The Odds of Getting Even (9 page)

“Yeah, boy,” Harm said, leaning into the sound.

“She's lovely,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said. “What color will you choose?”

“Black,” Harm and Dale said together.

I shook my head. “Purple, like your last car.”

The door flew open behind us and a cold swirl of dead leaves swept into the garage. “I vote green,” Flick Crenshaw said. “The color of a dead man's car.”

“A dead man's car!”
Grandmother Miss Lacy cried.

Harm glared at his big brother. “That's an old racing superstition, Miss Thornton,” he said. “And it's bull. What do you want, Flick?”

“That's a lame ride,” Flick said, scouting the car.

“Good enough to beat you,” I said.

“Really? Name the time and place. I bet a hundred bucks on me.”

Normally Lavender doesn't have two words for Flick Crenshaw—not two Miss Rose allows, anyway. To my surprise, he nudged Dale. “What do you think?”

Smart. A race would give Dale one more thing to think about until the Mr. Macon hoopla dies down. Sometimes I think Dale and Miss Rose shape every decision Lavender makes. Then I see him with a big-haired twin and I think twice.

“Me?” Dale said. “Yes, I think so. Beating Flick is always good.”

“Miss Thornton?” Lavender asked.

She shrugged. “A hundred-dollar wager hardly seems worth getting out of bed for. But what do I know? I'm only the sponsor.”

The sponsor?

“Well, the inn is, technically,” she said. “Lana and I feel it's only a matter of time before Lavender wins at Hallelujah.”

“Talladega,” Dale said.

“A thousand bucks then,” Flick said, and Harm did a double take.

“You're on, Flick,” Lavender said, smooth as if he had a thousand dollars. “Now get out of my garage—and stay out.”

That night I grabbed Volume 7 and a green ink pen formerly known as Attila's.

Dear Upstream Mother,

Good news: I'm on Team Lavender and the race is on!

Bad news: Thes ain't making up. Now I wish I hadn't called Spitz ugly, but like Miss Lana says, you can't unsay words once they're launched any more than you can un-shoot an arrow.

Did I get my mouth from you? If so, feel free to take it back.

Mo

No. Yes. Maybe.

The next morning, Thes strolled into school with a newspaper under his arm. “Did everybody see this?” he asked. He snapped the paper open and showed the headline to Capers's article:
Tupelo Landing Stunned by Church Heist. Escaped Con Top Suspect.

Dale didn't look up from his applications. In fact, he didn't look up all day.

“Help,” he said as we stumbled out of school, brain-fried from reading bar graphs. As if bar graphs could survive in the real world. Dale opened his backpack and tipped it toward us. “More applications. Skeeter had them in the office.”

Harm's mouth dropped open. “How many have you got?”

“A brazillion,” Dale said.

“Dale,” I said, “Brazil is a country. Not a number.”

“If you want to go nit-picky on your best friend,” he said, his voice rising. “I thought applications would be easy, but when I read these, I get brain glob.” He whirled
to face us. “Why did I put essays on the application? Do I think I'm a teacher?”

“Calm down, Dale,” Harm said. “Maybe we can help.”

“Good,” Dale said. “I deputize you both onto the Puppy Committee. First meeting starts now.” He hopped on his bike and zipped toward home.

Harm looked at me, his dark eyes full of surprise. “The Puppy Committee? Congratulations,” he said, and we sailed off behind Dale.

As Dale dealt out the applications in his room, the living room phone rang. Miss Rose answered, her voice drifting to us.

“She's talking to Bill,” Dale said, listening. “Her new boyfriend.”

She laughed easy as water over stones. I'd forgotten how much I missed the sound. “She sounds happy,” I said. “Harm and me will screen the applications, but the final decision's up to you. We'll divide them into No, Yes, Maybe.”

Outside, the guineas squawked. “Hold on, Bill,” Miss Rose said as someone tapped on the front door. “Dale,” she called. “More flowers, baby.”

More
flowers?

Dale trotted out as Susana Lowery zipped past the window and jumped into a getaway Chevy at the road.

“Flowers?” Harm said. “Does Susana like Dale too? I thought Sal liked him. And since when do girls give guys flowers? Never mind,” he said before I could answer. “I like tulips in case you ever want to know.”

“Mums,” Dale announced, setting a flowerpot by the terrarium. “I got more on the back porch if you want some. Also candy and the book
What Sign Is Your Pet?
From kids wanting puppies.”

Dale's getting puppy kickbacks?

“Mums?” Harm said. “They're cheery. Gramps might like them.”

Dale nudged the bright yellow flowers to him, unwrapped three candies, and pushed them into his mouth. “Tuh committee is nah in session,” he said. And we went to work.

An hour later we had one sprawling, ragged pile of applications and a tiny pile. Harm slumped in his chair, flipping through
Life Cycle of the Newt.

I lined up another glamour shot. “This way, Liz,” I said. She looked over her shoulder.
Click
.

Dale tossed his last application into the No pile. “Jerome named his hamster Assassin. What kind of message does that send?”

I lowered my camera. “That's all of them, then,” I said, staring at the applications slip-sliding across the bed. “Who made the Yes pile?”

“Sal. And Skeeter.”

I looked at Queen Elizabeth, whose sides bulged like she'd swallowed a bucket of bolts. “We need more than two homes.” I rustled through Dale's rejects. “You're not giving Miss Retzyl a puppy? Have you lost your mind? She's a
teacher
.”

“She's too strict,” Dale said, flopping back on the bed.

I pawed through the papers. “And Little Agnes? What's wrong with Little Agnes? Hannah will help her with a puppy, you know she will.”

“She failed her essay,” Dale said, and clamped his mouth closed like a turtle.

I flipped to the essay page. “She wrote on that stupid baby paper with the dotted lines,” I said. “She used a fat pencil.” I read her essay:

I will lov a puppy every day. Agnes

“You took off for
spelling?
” I demanded. “Little Agnes is only five.”

“Exactly,” he said, his voice filling with tears. “There's something wrong with every single one of these. Except maybe Sal. Liz is family and you can't just let family go. You have to know they'll be okay.”

“But Dale—”

“Dale's right,” Harm interrupted.

Dale's right? Is he kidding?

Harm stood and stretched his long arms above his
head, grabbed the pot of chrysanthemums, and headed for the door. “They're your puppies, Dale. You let us know. Come on, LoBeau. I'll race you home.”

I followed him to our bikes. “Harm, we need to post that Puppy List while everybody's excited. There's no telling how many puppy homes we'll need.”

“I know.”

I followed his gaze to the window. Dale stood by his terrarium, strumming his guitar. “He's singing Newton to sleep,” I said.

Harm swung his leg over his bike. “Dale's having a rough time. He isn't like us. We lost our first worlds all at once, in an instant. You in the flood on the day you were born, me when Flick dumped me here to make a life if I could. But Dale's losing his an inch at a time. He'll let go of the puppies when he's ready.”

I hadn't thought of it that way.

“Race you, LoBeau,” he said, and blazed down the drive.

It was near dark by the time Harm and me pedaled into town. Harm rode with no hands, lean and comfortable as a knife cutting through the wind. “I got to swing by Grandmother Miss Lacy's and pick up some photos,” I called. “You want to come?”

“Better not,” he shouted, leaning into a turn, the mums cradled in his arm. “See you tomorrow. Remember: Tulips.”

Like I'd ever care.

A half beat later I bounded up Grandmother Miss Lacy's steps. “Come in, dear,” she said, smiling me into the hall. I gave her a quick hug. Grandmother Miss Lacy feels fragile as a hummingbird in my arms.

“I came to pick up the photos we worked on last night. If they're dry, I mean.”

We headed for the darkroom. “Excellent candid shots,” she said, peering at the photos clothes-pinned to the line. “And are these evidence?”

“Photos from the church.” I sighed. “Dale thinks his daddy didn't rob it.”

She stacked the photos. “What do you think?”

“I think Mr. Macon's guilty as sin. And I also think Dale's my best friend.” She slipped the photos into an envelope. “You stood by Mr. Red back when his daddy was accused of a crime,” I said, watching her. “Did you know he was guilty?”

“We all had suspicions,” she said. “But Red was a friend. I like always to be both, but sometimes you have to choose. Would you rather be right—or kind?”

“I'm a detective,” I said. “It's my job to be right. But as a friend . . .”

She smiled an inscrutable Old Person Smile. “Your choice, dear.”

I headed for the door. “You coming to supper? It's
Miss Lana's Morocco Night—a collard stir-fry.”

She laughed. “How many ways can Lana cook Rose's collards? I'll meet you there.”

I scampered down the steps and grabbed my bike. As I turned, my glance raked the garage. Lavender, standing in the shadows by the door!

He turned his collar up to his hat, and the skin across my shoulders pulled tight. Lavender is hair vain. He doesn't wear a hat.

The wind blew and the shadows shifted across the man's face.

Mr. Macon? Flick? A stranger?

I dropped my bike. “Stop! You're under arrest,” I bellowed in case it was Mr. Macon. I charged across the yard, the guineas shouting from the treetops. The man faded into the shadows.

“Stop!” I shouted again, rounding the garage.

A hand snaked from the dark and clamped my arm. A leg swept my feet from beneath me and the world spun upside down. I landed in the leafy arms of a camellia bush as the prowler ran away.

“Macon Johnson? Are you sure?” Starr asked ten minutes later, letting the curtain fall at the parlor window.

“Yes. No. Maybe,” I said. “By the garage.”

He headed for the door. “Stay inside, both of you. I mean it.”

Grandmother Miss Lacy and I watched his light play along the edges of the garage. “He's found a clue,” I said as Starr knelt. “Cover me.”

“With what?” she asked as the door clattered shut behind me and I stealthed to Starr's side.

He jumped to his feet. “I told you to stay inside,” he snapped.

“What did you find?” Grandmother Miss Lacy asked, strolling up behind me.

Starr whipped his hat off. “Don't you people ever follow directions?”

Interesting. Miss Retzyl asks the same thing.

Starr clicked his pen against his pad. “Running toward danger is a boneheaded move, Mo,” he said. “Don't do it again. Miss Thornton? Keep your doors locked.”

He tipped his hat and walked away.