The Odds of Getting Even (3 page)

Starr bent to peek beneath the heavy helmet and reached for the driver's wrist—and a pulse.

“Oh, no,” Sal said, tears pooling in her voice.

The driver jerked away from Starr, and an Azalea Woman cackled like a startled hen. The café answered with a ragged flutter of nervous chuckles. “Not passé at all,” the mayor gasped, fanning his face with his hands.

The biker slid onto unsteady legs. The Colonel and Starr grabbed his arms—one on each side—and slowly walked him toward the café door.

The trio stepped inside.

The motorcyclist slipped off the heavy black helmet and shook out a mane of long, curly red hair. “Hello everybody, I'm Capers Dylan,” she said with a weak smile. “Is there a mechanic in the house?”

Capers Dylan

“Mechanic?” the mayor cried. “Do we have one?”

Do we have a mechanic?

Lavender, who's destined for NASCAR glory, keeps every car in town rolling, including the mayor's dented Jeep. “Lavender's world class with the un-running. He can fix anything,” I said as my classmate Thessalonians Thompson—orange hair, round face—pushed through the door.

“What's going on?” Thes asked.

“A beautiful motorcyclist just plummeted into our midst miraculously unharmed,” Mayor Little said. “I can't wait to tell Mother. Take off your hat, young man.”

Thes swiped his gray plaid cap off. Capers Dylan's eyes went red. She sneezed. So did Little Agnes. “You must have a cat,” Capers said, and sneezed again.

“That depends,” Thes said, his green eyes shifty. “What has he done?” He took a seat at the counter. “Hey, Mo. A fried egg sandwich with a side of okra. We got a twenty
percent chance of rain. And I'd love to go to a movie with you.”

Thes is a weather freak. “Movies ain't on the menu,” I said.

Capers Dylan sank into a chair and unzipped her black leather jacket, which looked like a squirrel had gnawed off most of the left sleeve.

“You're lucky you weren't bad hurt,” Sal told her.

Capers Dylan flashed a wide smile. “I'm lucky I didn't get killed. And you are?”

“Sally Amanda Jones. Sal for short.”

“Nice to meet you, Sal for short,” Capers replied.

I studied her face. Pale skin, soft freckles across broad cheekbones. She had just enough crook in her nose to make her face interesting.

“Actually, Ms. Dylan,” Detective Starr said, surveying the parking lot, “you're
very
lucky you didn't get killed. You skidded down the only safe passage through those cars.”

“How you popped to your feet, I will never know,” an Azalea Woman said.

Miss Lana set a cup of coffee on Capers's table. “I'm Lana,” she said. “We spoke on the phone. You're our inn's first guest.”

Capers beamed. “Pleased to meet you. I'm here to
cover Macon Johnson's trial for the
Greensboro Gazette
.”

The trial! I looked at the 7UP clock. Seven twenty-five a.m.

“A reporter?” the Colonel said, his voice backing up like a cat with wet paws. The Colonel hates reporters. Also law enforcement, health inspectors, and busybodies.

“Why cover Daddy's trial?” Dale asked. “He's mashed potatoes.”

“He means small potatoes,” I said.

She winked at Dale. “You must be Dale Earnhardt Johnson III.”

“Don't say anything else,” I warned. “She's researched you.”

“And that would make
you
Mo LoBeau,” she said, stirring cream into her coffee. “The other half of Desperado Detectives.”

As a detective, I ain't used to people knowing more about me than I know about them. So far, I didn't like it. “Capers Dylan. Odd name,” I replied.

Her laugh spattered like rain against a pie tin, taking in the entire café. “My mother loved recycling last names and putting them first. It's a Charleston tradition,” she said, rubbing her elbow. “Please, everybody: Call me Capers.”

Miss Lana's face lit up. “You're from Charleston too?
Let me get you some ice for that elbow.” Capers's gaze drifted to the Colonel's sign, above the coffeemaker.

The Colonel—Attorney-of-Sorts

No License, No Guarantees

Questions Taken Thursday Afternoons Only

The way she took it in stride, I knew she'd researched the Colonel too.

“Miss Dylan,” Detective Starr said, “what happened out there?” He flipped open the notepad he keeps in his shirt pocket.

Was he giving her a near-death ticket?

“Dale and me wonder too,” I said, opening my order pad and picking up my pen.

Capers took in the café faces. “Did anybody see the accident?” We shook our heads. “Well, let's see. A car passed too close. Almost blew me off the road.”

Little Agnes frowned. “No. You fell down all by yourself.”

“Hush, Agnes,” the mayor said. “A near lethal blow-by. Scandalous. Must have been an out-of-towner. We Tupelites pride ourselves on lawliness. Well,” he added, “Dale's family is a notable exception, but their farm's outside the town limits.”

“Can you describe the car?” I asked.

“A sedan,” she said. “Blue, black? I don't know. And I didn't get a license plate number. But I'm sure my
insurance will cover any damages to your cars or . . . whatever. If it doesn't, I will.” The café relaxed. In Tupelo Landing, we pay our bills unless we're Macon Johnson.

Her pretty smile quivered and her eyes flooded. “Sorry, folks. I'm not normally a crier. . . . I wish I could be more help.”

Miss Lana says tears are the universal solvent. It could be true. Harm went into full meltdown. “Crenshaw. Harm Crenshaw,” he said. “I'm willing to let you slide.”

Let her
slide
?

“Harm, sit down,” Miss Retzyl snapped. Harm folded into the closest seat and put his hands on the table. “Miss Dylan, have we met? You seem so familiar . . .”

Capers shook her head. “Like I said, I'm here to cover Macon Johnson's trial, which ties into a larger trial I'm covering later on.”

“The trial of the murderer Robert Slate,” I guessed. “Captured by Desperado Detectives last summer along with his ugly girlfriend, Deputy Marla Everette.”

She laughed. “Well, I've interviewed Marla Everette and I don't find her all
that
ugly. Slate's as ugly as they come.” She smiled at Miss Lana. “If you don't mind, I'll just catch my breath—and hope for a ride to the courthouse.”

Miss Lana, who doesn't drive as a public courtesy,
elbowed the Colonel. “Colonel, she needs a ride. Where are your manners?”

“Perhaps I left them in the kitchen,” he muttered. “I'll check.”

The kitchen door swung closed behind him.

Mayor Little smoothed his tie. “Miss Dylan, I'd be glad to squire you about. We'll pick up Mother on our way. She'll enjoy meeting you.” A shiver tiptoed up my spine. Myrt Little's the oldest, meanest woman in Tupelo Landing. Her tongue's sharp enough to shred a cabbage at twenty paces.

Capers smiled. “And I'd be grateful for a good mechanic,” she said.

“I'll call Lavender and see if he can work you into his schedule,” I told her, heading for the phone.

Grandmother Miss Lacy slipped a ten beneath her plate. “Remind him about my boiler, would you, dear?” she asked. “It clunks and bangs every year this time, but it does rattle my nerves.”

“I told you to replace that thing last year,” the Colonel shouted from the kitchen.

“I'll remind him,” I told Grandmother Miss Lacy. Lavender can fix anything, except maybe a broken heart. “Lavender's never too busy for me and mine.”

Fifteen minutes later, Lavender pulled into the parking lot, the morning sun golden in his hair. He headed for the motorcycle as Capers zipped what was left of her jacket and strolled toward the door.

Dale checked the clock. “Guess I can't put it off any longer,” he said. He tiptoed to Queen Elizabeth and tenderly shook her awake.

“We'll be okay, Desperado,” I told him. He nodded but didn't meet my eyes.

Testifying will break Dale's heart, I thought. And Dale's heart is my jurisdiction.

I made an executive decision. I sailed to the table Sal shared with Skeeter—tall, glasses, freckles the color of fresh-sliced luncheon meat. “If I testify first, maybe they won't need to call Dale,” I whispered. Skeeter stopped peppering her eggs. “I got eight dollars in tips saved up. Get the prosecution to call me first and it's yours.”

Sal with her calculator brain and Skeeter with her law books pull strings most people don't even know exist. Miss Lana says they'll run the country one day. The Colonel says he can't wait.

“We'll see what we can do,” Skeeter said as an Azalea Woman headed to the window. Outside, Capers scooped up her scattered papers and Lavender examined the motorcycle.

The Azalea Woman narrowed her eyes. “What do you think?”

“I think she's pretty,” Harm said.

“Nice dye job,” Crissy said. “Missy and me can do that color if anybody's interested.”

Dale shrugged into his jacket. “I don't like her.”

“Dale!” Miss Lana said. “She's from Charleston. Give her the benefit of the doubt.” Miss Lana always says give people the benefit of the doubt. The Colonel says give
yourself
the benefit of your doubts, which you get for a reason.

“I'm going home to change,” Dale said, and gave Harm a shy smile. “Thanks for coming today, it means a lot to me. You too, Salamander.”

Sal knocked over her milk.

“Come on, Liz,” he called, heading for the door. “See you all at the courthouse.”

An hour later only Lavender remained, polishing off a sandwich.

The phone rang. “Café,” I said. “Hey, Miss Rose.”

Dale's mama kept it short and sweet.

“We're on our way,” I told her, and hung up. “Your mama's Pinto won't start—again,” I told Lavender. “She needs us.”

He sighed. He's brought the Pinto back from the dead so many times, we call it Lazarus. “Thanks, Mo.”

I grabbed my jacket. “Miss Lana,” I shouted, running for the door, “I'm riding with Lavender.”

I scooped the last of Capers Dylan's lost papers from the parking lot and hurled myself into the pickup. “What's that?” Lavender asked.

Good question. Tight, blue-inked handwriting crowded the page. A fine tan scribble of mysterious numbers and letters overlaid the words.

“Reporter notes?” I guessed, stuffing it into my bag. “I'll give it to her later.”

We took off for Miss Rose's ailing Pinto—and Tupelo Landing's Trial of the Century.

The Trial of the Century

“All rise,” the bailiff called, and Hanging Judge Wilkins swept into the courtroom wearing a scowl and a billowing shade of black. He climbed into his high desk and stood staring down at us, the light playing against the dark planes of his face.

A tornado of butterflies whirled through my belly.

Dale closed his eyes. “Don't throw up, don't throw up,” he whispered.

I turned to scan the courtroom. Townsfolk had snagged the good seats. Strangers fringed the room. Capers Dylan sat among the Azalea Women. A knot of thin, chisel-faced men with blond hair—Dale's uncles—lurked near the door.

Johnson men show up for Trial Day. It's a family tradition.

Dale's mama, Miss Rose, smoothed her new dress, and reached for Miss Lana's hand.

“This court's in session. Be seated,” the bailiff sang.

Judge Wilkins flounced his robes and we all sat down.

A side door squeaked open.

Detective Joe Starr followed a short, balding man into the courtroom. The man shuffled like an evil penguin, his feet shackled, his hands chained in front.

“Slate,” Dale whispered.

Fear rose inside me like a swirl of dirty water.

Dale gulped. “I ain't seen him since we captured him. I guess he's testifying against Daddy too.”

“Where
is
Mr. Macon?”

“Probably changing clothes,” Dale whispered. “Nobody looks innocent in an orange jumpsuit.”

“Good morning,” Judge Wilkins said, his voice booming like Judgment Day. “I understand our first defendant will enter a plea.”

A plea?

Dale's mouth fell open. Capers peered around the courtroom, her face pale. Skeeter whispered from behind us: “No wonder I couldn't get it set up for you to testify first, Mo. If Mr. Macon pleads guilty, nobody testifies. Including you two.”

“Thank you, Jesus,” Dale murmured.

My eyes found the Colonel's. He winked.

The judge's gaze raked the empty defendant's chair. “Mr. Bailiff, if you could hurry Mr. Johnson along . . .”

The bailiff bustled out.

In the lull I turned and went into my Upstream
Mother Scan, searching for anybody with my hair, my build, my eyes. Nothing.

A muffled shout broke the silence.

Footsteps pounded up the hall and the bailiff clattered into the room. “Jailbreak!” the bailiff shouted. “Macon Johnson's gone!”

“Everyone stay calm!” Mayor Little screamed.

Dale sprinted for the side door, Harm and me on his heels. We pounded down the hall and skidded to a halt by the jailhouse guard, who lay on the floor. The back door stood ajar, and a cold breeze prowled the room.

Starr shouldered past, pistol drawn. “Call for backup,” he shouted at the bailiff. He felt for the guard's pulse as Capers slipped in behind us.

The guard's eyes fluttered open. “What happened?”

“Macon Johnson's escaped,” I said.

“Son of a gun,” he said, rubbing his head. “I thought we were friends. I sent him in to change clothes. Next thing I knew,
wham!
Hit from behind.”

I frowned. “From behind?”

Capers scribbled a note. “He assaulted you and escaped?”

“Laid me out like a side of beef.”

I made a note.

Hit from behind. Guard = Side of beef.

“Guess I missed the rest,” he added, his hand going
to his holster. He glared at Starr. “Give my pistol back. I had to sign for it.”

“Your
pistol
?” Starr said, his gray eyes sweeping the room.

Pistol,
I wrote.
Gone.

“Anything else missing?” I asked, and the guard patted his pockets.

He closed his eyes and went the color of cement. “My keys.”

Dale, Harm, and me rushed the back door. The driveway sat empty as heartbreak.

“Daddy in a black-and-white?” Dale said. He looked at Starr. “I'd like to say on behalf of my entire family that stealing a patrol car is wrong. We know that. It's something we'd show remorse over.”

“He took the
patrol
car?” Capers said. “Imbecile!”

“You better set up a search,” I told Starr. “Maybe close down the highways out of the county and issue a curfew. He'll probably hide until dark and try to sneak out of the area. He'll go south. His accent would give him away up north.”

“Be quiet, Mo,” he snapped as the bailiff stepped back in. Starr, who secretly likes me, sighed. “Issue a bulletin: ‘Macon Johnson's escaped, armed and dangerous. In a patrol car. Block the highways. Tupelo Landing's on lockdown at sunset.' I'll dust for prints
later. Macon may have had an accomplice,” he added. “All we have is the guard's word, and he was . . .”

I checked my notes. “Laid out like a side of beef.” I went detective-to-detective. “If you ask me—”

“Thanks, but I didn't,” he replied. “Get out and let me work. All of you.”

We trooped down the hall. “Well,” I told Dale. “At least things can't get worse.”

Wrong.

Things got worse the instant we stepped into the courtroom. “Dale,” Attila shrilled. “Is your stupid daddy on the lam again?”

Dale elbowed Harm. “On a lamb?”

“On the lam. It means on the run,” Harm said.

I grabbed center stage. “Quiet down. Desperado Detectives have a statement.”

“Allow me, Mo,” Capers said, stepping in front of me.

Did she just upstage me?
I looked into Miss Lana's horrified eyes. To Miss Lana, upstaging is a capital crime.

Capers continued: “Macon hit the guard, stole his pistol, and escaped, armed and dangerous . . .” She did a dramatic pause good as Miss Lana's. “In a patrol car.”

“A
patrol
car?” Attila shrieked like a blond-headed parrot.

“A black-and-white?” Lavender gasped. “You have to be kidding me.”

“No,” Dale said. “We don't.”

My gaze found Dale's mama. Folks say Miss Rose was drop-dead gorgeous before Mr. Macon got hold of her. She still turns heads, but now she's a worn shade of pretty, like an upholstered chair faded by the sun. She stared straight ahead, the crowd's murmurs settling around her like falling leaves.

I stepped in front of Capers, upstaging her right back. Miss Lana applauded.

“Thank you for that introduction, Capers,” I said. “It's always good to get a stranger's take on things they know nothing about. As everyone knows, the Desperados helped capture Mr. Macon once. We'll do it again. Anyone with clues may see me or Dale in homeroom or at the café. We have Joe Starr setting up a search and dusting for prints. The lockdown at sunset was his idea, not ours. Just in case you hate it.”

“Macon's halfway to Mexico by now,” a blond, chisel-faced man shouted.

Dale waved. “Hey, Uncle Austin.”

Attila flounced her hair. “On behalf of the
popular
kids in sixth grade, I'd like to say I'm not surprised your father's a felon, Dale, but in a way I hate it because you'll probably follow in his footsteps thanks to the Like-Father-Like-Son Rule.”

The courtroom erupted.

Miss Rose stood up. “Stop it right this minute!” she said, her voice ringing across the room. Attila froze like a field mouse in open terrain.

“Not another word about my son,” Miss Rose said, her face so strained, her lips had gone white. “This has nothing to do with Dale, and we have nothing more to say. Neither do you, Anna Celeste—not to us. Are we clear?” she demanded, her stare practically melting the turkey earrings dangling from Attila's pink ears.

The courtroom went tight as a full-stretched slingshot.

“Are we clear?” Miss Rose repeated, shifting her gaze to Attila's mother—mean, beige Mrs. Simpson.

Not many people go toe-to-toe with the Simpsons, who are second-generation cul-de-sac. But Miss Rose can stare down a bulldog if she thinks she's right.

Mrs. Simpson licked her lips. “Anna, sit down.”

Attila plunked onto the bench as Starr marched into the room. “Curfew sundown to sunup,” he said. “If you see Macon, dial 911.”

“Sorry Macon gave you the slip,” a voice behind me said. “Makes you look bad.”

I wheeled. Slate! He's like a snake, I thought. So still, you forget he's there, and poison when you step on him.

Slate scratched his face, his handcuffs flashing. “People always underestimate Macon. He's like little Dale over
there—smarter than you think. He's always three steps ahead of you people.”

“Except when we throw him in jail,” I shot back.

He smiled. “Really? Because I don't see him here. Do you?”

“He has a point,” Dale whispered. “Daddy's gone.”

Slate's smile broadened. “Let me know if I can help you puzzle things out, Starr. I have nothing but time on my hands. And I admire Macon Johnson so.”

“Put a double guard on him,” Starr told the bailiff.

Slate's eyes glittered. “Why? What could I have to do with the escape? I was sitting right here. Ask your star witnesses. Hi, Mo. Hi, Dale,” he said, smiling like a frog smiles at flies. “I look forward to spending time with you when I get out of here.”

The Colonel and Lavender both lunged at him. Starr blocked them like a football lineman, bulldozing them to a halt. “Take Slate to lockup,” he barked at the bailiff.

Slate smiled at Miss Rose as the bailiff jerked him to his feet. “Nice seeing you, Rose. Your husband's showing his true genius. Again.”

“Get him out of here. Now,” Starr shouted. “The rest of you, go home.”

Starr stood by the courtroom door, watching the crowd file by. As the Colonel and I drew even, he grabbed the
Colonel's arm. “Colonel,” he said, “I'd appreciate it if you'd ride with me today. You know Macon and his habits. I want him in custody before anybody gets hurt.”

I waited for the Colonel to say no. He doesn't trust law enforcement and he doesn't much like Joe Starr.

But he looked at Lavender. Then at Dale. Then at me.

“Pick me up at the café,” he said. “I want to take my family home.”