The Odds of Getting Even (15 page)

“She shows up a lot,” I admitted, looking through the evidence photos. “In the café, at the inn, at the river . . .” I checked out my wide shot at Attila's. “What's that?” I asked, squinting at a blip at the edge of the photo.

“We have an enlarger, dear,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said. “Let's find out.”

She slipped the photo's negative into the old enlarger—a giant insect-looking machine hulking on the counter—and gave it a crank. The image widened and, with another crank, zoomed into focus.

At the edge of the field across from Attila's stood a woman. “What's that she's holding?” Grandmother Miss Lacy asked, squinting at the grainy image.

“Binoculars,” Harm said, his voice shocked.

“She's spying on us,” I said. “Capers was spying.”

Room Service

A couple hours later, with my newly developed photos hanging like flags on the darkroom drying line, Lavender pulled into the café parking lot and I hopped out.

“See you tomorrow,” I shouted as Harm helped me drag my bike from the back of the truck.

They pulled away as I pushed through the café door. “I'm home,” I called. A group of strangers looked up from their burgers. One read a newspaper article:
Old Inn Profits from Crime Spree.

Miss Lana says the articles are good for business. The Colonel says they're a plague. I tend to side with the Colonel.

Miss Lana tapped her chalk against the Specials Board and smiled her hello. The overhead light glinted off her short platinum blond Jean Harlow wig and flapper dress—1920s Hollywood, all the way.

“Where's Capers?” I asked. “I got some questions for her and her binoculars.”

“At the inn,” she said. “We'll see her at supper.”

A stranger headed for the cash register.

“I got this one,” I told Miss Lana, and smiled at the pasty young man, who wore a pink Mohawk. “I am Mo LoBeau—a possible orphan saving for college—and I'll be ringing you up today,” I said. He plunked down a five as I grabbed his bill and read Miss Lana's neat handwriting. “A Tupelo Burger with a side of collards. That's four dollars and one cent. Avoid the horror of Unexpected Change,” I added, nudging my tip jar forward and counting ninety-nine cents into his hand.

He leaned toward me, his breath reeking of collards, his Mohawk glinting. “Who's the weirdo with the bizarro hair?” he asked, cutting his eyes toward Miss Lana.

“That would be you,” I replied.

He shoved the change in his pocket and slammed out. Sadly for me, the door swung open again almost at once.

“Mo LoBeau,”
Miss Retzyl said, her voice like ice.

My life screamed into slow motion.
Why did I spend all afternoon in the darkroom? Why didn't I have an alibi for missing class?

I zipped back into Real Time. “Welcome,” I said. “I was just thinking what an excellent role model you are. May I treat you to supper with double desserts?”

She slammed a stack of papers on the counter. “You, Dale, and Harm. Truant.”

The strangers looked up. So did Miss Lana and the Colonel.

This is the last time I'm trusting Attila Celeste to cover for me, I thought.

“Anna did her best to cover for you, Mo,” she said with a terrifying display of All-Knowing Teacher Wiles. “But it's hard to cover for three people at once, even with Anna's skill set. Joe told me where you were and I understand why you went there,” she said. “But if you cut school again, you'll suffer consequences.
Real
consequences.”

I looked at the folders. “I hope that's my punishment homework,” I lied.

“It is.” Her eyes went softer. Or else I imagined it. “I know Dale's your best friend,” she said. “But dropping this case might be the kindest thing you can do for him. Let Joe do his job, and let Dale focus on his puppies and homework.”

Drop the case? Is she mad? That's the
last
thing Dale wants.

“You're very wise,” I said.

She snorted. The door slapped shut behind her.

I looked at Miss Lana. “I can explain this.”

“No need, sugar,” she said. “Capers stopped by to tell us you went home with Lavender.” She looked at the Colonel. “As father figure, perhaps you'll say something of a disciplinary nature?”

He looked like she'd slapped him with a cat. “Don't break any more laws, Soldier,” he said, his voice stern. Then he smiled. “And thanks for standing by Dale. You're a good friend and I'm proud of you.”

“Well, I'm glad that's settled,” Miss Lana said, tapping her green chalk against the Specials Board. “Let's do something creative with Rose's collards tonight,” she said as the Colonel loaded the coffee machine. “How do you spell
salade de chou
?”

“S-L-A-W,”
he said.

“Collards again,” I said, watching her. “I'm not the only best friend in this café.”

Another stranger handed me his check.

“I'm merely a cog in the cosmic wheel, sugar,” Miss Lana said. “Rose's business is off because of Macon. Because of Macon, strangers eat here and boost her business. The wheels on the bus go round and round. Wouldn't you say so, Colonel?”

“No,” he said, and headed for the kitchen.

She smiled at me. “Why don't you invite Dale and Harm for supper? You can do your catch-up homework together.”

“Excellent,” I said, ringing up the stranger: “Double collard casserole with sweet potato pie. Six dollars and one cent.”

“Aren't you the stupid kid that lost the patrol car?” he asked.

I counted to ten while I pretended to study his check. “Maybe I am stupid,” I sighed. “I added wrong. That's
seven
dollars and one cent,” I said, and nudged my tip jar forward.

Dale and Queen Elizabeth sauntered in with the supper crowd. “You said we got punishment homework,” he said as Queen Elizabeth settled by the jukebox.

“Metaphors,” I said. “Harm's staying home. Mr. Red needs him.”

Miss Lana rumpled Dale's hair. “Poetry. Perfect for you, Dale. Your lyrical nature, your timeless perspective, your spiritual
je ne sais quoi
.” Sometimes Miss Lana talks like a blizzard. You have to shovel your way through and even then, when you look back it's hard to see your own tracks.

“Just remember Cinderella, and you'll be fine.”

Cinderella?

“Cinderella. Because . . .” My voice trailed away.

She smiled. “The Fairy Godmother turned the pumpkin into—
poof!
—a carriage. Mice into—
poof!
—horses. Poof one thing into another and you have a metaphor. As Shakespeare used to say, ‘All the world's—
poof
—a stage . . . '”

“Poof,” Dale said. “Why didn't somebody say so?”

Mayor Little shot through the door, smoothing his
plaid tie. “Mother's down,” he said. “The stress of Starr searching our home, strangers prowling about town trying to cash in on that reward. Mother's immune system's flat as that cake,” he said, eyeing Miss Lana's fallen red velvet. “All thanks to Macon Johnson's shenanigans.”

“That's not a cake,” I lied. “That's a Discus Delight. The Colonel mashed the calories out of it.”

“Not fattening?” an Azalea Woman asked, her sketched-in eyebrows arching.

“Where did the calories go?” Dale asked, looking around. Dale is to ad-lib as Queen Elizabeth is to ballroom dancing.

“The Colonel blowtorched them,” I replied as Sal strolled in.

Hannah and Little Agnes zipped in behind her. I handed Dale three waters. “Please take these to table three.” Dale swaggered over and took a seat.

“I'll have a fat-free dollop of discus,” the mayor said.

“Whipped cream and chocolate sauce?”

“Mercy, yes,” he said, putting his napkin in his collar.

An Azalea Woman watched Dale shrug out of his jacket. “I just hate it that little Dale has to wear Lavender's hand-me-downs,” she said. “If only Macon—”

“Dale's a musician. He enjoys vintage outfits,” I said. “Besides, Miss Lana says most everything in life worth having is handed down.”

Miss Lana nudged me aside. “I've got this table, sugar. You get Thes.”

Thes sat at the counter, his chin in his hands. “Burger and fries. Sorry you lost the car, Mo. Tough break. I wanted to ask you something,” he said, green eyes serious.

“Car loss happens. And I will not go to a movie with you.”

“It's not that. I'm over you.”

Over me? Has he lost his mind?

“Do you think Dale might add me to the puppy list? He could see the puppy every Sunday at church and more if he wanted. I'd do a good job. And I'm sorry for what I said at the church the day it got robbed. I was wrong.”

“You broke Dale's heart, not mine. Apologizing to me won't help.”

He slumped. “But I'm like you,” he said. “I hate to admit it when I'm wrong.”

By mid-rush, I'd bribed Sal and Hannah into doing our homework, and the mayor's flu talk had gone full-blown. Two Azalea Women felt feverish.

“This could be a pandemic,” the mayor fretted. “Don't tell that horrifying reporter. Tupelo Landing has never had so much bad publicity.”

Miss Lana dabbed oil of cloves behind her ears and
then mine, to ward off germs in case the talk proved true. “No, thank you,” Dale said, ducking away. “Real boys don't smell like cooked ham.”

The first odd call-in came around six p.m.

“Attention everyone,” Miss Lana sang. “Starr says they've found Macon Johnson's orange prison jumpsuit in South Carolina. He's gone south,” she said, looking at Dale. Dale took it like an eleven-year-old trying to be a man.

“Our crime wave's passé,” the mayor cried, and the café applauded.

The second weird call-in came moments later. Miss Lana snagged me. “I need you and Dale to handle room service, sugar.”

“
Room service?
Since when do we offer room service?”

She snapped a takeout bag like cracking a whip. “Capers has fallen ill too. She just called and she sounds terrible. Let's surprise her with comfort food.” She plunked a container of practically organic soup in the bag and cut a wedge of macaroni and cheese.

“Normally we'd love to risk our lives for Capers, but I'm feeling puny. Dale too.”

Dale sniffled.

Little Agnes looked up from her kindergarten homework. “Do I have a fever?”

Hannah touched her little sister's ear. “You're fine. Drink up,” she said, sliding her shake closer and handing her a straw.

“Stop worrying, Agnes,” Miss Lana said. “Here, Mo. Just in case.” She reached under the counter and handed me a box of germ masks. I peeled a mask from the box.

Little Agnes jutted her small face forward.

“Me too,” she said.

I slipped the mask over her pug nose and gently popped the rubber bands behind her ears. They bent forward, giving her the look of a spindly, masked bat. Hannah slipped the tip of her straw under the mask.

They say it takes a village to raise a child. In Little Agnes's case, it may take a metropolitan area. Charlotte, maybe. Or Washington, DC.

Miss Lana handed me the takeout. “Don't dawdle, sugar. Leave the food by Capers's door. And don't forget the masks.”

Fifteen minutes later, Dale and me oozed down the inn's curved cedar drive. “Slow down,” he said, looking back. “We about lost Liz.”

“Slow down? Any slower and we'd be backing up.” I dragged my sneaker's toe-cap across the gravel. Queen Elizabeth panted her way to Dale's side.

“The books say exercising her will help the birthing go
good,” Dale said. “We mostly walk. We tried yoga, but she ain't as flexible as she looks.”

“Unless I'm mistaken, NPR is saying yoga is for cats,” I said, grabbing the takeout.

“Stay Liz,” Dale said, and Queen Elizabeth curled up by his bike.

We scampered across the porch and pushed open the heavy door. The inn's radiators hissed as we trotted up the stairs.

“Masks,” I whispered, and Dale wiggled his into place. I put the bag in front of Capers's door and raised my fist.

“Wait,” he said. He fluffed his hair around the mask's rubber bands. Like Lavender, Dale is hair vain. “Okay.”

“Mo and Dale to Go,” I called, knocking. “Tips welcome.”

“Tips. Good,” Dale whispered.

Inside the room, a door slammed. A thud. Muffled curses. The doorknob rattled. Capers opened the door far enough to peer out with one eye. I could just make out Miss Lana's frilly
Gone With the Wind
bed jacket. She opened the door wider, revealing a red flannel nightgown beneath the bed jacket—definitely not Miss Lana's.

“Room service,” I said. “Throw your tip on the floor. We'll disinfect it later.”

She tugged a tissue from her pocket and took in a
couple quick breaths. Dale scuttled back like a frightened crab, tripped, and crashed to the floor.

“AhhhhHHHHCHOO!”

I ducked like I was dodging bullets. Which maybe I was.

“Nice boots,” Dale said, staring at Capers's feet.

I looked down. Motorcycle boots peeped from beneath her gown. “What the . . . ?”

She kicked the bag inside and slammed the door.

“Boots with a nightgown?” I said as we tromped down the stairs.

“Probably near-death-experience boots so if she goes out of body, her feet won't get cold,” he said as we headed for the front door. I nodded like Dale was a regular kid.

Dale closed the inn's heavy door behind us. “Where's Queen Elizabeth?” he asked. “Liz! Here, girl!” A cold moon watched us from beyond the pines. From near the river a pack of coyotes howled out their raw, twining song.