The Odds of Getting Even (4 page)

On the Lam

With Jailbreak on the gossip menu, the café hopped from the minute Miss Lana and me opened the door. The Azalea Women sailed in, pushing Harm aside to grab ringside seats. Then Capers tripped in, rosy with excitement.

“What a day,” she said dumping her things out onto a table: notebook, pen, tape recorder, faded
American Heritage Dictionary
, second edition—same as mine, not that I'm lame enough to haul it around. “Great story.”

“Like living with a spy, isn't it?” Harm muttered to me as he watched her. “A good-looking spy. But still.”

“Everybody pipe down,” I shouted, grabbing a tray of waters as Miss Rose's ancient orange Pinto sputtered up. Miss Rose, Dale, and Queen Elizabeth tumbled out, and Lavender pulled away in a cloud of black exhaust.

“The Pinto's developed a death rattle,” Miss Rose said, swaying across the room to give Miss Lana a quick hug.

“That's terrible for your deliveries, Rose,” an Azalea Woman said, faking a pout.

With her farm tours quiet until spring, Miss Rose makes her money on collards and sweet potatoes. She delivers in the Pinto. “Lavender's taking it to his garage; he'll revive it in no time.”

Fear shot darts through my belly. “
He's alone?
With Mr. Macon on the run?”

The Azalea Women perked up.

Miss Rose smoothed my hair. “If you loved Lavender any more, I believe you'd explode,” she said. “Lavender's not alone, Mo. Sam's meeting him there.” She spoke louder for the Azalea Women: “He's fine.”

Sam is Lavender's fellow mechanic. He'd walk through fire for Lavender.

So would Dale and me.

Miss Lana handed Miss Rose our house keys. “Why don't you rest while Lavender works,” she whispered. “Unless you want to field every question in town.”

“Go on, Mama, I'll help Mo until the Colonel's back,” Dale told her.

The two women—one glamorous as Old Hollywood, the other level-headed as twilight—linked arms and strolled to the kitchen door. It's funny how people so different can share the same heartbeat, I thought.

“My homework's on my desk,” I called. “Dividing fractions may help distract you from the disaster which is today. Please help yourself.”

Miss Rose laughed and the kitchen door swiped closed behind her.

Miss Lana put on her apron. “Being a best friend is a calling and an honor,” she told me, watching Dale settle Queen Elizabeth by the jukebox. “Always remember that, sugar,” she said, and she grabbed an order pad and went to work.

Dale and me whirled through the crowd like dervishes while Miss Lana and Harm plundered the freezer and cooked. People flowed in and out, rumors trailing along:

Mr. Macon's surrounded.

He's been gunned down.

He's made it to Raleigh.

He called from Charlotte.

He's holed up drunk. “As usual,” someone added.

“Don't bother arguing,” Dale said, doling out iced teas. “It only makes it worse.”

At four o'clock, Lavender cruised up in the Pinto and sauntered in. “Dale? Ready to go?” he asked. “Mama wants to run a few errands before she heads home.”

Dale shook his head. “No, I'll help until the Colonel gets back. That's fair.”

Our teacher, Miss Retzyl, strolled in as Lavender strolled out.

I darted over to Jake and Jimmy Exum, who were
drinking ice water and sucking our jelly packets dry. The Colonel hates water-only customers. “The Colonel's coming,” I said, and they bolted. “A table has just opened up,” I called, waving Miss Retzyl over.

Miss Retzyl's smart and pretty. She excels at Average—average clothes, average hair, average car. Average is exotic in my life. I adore her. “Welcome,” I said. “Our specials include Miss Lana's world-renowned Leg of Lam, our famous Bustout Broccoli Casserole, and Veggies at Large. Each dish is recycled and fresh-named to reflect current events. What can I start you with?”

“Tea and lamb, please,” Miss Retzyl said. “With double veggies.”

Capers beamed her a smile. “Low carb. Dieting? Me too.”

Did she just call Miss Retzyl fat?

Miss Retzyl studied Capers, serene as a cucumber. I stepped in. “Miss Retzyl, you remember Capers? Capers, Priscilla Retzyl is Joe Starr's fiancée and the teacher of me, Harm, and Dale plus others.” Sal smiled from the next table. Jimmy and Jake looked up from a hot dog they'd just conned Thes out of.

Capers did a double take. “You teach these kids? I'm not the only one lucky to be alive.”

Miss Retzyl laughed and Capers strolled to her table. “I'd love some background on this town,” she said, and Miss Retzyl gave her a smile.

As the day spun by, the gossip wore Dale to a nub.

Miss Lana stopped to tousle his hair as another stranger speculated on Mr. Macon's whereabouts. “Ignore them,” she told Dale. “This is a tempest in a teapot. It won't last.”

Finally, Joe Starr's Impala cruised into the lot. The Colonel hopped out and a sliver of undercover worry melted from my heart. “Thank heavens,” Miss Lana murmured as the Colonel pushed open the door.

“Dale,” Crissy shouted from her table, “I hear Macon's wanted dead or alive.”

Dale closed his eyes.

“Dead or alive? I knew it,” an Azalea Woman cried. “Is there a reward?”

The Colonel's shiny military boots clacked across the tile. “There is no dead or alive, there is no reward,” he said. He smiled at Miss Retzyl. “Joe asked me to let you know he'll see you tomorrow.”

An all-nighter. So. Once again, Detective Joe Starr is clueless.

The Colonel grabbed his chef's apron and whipped it around his thin body. “Sorry, son,” he told Dale. “No sign of Macon—yet. I'll give you a ride home when you're ready.” He clapped his shoulder. “Thanks for holding things together here.”

Dale stood a little taller.

“Miss Rose is in Mexico with Macon,” a voice barked.

“Who said that?” I snapped. “You can't talk about Miss Rose. Stand up! I never went eye to eye with so much stupid before.” The Exum boys ducked.

Dale scowled. “This rumor-mumbling has got to stop.”

“You mean rumor-mongering,” Harm said.

“It's the idea of the word, not the sound of it,” Dale said, his voice rising.

The Colonel put a hand on his shoulder. “They'll stop talking about Macon when they find something better to talk about,” he said, his voice low. “Hang in there, son. I'll do something stupid before long.” He headed for the kitchen as Queen Elizabeth snagged a bit of hot dog beneath Thes's table.

“Liz!” Dale cried. “No junk food! Spit it out!”

I gasped. I'd never heard Dale snap at Queen Elizabeth. She gave Dale a hurt look and spit the treat by Jake's foot.

“Dale needs help,” Harm whispered. “He's unraveling.”

“True.” It could be hours before the Colonel did something gossip-worthy. We needed a diversion
now
. “Dale,” I said. “Make your Top Secret Announcement.”

“Brilliant,” Harm said, and headed for the milkshake machine.

“Now?” Dale said. “But I want extra credit.”

For Dale, extra credit is a lifeline on an unfriendly
academic sea. Harm and me float like sea otters.

“Your daddy's an escaped felon with the law on his trail. Miss Retzyl probably feels sorry for you. It doesn't get better than this,” I said. “Plus, you'll get people talking about something besides Mr. Macon. And Miss Rose.”

“Right,” Dale said. “Let's roll.”

I stepped onto the Pepsi crate I keep behind the counter for extra height, and raised my hands to silence the crowd. Miss Lana whirled by. “
Own
the stage, sugar.
Project
.”

Miss Lana knows stagecraft like Lavender knows tire rotation.

I willed my personal chi across the room. “Attention everyone and especially Miss Retzyl. Dale has an Extra Credit Announcement.”

An Azalea Woman's voice sliced the babble. “Hush! Dale's convinced his daddy to surrender.”

“I ain't seen Daddy and I ain't telegraphic,” Dale said, taking my place on the Pepsi crate.

“He means telepathic,” I said.

Harm drum-rolled his fingers on the counter. A nice touch. He stopped, and a tsunami of silence rocked the café.

“I want you to be the first to know,” Dale said. “Queen Elizabeth is great with child.”

Capers dropped her pen.
“What?”

Attila scooted her chair close. “You're thinking of Queen Elizabeth of the United Kingdom. Dale means Queen Elizabeth II, the dog.”

“Puppies?” Sal cried, spilling ketchup on her Sudoku book. “Can I have one?”

Dale offered a shy smile. “Lavender says the puppies will arrive around Thanksgiving. And Lavender knows things.”

I stepped up beside Dale. “Dale's drawing up the adoption applications. Information will trickle down from Sixth Grade. We'll need references, plus pet photos.”

Thes raised his hand. “I never photographed my cat, Spitz. You're good with a camera, Mo. Do you do pet portraits?”

“Pet portraits make me retch, but thank you for asking.”

“I have ten dollars,” he added.

“I can work you in tomorrow,” I replied. Dale was counting on Thes taking a puppy. Thes, who's the preacher's kid, would be good with a dog. Plus, Dale could see the puppy at church every Sunday.

Attila raised her hand. “Who's the daddy?” she asked. “Or is this one of those family mysteries so dear to your heart, Mo?”

Attila's face would be pretty if she didn't live behind it.

“Thanks for asking, metal mouth,” I replied. “The
puppies' father prefers to remain anonymous. Dale?”

The Colonel grinned and swiped at the counter. He likes me to think on my feet, and he can't stand Attila Celeste either. I plucked my camera from beneath the counter and lined up a photo for Dale's scrapbook if he ever gets one.

Capers raised her hand. Dale pointed. “Motorcycle woman with crooked nose.”

Click
.

“Speaking of fathers,” Capers said, “any idea where yours is?”

“Don't answer that,” the Colonel said, his voice like a hammer.

“Sorry,” she muttered, and glanced into Miss Retzyl's eyes, which had gone laser quality. Miss Retzyl's secretly protective of Dale and me when we're in public, though in the classroom it's pretty much open season on both of us. Or else it just feels that way.

The phone rang, breaking the silence. “Café, Lana speaking . . .
What?
”

She turned her back, whispered, and hung up. She snapped into ad-lib mode clear as the Colonel snapping to attention. “Takeout for Rose,” she sang. “Colonel, will you deliver?”

My stomach dropped.

We don't deliver. And Miss Rose doesn't order takeout.

“We'll go, Miss Lana,” I said. “We'll ride our bikes.”

She plunged a special into a takeout bag. “Colonel, do you mind?
Now?
” she asked. She scrawled across her order pad, and handed it to him.

“Ten-four, my dear.” He turned it toward me:

Break-in at Rose's. Hurry.

Break-in at Miss Rose's

The Colonel hunched over the wheel of the Underbird, zipping us past golden soybean fields, dark pine forests, a broke-down car. “That's Uncle Austin's car,” Dale said as we screeched around the curve. “I'll tell Lavender.”

Lavender's family could keep him in business if any of them ever paid.

We bounced across Miss Rose's dirt drive and into the yard of her old, tin-roofed farmhouse. “Are you all right?” the Colonel demanded, hopping out.

“Just barely,” she said, and Dale rushed to hug her.

A gang of dappled, knee-high birds with featherless paste-white faces ran shrieking across the yard. “Guineas,” I told Harm, who's from the city. “Dale's new security system.”

We hurried to Miss Rose's side. “Macon kicked the back door in,” she told the Colonel as we walked up.

“Daddy wouldn't do that,” Dale cried. “How can I keep us safe with the door busted in? He knows I'm not good with tools.”

Miss Rose watched the Colonel. “I glimpsed the door and the kitchen,” she said. “I dialed 911 . . . and you.”

911. Starr's on his way.

“We'll check for clues before Starr gets here,” I told her as Harm plopped down on the steps and stretched out his long legs.

“Negative,” the Colonel snapped. “Up, Harm. Macon could be in the house.”

Harm jumped up and wheeled to face the door behind him.

Mr. Macon?
Still here?

A distant siren pierced the quiet, setting the coyotes in the woods howling and the guineas whirling across the yard. Starr's Impala skidded to a stop by the birdbath. “Where is he?” he demanded, tumbling out.

“He may be inside,” the Colonel said. “Rose keeps her shotgun in the bedroom closet, shells on the top shelf. Be careful.”

Several long minutes later Miss Rose's front door swung open. “All clear,” Starr said. He marched to the drive and squatted to examine the tracks wheeling in and out. He squinted at Miss Rose's Pinto, under the pecan tree. “Did you drive in this way?”

“Several times,” she said. “Lavender too. And the Colonel, just now.”

“And a patrol car, if I read these tracks right,” Starr said, slapping the dirt off his hands. “Did you notice anything missing inside?”

She frowned. “I'd piled up some of Macon's things to give away. The pile's gone. A hunting jacket, Sunday shoes, an old wallet . . . I don't know what else.”

Dale sighed. “Mama and me gave Daddy that hunting jacket one Christmas. Mama tried to give it to Lavender the other day, but he won't wear it.”

Of course not, I thought. Lavender's no hand-me-down Macon.

“Why would Mr. Macon take an old wallet?” Harm muttered.

“We don't know it
was
him,” Dale said, his voice sharp.

Miss Rose put her hand on Dale's shoulder. “My canned food cabinet's wiped out too—tomatoes, beans, squash. I have no idea what else.”

Dale frowned. “Daddy won't eat squash.”

She shivered in her gray coat. “The guineas squawked and a car started . . . I saw the kicked-in door and I ran.”

She heard Mr. Macon's car start?

“Close call,” Starr muttered. He pushed his hat back. “Your shotgun's gone too. I hate to ask, but I need someone to walk through with me room by room. To identify everything that's missing. I'll notify the pawnshops.
There's a chance we can get some of it back.”

Dale looked like life had knocked the wind out of him. Miss Rose didn't look much better. “Harm and me know where everything's supposed to be,” I said.

Starr surprised me. “Thanks, Mo.”

The Colonel nodded. “I'll wait with Rose and Dale.”

“Excellent,” I said. “As co-investigator, I say we keep this break-in quiet. We got too many rumors already. And someone may mention a detail they shouldn't know, giving us a clue.”

Starr ran his finger across his eyebrow. “Good idea,” he admitted.

“Right,” I said, grabbing my camera. “We're burning daylight.”

We stepped inside. Miss Rose's living room told its usual peaceful story: piano, sofa, writing desk, high-back chair by the phone. Not a throw pillow out of place.

Lavender's old room told a different story: Bookcase overturned, closet agape, dresser spitting shirts and socks. “Wrecked,” Harm said. “Totally tossed.”

I peeped in an open drawer. “Mr. Macon's old shirts and socks—in case Dale ever grows,” I told Starr. “This drawer's empty, so Mr. Macon has street clothes.”

Harm flipped a chair right side up.

I eased the closet door open with my sneaker. “The
camping gear's gone,” I announced. “Sleeping bag, hatchet, lantern. Even the broke cook stove, which Dale and me are more or less innocent.”

“Why would he take a busted stove?” Harm asked, folding an old undershirt back into a drawer. Harm's neat, like Miss Rose.

“In a hurry,” Starr said, making a note. “Forgot it didn't work.”

I spun, canvassing the room. The sagging bed, Lavender's weights and chin-up bar, an old trunk from Miss Rose's little girl days. “Dale's moved the hand weights into his room,” I told Starr. “Everything else is good. Let's check out the kitchen next.”

Starr scribbled a note. “Okay, but it's pretty bad, from what I saw.”

Even with his warning, Miss Rose's normally spic-and-span kitchen punched me like a fist. Back door splintered, cabinets gawking, drawers spewing utensils. “Blood,” I said, following the splotches on the linoleum to an open drawer.

“Knives?” Harm guessed, peeping over my shoulder.

“Dishcloths. For a bandage, maybe. Fingerprints should be easy to pull,” I said, staring at the blood on the drawer front. “DNA too, if you want it.”

Above the drawer, a cabinet door stood ajar. Harm grabbed a spatula and eased it open. Salt, pepper, Dale's
goofy ceramic frog jar, its hat crooked. Harm took out his handkerchief, lifted the hat, and went up on his toes. “Empty.”

“That explains the wallet,” I said. “Mr. Macon took their cash.”

As Starr went to the shattered back door, I took out my camera and stepped back for a wide shot.
Click
. I focused on Starr, who stood staring across the backyard and blue-green collard field. Dale's mule Cleo stamped her hooves by the stable.
Click
.

“Macon drove the patrol car back here, to hide while loading up,” Starr said, pointing to tracks pressed into the grass. “Then he doubled back, for some reason.”

Or we got two cars, I thought, my gaze following the second trail of bent grass to the stable.
Click
.

“Let's check Miss Rose's room, then Dale's,” I said. “I hate this for them.”

Miss Rose's room looked untouched, all oak and lace. “Just the missing shotgun. I thought he'd tear this room up,” I said. “Let's try Dale's room.”

I led the way.

Dale's door swung open: Unmade bed, a tangle of jeans, a scatter of dog toys. Hand weights, beanbag chair, pawnshop guitar. A shelf of animal books and Dale's dog-eared favorite—
Manners Girls Like.

Starr whistled. “Macon turned this place upside down.”

“No,” Harm said, peeking in the closet. “This is about right.”

Starr sidestepped a landslide of music books and made his way to the terrarium. Dale's newt, Sir Isaac Newton, blinked up at him. “Anything disturbed?” he asked.

“Just Newton,” I said. “We think he may be clinically depressed.”

“I would be too,” Starr muttered, sprinkling a few dried bugs at Newton's feet.

The door behind us bumped against the wall and we jumped. “What's taking so long?” Dale demanded. He panned around his room, taking everything in. “Where's my red flashlight? I need it.”

His flashlight? How did I miss that?

I turned to Starr, very official. “And the red flashlight is gone.”

Dale watched us, his eyes like sky before storm. “Newton's upset,” he said, walking to the terrarium and turning his back to us. “You better go.”

“Thanks Dale, we're done,” Starr said. And we headed for the door.

After Starr roared away, we trooped into the house.

Miss Rose went from shocked to furious in ten
seconds flat as she re-examined her kitchen. “Of all the no-good—”

She bit off the end of her sentence, scooped an armload of utensils from the floor, and dumped them into her sink. She leaned against the counter and closed her eyes.

I went woman-to-woman. “It's natural to be angry when a felonious ex kicks in your door,” I said, very adult. “If you ask me—”

She held up her hand like a traffic cop. “Excuse me, Mo,” she said. “I need to change clothes. Sorry, baby,” she added, rumpling Dale's blond hair. “I'm just tired.”

Tired of Mr. Macon, I thought. Who wouldn't be?

She bustled back moments later in slacks and a soft work shirt, her dark hair swept up. “It won't take long to set this place right,” she said, turning to the sink.

Dale gave her a smile as he scrubbed blood off the drawer front. To me he looked wobbly. I nudged him away. “I seen a million kitchen cuts at the café,” I told him. “I got this. Besides, the Colonel needs your help.”

He rushed to Harm's side. The boys held the splintered door in place as the Colonel crisscrossed it with duct tape and wedged a chair under the knob.

“That will hold if nobody tries it,” the Colonel said as
Miss Rose slammed a pot on the stove. “Why don't you and Dale pack a bag, Rose? We'll clean up tomorrow.”

She ran a sink of sudsy water. “Macon will not run me out of my home.”

Miss Lana calls Miss Rose independent. The Colonel says she's hard-headed as a railroad spike. He also says to choose your fights. “As you wish,” he said. “I'll take the couch. Where would you like Mo to sleep? We won't leave you two out here alone.”

Miss Rose glared at him like she could ignite him, which if he stood still long enough maybe she could. The Colonel waited, cool as midnight. Her glare faltered, and she smiled. “What if we call Lavender and see if he can spend the night?”

“I'm on it,” I said, and blasted down the narrow hall to the phone.

Lavender snatched up the phone on the first ring. “I said leave me alone,” he said, his voice sideways and rough.

My smile died. “Lavender? What's wrong?”

He exhaled like downshifting into a curve. “Sorry, Mo. I thought you . . . It's just that the twins are giving me a fit. What's up?”

The twins make grown men cry, but they never made Lavender
that
mad before.

“Did Mr. Macon call you?” I demanded.

“Let me talk,” Dale said, grabbing the phone. “Lavender, we been robbed and the door's only taped on. Mama and me hope you can come over. Now.”

I pulled the phone back. “Starr said Mr. Macon might go see you too.”