The Odds of Getting Even (11 page)

A paper slipped from her bag and I scooped it up. Another odd collection of numbers and letters. “What is this?” I asked.

Dale peeked over my arm. “Numbers,” he said. “Sometimes I feel like they're stalking me.”

She snatched the paper from my hand. “Just a game. Like Sudoku,” she said, and hurried into the night.

“Must be a city game,” Dale said, heading for the door.

“Dale, wait,” I said, grabbing his arm. “I'm sorry I named Mr. Macon last night. You're right: I couldn't see who was standing outside Lavender's garage.”

He looked out over the parking lot. “I forgive you,” he said, “but we got to start thinking different, Mo. If we don't, this case will pull my family under.”

Footprints Never Lie

I awakened the next morning to thunder galloping across heaven and curtains of rain pounding across my roof. I dreamed up a To-Do List: Make nice with Thes, Avoid giving a tour, Find a new lead.

Thes had nailed the forecast—a chance to make nice. I grabbed my phone. He picked up on the second ring. “Good job,” I said, and hung up.

I dressed, grabbed my Graceland umbrella, and sloshed to the café. Capers's little rental car already sat outside. “Happy Saturday! Great day if you're a duck,” I called, splashing through the door.

Was Capers wearing Miss Lana's sweater? Does Miss Lana think every woman from Charleston is her sister?

I looked into Miss Lana's stricken eyes and my To-Do List fell to dust. “What's wrong?” I asked. “Where's the Colonel? Is he okay?”

“He's fine,” she said. “Mo, Priscilla just called.”

That's all. A teacher alert. My heart slowed to normal.

“I can explain once I hear the baseless accusations
against me,” I replied, brain-scanning the past few days for academic crimes.

Miss Lana took a deep breath. “Another break-in—”

Capers cut in, smiling like she was announcing a birthday party. “You'll never guess who got hit. You'll love this. That snooty girl who was in here yesterday.”

“Anna Celeste?”

“Mo, she's fine,” Miss Lana said, shooting Capers a Be Quiet Look and putting an arm across my shoulder. “Someone broke in while they were sleeping. And there's nothing to love about it,
Capers,
” she said. “It's dreadful.”

Capers scowled. “
Someone
broke in?” she shot back. “Macon Johnson broke in.”

While they were sleeping?

“I got to get to Attila's,” I told Miss Lana. I stared out at the pouring rain. One good thing about being a kid: You get to ride your bike everywhere. One bad thing about being a kid: You got to ride your bike everywhere.

“You're in luck,” Capers said, like she could read my mind. “I can drop you off on my way to town.”

The door slammed against the wall and Dale and Harm blasted through, both of them dripping. “Good news,” I said. “No tour. We're rained out.”

Dale bobbed beneath his yellow slicker like a happy duck.

“Bad news,” I added, grabbing my camera. “Break-in at Attila's.”

Dale gasped.

“Capers is giving us a ride to the crime scene,” I said, and scoped the takeout bags lined up by the cash register. “Miss Lana, I'm starving.”

“Here you go, sugar,” she said, handing me the mayor's bag. “I'll make Mayor Little a new one.”

Excellent. Mayor Little and his mother eat huge.

“Forgive my mess,” Capers said moments later, scooping an armful of papers off the front seat for Harm. We piled into her tiny car. “Bird-watching's a junky hobby. Just push everything on the floor.”

She's a definite pack rat, I thought, shoving the backseat jumble aside—binoculars, fedora, gray leather gloves. I checked out the dashboard: road map, half a fast-food burger. I tilted my takeout toward Dale, who grabbed a cheese biscuit.

Capers chugged to the road.

“Take a right,” Dale said as I bit into a bacon and egg sandwich.

Harm pushed his hood back, the rain curling his hair. “Who do
you
think's doing these robberies?” he asked Capers.

“Macon Johnson. Sorry, Dale. Most people agree.”

Dale polished off his biscuit and fished in the bag.
“Your articles make it seem that way. But a lot of people thinking
flat
don't change
round
,” he said. “Christopher Columbus proved that.”

It's surprising what Dale picks up at school. Sometimes I wonder if we're in the same classroom.

“Besides, why would Macon risk a break-in?” Harm asked. “If he's smart, he's long gone from here.”

She shrugged. “Adrenaline's addictive. That's why criminals get more daring—they crave the rush.”

Dale went the color of stale oatmeal. Mr. Macon's good at addiction.

She turned on Cul-de-Sac Drive. “So, an adrenaline junkie might go from robbing an empty house, to robbing a church, to robbing an occupied house, to . . . who knows?”

“Interesting,” Harm said. “But that doesn't mean it's Mr. Macon.” He pointed to Attila's house. “We'll hop out here.”

Capers squeaked the little car to a halt. “Listen, I'd love to tag along, maybe pick up a quote or two. What do you say?”

So that's why she offered us a ride! “No paparazzi,” I said. “Sorry.”

We scrambled out and I popped my umbrella open. Harm and Dale crowded close. “Nice digs,” Harm said as she pulled away.

“Very nice,” Dale said from somewhere inside his yellow hood.

True. The two-story brick house sat back from the street, overlooking a manicured lawn. Starr's Impala loafed on the long brick drive. We sloshed to the door and rang the bell. The door swung open. Mrs. Simpson stared down at us—perfect makeup, excellent hair, shiny beige robe.

“Greetings,” I said. “Desperado Detectives extends our deepest sympathies on your losses, which we assume as rich people you have insurance. We are here out of respect to a classmate. An enemy is almost as dear as a friend.”

“And we're sorry,” Dale added.

She narrowed her eyes. “You should be sorry,” she said, her voice like a knife.

Harm interrupted. “Mrs. Simpson, may we come in?”

“Anna,” she shouted over her shoulder. “It's Mo and Dale and that tall boy.”

That tall boy? Give me a break. She knows Harm.

Anna Celeste came to the door, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed. “You,” she said, glaring at Dale. “What do you want?”

“We want to see if you're okay,” Dale said.

“Oh.” Niceness confuses Attila like bright light confuses raccoons. “Somebody broke into our house last
night,” she said, her voice going off-key. “While we were
sleeping
. He took my jewelry and Daddy's cash off the laundry room counter. Why would he want my jewelry?” she demanded. “What's wrong with you people?”

“Anna,” Harm said, “we want to help. If you tell us exactly what's missing . . .”

“You know what's worse than what he took? Knowing he picked up things and left them behind.” She took a step toward Dale. “Your daddy came in my house,” she said, her voice rising. “He touched my life with his filthy white-trash hands. You don't know how that feels,” she shouted, her pretty face twisted.

“I do know,” Dale shouted. “He came in my house too.”

His words slapped me across the face. I hadn't thought of it like that.

Attila slammed the door.

We stood on the porch, listening to the patter of rain. “That could have gone worse, but I don't see how,” I said as Joe Starr barreled around the corner.

“What's all the noise?” He stared at us bleary-eyed. “What are you doing here?”

Joe Starr ain't hitting on much without morning coffee. “We're detectives. This is our life's work,” I replied. “And we're checking on an alleged friend.”

“Two dogs with one bone,” Dale explained.

“Or two birds with one stone,” I continued. “Your choice.”

Joe Starr blinked.

“We have clues, if you want to swap,” I said. Not exactly a lie. More like a bargaining position. “First, we know the crime occurred after nine—Attila's bedtime.” A guess. “Let's see,” I said, flipping open my blank clue pad. “We got missing jewelry—mostly ugly costume stuff. Hideous turkey earrings, suggesting a thief with bad taste. A little pocket change from the laundry room and . . .”

“And a laptop,” Harm said, smooth as cream. An excellent ad-lib.

“Really?” Dale said. “Because I didn't know—” Harm elbowed him.

Starr flipped open his own pad. “Laptop?” he said. “I don't think so. Jewelry, most of it NOT costume jewelry. Cash. A couple of clean shirts and a pair of pants. No laptop. In fact, no electronics, which seems odd. Just Anna's bicycle.”

Anna's pink show bike?
The one with showroom treads? The one she never rides because her mother hauls her all over town like a princess?

“Right,” I said. “You probably dusted for prints.”

Starr yawned. “No fingerprints. Just a footprint.”

“In
this
rain?” Dale asked, frowning.

“See for yourself,” Starr said, leading the way. “Same as at the church.”

Dale stared at the lone footprint under the eave. I grabbed my camera and backed up for a wide shot.
Click
.

Dale shook his head. “Who wears the same shoes to two robberies in a row?”

Thieves have fashion etiquette? I made a note to tell Miss Lana.

“Who walks flat like that and makes just one print?” Dale demanded. “He stole a collection plate he can't fence. He's wore the same shoes to two robberies, hooking the break-ins together. He left a footprint at both crime scenes, where you'd see it for sure. This is rookie. Not Macon Johnson. Tell him, Mo.”

My heart hammered. Of course it was Macon Johnson.

I remembered Grandmother Miss Lacy's words: Would you rather be right or kind? I went for both. “Macon Johnson's a top-notch professional in his field,” I said. “And he has the record to prove it.”

Dale nodded, very regal.

“We're keeping an open mind,” I added as Harm crooked a brow.

Starr shrugged. “Really? Here's how I see it. Macon connects to every crime scene. He lived at one, he married in one, and he knows this house holds money.”

He pointed to the ground. “Then there's this. Sorry, kids, but footprints never lie.”

Dear Upstream Mother,

Capers's story hit the newspapers late this afternoon:
Prominent Family Robbed While Sleeping. Macon Johnson Still at Large.

Dale can't sag much lower.

Harm and Mr. Red stopped by the café this afternoon.

Mr. Red says not to let Dale's church turn on him. Harm and me are going tomorrow, but I don't see what we can do.

Can you sing? Neither can I.

Mo

Am I Dying?

I woke up Sunday morning with Starr's words caroming around my mind: Footprints never lie. Poor Dale.

Tap-tap-tap.
“Soldier?”

“Colonel?” I sat up, wide awake.

He opened the door and peeped in. “Breakfast in twenty minutes. Look sharp. Church at 1100 hours. I want us there at 1030 hours, at the latest.”

Did he say
us?
The Colonel's going to church?

The hair on my arms stood up. The Colonel never goes to church, preferring the natural cathedral of ocean and mountain and sky. I shot into the living room. “You're going to church, sir? Are we at war? Is Miss Lana sick?
Am I dying?
”

“At ease, Soldier.” He sat on the settee, buffing his black shoes to a high sheen. He held them to the light, lowered them, and gave them another swipe. “Today's the first Sunday after the church break-in. Lana and I thought we'd support the community.”

My panic fell away. “Support Miss Rose and Dale, you mean.”

“As you wish,” he said. He put a square of newspaper on the floor and placed his shoes on Capers's last article. He headed for Miss Lana's door, the threadbare plaid bathrobe I gave him years ago swinging on his spare frame. He tapped. “Lana,” he called, “Georgian toast or omelet?”

“Georgian toast, honey. And thank you,” she called.

Honey?

She stumbled into the living room and collapsed on the settee, her curlers hidden beneath her scarf. “Everybody in town will come to church today for one reason or another.” She sighed. “Poor Rose. I do wish Macon had robbed the Episcopalians instead.” She shook her head. “That didn't come out right, sugar. I need coffee.”

“On it,” I said. I sniffed the air. Coffee. I followed the scent into our own personal kitchen and snagged a mug the Colonel liberated from the Guatemala City Ritz. Or the Fayetteville flea market—I'm never sure which.

I filled it, loving the smell of our own personal coffee and our own private bacon in our own actual home. “What's that?” I asked, glancing at an odd-shaped package on the counter—an awkward pileup of brown wrapping paper and masking tape.

“Strictly need-to-know,” the Colonel said, whisking it
under the counter. A quick smile softened his whiskery face as he turned the bacon. “Always remember, Soldier. There's more than one way to settle a score.”

We rolled into the church parking lot right on schedule. “There's Dale!” I said as the Colonel rocked the Underbird into park. I scooted for the door. “Don't forget this,” I said, grabbing the odd package off the floorboard.

“Put that down, sugar,” Miss Lana said. “Dale's coming.”

Dale's coming? So what?

Dale ran toward us, Queen Elizabeth waddling furiously behind. “When's Queen Elizabeth going to have those puppies?” Miss Lana asked. “She looks ready to pop.”

“Hey,” Dale said, opening my door. He saw the Colonel and froze. “What's the Colonel doing here? Did somebody die?”

“Can't he come to church?” Miss Lana teased, rising from the car like royalty. She cupped Dale's face in her hand. “You're so handsome. Are you singing a solo?”

Dale shook his head. “Me and Liz are congregation today. But Mama's playing.”

“Wonderful,” she said, and she and the Colonel sailed toward Miss Rose like boats across smiling waters.

They look good, I thought. The Colonel in his dress
blues, Miss Lana in her 1940s suit and seamed stockings. Miss Rose opened her arms to them like she hadn't seen them in forever.

Attila brushed by. “Dale, Mother says tell Miss Rose to cancel our Thanksgiving order. She's buying our greens in Kinston. It's not because your daddy robbed us. Miss Rose's produce simply isn't up to our standards.

“By the way,” she continued, “I hear Reverend Thompson's preaching on the Eighth Commandment today in honor of your family.”

When it comes to church, Dale's an A+ student. I ain't.

“The Eighth Commandment?” I whispered.

Attila shot me a look that would incinerate a sparrow in full flight. “Thou shalt not steal, Mo-ron.”

Dale stuck his hands in his pockets. “I like the next one too, where you don't lie about your neighbors.”

She sashayed away as a camo pickup rattled into the lot.

“No way,” Dale breathed as Mr. Red hopped out, smoothing his gray suit. “The Colonel
and
Mr. Red? In the same church? With neither one of them in the takeout box?”

“Yep, not a coffin in sight,” Harm said, swaggering over. “Eerie, isn't it?”

Mr. Red reached out to shake Dale's hand. “Morning, Dale.”

“Hey, Mr. Red,” Dale said. “Thank you for coming. It means a lot to me.”

“Proud to be here,” he said, watching the Azalea Women clot by the front door. “People talk, Dale. But that doesn't mean your friends are listening. Stand tall. Your true friends will stand with you.” He winked at Dale. “Excuse me, son, Lacy Thornton's looking my way,” he said, and hurried away.

We strolled across the parking lot, neighbors and strangers milling around us.

“There's Lavender,” I said, and darted to his side.

“My favorite pit crew,” Lavender said, adjusting his tie. “I hoped you three could help us test 32 at the Carolina Raceway today,” he said, and we bobbed our heads like a trio of yo-yos. “You'll ride in the lowboy with Sam,” he told Harm as Capers strolled by. “Mo, you're with Dale and me. We leave at two.”

“Outstanding,” Harm said as Lavender veered toward a twin. “Come on. I want a good seat. I've never heard Miss Rose play and I want her to see us listening.”

Dale frowned. “See us listening? Why?”

“Because,” Harm said. “Mothers like that.”

As the church filled, Miss Rose played proud as an angel—straight-backed and sure, her fingers coaxing hymn after hymn from the old piano. Hannah and Little Agnes went up to light the candles.

Thes scooted in behind us and leaned forward to whisper: “With no collection plate, Daddy's passing his
fishing hat
today, the one with the hooks dangling off of it.”

Dale and Harm didn't turn around. I did.

It's hard to make nice and defend your people at the same time. I looked into Thes's eyes, willing every ounce of me into a Don't Mess With Us Stare. “There ain't no weather in heaven,” I whispered. “Good luck.”

Thes gasped.

“Very mature, LoBeau,” Harm whispered, but I could hear his grin.

“Where's the Colonel?” Dale asked, reaching down to rub Queen Elizabeth's ears. She sat with her legs jutting at an odd angle to accommodate her round belly.

The Colonel brought us here and then went AWOL?

I peered down the row. Miss Lana sat with her hands folded in her lap, her hat's half-veil draping her eyes. I cranked around to run a quick Upstream Mother Scan as I searched for the Colonel.

“Eyes forward,” the Colonel whispered, sliding in from the other end of the pew.

“Busted,” Dale snickered as Miss Rose pounded an intro on the piano.

We rose and hurled ourselves into “I'll Fly Away.” I almost felt like I could fly too, that many voices
bouncing off the walls and coming back to lift me up. I sang between Dale and Harm, riding their magic carpet of song. Underneath pulsed the Colonel's bullfrog tune and Miss Lana's steady melody.

Two hymns later, Reverend Thompson launched into his scripture readings—not on Thou Shalt Not Steal, as Attila predicted, but on forgiveness.

“Here we go,” Harm whispered. “It's pass the fishing hat time.”

Miss Rose tilted her head a smidge higher. Dale did too.

Reverend Thompson looked at us. “You never know what's good and what's bad as it happens,” he said. “A break-in at our church can turn into something wonderful—like a packed house on Sunday. Thank you for your love and support.”

The congregation rustled.

“And you'll never guess what I found in my office today—an anonymous gift.” He reached beneath the pulpit and lifted up a shiny new collection plate. Dale gasped. A crumple of brown wrapping paper and masking tape fell to the floor.

Reverend Thompson started the plate around, and said what he always says: “Put something in if you have it. If you need it, please take something out.”

I looked at the Colonel. He stared straight ahead. So did Miss Lana.

This is what we do in our family, I thought.

I squared my shoulders and stared straight ahead, my heart soaring.

Sunday morning brought a truce, but it was short-lived. In fact, the afternoon hit the Desperados like a one-two punch, leaving us reeling.

Lavender cruised into the café parking lot at two and tooted the truck's horn. “Gotta go,” I bellowed, grabbing my camera.

“Back before dark,” the Colonel said as I pounded out the door.

I dove in, crawling over Dale and Queen Elizabeth to sit by Lavender.

He wore his ripped jeans and scuffed cowboy boots.

If there's a sweeter hour than the one it takes to rumble to the Carolina Raceway with Lavender, I ain't found it. I also ain't looking for it.

“We have the track to ourselves today,” Lavender said as we chugged through the chain-link gate. “I want to wind her out for a few laps, see what we've got.” We headed for the infield, where Sam was already backing the 32 car off the lowboy.

She wore new tires all around, and a pox of pale body putty. “I wish you'd paint that car,” Dale said. “She's embarrassing.”

“Will do,” Lavender said as Sam tossed his race suit to him.

“Wear this, just in case of fire,” Sam said. “You never know.”

Lavender stepped into the suit, wiggling it up over his hips and shrugging it across his shoulders. I lined up my shot as Harm slung the battered toolbox onto the pickup's tailgate.

“Hold it!” I said. Lavender smiled. “Perfect.”
Click, click, click
.

“I'll go easy the first couple laps and then wind her out,” Lavender said, and swung in through the driver's window. “Can't wait to see how she runs.”

The new 32 roared to life. He clamped on his helmet and fishtailed to the track.

“She sounds great!” Dale said, springing onto the tailgate between Harm and me. Lavender put his foot into the second lap, the engine roaring on the straightaway and whining in the turns.

Sam closed his eyes and listened like a musician tuning a fiddle. “She already sounds better than any car we've ever had. We'll be ready for Flick in two weeks if the talk about Macon keeps driving our business away.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“People are bailing on Lavender like he's the
Titanic
. A thousand-dollar prize money will definitely help out
until our business comes back.” He gave me a smile. “Mo, see if you can find a stopwatch. Let's time these laps.”

I popped the battered toolbox open. A folded square of pale blue paper stared up from the jumble of wrenches and screwdrivers. I unfolded it.

RITE FRONT TIRE SLIT?

“What's this?” I looked into Sam's shocked face.

“Don't know and not taking chances,” he said. He spun to the track. “Stop!” he shouted, waving his arms. He charged toward the edge of the track, the three of us on his heels. “Lavender, stop!”

Too late.

The right front tire exploded in a cloud of smoke, spinning the car up the track toward the wall. “Turn,” I screamed like Lavender could hear me. “Turn!”

The car veered like it had been hooked, and wobbled into the infield.