact that he's not coming. Dale showed up for you.”

“Tell Lavender to get in here. It's important.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

We didn't move. I watched Mr. Macon's face—all angles and planes, like clay cut with a knife.

His eyes glittered. “Dale, how's your mama?”

“She's good,” Dale said, studying his note. “It's just me and her now. I'm man of the house, and I got questions.”

Dale? The second-smallest kid in sixth grade? The man of the house?

Dale looked into his father's eyes. “If you go away, Mama and me won't have your get-even reputation to keep us safe anymore. I thought about getting a security system, but they cost, so I traded for guinea fowl instead. Guineas shriek every time anything moves.
You
know birds: We got coyotes running at night, do I need to—”

“Stupid plan,” Mr. Macon said, his voice razor-quick. He leaned forward. “I hear Lavender has a new racecar. Tell him to come talk to me about it.”

He's going away for fifteen years and he wants to talk racecars?

“Time's running out, Dale,” Harm whispered, glancing at the clock.

Dale sighed and skipped to the last item on his list. “Good luck in court tomorrow, Daddy,” he said. “I hope they don't call my name to testify, but if they do, I came here to ask you to pre-forgive me. It would mean a lot.”