The Odds of Getting Even (12 page)

Lavender's hands shook as he read the note. “Who wrote this?”

Harm quickly slid beneath the car. “It's slit, all right,” he said. Lavender crouched by the tire and ran his hands along the inside wall. “Here,” Harm said.

“Son of a gun,” Lavender muttered as Harm hopped up.

Sam glared at Harm. “Who would be mean enough to do that?”

“Don't you look at Harm in that tone of voice,” I said.

Sam slapped his cap against his leg. “Why not? What did you tell me Flick said when he busted in the garage?
Paint it the color of a dead man's car
?”

“Flick wouldn't do this,” Harm said. “He wants to beat Lavender. He wants Lavender's thousand dollars.”

“Maybe he's more worried about losing his own money,” Sam said, his face going red. He stepped toward Harm.

“Calm down, Sam,” Lavender said, looking up from the note. “Anybody recognize this handwriting?”

Dale shook his head. “It's not Daddy's. Mo saw somebody outside the garage. There's strangers in town and you've been in the papers. It could be anybody.”

Lavender slipped the note into his pocket. “That tire feels sliced, but we won't know for sure until we pull it and take a look.”

“I'll get the jack,” Harm said, heading for the lowboy.

“Stay away from that car,” Sam snapped.

“I trust Harm,” Lavender said, his voice easy. He popped the car's hood and leaned in. He exhaled long and even, the way old men exhale cigar smoke. Not that Lavender will ever smoke.

He slammed the hood. “Let's get out of here until we know what's going on. Whoever slit that tire could have done way worse too.”

I turned to case the stands one last time. The afternoon shadows slashed deep and sharp across the empty stadium. My pulse jumped.
What was that?
The pines swayed behind the chain-link fence. A swirl of red leaves tumbled behind the stands.

Just my nerves, I thought.

“Lavender,” Harm said, “if that tire's been slit . . .”

“We need to bag it for evidence,” I said. “Because somebody's trying to kill you.”

The slit tire knocked the wind out of us. The second half of the one-two punch landed on our way back home. And it landed hard.

The sunset flowed orange in the rearview mirror as the raceway faded behind us. “Don't worry, Lavender,” I said. “Desperado Detectives will sort this out.”

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “Thanks, Mo, but I don't want my favorite sixth graders mixed up in this.”

“We can handle ourselves,” I told him.

“Mo and Harm can,” Dale added, smoothing Liz's ears. “I still need help.”

“You do fine, Dale,” Lavender said, turning on the radio.

The announcer's voice blasted into the cab: “Now for
Stupid Crimes,” the announcer said. “A man robbed the First Carolina Bank at the Tarboro mall yesterday, shot at the security guard—and dropped his wallet. The wallet's ID says—Macon Johnson.”

“Daddy?”
Dale cried as Lavender swerved off the road and bounced back on. We stared at the radio like it might change its mind. “Daddy would
never
take a wallet to a crime,” Dale said. “This isn't fair.”

Dale kills me. Mr. Macon ain't been fair to anybody long as I've known him.

Lavender clamped his jaw so tight, the muscles stood out like rope.

I sat still and quiet as the glass in the windshield, all the way home.

Things Get Worse

Joe Starr didn't return my calls about Lavender's tire all evening.

“I've told you, Mo,” Miss Retzyl finally said as she answered my third call. “Joe's investigating a bank robbery. He'll see Lavender at the café in the morning. Think about something else. Why don't you do your homework?”

We had homework?

“I already did it,” I said, and hung up.

By the breakfast rush, news of the robbery had topped the gossip list. Lavender flowed in NASCAR handsome, and the Azalea Women circled like buzzards.

“Lavender,” one said, laying a flashy hand on his arm, “I'm glad you're here. I'd love to use Rose's produce, but plans change. Tell her to cancel my order. She'll understand.” She caught wind of the Simpsons canceling, I thought.

Her friend's gaze flicked over Lavender. “Cancel mine too.”

“And mine.”

Miss Lana closed her eyes. “I do not curse,” she said. “But those women make me want to learn how.”

Lavender swung onto a stool. “Don't change for
them
, Miss Lana,” he said, giving her a break-my-heart smile. “I couldn't stand it if you did.”

She poured his coffee. “On the house,” she said. “And the Underbird needs a tune-up.”

“Thanks, but I tuned it up last week,” he said.

“It needs another one,” she insisted as Starr sauntered in and read the Specials Board: Collard Quiche.

“Just coffee, Lana. Sorry I couldn't come sooner, Lavender,” he said. He took the pale blue note Lavender offered him, carefully holding it at the corner—like I'd forgot to do. “Recognize the handwriting?”

Lavender shook his head. “But that tire's slit. I pulled it and checked. You can pick it up for evidence if you want it.”

Capers looked up from her omelet.

“That ain't for the papers,” I said, and she winked.

Starr slipped the note into a clear bag.

“My fingerprints are on that note,” I told Starr as Miss Lana splashed his cup and headed down the counter. “Also Lavender's, Dale's, Harm's, and Sam's.”

“And the twins',” Lavender added, looking sheepish.

“Great,” Starr muttered. “Any idea who wants to hurt you?”

Lavender shook his head. “Flick wants to race me, so not him, unless he's realized he's going to lose. And no matter what he said there's no reason for Macon to hurt me, if he's even here.”

I pointed to a table of strangers. “And thanks to Capers's news stories we got a bumper crop of suspects in town.”

Starr stood. “Listen up,” he said, his voice stifling the café chatter. “I'm passing around an evidence bag with a note in it. Don't open the bag. Just see if you recognize the handwriting.”

He sent it down the counter. Thes shook his head no and passed it on. No, no, no down the counter and then to the tables.

“How long until you get the ballistics report on the gun used in the bank robbery?” I asked.

“Not long. I'll let you know if it matches the pistol from the jailbreak.”

“That would tie Macon Johnson in for sure,” Capers murmured, sipping her coffee.

Miss Lana glanced at the clock. “Time for school,” she called. Every kid in the café stood up and scratched for money.

Thes dropped his cash by his plate and shot out the door as Miss Lana handed me a tiny package from the freezer. “Here you go, sugar,” she said. “Good luck
making nice with Thes. Tell him to keep it cold.”

“Thanks,” I said, dropping it into my messenger bag.

Lavender smiled at an Azalea Woman. “I can get to your car today,” he said.

“That won't be necessary,” she said, cutting her bacon careful as if she was doing brain surgery.

“You?” he asked the woman beside her, and she shook her head.

Capers gave him a smile. “My motorcycle?”

He headed for the door. “Your parts got caught in a Chicago snowstorm, but they'll be in tomorrow. Looks like your bike will get my
undivided
attention.”

He smiled, but the smile didn't find his eyes.

Starr tossed a five on the counter. “Get a lock for your garage,” he told Lavender. “And use it. I'll stop by for the tire. Everybody seen the note?” he asked, looking around the café.

“Over here,” Tinks Williams said, passing it on.

Mayor Little read it, gasped, and knocked his chamomile tea to the floor. He looked around the café, his face white as the napkin tucked into his collar. “This is Mother's notepaper,” he said. “She's a murderer and I never suspected a thing.”

“Idiots,” Mrs. Little said a few minutes later as Starr and me settled on her sofa.

She could be right. I glanced at her clock. Twenty minutes until school starts and Miss Retzyl hates tardy like St. Pete hates gatecrashers. But Dale would never forgive me if I passed up this chance at a break in our so-far pitiful case.

I smiled. Mrs. Little is the oldest, meanest person in Tupelo Landing. She almost liked me a couple months back, but fondness, like peanut butter, has a shelf life.

She sat in her rocker like a queen vulture, the sunlight glinting off her lemony bun as she examined the note.

I tried to picture her slithering beneath a Monte Carlo and slitting a tire.

Nothing happened.

“
Rite
front tire slit?” she said, glaring at Starr. “Do you think I can't spell?”

“You spell excellent,” I said. “But is it your notepaper?”

“Excellent
ly
. I have notepapers like this. So do a million other people,” she said, hooking a small drawer of her writing desk and pulling it open. An army of bloodred pens lay beside her papers. “What are you accusing me of?”

“Nothing,” Starr said. “But I'd like to search your home if you don't mind.”

Search Mrs. Little's house?
The hair on my arms stood up.

“I have to go,” I said, jumping to my feet. “I can't stand being late for school.”

“Liar!” she cried, jabbing a finger at me.

I shot through the thorny plants that make up her yard, grabbed my bike, and pedaled like I was racing for heaven.

Dale loitered by the bike rack. “Did you bring the Puppy List?” I asked.

He patted his backpack. “I'm ready.” He sniffed. “What stinks? Is that you?”

“It's a peace offering for Thes,” I said as Harm rocketed up. “Listen: Starr's checking the ballistics on the gun used in the robbery, and Mrs. Little owns blue notepaper like in the toolbox. But she doesn't have the same pens—not with her paper, anyway. Starr's searching her house now.”

“Brave man,” Harm said, grinning.

“Understatement,” I said. “We'll pump him for information if he survives.”

Thes wandered by. His father had turned the church in Dale's favor with his Forgiveness Sermon. I didn't want Thes turning it back.

Here goes nothing, I thought, and tried to look sorry.

“Thes,” I said. “Please accept my apology for my oral misfire. I hope you will forgive me, which your father says is good. Here,” I said, lifting Miss Lana's freezer packet from my messenger bag. “For Spitz. Nothing says ‘I'm sorry I called you ugly' like liver.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Thanks,” he said, looking like I'd handed him a bag of liver, which I had. “I've been thinking about that sermon too. And . . .” He looked at me. “I forgive you, Mo. Spitz does too. We'd love to go to a movie with you.”

He looked at Dale, and he walked away. It was a start anyway.

As we slung ourselves into our seats Thes twisted in his desk. “Dale,” he whispered. “Are you posting the Puppy List soon? I'd like to talk to you first.”

Dale put a pack of rubber bands on his desk. Stress relievers. Miss Lana says worriers mostly wear rubber bands like bracelets and pop them against their wrists when frazzled. Dale does it different. He zinged a rubber band, barely missing Attila's replacement turkey earrings.

“Announcements?” Miss Retzyl called.

Attila raised her hand. “I wish it was Career Day,” she said. She turned to Dale. “Your father could talk about robbing my house. That would be fascinating.”

Zing
.

A tap at the door. Capers stepped in, clasping her notebook—and a takeout bag. “Sorry to interrupt. Mo forgot her lunch. . . .”

Collard quiche. Like the Colonel says, not everything left behind is forgotten.

“Capers,” Miss Retzyl said, placing my lunch on her desk, “we'd love to know more about your work. We don't meet many reporters in Tupelo Landing.”

“Uh, yeah,” she said. “We could talk Fourth Amendment issues or . . .”

Attila sniffed. “You mean
First
Amendment issues—freedom of the press. What do you know about Macon Johnson?”

Miss Retzyl opened her gradebook and picked up her red pen. Attila shrank away. Red ink is to Attila as water is to the Wicked Witch.

“We'll find a time for a school visit then, Capers,” Miss Retzyl said, smiling. Capers bolted, dropping her notebook. It exploded in a flurry of pages. She scooped them up and ran. But not before one lonely page swirled beneath Miss Retzyl's desk.

Suck-up points. I smiled and waited for the bell.

“Remember,” Miss Retzyl said as I practiced to see how long I could go without blinking. “Whenever you solve a problem, check to make sure you know the givens. What's true. If you have the wrong givens, you'll end up with the wrong answer. Mo,” she said. “Blink.”

The lunch bell sounded. I zipped over and slid my toe beneath her desk. “Capers dropped this,” I said. “I'd be glad to return it with your regards.”

“Thanks,” she said, handing me my so-called lunch.

“I live to serve,” I replied, and trailed Harm and Dale into the lunchroom. Attila and her posse sat at the Popular Table. We headed for the Detectives' Table.

Dale looked over as I opened the note. “What you got?”

“Hopefully it's that numbers game we wanted to show Harm.” I looked at the paper. “Crud. It's a messy letter dated 2-6—February sixth.”

“February?” Harm said. “This is November.”

Sal scooted in beside Dale. “Hello Dale, what's that?” She leaned closer. “Why are you walking around with a 2-6 word code, Mo?”

My world screamed into a backspin. “A what?”

“A 2-6 word code,” she said, stabbing her milk with a straw. “See?” she said, pointing to the numbers at the top of the page. “It says so right here. This is a very old cypher. The two means start with the second word. The six means use every sixth word. Where'd you get this?”

“Capers dropped it.”

She ran her finger along the page. “Maybe she codes notes to her editor to keep nosy people from reading them. She's trying to work out the code here . . . This must be her rough draft.”

Her finger trailed down.

“And down here she gets it. I'll read you the entire
message, and then the hidden one.” She smoothed the page and read: “Darling, I am alone here but I am not too slow to settle in. I do hope you can send me some letters, just little messages about your own sweet life as I am bored with mine. Arranged with Lana to pay cash. Babe.”