The Odds of Getting Even (13 page)

“Capers doesn't talk like that,” Harm said. “Who's Babe?”

Dale leaned close. “So when you put it all together . . .”

Sal plucked a pencil from behind her ear, skipped a word, and underlined every sixth word: “I am in. Send messages as arranged. Babe.”

“Wow,” Harm said. “What are you, a genius or something?”

“I guess this could be to her editor,” Sal said, blushing. “But why sign it Babe?”

Skeeter beelined for the Popular Table. “What's Skeeter doing at Attila's table?” I muttered. “Office assistants don't eat with sixth graders.”

“Hold on, I'll read Skeeter's lips for you,” Dale said, squinting. “Looks like . . . ‘Anna's hit a foul ball.'”

“More like ‘Anna has a phone call,'” Harm said as Attila followed Skeeter out.

Dale unwrapped his brownie, broke it, and gave half to Sal. “I'm sorry about the Puppy Committee disaster. I was wrong.”

Sal blotted the crumbs from his waxed paper. “You're under stress, Dale. It's okay, but don't do it again.” She looked at me. “Are you giving that letter back to Capers?”

“Never betray a teacher's trust when you can get caught,” I said, opening my collard quiche. “I'll give it to her soon as Skeeter makes us a copy.”

Attila strolled in after lunch, smirking. Not a good sign. “I have an announcement from Mother, but I'll wait for the end of class.”

“She's angling for Maximum Impact,” I whispered.

Dale frowned. “Angling for who?”

The afternoon crept by. “Language arts homework,” Miss Retzyl finally said. I tried to will the clock to move faster. Fifteen minutes to freedom. “Who can define a metaphor?”

Dale, who sat studying his Puppy List, slid low in his seat.

“Harm?”

Harm shifted his long legs. “Thanks for thinking I might be able to do that,” he said. “A metaphor is something poets use to walk ideas across paper.”

Sal raised her hand so hard she practically levitated. “Miss Retzyl? I wrote one: ‘Dale's smile strolls barefoot across my lonesome porch.'” She blushed.

“Wonderful!” Miss Retzyl cried. “You turned a smile into a barefoot visitor.”

“Hopeless,” Attila muttered. “Here's mine: ‘Mr. Macon's guilt rises like putrid fog over a cesspool.'”

“Simile!” I shouted, pointing at her. “She said
like
putrid fog!”

“I don't care!”
Attila bellowed. “Mother called. She's offering a reward for Mr. Macon's capture and the return of our things. Two thousand dollars.” She looked around the classroom. “Think what you could do with that much money.”

The classroom erupted.

“Daddy didn't do it!” Dale yelled over the din. “Leave us alone!”

Something had to change. Fast. I leaned over, grabbed his Puppy List and headed for the bulletin board. “Thank you, Anna. The Desperados look forward to collecting the reward and throwing a class party.” The Exums applauded. “Now for today's
really
important news: The Puppy List is posted,” I said, pinning it to the board.

The room's attention swarmed to it like fruit flies to an old banana.

“We got six names, but we may add more. Our sympathy to the unlisted.”

“Who's on it?” Hannah asked. “Did Little Agnes make the cut?”

Miss Retzyl sighed. “You might as well read it, Mo.”

I skimmed the notice.

“I
would,
” I said, “but I like to foster reading skills in my classmates.”

“She's afraid unlisted kids will kill her before she makes the door,” Attila said.

True.

“That's a lie,” I replied as Harm and Dale stuffed their books in their backpacks and perched on the edge of their seats, ready to run.

The bell rang. The class stampeded the board.

Dale, Harm, and me shot to the door. I gazed at the cloud-heavy sky and shivered. “The café's the closest safe haven,” I shouted. “Ride like the wind!”

Be Careful What You Wish For

I was still panting as I stared into Miss Lana's gray eyes. “Go into the deep woods?” I said. “But it's freezing out there. And it looks like rain.”

“And we want to hide,” Dale added.

“You don't need to hide,” Miss Lana said. “The mayor
assures
me Macon is in South Carolina.”

The mayor? What does he know?

She smiled at me. “Chop-chop, sugar. I need autumn materials for Thanksgiving centerpieces. Colorful leaves, pine needles, pinecones. Not the petite pinecones, the large ones. The small cones are so tense.”

Her glasses slipped down her nose. “And Mo, I'll want the long-leaf pines from the bluff overlooking the river. The ones that whisper susurrus in the wind.” She winked. “Onomatopoeia, my little Kiplings.”

“Bless you,” Dale replied.

“Normally we'd love to go, Miss Lana,” I said—not so much a lie as a possible truth in a parallel universe.
“But we got metaphors to write and—” The phone rang, cutting me off. Miss Lana scooped it up.

“Café . . . Oh.” She held the phone toward Dale. “It's for you.”

Dale trotted to the phone. “Hello? Oh, hey, Thes. . . .
How many kids are after us?
” He frowned. “No. I appreciate the warning, but I don't feel like I owe you a puppy.” He turned to us, his eyes quick with fear. “Three kids and a lunchroom worker are hunting us. And we got a fifty percent chance of rain.”

Harm scouted the empty highway outside. “This is the first place they'll look.”

I snatched up the collection bags. “Come on, Desperados. Let's roll.”

The Colonel says the worst possible thing usually happens at the worst possible moment. As we blasted across Fool's Bridge, I stood up to hyper-pedal.

Bam
. My bicycle chain slipped off.

I landed hard on the seat. No brakes! I veered into the drive of the old general store and rocketed toward an ancient gas pump.

“Jump!” Dale screamed.

I jumped, dug in, and slung my bike in a half circle at the store's front step. The dust settled around me like a skirt.

“Mo!” Harm said, skidding up beside me. “Have you lost your mind?”

“No,” I replied, very smooth. “My chain.” I looked at the empty highway. “Let's fix it now in case we need a fast getaway.”

We flipped the bike over and fed the chain back into place. “That will hold until Lavender can take a look,” I said, and tossed Harm a collection bag.

“Great tin art,” he said, checking out the metal ads nailed to the store's walls. “The Lone Ranger. That's probably worth real money.”

Ever since I met Harm, he's been trying to make money. He's even tried to get a job from the Colonel. “Why do you always want money?” I asked.

“Don't you?” he asked, and gave me that lopsided grin.

“Catch, Dale,” I said. He whirled to grab his collection bag, brushing the cobwebs veiling the old door. “Ick,” he muttered, swiping them away.

Dale can't stand cobwebs.

“The path's over here.” We rolled our bikes behind the store and scuffed along the leaf-covered trail into the forest.

Dale made his voice high and swiveled his hips like Miss Lana as he walked up the trail. “Bring nice pinecones,” he said. “Not the petite ones. They're so tense.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets as we headed down the trail. “Organic leaves for a woman who wears fake hair,” he muttered.

Harm shot Dale a puzzled glance. “That's not like you, Dale.”

Dale sighed. “It's the reward. People are mean enough without adding greed. I just wish we had some clues.”

My back prickled, the way it does when Attila sneaks up behind me. “Shhhh.” We froze, listening to wind and creaking branches. “Sorry,” I said, feeling foolish. “Just the wind, I guess. Let's go.”

A few minutes later we paused at a fork. The left trail meandered along the river. The right trail rose to a sandy bluff—home of the long-leaf pines. “This way.”

“The river's high,” Dale said, studying the muddy swirl from the top of the rise. The trees on the bank stood waist-deep in water, trailing their fingertips in the current.

He sniffed the air, which had gone sharp with the scent of rain. “It's going to pour. We better hurry,” he said.

Behind us, the leaves crackled.

“Who's there?” I cried, wheeling. Brown eyes stared back through the brush. Brown eyes, broad body, antlers. A buck pawed and snorted.

“A wild deer,” Harm whispered, grabbing my elbow.

A wild deer? Versus what? A pet deer?
Harm's so city.

Dale raised his arms and whistled as he slapped them to his sides. The buck shot into the forest, zigzagging through briars and gracefully leaping a tall hurdle. He landed in a ragged tattoo of sound and galloped away.

I levered my arm out of Harm's grip. “You're cutting off my blood flow.”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “What's that he jumped over?”

“Fallen tree, maybe,” Dale said. We pushed through the woods to a head-high mound of brush. Something silver glinted beneath the branches.

“One of Mr. Red's old stills?” I guessed.

“Maybe,” Dale said, looking around. “There's a boat ramp a little ways down the river. That would mean easy transport. If Mr. Red wasn't retired, I mean.”

“He'd better be retired,” Harm muttered, “or Miss Thornton will kill him.”

I studied the brush pile as thunder rumbled overhead. Slowly the glints and shadows took shape. “That's not a still,” I said. “It's a car. With lights on top.”

“The patrol car,” Dale said, his voice faint.

“Well, you said you wanted clues,” Harm told him, crashing toward the car.

Dale bit his lip. “Yeah. Mama says to be careful what you wish for.”

We dragged the branches away and I knocked the sheet of mud off the driver's window. I peered inside.
“Empty,” I said. I slid my new Graceland handkerchief from my pocket. “Elvis on polyester,” I told Harm. “Polyester is eternal.” I draped it over the door handle. “I'll check the interior. You two check the trunk.”

“No,” Dale said. “There could be a body in there.”

Dale already feared clowns. Now it looked like he was adding random bodies in car trunks to the list. As best friend, I try to be sensitive. “Okay. I'll take the trunk and you search the car,” I said. “I just hope there's not a clown in the backseat.”

Dale sprinted to the rear of the car. “Okay,” he called. “Pop it.”

I tugged open the mud-smeared door. I slid behind the wheel, draped Elvis over the trunk latch, and popped it.

“Got it,” Harm called, sliding his jacket sleeve over his hand and lifting the lid.

The car's interior looked spit-and-shine, ready for patrol. Not a scrap of paper, not a scuff. Just a skull-and-crossbones air freshener—minus half a crossbone—dangling from the rearview mirror. I crawled into the backseat. “Nothing here,” I called, “except for the air freshener, which ain't county-issue.”

Harm strolled over. “Those things? Two-fers at any auto store in the world.”

I wrapped it in my handkerchief, eased out of the car,
and bumped the door closed with my hip. “Anything in the trunk?”

Harm sighed. “You better take a look.”

Dale looked up as I rounded the car. “Our old camping gear,” he said. He moved a blanket with a stick. “Daddy's clothes. A can of squash. I told you he wouldn't eat it.”

Harm turned in a circle, surveying the woods. “But how did he drive in?”

“Over there,” Dale said, pointing to a leafy thicket behind the car. He squinted, studying the thicket. “Those limbs got cut with an ax and stacked up there.”

An ax?

Harm gulped so hard, I heard it. “There wasn't an ax in the car. We need to get Starr. Now.”

“No,” Dale said. “Let's stake out the car. If it's Daddy, we can get him to turn himself in.”

Harm looked at me. “An ax guy versus three kids with pillowcases. You're the tie-breaker.”

I made an executive decision. “Run!”

Ten minutes later we blasted through the café door. “Miss Lana! Colonel!”

Capers dropped the phone on the hook. “I was just calling in my story and
you
just missed your folks. The Colonel's gone to Kinston, and Lana and Miss Thornton
ran over to the inn to welcome some guests,” she said, taking my leaf collection from my freezing hands. “Lana's working too hard. She needs some help over there.” She looked from me to Harm to Dale. “What's wrong?”

What's wrong?
Just an ax murderer and the biggest clue of our lives—not that I wanted any of that in the paper.

“Nothing,” I said. “When's the Colonel coming home?”

“Soon, I hope. I'm on cake duty and I don't bake.”

Excellent. A diversion opportunity.

I sniffed. “Cake? Is that what's burning?”

“Oh my gosh, it better not be,” she said, scrambling for the kitchen.

I looked at Dale. “Follow her,” I whispered. “Keep her busy. Don't give our clues away. And don't mention the car. Harm will help.”

I grabbed the phone and dialed as the door swung shut behind them.

Miss Retzyl answered. “Hello?”

“It's Mo. I'd love to talk metaphors, but I need Joe Starr pronto.”

She sighed. Sometimes her sighs last exactly as long as it takes to count to ten. Interesting. “Joe,” she called. “It's Mo. For you.”

From the café's kitchen, I heard a crash. “I'm sorry,” Dale cried.

“We'll help clean that up,” Harm said.

“Detective Starr,” Starr growled into the phone.

“Hey,” I said. “We need backup. Pick us up at the café. And keep this confidential.”

“I'm not your backup,” he snapped. “I'm a law enforcement professional. I don't taxi kids around.”

My temper growled like a wolverine. I counted to ten.

“I understand,” I said. “We found the missing patrol car and we'll bring it in once we're old enough to drive. It won't be long. Harm's already twelve.”

I hung up and glanced at the 7UP clock on the wall. Starr should be here in two minutes flat. I loaded fresh film into my camera. Another crash from the kitchen. With that much noise, Miss Lana's cake will fall flat as Louisiana.

Exactly two minutes later Starr skidded into the parking lot, siren wailing. “Where's the patrol car?” he demanded, blasting in.

“Patrol car?” Capers said as Grandmother Miss Lacy's Buick fishtailed up.

Miss Lana bounded through the door. “Mo? What's wrong?”

“Your red velvet cake fell,” Dale reported. “It must have been the noise from the siren.”

Capers frowned. “What's going on? Joe? Desperados?”

Please. Does she think we cough up leads easy as Spitz coughs up a hair ball?

Dale smiled. “We found the patrol car with our camping gear and Daddy's clothes in the trunk,” he said. He looked at me. “That was a secret, wasn't it?”

Capers grabbed her notebook. “Let's go,” she coaxed, giving Starr a smile. “I won't write a word until you say I can.”

My temper popped. “Until
he
says you can?”

Capers snagged her jacket. “Sorry. Until
the Desperados
say I can. Grab your camera, Mo. A photo will look great with my article. Your byline will too.”

“Mo,” Miss Lana whispered, “she'll find out anyway.”

Good point. And like Miss Lana says, if you can't get out of it, get over it. “I'm over it,” I said, grabbing my camera. “Let's roll.”