The Odds of Getting Even (6 page)

She sighed. “Hurry,” she said. “We have a lot to cover.”

Dale nudged the applications toward me.

I blasted down the row, handing out papers. “To be considered for a puppy, please fill out this form. Dale
will select a few lucky applicants. He's waiving the application fee for sixth graders, but don't let it get around.”

I tried to look innocent as I smiled at Dale. “Does this waiving apply to Miss Retzyl too?” I asked—a softball lob with Home Run Suck-Up Potential.

Dale pursed his lips and studied Miss Retzyl. My stomach went into a tuck-dive.

“Say yes,” Harm hissed.

“Yes,” Dale said.

“Congratulations,” I told Miss Retzyl, handing her an application. “We're talking puppies of outstanding beauty and poise.”

Susana Lowery from the third row held out her hand.

“Thank you for considering adoption,” I told her.

“Look who's thanking,” Attila muttered. I strolled to the bulletin board and pinned up an application:

Puppy Adoption Form by Dale

• Name of Human

• List all biters in your home

• Will you allow visits from Dale?

• Names of pets?

• Why do you want a puppy?

• Pet History with Photos

• Extra Credit: Do puppies have spirit lives?

“This is the stupidest thing ever,” Attila muttered, crumpling her application and tossing it to the wastebasket.

“Thank you for pre-crumpling,” I said. “It saves Dale and Queen Elizabeth the trouble of destroying your application themselves. And thank
you,
Miss Retzyl. I yield the floor to you at this time.”

Miss Retzyl exhaled the way a karate instructor does before he breaks a board. “Science,” she said. “Isotopes and radiation. Who knows how they're connected?”

Jake raised his hand.
“Jake?”
she said, smoothing the surprise from her face.

“Isotope would be a good name for a puppy. I could call her Iso.”

Dale pulled a tiny notebook from his shirt pocket and made a small black X by Jake's name.

“Queen Elizabeth's offspring need royal names, which could mean research,” I said. Research is to Miss Retzyl as bird seed is to squirrel.

“Mo,” she snapped. “We're talking about—”

“Isotopes,” Harm said, very smooth. “Unstable atoms release particles called isotopes. Radiation's pretty much made out of them, which is hard to imagine because you can't see it. But like bad breath, it's still there,” he added, smiling at Attila.

Attila snarled, but when he turned away she breathed into her cupped hand.

Dale gave me a thumbs-up.

I relaxed. My keen Detective Senses told me Mr. Macon was gone from our lives, maybe forever. Life would settle back to dull normal. The Desperado Detective Agency would find a new case, one that would bring us wealth and glory.

Naturally, then, the next break-in hit me broadside.

The Next Break-in

“Glad
that's
over,” Harm said as the school door closed behind us and Dale tripped down the steps. “Dale, how do you stay cool, with people talking like that?”

Dale flipped his collar up. “I'm Tupperware,” he said, very suave.

Harm's smile froze.

“He means Teflon,” I said. “Nothing sticks.”

“Hey Harm, where's your bike?” Dale asked as we headed across the schoolyard, Attila on our heels. “Is Mr. Red scared of Daddy too?”

“He's a little jumpy, yeah,” Harm said. “He dropped me off this morning. Most folks did,” he said, hooking a thumb at the empty bicycle rack.

A nearby Buick tootled its horn. “Yoo-hoo, Desperados! Over here,” Grandmother Miss Lacy called, just as Attila's mother's stealth beige Cadillac oozed to the curb.

Mrs. Simpson purred her window down. “Good news, Anna,” she called, sneering at Dale. “They found Macon Johnson's camp stove on the side of I-95. He's gone, and
good riddance to white trash. Hop in, honey. I'm late.”

White trash? Who does she think she is?

“Hey you!” I shouted before I could think of anything to say. “Most witches ride broomsticks. How'd you rate a Cadillac?”

Attila puffed like a blowfish and dropped her books. I started for her, my hands balled into fists. Harm grabbed the back of my jacket and spun me toward the Buick as Dale opened the front door. Harm slung me in and slammed the door. The boys dove in the back, and Grandmother Miss Lacy put the pedal to the metal.

“Anna will get you for that,” Harm warned, sounding happy.

“Yeah,” Dale said. “Thanks.”

I been fighting for Dale since our Diaper Days. He hates fighting. I, on the other hand, enjoy it—especially if Attila's my target. Dale leaned across the seat to study Grandmother Miss Lacy's face. “Is it true Starr found our camp stove?”

Grandmother Miss Lacy, who ain't much taller than me, sits on a pillow to see over the dash. “It's true. And I should warn you. Capers's jailbreak story is front-page news all over the state. The café phone's ringing off the hook. Reporters, gossips . . .”

“Is that all she wrote?” I asked, thinking of Miss Rose's break-in.

“Should she have written more?”

So, Capers Dylan kept her word.

Grandmother Miss Lacy went for a change of topic. “How was school, Dale?”

“School lasts twelve years and people are trashing us worse than ever and I hate it, but except for that it was fine,” he replied. “We gave out adoption forms. I'm hoping Mo will take glamour photos of Liz so we can post them too,” he added.

Being a best friend carries a heavy price. “Sure,” I mumbled.

“Miss Thornton, may I offer you a puppy?” Dale asked, in a move straight out of
Manners Girls Like
. “It could grow into a watchdog and keep you from being an old maid.”

An old maid? Definitely not in
Manners Girls Like
.

Harm gasped. “Dale,” he said. “I don't think that came out right.”

“Dale means . . .” I said. I stopped, trying to think of an end to the sentence.

“Alone,” she said. “He means I wouldn't be alone. Thank you, dear, but some things are worse than being alone. Being chewed up, spit on, and covered in dog hair come to mind. Harm, I'll drop you off first if no one objects.”

“I'm sure Grandpa Red won't mind,” Harm teased. “He misses you.”

“I've been busy at the inn, dear,” she said, pointing the Buick toward the edge of town. “Lavender's finishing up another room for us. So much dust!”

Lavender can fix anything. It's only a matter of time before he gets his new second-hand racecar fixed up, and wins at Daytona. I will cheer from the stands.

Grandmother Miss Lacy puttered past the old store and turned onto a rutted path leading through the woods, to Mr. Red's dirt yard. “My word, Harm Crenshaw,” she said, gazing at the small homestead. “You two have been busy.”

Harm grinned. “Check out the new steps. Gramps built them himself.”

“Very handsome,” she murmured as Mr. Red spotted us. He straightened his barn jacket and wiggled his cap tighter on his head.

“Those plaid ear flaps are a good look for him,” Dale said.

Mr. Red opened her door. “Lacy,” he said, like a prince opening a carriage door.

“Red,” she replied, smiling up at him. “The place looks nice.”

“Come in and see what I've been doing,” he invited.

She shook her head. “Not today. I want Mo and Dale home before people start worrying. And talking.” She put the Buick in reverse and we bounced down the path.

“Are you going to marry him?” Dale asked as we hit a rut that bounced him almost to the roof.

“Marry Red?” she said. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I hope not,” he said. “You're Mo's honorary grandmother. If you marry Mr. Red and adopt Harm, that would make Harm Mo's uncle. I don't think you can go to sixth grade in the same class with an uncle. It sounds illegal to me.”

Dale's mind works in mysterious ways.

“I hadn't thought of it quite like that,” she said.

Nobody thinks quite like Dale.

Five minutes later Dale and me blasted through the café door. “Miss Lana,” I called, “guess what! We passed out puppy applications and—” I skidded to a halt.

“Hello Detectives,” Capers Dylan said, stuffing her papers into her saddlebag. The café had gone World War II Paris—khaki napkins, Sherman Tank salt and pepper shakers, Maurice Chevalier on the jukebox. “What's cooking?”

Dale sniffed. “Mama's collards?”

“Where's Miss Lana?” I asked.

“Piggly Wiggly,” she said. “It's amazing how much food a café runs through. The Colonel had already taken the phone off the hook and stomped out. Lana asked me to watch the place. I hope you're not hungry, because I don't cook.”

Miss Lana left the café with a rookie?

“You're relieved of duty,” I said. “Café Command requires expertise. When you deal with the public, an infinite number of things can go wrong.”

As if to prove my point, a red sports car wheeled into the parking lot—flashy hubcaps, spoiler, air freshener dangling from the mirror. Flick Crenshaw rolled out, an ugly stick of dynamite begging for a light.

“Speak of the Devil,” Dale said, heading for the ice cream.

Flick shoved through the door. “Hey, Dale,” he said. “Who's your friend?”

“You know Mo.”

“I mean the good-looking one,” he said, winking at Capers. “Coffee, Mo.”

“We're out.”

His gaze lingered on the full coffeepot. “Not my day,” he said. “Came over to join Starr's search. I'm civic-minded that way. Only he can't use me.”

Flick's civic-minded like the Colonel's take-out-the-trash-minded—meaning he ain't. He smirked at us. “You
don't know, do you?” he asked. “Some detectives you are. Macon Johnson robbed Creekside Baptist Church.”

The ice cream scoop clattered from Dale's hand. “What?”

“Check your police scanner,” he said—like we had one. “Creekside Baptist is your church, isn't it, Dale? Doesn't your mama sing in the choir or something? Bet she won't after this.”

“Get out of here,” I said, my temper popping.

Flick's face went switchblade serious. “Don't tell me what to do, you little—”

“Leave her alone,” Capers snapped. She tucked her saddlebag against her body, shoved her right hand inside, and pointed the bag at him. “I mean it.”

“Gun,” I whispered, “get down.” I turned to Dale.

“Down here,” he whispered from behind the counter.

Flick glared at Capers, spun, and slammed the door behind him.

“What's in there?” I demanded as Flick fishtailed across the parking lot, headed for town. “We don't allow firearms unless you're Joe Starr.”

She plopped into a chair. “Just my writing gear. Total bluff.” She flipped open the saddlebag. “See for yourself. What's wrong with that guy?”

“Mama says he's unsavory,” Dale said, grabbing the
phone and dialing. “Harm? Meet us at Creekside Baptist,” he said, and hung up.

I looked at Capers. Smart, good bluffing skills, bold. And she kept her word to me. Maybe she's café material after all. “You're in charge,” I said, snagging my camera. “We'll fill you in when we get back.”

“Deal,” she said, and we flew out the door.

Dale hopped on my handlebars light as a bug and I pedaled toward town. Flick's car roared by, headed back toward the café.

“Where's
he
going?” I looked back a moment later to see Capers and Flick in the parking lot, her finger in his bantam chest. “Look,” I said, skidding to a halt and pitching Dale to his feet.

Capers hauled back and slapped Flick hard enough to stagger him sideways.

“Wow,” Dale said. “She's got a temper bad as yours. And a way better right hook.”

Suddenly I liked Capers Dylan. A lot.