The Odds of Getting Even (20 page)

“Metaphors!” Sal cried, and the class whipped out their papers. She pointed to Hannah.

“A metaphor,” Hannah said. “My heart sings beneath your window, a troubadour of my love.”

Sal gave her a quick thumbs-up. Hands shot into the air.

“Jake?” Miss Retzyl said.
“You wrote a metaphor?”

Jake picked up an erased-through paper. “My love is a fish camp by the river for you.” Jimmy nudged him. “With a chain-link dog pen in back,” he added.

Sal went thumbs down as Miss Retzyl staggered at her podium. “That
is
a metaphor,” Miss Retzyl said, staring at Jake like he'd been beamed in by aliens.

The bell rang and we bustled out, placing our papers on Sal's desk. “I'll wait for you outside,” I told her.

Moments later she leaned against the bike rack and set her beret at exactly the right angle. “Another code? I love codes.”

“Come to the café,” I said. “We can explore it over complimentary milkshakes.”

She shook her head. “I have metaphor business.” She whipped out her day planner. “Tomorrow morning's the best I can do. Eight-ish? Skeeter's office?”

“Great,” I said, my heart sagging.

“The more samples you can show me, the merrier.” She zipped her plush jacket and hurried away.

What could it hurt to wait one more day?

The Azalea Women clacked into the café around four. “Salads and ice waters all around,” one called. “We're dieting.”

I sighed. Dieters tip as skinny as they eat.

“I'll take them, sugar,” Miss Lana said.

An Azalea Woman smiled at the Colonel. “I hear Macon's robbed a convenience store in Florida.” Strangers looked up from their collard enchiladas.

“Unfounded rumor, as usual,” the Colonel said, polishing the counter.

The Azalea Woman winked at me. “And how's our racecar driver, Mo?”

Word on the street is the Azalea Women took their cars to Jiffy Lube in Greenville for a tune-up this morning. I hate Azalea Women.

“Good,” I said. “His new racecar's the best ever. He's a shoo-in at Daytona.”

The Colonel tossed me my jacket. “Ride with me, Soldier,” he murmured. “I need to check things at the inn.”

“The inn?” Miss Lana said, loading ice waters on her tray. “Colonel?” she said, her voice nudging.

A sigh racked his frame. “And I'll pick up the trash while I'm there.”

I followed him out. “Trash,” he muttered as he settled behind the Underbird's steering wheel. “This is what my life's come to. Sometimes I long for the days when I had total amnesia.”

“Yes sir,” I replied, fastening my seat belt. I studied his rugged face. “Colonel, is Lavender going to be okay?”

He cranked the Underbird.

“I expect so,” he said, heading for the inn. “But it may take time. Rose will be fine. Her farm tours begin again in the spring and she's developing markets outside Tupelo Landing. Business that's not so dependent on small-minded people who—”

“I think I might be small-minded too,” I blurted. The whole ugly story fell out of me before I knew I wanted to tell it. “Now Dale's in charge of the case and Harm and
me are lieutenants, which I'm not cut out for reduced rank.” I dropped my bombshell:
“And Dale's doing a good job.”

He parked at the inn door and gave me a smile. “I'm not surprised Dale's a good leader. And I applaud your strategy. A smart leader knows when to step aside, and let others lead.”

I love the Colonel.
Step aside
sounds so much better than
get fired
.

“You'll make a splendid lieutenant—temporarily, at least,” he said. “A general's only as strong as his or her soldiers. Make Dale stronger, my dear. He deserves it.

“And I share your concern for Lavender,” he added. “He's finishing a room for us here at the inn. But just so you know, it's the last work we'll have for a while. Sometimes you do what you can to help—and then what you can do is done.”

Minutes later, I tapped at the door of guestroom #5. “Hey,” I said. “Looks good in here.”

“Thanks,” Lavender said, smoothing putty in a joint on the new windowsill. He drummed up a smile, but his cheeks wore a red-gold stubble and his hair lay too flat.

He looked like a penny that had lost its shine.

The Colonel sat on a sawhorse. “Soldier, could you collect the trash for me?” he said, tossing me a skeleton key. “I have some things to discuss with Lavender.”

Crud.

A heartbeat later I knocked on Capers's door. The key clicked and the door swung open on a room cluttered with clothes, shopping bags, papers. “What a pit,” I muttered.

“Anything of interest?” Capers asked, exiting the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her head.

I jumped. “I knocked,” I said, taming my runaway heart. “Just picking up the trash.” I peeked at the papers on her desk. More tan numbers and letters. “How do you play this game?” I asked, snagging her trash bag. “I'd like to try.”

“Another time,” she replied, holding the door to the hall for me.

Smooth—but rude.

Her gaze followed me down the hall like cat follows mouse.

Moments later, the Colonel sprang the Underbird's trunk, which yawned open on a couple weeks' worth of trash bags. “I know, they go in the Dumpster. I'll get around to it,” he muttered. He cut his eyes to me. “Lana doesn't need to know.”

“You're a rebel, sir. I'll take care of this,” I said, picturing the coded papers waiting in those bags. “One man's trash is a detective's treasure,” I added. “Sir, about Lavender . . .”

“Lavender's losing heart,” he said, his voice gentle. “We'll hope for the best. But a lost heart is a very hard thing to find.”

That evening I set the Colonel's elegant 1940s fan on the floor of my flat and placed a trash can on its side a few feet away. I emptied the first trash bag between them and clicked on the fan, whirring the tissues and gum wrappers into the trash. Like panning for gold, I thought, grabbing a crumpled paper covered in the odd, ghostly letters. I snagged a 2-6-type code with the date-like key at the corner of the page torn off.

An hour later, I had a folder full of . . . what? More mystery than clue, I thought.

But Sal had said the more the merrier, and I'd see her first thing in the morning.

Stakeout at Grandmother Miss Lacy's

“Where's Sal?” I asked the next morning, blasting into Skeeter's office.

“Sick,” Skeeter said, marking her place in her law book. “She might be back tomorrow.”

Tomorrow? Crud.

The day oozed by like a sloth on pain meds. Even Harm wilted as the morning slid into afternoon.

“Harm Crenshaw,” Miss Retzyl said, clapping her hands. “Wake up!”

Harm lifted his head from his desk and gave her a sleepy smile. “The periodic table,” he said. He blinked. “This
is
science, isn't it?”

Miss Retzyl went glacier. We'd finished science a half hour ago. “Harm,” she said, “you've fallen asleep two days in a row. Why?”

Attila sneered. “I hear Mr. Red's building a still in his living room. Maybe the noise is keeping Harm up.”

Harm stretched. “I'm sorry, Miss Retzyl,” he said. “I
haven't been sleeping well. I'm Miss Thornton's houseguest and I haven't quite settled in.” He gave her a sleepy smile. “I promise it won't happen again.”

Harm corralled Dale and me on the way out of school. “You've stayed late at Miss Thornton's before,” he said, looking at me. “Did you hear anything weird?”

“Weird?” I said. “You mean like guineas?”

He raked his fingers through his hair. “I mean like running water, or creaks and bumps? I don't want to seem lame, but . . .” He shrugged. “Maybe it
is
that old boiler. Or the house settling. Throw in those squawking guineas . . .”

“Squawking? At night? What's scaring them?” Dale demanded.

“How should I know?” Harm asked, exasperated. “But I thought we could check it out. You know. Pro bono her a stakeout.”

“A luxury stakeout,” I said. “Count me in. When?”

“Tonight.”

“Come see the pups first,” Dale said. “And I need to check on Newton.”

I hopped on my bike. “Race you,” I shouted.

“Hey girl,” Dale said a few minutes later, rubbing Queen Elizabeth's ears. The puppies tumbled around her, mewing. The biggest rolled to his feet and tried to walk.

I laughed and scooped him up. He squirmed against
my chest, a warm armful of wiggle and mew. “He's like a little sumo wrestler.”

Dale gently sorted the puppies. “That's Mary Queen of Scots—Miss Retzyl's pup. Sal picked little Ming. Skeeter wants King John. And Susana's taking Ferdinand I. Little Agnes wants this one,” he said, picking up the only spotted pup in the litter. “She said, ‘This one is different.' That's a kindergarten skill. She hasn't picked a name yet.”

I strolled over to the terrarium. “Where's Newton?”

“Resting,” Dale said, going shifty. He grabbed his guitar and sang: “How much is that puppy in the closet, the one with the cute little tail?”

Harm tromped back in. “Miss Rose says it's rude for us to go to Miss Thornton's hungry. She's warming up pizza for us.”

“Pizza?” Dale gasped. “No!”

Miss Rose's scream pierced the air. “Dale Earnhardt Johnson III! You get in this kitchen right this minute!”

Dale dropped his guitar. “Mama,” he cried, running to the door. “I can explain.” Harm and I raced down the hall behind him.

Miss Rose stood at the open refrigerator. “What's the meaning of this?” she demanded, nudging a pizza box with a spatula. “What's Newton doing in my icebox, Dale? Did
you
put him in here?”

“Rhetorical?” he whispered, looking hopeful.

“Dale,” Miss Rose said. “Why is your lizard . . .”

“He's not a lizard,” Dale replied. “He's an amphibian. The difference—”

Miss Rose stomped her foot. When she spoke, her voice came out like canned cake frosting: unnaturally smooth and way too sweet. “Dale, there's a newt in my refrigerator. Explain.”

“Newton's depressed. I think he's fallen off life's cycle, and he's my responsibility. Maybe he'll feel better if he hibernates.”

Miss Rose stared at Dale like she was adding up to see if she could afford boarding school.

“I thought about putting him outside,” Dale said, “but there's the possibility of cats. And coyotes. Still,” he admitted, “the refrigerator may have been a mistake.”

“Do you think so?” Harm asked, very innocent.

Newton lifted his head and blinked. “I'll take him to my room,” Dale told Miss Rose. “Unless you want to keep him with you while we're on stakeout.”

“Your room's fine,” she said. “And Dale,
everything's
not your responsibility. You're eleven years old.”

“Eleven and three-quarters. Can I borrow your electric blanket?” Dale asked. “Because Newton's—”

“No,” she said.

“No,” Dale echoed, heading down the hall. “I didn't think so.”

“Newton? Depressed? Tragic,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said a half hour later, placing a plate of cookies on the table. Her eyes traveled to the window, and Lavender's garage. “I'm afraid Newton's not alone,” she murmured.

A vase of tulips graced the table by the window. A card lay beside it. I could just make out the word
troubadour
.

Hannah's metaphor. Harm's flower-of-choice.

Her eyes followed my gaze. “Red,” she said, smiling. “It makes us young again.” She strolled over to adjust the card. “Harm, I wish you'd told me you couldn't sleep.”

“I'm a light sleeper,” he said.

A total lie. I've seen him sleep through a fire drill.

“I just need to understand the sounds here,” Harm said. “Like . . . I don't know. Water gurgling, things squeaking. I'll sleep better when I know what they are.”

“We thought we'd pro bono you a stakeout,” I said. “We brought our pj's.”

“A sleepover! Wonderful,” she said, flushing like a girl. “Having those sounds explained will be a bonus. Sometimes I feel like someone's staring at me—when I
know
nobody's here. And a chill slips right up my spine.”

She shivered. “Why don't I cook some dinner? Liver and onions,” she said, watching my face. “With rutabagas and wilted spinach . . .” She burst out laughing. “My
word, your faces. Burgers and fries? I'll call the café.”

Old people humor, I thought, shaking my head. I never see it coming.

After supper Grandmother Miss Lacy and me developed film. Harm helped Dale with his math homework. “But
why
would fractions even want to divide decimal numbers?” Dale demanded as I walked in from the darkroom. “It doesn't make sense.”

“I don't know why,” Harm said, his calm unraveling. “I just know it will be on the test. Try again.”

Finally, we settled in. Dale and Harm upstairs in the guest room, Grandmother Miss Lacy in her room upstairs, me on the parlor sofa. I curled up with my pillow toward the door and my eyes on the window.

My eyes closed, closed, closed . . .
Bump.

What was that? A man at the window?

The wind blew, sending a kaleidoscope of shadows across the window screen.

Just the wind.

I settled back and closed my eyes. A creak behind me, a sharp dance of prickles across my shoulders. Was someone behind me, in the doorway? I darted a glance.

Nobody.

I'd almost dissolved into sleep when . . . “Mo?”

“What?” I gasped, sitting up.

“It's Dale. Harm and me wondered if you'd been killed yet.”

Yet?

Dale slipped into the room. “I mean, you're like a human sacrifice if there's a killer in here because you're the only one downstairs, so he'd get you first. We were just wondering if you were . . . you know.”

“Dead?”

“Dale was wondering,” Harm whispered. “I wasn't.”

My eyes adjusted to the moonlight. They stood side by side in pale pajamas, the tall one slouching against the door frame, the short one shifting from foot to foot. “I'm okay, Desperados,” I whispered. “Go back to bed.”

I never could say for sure what woke me next.

Maybe it was the ragged tin-can squawk of Grandmother Miss Lacy's guineas. Or the clunk of the radiator. Or the flicker of flat orange light against the windowpanes.

I stumbled to the window half-asleep and tried to piece together the picture outside: Orange snake-tongues darting from the garage's eaves. Moonlight glinting off the curves of Lavender's truck. The sharp, greedy smell of smoke.

Fire.

“Fire!” I shouted. “Fire! The garage! Fire!”

Time slung me forward and shot me into the hall. I turned at the stairs. “Fire!” I screamed. “Fire!”

Upstairs, a door slammed.

The boiler thunked.

Footsteps thundered down the hall.

Then I heard it, faint and distant: “Help! Help me!”

Lavender!

Dale flew halfway down the steps and vaulted over the banister. “The garage!” I shouted as Harm pounded on Grandmother Miss Lacy's door.

“Hurry! It's Lavender! Fire!”