The Odds of Getting Even (5 page)

Lavender's voice cracked. “He won't if he knows what's good for him.”

“Macon has Miss Rose's shotgun,” I added.

Silence zinged through the line. “Tell Mama I'm on my way.”

That night I opened the
Piggly Wiggly Chronicles
and picked up my pen.

Dear Upstream Mother,

Mr. Macon busted out of jail. Lavender's in danger and Dale's life is ruined.

Lavender charged into Miss Rose's place like the cavalry. He wore his scarred-up jeans and green corduroy shirt, and that denim jacket the exact color of his eyes. Not that it matters.

The Colonel and Starr say Mr. Macon will likely sneak out of town tonight if he can. I
think so too. Adios to bad news, I say. Also adios to my hopes for vengeance and a perfect conviction record.

Dale and Miss Rose look stretched as old socks.

Mo

PS: I looked for you in the courtroom, but I didn't see you. Are you in borderline law enforcement like me? Feel free to track me down.

Puppy Paperwork

The black rotary phone by my bed jangled early the next morning. “Desperado Detective Agency,” I mumbled. “Your felonies are our pleasure.”

“It's me,” Dale said. “I'm glad you're not dead.”

“Thank you,” I replied. I squinted at my wind-up clock, which had wound down. I gazed out the windows opposite my bed. Dawn o'clock.

“Daddy's probably gone by now,” Dale said, “but Mama doesn't want me out on my bike, just in case. Neither does Lavender.” I pictured him scrunching into himself, the way he does when he's scared. “You know how Daddy is.”

Mr. Macon's cruel as wildfire. I squinted at my windows—all three unlocked.

The Colonel says most things worth having come double-edged like a sword. With an A+ imagination, the good side is, you can solve mysteries. The bad side is, you can scare yourself senseless. “I ain't worried,” I lied.

“Lavender's driving me to school,” he continued.
“We'll pick you up. Be careful. Miss Lana and the Colonel too. Good-bye.” The line went dead.

I bounded to my windows and locked them—one, two, three—not looking out in case Mr. Macon was looking in. I opened the living room door and listened for signs of life. No voice, no snore, no clatter of stiletto heels. I turned my Detective Senses toward the café. Not even the rattle of a pot.

Can a person be more or less orphaned twice in the same lifetime?

I lunged for my phone and dialed the café.

“This is the Colonel. Speak to me.”

My fear melted like ice cream on a July sidewalk. “Good morning, sir,” I said, very casual. “I assume Miss Lana's alive too?”

“She's alive and a vision of caffeinated loveliness,” he said, and I heard her laugh. “Would you like to speak to her?”

“Not necessary, sir. See you in three shakes.”

A few minutes later I blasted onto the porch, running a comb through my hair. The Colonel sat smiling in our porch rocker, his short, bottle-brush hair still flat on one side from dreaming. “Morning, Soldier,” he said. “I suddenly longed to see you. No word yet about Macon,” he added, rising and scooping me into a hug.

The Azalea Women say the Colonel doesn't give a flip about people. They're wrong. He just doesn't give a flip about Azalea Women.

We fell into step, heading down the walk and around the side of our building. “Heads up, Soldier. The crowd's ugly today,” he whispered, opening the café door.

The early morning crowd stared at me like sag-faced snapdragons caught by frost. Capers Dylan, on the other hand, smiled fresh-faced as a pansy. “Hello, Detective,” she said, looking up from her oatmeal. “Care to join me?”

The kitchen door swung open. “Morning, sugar,” Miss Lana called as she twirled in, her skirt flaring and her Marilyn Monroe wig glistening. “Grab some silverware and join Capers. Space is tight this morning. Everyone's starving for Starr's report.”

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. Miss Lana lowered her tray to show three breakfast plates. I chose the grits and eggs.

“Hey,” a stranger called from the counter. “Where's my grits and eggs? Did Macon Johnson steal those too?”

Strangers can be rude.

“Keep your shirt on,” I shouted, unrolling my silverware.

Miss Lana gave me a quick kiss. “Lavender will be here in ten, sugar.”

Capers tried to smooth her crumpled blouse. “You and Dale got the same wrinkled sense of style,” I said.

“Guess I need an iron,” she said, smiling. She leaned forward and whispered, “Sorry to hear about the break-in at Rose's. What happened?”

The back of my neck tingled. How did she know about that?

“Lana told me,” she added, like she could read me. “I helped her with the café after you all took off like bats. I know Starr let you in on the investigation. He'd be crazy not to ask Tupelo Landing's most successful detective for input.”

Blatant flattery. My favorite kind. Not that I like being questioned.

“You been researching us,” I replied, grabbing my milk. “Why?”

She laughed. “You're like me. You'd rather ask than answer. Fair enough, Detective. You interview me first.”

More flattery. Excellent. “How come you're a reporter?”

“I get paid for being nosy.”

“Speaking of noses, yours is crooked. Why?”

“Bicycle crash when I was a kid. I was trying to stand on the seat and fly like a bird.” I felt a sudden surge of respect. “Most spectacular wipeout in the history of Rainbow Road,” she said.

“You mean Rainbow Row,” I told her, and Miss Lana winked at me from a couple tables over. I shot Capers a new question: “Who's your best friend?”

“Well . . . my sister, I guess. My turn,” she said, unleashing dimples.

“One more thing,” I added, lowering my voice. “The break-in at Miss Rose's: We're keeping it quiet for now. Totally off the record. I hope I can count on you.”

She tilted her head, considering. “It's obvious Macon did it. Give me the details later and it's a deal.”

“You're on,” I said as the café door swung open.

Lavender!

“Morning, Doc,” Capers called. “How's your two-wheeled patient today?”

Lavender sauntered over like a big golden cat. “In critical condition,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Here's the estimate. Sorry it's so expensive, but . . .”

She barely glanced at it. “Let's do it.” She plucked an envelope from her saddlebag. “Will this get you started?” she asked, flashing a fat wad of green.

The café gasped. In Tupelo Landing we don't pay for car work until we whine the price down. “Great,” Lavender said, swallowing his surprise. “I'll order the parts.”

“And where can I rent a motorcycle 'til you're done?”

“You can rent a
car
in Greenville. That's about it.” He smiled at me. “Dale and I are ready when you are, Miss LoBeau.”

Capers watched him stroll out—and she wasn't watching in a fix-my-bike way.

Out-of-state competition? Is that fair?

“Cash was nice of you,” I whispered, grabbing my messenger bag. “Lavender's recent full-blown seed tick infestation has set him back. Don't mention I told you.”

Her expression went sunshine to rain. “Seed ticks?”

“You hardly see them until you go chronic. What's that?” I asked, squinting at her collar. Her laugh sounded tinny as she brushed her hand across her neck. “It's just as well,” I said. “Lavender don't like older women.” A total lie. Lavender likes every woman he ever met and most of the ones he only heard about.

I swung my messenger bag onto my shoulder. “Bye, Miss Lana,” I shouted.

The Colonel stuck his head out of the kitchen as I snagged my lunch from the counter. “Stay alert, Soldier. I'm on standby if you need me.”

Dale just finished doing his homework wrong when we coasted to a stop in front of our brick, two-story school. Attila Celeste minced across the schoolyard with her posse of fifth-grade Attila-wannabes—same clothes, same walk, same maniacal hair toss.

“Maybe I should go back home,” Dale said. “We could hunt for Daddy.”

Lavender stuffed Dale's homework in his backpack and
hooked it shut. “Walk in like you mean it, little brother. Did you bring the puppy forms?”

Dale nodded as he watched Attila.

“Then stop worrying. If I know Macon, he's running by now.”

“Then why are you driving us around like babies?” Dale asked.

Lavender grinned. “Same reason you're going to school. Because I'm Rose's son and she said so. Go on, and let me fix Mama's door. This will blow over, same as always.”

We found Harm standing by the steps, shivering in his sweater and moth-bitten scarf. “You look like you're freezing,” I told him.

“Coolest guy in middle school,” he said, his breath steaming in the cold. “Who am I kidding? I'm freezing my begonias off. Let's go inside.” Lately Harm's using flower names as off-color words—a trick Miss Lana taught him. He says it keeps his grandfather, Mr. Red, off his back.

“I wish I didn't need adoption applications,” Dale said as we headed up the steps. “If the puppies had homes with my best friends . . .”

“I can't,” I told him for maybe the hundredth time. I held the door open for Attila and let it go in her face
just as she got there. “There's too much traffic around the café.”

“And Gramps said no because he's Gramps,” Harm said. “Plus, I can't afford one. Pups need medicine, food . . .”

We stepped into the school's steamy heat. The hall smelled like waxed floors and gossip. “I want Skeeter to check my adoption form,” Dale said, leading us to the office.

Skeeter has a cushy teacher-appointed office job.

“I've been expecting you,” she said as we dropped into teacher-quality chairs. “We'll need to be discreet. I don't normally conduct business at school. It makes it hard to discuss my fee.”

As if on cue, Sal popped in from the hall. “You'll want to trade for our services?”

Dale slipped close. “I got two boxes of windshield scrapers, excellent for use on bugs year-round and snow if we ever get some.”

Windshield scrapers? Has he lost his mind?

“Excellent choice,” I said.

Skeeter swiveled her deluxe leather chair, leaving her back toward us. Sal shook her head. “That's what you gave us for Christmas.”

“Ouch,” Harm said.

“Actually,” Sal said. “I was hoping . . .” She gazed at Dale, her eyes glistening. “I always wanted a puppy, Dale.”

Skeeter swiveled back around. “Me too. Queen
Elizabeth is top-of-the-line. Smart, good family, nice sense of humor. You'd have visitation rights, of course.”

Perfect! Skeeter and Sal are prime puppy candidates. Still, in Dale's universe, asking for a puppy equaled asking for family. Harm and me waited.

Dale gave them a quick nod. “Deal.”

Sal clapped and bounced up on her toes.

Skeeter smiled. “I'll have this back to you right after lunch.”

Skeeter ran true to her word. She grabbed me as we filed from a lunchroom awash in gossip. Dale let it roll off him like water off wax. I'm more of a sponge person, and I'd just about had my fill.

“Mo, I want you to see something,” Skeeter said, handing me a neat stack of applications as the crowd surged on. “Check out Dale's rough draft, on top of the stack.”

I stared at the mutant baby scrawl. Dale's never liked writing, but
this?

“Maybe it's the stress of the trial or having an armed-and-dangerous father on the run,” she said. “I typed it as a professional courtesy, but if his homework went in like this . . .” She shrugged.

“I owe you,” I said. “Heard any news on Mr. Macon?”

Skeeter's Cousin Information Network blankets the state. If a sparrow burps, she hears about it. “Not a
word—which is odd,” she said as the tardy bell rang.

I skidded into Miss Retzyl's room. “I'm glad you could join us,” she said.

Teacher Sarcasm. Danger.

“Thank you,” I replied. “I love your outfit. Is it new?”

“Have a seat, Mo. Everyone, take out your science books.”

Science books? Mine was under my bed. “I think we're on the biology chapter,” I said, opening my history book for cover. “Which reminds me, Dale has an extra credit science announcement. Go,” I whispered, sliding the applications to his desk.

“There is no biology chapter, Mo,” she replied. “We're discussing isotopes. Who can define an isotope?”

“Unless I'm turned around, Isotope's a barbecue joint off I-95,” I said. “Dale has an item of scientific interest.”

Dale beamed at the class. “Who wants a puppy?”

The class exploded. “I do!” Jake shouted above the hubbub.

I smiled at Miss Retzyl, who I adore. Or whom I adore, whichever is correct.