The Odds of Getting Even (7 page)

He Could Have Just Asked

At the church steps Dale vaulted off my handlebars. “Hey, Thes,” he said as Harm blasted up on his silver bike. “What happened?”

“We've been robbed,” Thes said, his voice swollen with tears. “All of us. Daddy, me, you, Jesus, everybody.” He sat bundled on the top step, his orange cat, Spitz, winding around his feet. Starr's Impala lurked in the parking lot.

“Don't worry, Thes, the Desperados are on it,” I said. “What walked off?”

“Sunday's collection—maybe a hundred dollars,” he said, scooping Spitz into his lap. “Detective Starr's checking for fingerprints.” He scowled at Dale. “If your daddy needed something, all he had to do was ask.”

Dale's face went the color of river sand. Dale loves that church good as he loves his own house. So does Miss Rose.

Thes knows that.

“I hate it same as you,” Dale said. “And it's going to break Mama's heart.”

Thes and Spitz stared at us, the silence stretching tight. “I'll do Spitz's photos first thing tomorrow,” I said, to break the tension. “I hope you land a puppy.”

“No,” Thes said, turning away. “I don't want a puppy anymore.”

Dale looked like he'd kicked him.

“Thes, you don't mean that,” Harm said. “Let's talk tomorrow.”

“I said I don't want your puppy,” Thes said, glaring at Dale. “Not after this.”

“You'd never get one anyway,” Dale shot back. A total lie. “Queen Elizabeth and me didn't rob this church. If you're punishing us for something we didn't do, you ain't puppy material.”

“Fine,” Thes said, his voice harsh. “Go on, then,” he added, giving Harm and me an eat-dirt look. “All of you. Get away from me.” He pulled his cat close.

Spitz hissed.

We balanced on a silence rocky as a rowboat on a choppy creek and I searched for just the right words. Nothing came. I went with what I had. “Your cat is ugly,” I said, very cool. “Excuse us. We got a case to solve.”

We stepped into the church and gasped. The pulpit
lay on its side, its purple skirt crumpled. The candlesticks had rolled across the floor—one under the piano, the other beneath a pew. Reverend Thompson kneeled in front of it all, wiping the floor.

“Desperado Detectives at your service,” I said. “We came soon as we heard.”

He lumbered to his feet and tossed the rag into a bucket. “Thes is around here somewhere. He likes you kids. Especially you, Mo,” he said, giving us a sad smile.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “When did this happen? Does the church have enemies?”

“Besides Satan?” Dale added.

Reverend Thompson smiled. “I suspect Satan has bigger fish to fry. This strikes me as man-made mischief. I'll let Starr figure out
which
man. As for time, I locked up late last night, and opened two hours ago. Someone took the collection—and the plate.”

The collection plate?

“That giant gold plate?” I said. “It must be worth a fortune.”

He shook his head. “Not in dollars. It had a different kind of value. Someone donated it to honor a loved one.”

“But why take
that
? You can't fence a collection plate,” Dale said. “Anybody that's been to our family reunion knows that. Daddy ain't a rookie.”

The
Daddy's a Professional Thief Defense
. Harm winced.

“Good point,” Reverend Thompson said, very easy. “The bandit may have been a rookie, which would certainly eliminate Macon. Or he could have another motive.”

Like getting even with Miss Rose and Dale for going against him, I thought.

“I'll give you a hand with the pulpit,” Harm said. Dale and me darted to help. “Now,” Harm said, and we muscled the pulpit into place.

I cased the sanctuary one last time. Starr's already de-clueing the office, I thought. I made a note:
Add police scanner to Christmas list.
“If you find clues, give us a call,” I said, heading for the door. “Come on, Desperados. We'll search outside.”

I led the way out the side door and along the building. “Hey Mo, did you just call me a Desperado in there?” Harm asked. “You said ‘Come on, Desperados.'” He tried to act like he didn't care, same as when Attila calls him an outsider.

I crooked an eyebrow at Dale, who bobbed his head.

“You're on probation until we solve The Case of the Missing Daddy,” Dale said. “I'd say you have a good chance unless the stress crumples you.” Harm revved up his swagger as we rounded the side of the cinderblock building.

“Over there,” I said, pointing to Thes's rabbit box.
Someone had shoved it beneath the bathroom window—which gaped open.

“Whoever went through there is thin,” Harm said. He plucked a snarl of brown thread from the windowsill. “Off a hunting jacket?” he guessed. “Mr. Macon's hunting jacket's missing. And he's thin.”

“So are you,” Dale said, frowning. “And I see a hundred of those jackets every hunting season.” Dale touched Harm's sleeve. “You got to keep an open mind to be a detective. Settle down. If you weren't a natural we wouldn't have drafted you.”

Being in charge suits Dale when he knows the rules.

Dale walked down the back of the building, studying the ground. “Weird footprint,” he announced.

“Footprints?” Starr said, rounding the corner. I shoved the thread in my pocket. “What are you kids doing? Because if you destroyed my evidence . . .”

“We didn't,” I said.
Destroyed
and
in my pocket
are two different things.

Starr knelt and measured the footprint Dale had found. “Size nine dress shoe.”

My heart dove to my sneakers.

Mr. Macon wears a size nine—I knew it from our first case. Starr pulled a frame from his bag and placed it around the print. “Perfect,” he said, tipping a bottle of green goo over the print. I stepped back, pulled out my
camera, and lined up a long shot.
Click.
Then the footprint.
Click
.

Dale frowned. “But that's just
one
print. And it's in the only clear space back here, and it's totally flat—no shoe-bend to it. Who would leave a print like that?”

“Somebody standing still, like you are. What size shoe does Macon wear?” Starr asked.

Dale studied the graveyard, the river. The quiver of his chin put him a heartbeat from crying. He knows his daddy's shoe size good as I do.

It's hard being a good son to a bad man.

I stepped up beside him. “Dale and me don't track shoe sizes. We enjoy a reverse-flair for trivia. We're below average at best.”

“Way below average,” Harm said. “It's sad, really.”

“Well, Rose will remember,” Starr said.

A slime-ball move.

“Daddy wears a nine,” Dale blurted. “But that's circumstantial.”

Starr made a note in his clue pad.

“Come on, Desperados,” I said. “Let's ride.”

Dale went quiet as the bottom of a well as we pedaled back to the café. Queen Elizabeth, who waited by the café jukebox, brought him back to life.

“She showed up at the door,” Capers said, rearranging
her papers. “I assumed she was looking for you,” she said as Dale gave Liz a hug.

“Liz is psychic,” I explained. “She always knows where Dale is.”

Dale rubbed Liz's head. “She's been craving odd foods lately,” he said. “Mama says it's normal when you're expecting. She may need ice cream.”

Capers laughed. “A psychic pregnant hound. Great detail for my article.”

As Dale trotted behind the counter and opened the ice cream case, I snuck a peek at Capers's notebook. She closed it. “Congratulations on your great right hook,” I said.

A blush crept up her neck. “You saw that? Flick's a foul-mouthed worm. He had it coming.” She gave Harm a smile. “I'm surprised he's your brother.”

“Me too,” Harm said. “I'm also surprised you're still in town with no trial to cover. I know Lavender's still got your motorcycle, but . . .”

Smooth. Good way to
not
ask a question when you
do
want an answer. Harm will be a great detective one day.

“I'll file updates until we see what Macon does,” she said. “Speaking of updates, you promised me a report.”

I hesitated. Mr. Macon robbed the church, but how could I say it and still be a good friend to Dale?

“I got a quote,” Dale said, setting a bowl of vanilla ice cream by Queen Elizabeth.

Dale, who hates to speak up in class, will talk to a reporter?

The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

“A
rookie thief
robbed Creekside Baptist last night,” Dale said. “The Desperados take this personal. We will track this no-talent to the ends of the earth if we can get a ride that far, but hopefully the thief will stay local so we can ride our bikes. Thank you.”

I relaxed. That could have gone worse. Way worse.

“Hey,” Dale said, his face lighting up. “I just thought of something else.”

“No you didn't,” I said, very fast. “This concludes our press conference,” I added as the Colonel came in from the kitchen and heaved a bin of silverware onto the counter.

He dealt Capers a look that could freeze lava. “Leave these kids alone. Fork Duty,” he said to us, whipping a stack of napkins out of the cabinet.

Harm followed us to the sink to wash up. “Good job,” he told Dale.

I grabbed a knife-spoon-fork trio and quick-rolled it café-style. “Wow,” Harm said, nudging in beside me. “You're blazing fast.”

“It's in my blood,” I told him.

Beside me, Dale folded his napkin into his customary Diamond Fold Pouch and tucked the silverware inside.
Dale watches PBS, the only station Miss Rose allows. He can also turn hand towels into animal shapes. “Nice,” Harm said, watching him. “But your way's easier, Mo. Teach me?”

I snagged another handful of silver as Miss Lana flew in with vinegar cruets. “Dale? Invite Rose for supper, honey,” she said. She opened a jar of red pepper flakes and added a pinch to each cruet. I read the specials board:

AMERICANS-IN-PARIS SPECIAL:

Baked ham avec cloves, macaroni au fromage,

collards a la zing. $7.95

“‘A la zing,'” I told Harm. “Tupelo French for red pepper.”

Dale hung up. “Mama can't come, but I can,” he told Miss Lana. “Her new boyfriend's keeping her company. I'd feel like a spare tire around them anyway.”

“You mean a fifth wheel, honey,” she said. “And it's not so. What do you think of him? I haven't met him yet—which is starting to hurt my feelings.”

“He's nice on the phone,” Dale said. “But he makes her different.”

Miss Lana swept him into a hug. “We'll like him. If we don't, we'll drive him mad and he'll go away.” She rumpled his hair as Starr stalked in, his collar turned up against the cold. “What'll it be, Joe?” Miss Lana asked, smiling.

“Two burgers and coffee. To go,” he said, sliding his thermos across the counter to Harm. Normally Starr doesn't drink coffee after three p.m. due to chronic jitters. His ordering coffee now can mean only two things: love or law.

“You got a date with Miss Retzyl?” I asked. “May I recommend the house fries with extra ketchup? You don't want to look cheap around a schoolteacher.”

He smiled. He's not bad when he smiles. “No date, but the fries sound good. Pickles on the burgers.” Queen Elizabeth's ears perked up.

“No date? You're on stakeout, then,” I said, very smooth.

“Stakeout?” Capers echoed from across the room. “Where?”

“Sorry—classified information,” he said as Miss Lana speed-wrapped his burgers and popped them in a bag.

“Seven dollars even.”

Starr put a ten down and turned for the door. Queen Elizabeth shot from the shadows like a heat-seeking missile and grabbed his cuff.

“Liz!” Dale cried as she tugged his pants leg. “No!”

Dale grabbed the pickle jar, fished out a pickle, and waved it near her nose. She rolled her eyes sideways to stare at it. “Let Starr go,” he coaxed. “Good girl.” She released Starr's cuff and delicately plucked the pickle from Dale's fingers.

“Cravings,” Dale explained, smiling up at Starr. “She'll be embarrassed when she has time to think this through.”

Harm opened the door for Starr. “Our associate Anna Celeste Simpson will handle your dry cleaning bill.”

Harm's going to fit in good.