The Odds of Getting Even (10 page)

Wrong Twice, Just Like That

“I'm not sure who it was,” I told Dale and Harm first thing the next morning, at school. “Mr. Macon's my best guess. And if it was him, it's a definite clue.”

“Did you see his face?” Dale asked, frowning.

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?” he said. “You're naming Daddy on a sort of?”

I felt heat walk up my neck. “He was Mr. Macon's height and he wore a hat. It could have been Flick or a stranger, but Mr. Macon's . . . you know. Mr. Macon.”

Dale narrowed his eyes. “You saw a man in a hat, and guessed Daddy. Detectives don't guess, Mo, we prove.”

From there, things careened downhill.

Miss Retzyl smiled at us as we settled in our desks. “Thanksgiving's just around the corner,” she said. “Normally that means a play . . .”

Someone moaned. Maybe me.

Jake's hand shot into the air. “We found the first Thanksgiving menu. Extra credit!”

Last time the Exums went for extra credit, they blew up the classroom. The front row rustled like sitting ducks as Jimmy tucked his shirttail in and carried their paper up to Miss Retzyl.

“It
does
look old,” Miss Retzyl said. No surprise. The Exum boys do top-notch forgeries. “This brown ink is wonderful.” She held it to the light. “Is it coffee, or tea, or lemon juice?” Jimmy blinked innocent as a fawn. “It's lovely. And the way the paper's singed on the edges. . . .” She gave him a hundred-watt smile. “How did you do it?”

Jimmy opened his mouth.

“Don't answer,” Jake whispered.

Jimmy closed his mouth.

Miss Retzyl read the menu. “Sorry, boys,” she said. “I don't believe the Pilgrims served green Jell-O.”

“They didn't?” Jimmy said, his eyes going round. “Mama does.”

Jake raised what would have been his eyebrows if he hadn't already blown them off. “It's not real? We're shocked!” He went for a diversion—a good move. “Can we do a Thanksgiving play, then? Jimmy does a good turkey. Show them.”

Jimmy hunched his shoulders and gobbled. Harm and Dale clapped.

Attila flounced her hair. “For heaven's sake, sit down,”
she snapped. “You're as lame as Miss Lana in her Pilgrim outfit. Where does she get those things anyway?”

“The
Mayflower
,” Dale said. “I think she looks nice.”

Dale standing up for Miss Lana after I'd practically turned Mr. Macon in on a whim made me feel worse.

I passed Dale a note:
I'm sorry.

He read it and nodded without looking at me. Crud.

“We
could
have a talent contest this year,” I suggested.

Attila stuck out her lip. “You're just saying that because Dale and Harm have talent and I don't.”

True.

“That's not true,” I replied. “We all got talent. You, for instance, got that incredible goldfish imitation.” She whipped around to stare at me, her mouth half open and her eyes slightly bugging. “See?”

“Actually,” Miss Retzyl said, “we'll skip the play this year. We're behind in our studies thanks to the Exums' . . . explosive history presentation last month.” Jake and Jimmy smiled like stuffed animals. “I just wanted to mention the short week ahead, and your math test on Wednesday. Please take out your science books.”

No play?

I raised my hand. “Excuse me. Nobody hates school plays more than me, but now that we can't have one, I feel like I lost something I might enjoy in a parallel universe. For me, public humiliation is part of the holidays.”
Harm twisted in his seat to stare. Sal glanced up from her book,
Deciphering Codes.
“I think we should vote.”

“Sixth grade is not a democracy,” Miss Retzyl said. “Science books. Now.”

That afternoon we found Queen Elizabeth curled by our bikes. “How many little royals you think she's carrying?” Harm asked, running a hand across her tummy.

“Somewhere between two and twelve,” Dale said. “I've been thinking about names. So far I got George, Victoria, Mary Queen of Scots. Not Henry VIII,” he continued. “He failed with family issues.”

Understatement. Henry VIII ran through wives like a coyote runs through chickens. Dale and me saw the PBS special.

Hannah strolled by. “How about African royalty? King Tut? Or royalty from another planet? Leto II?”

“Ming is good,” Sal said, sailing up. “From China's famous Ming Dynasty. Here, Ming,” she called, clapping her hands. “Good Ming.”

Queen Elizabeth thumped her tail.

“Liz likes it.” Dale smiled at me. “You want to work on the Name List today?”

“I'd love to,” Sal said, her voice soft.

“I meant Mo and Harm,” Dale said, grabbing his bike. “The Names Committee.”

Another committee?

“Dale,” Harm said, “Sal could be on it. Or—”

“No. It wouldn't look right,” Dale said, his voice stubborn.

Sal stomped her boot. “We have a deal,” she said. “I'm a puppy shoo-in.”

“Shhh,” Dale said, casing the schoolyard. “Nobody knows that. Sal, I like you, but you hanging with the committee doesn't look right for the puppies.”

“Doesn't
look
right? You never used to care how things look,” Sal said. “It was one of your best traits.”

“I never had puppies to watch over before.”

Sal put her hands on her hips. Or where her hips will be when puberty hits. “You've changed, Dale. And not for the good.” She slid her Piggly Wiggly glasses over her eyes and stalked away.

Dale stared after her. “What just happened?”

“We'd be old men before I could explain it,” Harm told him as Sal turned to glare at Dale from the edge of the playground.

I hopped on my bike. “I got to help at the inn. We can think up names over there.”

“Race you, Casanova,” Harm said.

Dale frowned as Harm sped away. “Casanova? What kind of name is that?”

We pedaled out of town and down the curved, cedar-lined drive to the ancient, two-story inn just outside town. It looks nice, I thought as I hopped off my bike. White clapboards, tall windows, a wide porch lined with rocking chairs. We pushed inside to red-gold pine floors, high ceilings, and ancient leather sofas and chairs facing a fireplace and piano.

“Make yourselves at home,” I invited, and grabbed a dust cloth.

A half hour later Harm collapsed in the inn's parlor, a history book on his lap. “Maybe you could add Queen of Sheba to the list,” he said, flipping a page as Dale and I dusted. “Margaret, Beatrix, Francis, Louis . . .”

The front door swung open. A thin bald man and a plump rosy-faced woman stepped into the vestibule, smoothing the ride from their clothes. “Welcome,” I said as the Colonel struggled in behind them with an ironing board under his arm.

“Blast it,” the Colonel shouted as the door slammed on the end of the board. “Capers asked for this. Don't ask me why. She looks like she slept in her clothes.”

“Maybe that's why,” Harm said.

The Colonel stomped upstairs and I smiled at the strangers. “Welcome to the inn. We prefer cash but will
accept US dollars. Sign here,” I said, offering the guest book. “Your room includes supper. Tonight we feature Miss Lana's famous collard bisque.”

Upstairs something crashed.

“There's a Holiday Inn in Greenville,” the woman said, edging toward the door. “The newspaper says there's rumor of a reward for Macon Johnson and I'd love to spot him, but I'm not this curious.”

“A reward?” Dale said, going pale.

I was losing them. Crud.

“In addition, our senior guide Dale is conducting a walking tour of Tupelo Landing at seven tomorrow morning, weather permitting.”

Dale shook his head. Dale carries his stress in his shoulders, which now nearly touched his ears. “Tips are encouraged,” I said, and he relaxed. He nodded. “Sign here,” I said, pushing the guest book toward them. “The bellhop will carry your bags for five dollars.”

Harm hopped to his feet.

“Five dollars is outrageous,” the woman said, and Harm sat back down.

“Blast it!” the Colonel bellowed upstairs. Another crash. The Colonel dragged the ironing board across the floor and bumped down all thirteen steps.

Harm closed his book. “You know, Colonel, we could
put that at the end of the parlor. I saw a screen that would look nice.”

Harm carried the board over, reached underneath, and gave a smooth dip. The legs clicked down. “There you go, sir,” he said. “Where's the iron?”

The vein in the Colonel's forehead rose like a newborn mountain range. “I'll get one,” he said, barely moving his lips. “As soon as I take out the trash.”

Some folks are cut out to be innkeepers. Other folks are the Colonel.

“A reward?” Miss Lana said an hour later. “There was a rumor earlier in the day, but it's died down,” she said, giving Dale a quick hug. “Strangers brought it to town.”

She beamed at me. “And you signed in new guests? Wonderful!” she cried, hurrying a bowl of collard bisque to Lavender's mechanic, Sam. “I'll make sure they have fresh towels.”

Attila perched by the window sipping something a putrid shade of green.

I glanced at the Specials Board:

COLLARD SMOOTHIES! $2

“I'll handle the towels, Lana,” Capers said, jamming her papers in her notebook. “I'm going to the inn anyway. We Charleston women have to stick together.”

“We also offered them a town tour tomorrow,
weather permitting,
” I said, glancing at Thes, who sat hunkered at the counter.

A stranger rattled his newspaper, flashing a headline:
Racecar Driver's Father Is Escaped Con.
“A tour?” the stranger said. “Does it include Macon Johnson's farm?”

“Daddy doesn't have a farm,” Dale said. “It's Mama's.”

“A tour?”
Miss Lana shrieked. “When will I have time to give a tour?”

Attila smiled, her mustache a shimmering green.

“Don't worry, Miss Lana, the Desperados will give the tour,” I said. “Thes, you're famous for your weather skills and television-worthy suit,” I said, trying to make nice. “What's the forecast?”

He ignored me.

“Thes,” Miss Lana snapped. “Weather report! Now!”

“Ninety percent chance of rain,” he said. “Egg sandwich and okra to go.”

Outside, Attila's mother tooted her horn. Attila plunked two dollars on the table and smirked at Capers. “I wish you'd stop writing about us. You bring too much riffraff to town. And I, for one, think a reward is a lovely idea. I heard somebody spotted your daddy today, Dale. It turned out to be your uncle Austin. Pity.” She swayed out, her hair swishing like a blond curtain of evil.

“That girl's a piece of work,” Capers said, watching the
Cadillac prowl away. She stuffed her dictionary in her saddlebag. “Oh well, what goes around comes around.”