The Odds of Getting Even (19 page)

“Even if the pups aren't quite cute, kids will want them,” I said. Dale slid a hand toward the toast without lifting his head, like an octopus groping for fish.

Miss Rose stirred cream into her coffee. “And they'll
pretty up, baby,” she told him as he snagged a piece of toast and pulled it toward him. “They need time to open their eyes and perk up their ears. That's all.”

Someone rapped at the front door. “Who on earth?” Miss Rose murmured.

Dale slipped into Man of the House Mode. “I'll get it,” he said, and padded down the hall.

Joe Starr strolled in smiling.

“Joe,” Miss Rose said. “Have some breakfast?”

“Coffee would be great,” he said, dropping a heavy plastic bag on the floor and swinging his laptop onto the counter. He grinned at Dale. “I hear you have puppies.”

Starr's in a good mood? Odd.

“How did you know about the puppies?” Harm asked, pouring his coffee.

“Maybe he's psychic, like Liz,” Dale said. “No, that's not right.”

“Nope,” Starr said. He's not bad-looking when he's happy. “Lana told me when I stopped by the café this morning. I have two things for you people.” He opened the huge plastic bag, and the smell of old river seeped across the room. “Could you identify this jacket, Rose? It was in the patrol car.”

She wrinkled her nose. “If you mean is it Macon's—I stitched his name inside.”

Starr undid the top button, to show the label. “That's
his,” she said, cupping her hand over her nose. “That thing stinks to high heaven. Get it out of my kitchen.”

“A jacket doesn't prove anything,” I said as he tossed it out the back door.

“Item two,” he said, opening his laptop. “Surveillance video from a Florida gas station. We've found Macon.”

Starr started the grainy video: Mr. Macon swaggering into a store, pulling out cash. Dropping something, shoving the cashier, walking out.

“It's hard to see his face,” Harm said, squinting.

“Macon knows surveillance cameras,” Starr said. “But you can catch enough glimpses from enough angles to match it to his mug shots.”

“What's that he dropped?” Dale asked, watching again.

Starr smiled deep enough to show dimples. “That's the last nail in his coffin.”

Dale gasped.

“Metaphor,” Harm said quickly.

“Right,” Starr said. “Sorry, Dale. It's a bloody dishcloth. From that drawer over there, I bet. From the day he trashed this kitchen.”

I frowned. That was weeks ago. I plugged in our new given: Mr. Macon's innocent. “Why would he carry that around?”

“Who knows? We're running the DNA. But it's his.”

For the first time since I've known Dale, I couldn't read a word on his freckled face.

“Joe,” Miss Rose said, sitting up straighter. “When was this video made?”

“Thursday morning. Why?”

She took in a deep breath and let it go. Years fell from her face. “Then he's really gone.” She put her hand on Dale's. “We can relax. You can think about boy things again—your schoolwork and those puppies. I can think about the farm.”

“But we can't see his face,” Dale said.

Starr snapped the computer closed. “The DNA will verify it, Dale. With Macon in Florida, I'm letting investigators there track him. And with the open cases here, I doubt Macon will be back,” he said. “Sorry, Dale, I know you wanted a different outcome.”

“We found another note,” Dale said. “I'll get it. It said
Not Macon
.”

Impatience flashed across Starr's face. “Sorry, Dale. Video doesn't lie.”

That's the same thing he said about the footprints, I thought as Miss Rose walked Starr to the door.

“We're on our own,” Dale said, his voice grim. “We better get this right.”

Lavender rumbled up just after breakfast and parked by the pecan tree. I walked to the porch to greet him.

“Morning, Mo. Check
that
out,” he said, smiling and pointing behind me.

Liz trotted toward the steps, a fat puppy dangling from her gentle mouth. I hustled to get the door. Lavender and me followed her to Dale's room.

“I'll be back in a few, Desperados,” Lavender said, peeping in as the Desperados trailed Liz to the closet. “I need to talk to Mama a minute.”

Dale beamed as Liz brought her pups in one by one. “Good girl,” Dale said as she settled each in the closet. “They're already cuter,” he announced, relaxing.

He followed her out and took his post by the door.

“Jeez, they're funny-looking,” Harm whispered, touching them. “Closed eyes, flat ears . . . They feel like warm velvet, though. Will they get cuter?”

“There's no such thing as an ugly puppy,” I said, hoping I was right.

He stood. “Mo, Gramps needs our help tomorrow—if you have time.”

“Help with what?” Dale asked, following Liz and the last puppy in. “Here, Liz,” he said, offering her jerky from his bedside stash. “Extra-spicy, just the way you like it.”

Harm's stomach rumbled. How are boys hungry all the time?

Liz gobbled the jerky down.

“Listen,” Harm said, “I talked Gramps into repainting the living room, but pink's impossible to cover. It's just so . . . ruthlessly pink. We can get another coat on tonight. If you could help tomorrow . . .”

“A mission of mercy,” I said. “What time?”

“After church. I'll fix lunch, and we can paint and plan the next step in the case.” He looked at Dale. “If you want to.”

“Yes,” Dale said, looking up from the puppies.

“Great. I'll call Miss Thornton and see if I can get us a ride home.”

Ride with Grandmother Miss Lacy when Lavender's around?

“I got a better idea,” I said, and slipped down the hall.

I walked into the kitchen just as Miss Rose settled the black ceramic hat on her ceramic cash frog, and the back door slammed behind Lavender. “Where's he going?” I asked. “He hasn't seen the puppies.”

“He'll see them later, Mo. He has something to do.”

I watched Lavender stroll away easy as springtime. But when he rounded the pecan tree, and he thought no one could see, his face flushed red. His walk shifted
into a skip-step, and he kicked the side of the GMC hard enough to set it rocking.

I gasped. “What's happened? Lavender loves that truck!”

“Nothing to worry about,” she said, her voice firm. “I don't want you talking this around, Mo. What you see in my kitchen, stays in my kitchen.”

Lavender slammed his truck door and roared onto the highway.

“Let's go see those puppies,” she said. “Lavender will be fine.”

Maybe so, I thought. But he didn't look fine to me.

More Mystery than Clue

Unless St. Peter gives Show Up Credit, church was wasted on Dale and me the next day. Dale spent the hour basking in the glow of puppies he hadn't officially announced. I spent my time pondering Lavender.

Thes grabbed us as we headed out the door. “Dale, the things I said the other day. I was wrong. I forgive . . . whoever robbed the church. I hope you'll forgive me too.”

Dale stuck out his hand. “Thanks, Thes. I already did.”

“I'd like to have a puppy,” Thes added, trailing us into the churchyard. “If Queen Elizabeth has enough, I mean.”

Excellent. There's six puppies. Thes makes six first-rate puppy parents.

Dale picked up his bike. “I don't think so, Thes. You hurt me on purpose. I forgive you, but I take care of what's mine.”

I take care of what's mine.
Mr. Macon's words shivered me like ghost hands.

A few minutes later, we knocked on Harm's door.

“Before photos?” I offered, clutching my camera as we stepped inside. I scoped out the living room. The familiar baloney-colored sofa and crippled recliner skulked beneath paint-blotched sheets. The walls wore a streaky, pink-going-on-beige mess.

“It looks like Barbie threw up in here,” Dale said, turning in a slow circle.

“Thanks, Dale. No before photos, then,” Harm said, grinning. His smile faded as a red sports car cruised into the yard. “Here comes trouble,” he muttered.

Flick Crenshaw. Proof that slime can stand up and walk.

“What's that son of a gun want?” Mr. Red asked, clomping in wearing his splotched painting clothes.

Flick swung the front door open without knocking. “Afternoon, Gramps,” he said, ignoring the Desperados. “Thought you might like to do a little rabbit hunting.”

Hunting? That would mean using Mr. Red's dogs to hunt Mr. Red's rabbits on Mr. Red's land. On Sunday—which is illegal.

“Nope,” Mr. Red said.

Flick tossed Harm a thick manila envelope. “Brought these for you.”

Harm peeked inside. “From Mom?” he said, smiling.
“I thought she'd given up writing to me . . . There's tons here. How long have you had them?”

Flick shrugged. “If you don't like the way I do it, find another delivery man.”

“That's not what I meant,” Harm said, placing the envelope on the sofa. “Mom's in Nashville,” he told us. “Didn't have this address, I guess.”

“Or didn't want to use it, afraid of someone's reaction,” Flick said, glancing at Mr. Red. “Thought you might want them, even if she just wants cash.” Mr. Red pried open a can of paint. “Speaking of cash, Gramps, I'm between jobs, and . . .”

So that's it, I thought. He's broke.

“Get a job,” Mr. Red snapped. “Or sell that fancy sports car.”

I looked out the window, embarrassed to see Harm's family inside out. Flick's car glittered in the sunlight, tickling something in my mind.
What?
Flick headed for the door. Whatever it was, it was about to drive away.

I grabbed my camera. “Nice car,” I said. “Mind if I photograph it? Lavender would like to see it,” I added—like Lavender would give a rodent's patoot.

Flick smiled like an oil slick. “Sure, Slow Mo. Show him what a real car looks like. How's he doing, anyway? I hear he's going under.”

Lavender? Going under? My pulse jumped.

“If he gets any busier, he'll have to franchise himself,” I said, strolling out and lining up my shot.
Click. Click
.

“Tell Lavender I'm ready to race whenever he is,” Flick said, and he blasted out of the yard.

It's harder to tame pink than I expected.

We passed our painting time by chatting: puppies, school, the inn. “Miss Lana says an inn is like a newborn: It cries for something every three hours or so. She needs night help. And someone of
legal
working age,” I said before Harm could ask for a job.

“Lavender came to see the puppies this morning,” Dale reported.

Mr. Red rolled a streak of white on the ceiling. “How's he doing?”

“His racecar's great,” Dale said. “The best he's ever had. He says she's his ticket to bigger races and better times. Except for that, his life's a disaster.” Dale dabbed paint on a baseboard. “Lavender's work always fizzles when Daddy messes up,” he said. “Then Daddy gets locked up in a day or two and business roars back.”

Mr. Red nodded. “Sounds about right.”

“So, with Mr. Macon gone, Lavender should be fine,” Harm said.

Dale shook his head. “Daddy got away. Lavender says he's bleeding him dry. Mama had to help him with
his rent this month. He never had to ask before.”

So that's what I saw in the kitchen.

“Then that's one more reason to get this case right,” I said.

Dale put his brush down. “I've been thinking. Now that I'm in charge, I want to cast a wide net. With a wider net you get sticks and trash––but you also get nice fish. Very nice fish.”

Mr. Red froze, staring at him. Harm and me nodded.

“Let's brain-blizzard,” Dale said. “Possible suspects—besides Daddy.”

Brain-blizzard?

Harm finished off a windowsill. “You mean brainstorm.”

Dale shot him his You're Fired Look.

“Not that a detail like that matters,” Harm said, very quick. “Possible suspects. Flick tops my list. He needs cash for his race with Lavender, and he's broke. And he's not very honest.”

Dale pointed to Mr. Red.

“The town's been eat up with strangers hunting Macon for the reward money,” Mr. Red said. “Any one of them could be in on this.”

Dale pointed to me.

“Wolf-Guy could be a suspect,” I said. “The shadowy guy we saw talking to Capers. What did he say?
‘It's too dangerous.'
Who is he, anyway?”

Dale pointed to himself. “Capers Dylan,” he said. “She reminds me of something that used to leave a bad taste in my mouth. And she writes in code.”

Mr. Red put his paint roller down. “Code?”

We explained the 2-6 code. “And there's this numbers thing she does,” I said. I snagged my messenger bag. “I think I have one, from the day she crashed.”

I perched on the sheet-covered sofa. “Here it is. A letter written in blue ink. And on top of the ink . . .” I held it up to the light. “Tan numbers and letters. Capers says it's a game, but I'm not so sure.”

“What kind of numbers?” Mr. Red asked.

“Like 637A1. 100A10. 648B11.”

“Could be another code,” Dale said, his face thoughtful. “Sal will know.”

Why didn't I think of that?

“Sal? The metaphor gal?” Mr. Red said, looking at Harm.

“Don't try to rhyme, Gramps,” Harm said, grinning. “I told Gramps about the metaphor Sal wrote for you, Dale. Remember? ‘Your smile walks barefoot across my lonely porch.' Gramps bought it from her for five bucks. It will knock Miss Thornton's support socks off. Hope you don't mind.”

Dale shook his head. “I'm proud. Sal has a head for business good as Mama's.”

“And Lacy will love it,” Mr. Red said, his old eyes twinkling.

The room wore a handsome tan coat when Mr. Red finally walked us to the door. “Anything worth hiding is worth finding,” he told Dale. “I'd investigate those codes.”

Dale made an executive decision.

“I got Puppy Duties tomorrow,” he said. “Mo, you line up Sal. Harm, keep an eye out for Wolf-Guy and think about where he fits in the big picture. I'll think about the strangers in town and about Flick.”

He clapped his hands like he was playing football. “Hut!”

Maybe it was the paint fumes, but to me it sounded like a good plan.

We made the official puppy announcement the next day at school.

“Miss Retzyl,” I said as we settled in. “Dale has extra credit news.”

“The puppies are here,” he said, and the class cheered.

“Is Little Agnes getting one?” Hannah asked. “For sure?”

Dale beamed. “The six pups go to Sal, Skeeter, Little Agnes with Hannah, Miss Retzyl, Susana, and . . .”

The Exum boys tucked their shirttails in. Thes gave Dale a hopeful smile.

“. . . And one undecided,” Dale said. “Puppy people may visit. Please bring a gift for Newton,” he added. “He's sensitive to family dynamics.”

Miss Retzyl frowned. “Isn't Newton an amphibian?”

I raised my hand. “Even a three-chambered heart can break.”

She picked up her math book. “Thank you, Dale. Let's get started. Your homework was on rational numbers. Questions?”

Dale's hand waggled. “What happened to the irrational ones?”

Excellent! Dale, who hasn't asked a single classroom question since the jailbreak, is back! Harm cranked around in his seat and gave me a thumbs-up.

Miss Retzyl didn't miss a beat. “The irrational numbers are fine, Dale. Please open your books.”

At lunchtime, I finally unfolded Capers's mysterious parking lot letter for Sal. “We need your help,” I said as Harm slid into the seat across from me.

“Yeah. And thanks for selling Gramps that metaphor,” he interrupted, smiling at Sal.

Sal swiveled to Dale. “I hope you don't mind. You didn't seem to get it at all. And Mr. Red's in the market for poetry about love and a house for Miss Thornton. I think it's sweet. Plus he paid me five dollars.”

“Five dollars?” Jake barked. He and Jimmy looked up from their lunch. So did Hannah and six other kids.

“Does he need more?” Susana asked from the next table.

Sal shrugged. “Maybe. If you want to give me something to show him. . . .”

“Finally,” Jake said, high-fiving his brother. “I know what metaphors are for.”

Sal spent the rest of lunch period fielding metaphor questions. “Sorry, Mo,” she said, sliding my paper back as the bell rang. “We'll talk later.”

As the day crept by, kids scribbled, erased, scribbled again. At the end of the day Miss Retzyl sang out, “Language arts. Once again, we're working on—”