The Odds of Getting Even (22 page)

She stomped over to the refrigerator, opened it, and poured a glass of milk. She slammed the door closed. “Here is some milk. Now back to bed you go.”

She lassoed her finger in the air like a cowboy signaling roundup, and pointed to the door. We crept to the parlor, quiet as shadows. “What now?” she whispered.

Good question.

“Well, I
would
call Joe Starr,” I said, “but the phone's in the kitchen and Starr's in the woods looking for clues. We're on our own.”

Dale nodded. “That's what I think too.”

Harm gulped. “I'm in.”

“I'll get the flashlights,” she said. “You get the coats. And be silent, my lambs.”

“Aren't lambs sacrificials?” Dale asked, his voice cracking.

“No,” I lied. “And don't worry. I have a plan.”

We slipped out the front door and crept to the back of the house. The guineas scattered, shrieking to the stars.

For the first time in my life, I hoped Starr would show up.

Grandmother Miss Lacy, armed with a brass-tipped walking cane, bounced into me. “What's the plan, dear?”

“She doesn't have one,” Dale said. “She hardly ever does, and if she makes one up, you won't want to do it.”

Sometimes I think detective work has made Dale old before his time. Other times I think it's made him smarter.

“Of course I have a plan,” I lied, scoping the shrubberies and the brick work beneath the house. “Is that the only way underneath?” I whispered, pointing to a tiny wooden door. She nodded. “Good. We'll flush him out and make a citizen's arrest.”

“What if it's a girl?” Dale whispered.

Pronouns? Now? Really?

“Then we'll flush
her
out.”

“How?” Grandmother Miss Lacy whispered, gripping her cane.

I studied her. Grandmother Miss Lacy has the heart of a warrior, but she couldn't stun a rabbit with that walking stick. “You tap on the door and we'll jump him. Or her.”

Dale nodded. “You're old. If he kills you, it won't be as sad. No,” he said quickly, “that's not right. Pretend I didn't say that.”

She nodded.

“Everybody settle down,” Harm said. “I'll knock. You all do . . . whatever detectives do and I'll help.”

Grandmother Miss Lacy raised her walking stick. Dale raised his fireplace shovel. I hoisted Beethoven over my head.

A man's voice rang out behind us: “Are you insane?”

“Rhetorical!” Dale screamed. Grandmother Miss Lacy whirled, slamming her walking stick across the man's arm. It bounced off.

“Give me that!” Joe Starr shouted, yanking the cane from her hands. “I told you people to stay inside!”

“There's a murderer under the house,” I replied, very cool as I lowered Beethoven. “We have him surrounded. Arrest him.”

Starr ran his light along the crawlspace door. “Under the house? What kind of lunatic . . .” He pulled his gun. “Come out,” Starr demanded.

“We have you surrounded,” I shouted.

“Don't make me come under there,” Grandmother Miss Lacy warbled.

Nothing.

Starr studied the closed door and gave us a wink. “I'll
call for the canine unit,” he said, very loud. “A couple of dogs will flush this maniac out in no time.”

A rustle. A clunk. The sound of something being dragged.

The door popped open. A man stuck his head out through the crawlspace and blinked into the lights.

“Daddy?” Dale said. “What are you doing here?”

One Thing for Him

“Hands on your head,” Starr said, snatching Mr. Macon to his feet and shoving him against the wall. He patted him down and cuffed him. “Macon Johnson, you're under arrest for breaking and entering, arson, and the attempted murder of Lavender Johnson. And that's just for starters.”

“Wait,” Dale said, grabbing Starr's arm. “Daddy's being framed.”

Mr. Macon did a double take. “Who told you?
You
didn't figure it out.”

I'd forgotten how much I hated Mr. Macon.

“For your information,” I said, “Dale's the one who
did
figure it out. And the one who's been standing up for you.”

“What are you doing under my house?” Grandmother Miss Lacy demanded.

“Staying warm next to your old boiler and watching Lavender's back. You got this wrong,” he told Starr. “I didn't set that fire.”

“Yeah? Then who did?”

“Same guy who slit that tire. He ran out the back as Mo and Dale ran in. Slight, fast, wears a hat. I ran in, fixed the jack, and got out. I didn't set the fire.”

“You fixed the jack?” I gasped.

I flashed back to hands pushing mine from the jack. Rough, strong hands. “I thought that was you,” I told Dale, and he shook his head.

“I couldn't see,” Dale said. “I thought it was you. The smoke was so thick. . . .”

Starr's stare darted past us, into the woods. “If Macon didn't start that fire, whoever
did
is still out there. Harm, get the door. Everybody inside. Now.”

Starr shoved Dale's daddy into a kitchen chair. Even dirty and unshaven, Mr. Macon glinted like a knife. “I'm being framed. I swear it on his mama's grave,” he said, jabbing his cuffed hands at Dale.

“Wow,” Harm muttered.

Vintage Mr. Macon.

“Listen,” he told Starr. “Somebody's trying to kill Lavender, but it ain't me. Why would I kill him? Why would I bust out of jail, for that matter? The Colonel had set up a deal for me.”

“Really? Why would he do
that?
” Starr demanded.

“Because he's my friend,” Dale said, very soft.

Mr. Macon continued. “I went in to change. I heard
a thud. I found Earl on the floor—holster empty, keys at his side. I knew I'd be blamed and I ran. I took my brother Austin's car. I knew he'd keep quiet. He knew I'd leave it someplace easy.”

“We saw it on the side of the road,” Dale said.

Mr. Macon's eyes glittered like glass. “The smart question is, why would I run when I had a plea bargain?” he coached.

“All right,” Harm said. “Why?”

“Because bad news travels in prison. I knew somebody planned to kill Lavender. I didn't know who, only that it involved his car. Nobody takes what's mine. Lavender's been mine since the day he was born.”

Mr. Macon leaned toward Starr. “I didn't take a car, I didn't rob a bank, the only house I broke into was mine. And somebody else had already kicked in the door and trashed the back part of the house before I got home.”

“You don't live there anymore,” Dale said. “That's Mama's home. And mine.”

Mr. Macon kept his eyes on Starr. “I did not set that fire.”

“No? Then who did?” Lavender demanded, walking in from the hall. His voice downshifted to a fury I never heard in him before. “What the heck do you think you're doing, Macon?”

“Sit down and find out,” Mr. Macon said, kicking a chair toward him.

Lavender exploded like dynamite.

He blasted across the room, grabbed the front of Mr. Macon's filthy jacket, and dragged him to the center of the kitchen. “You almost killed me!” he shouted, his voice breaking like a little boy's. “Me, Dale, Mo!” He slammed him against the wall. “What's wrong with you?”

“Lavender!” Dale cried. “Stop.”

Lavender's fist slammed against Mr. Macon's jaw, snapping his head back. He raised his fist again and Mr. Macon quartered away, shielding his face.

Starr pushed between them. Before I even thought about moving I flew to Lavender and grabbed his raised arm with both hands.

“Let me go!” He jerked his arm free, spinning me into a cabinet.

The room tilted. Lavender whirled and grabbed for my shoulders as I slid toward the floor.

“Oh God,” he said, coming back into his eyes. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Mo. Are you all right?”

Am I all right?

“No,” I shouted. “I am not all right! Stop it. All of you. Now.”

“Everybody calm down,” Starr said as Harm bulldozed
Mr. Macon into a chair. “You.” He grabbed Lavender's arm. “Cool off or get out.”

Lavender threw himself into a chair and closed his eyes. The rage rolled off of him and his breath came and went like a bellows, slowing, slowing.

Mr. Macon wiped his bloody lip on the back of his hand, but his voice came calm as a razor swipe. “I saved your life tonight, you ungrateful buzzard,” he said, staring at Lavender. “If you'd waited for these little dips to crank that jack, you'd all be dead. This is the thanks I get? I should have let you burn.”

Grandmother Miss Lacy gasped. “Macon!”

Dale watched his father, his face still as clay.

Harm leaned toward Mr. Macon and sniffed. “He stinks. But I do smell smoke.”

Starr shrugged. “Saving Lavender looks good unless you set the fire in the first place, Macon. Which I, for one, think you did.”

Mr. Macon snarled. “Bull. Whoever slashed that tire set it. I put the note in your toolbox,” he said. “Wrote it left-handed. The one under the plate too.”

Grandmother Miss Lacy strolled over to put her teakettle on. It's the small things, she says, that keep us civilized. “If Macon wasn't staying to help Lavender, why
is
he here?” she murmured.

Starr tapped his pen against his pad. “Because he's
robbing us blind?” he said. “Because he wanted to kill Rose's son to get even with her for leaving him? Because he's hiding and doesn't want to do hard time?”

“All of the above,” Lavender muttered.

“But the surveillance video and the prison jumpsuit,” Harm said.

“Uncle Austin,” Dale said. “Throwing all of us off the trail, keeping us from searching for Daddy. It worked too.”

Harm studied Mr. Macon. “The patrol car?”

Mr. Macon's handcuffs glistened in the lamplight. “Found it in the woods, the keys inside. Slept in it a few times, left prints.” He shrugged. “Send me a bill. But steal a black-and-white? Please.”

Grandmother Miss Lacy shook her head as she lined up cups. “Under my house. Listening to my every move.”

“Your fault,” he said. “I told you last time I fixed that boiler to replace it. Good for me you didn't. Its clunking and bumping made perfect cover.” He glared at Starr. “Arrest me if you want to, but whoever wants to kill Lavender is still out there.”

Starr pulled him to his feet. “Thanks,” he said. “I believe I will.”

“Good riddance,” Lavender muttered.

Dale jumped up. “Wait,” he said. “Daddy's hateful, but he's only partway guilty. He's being framed, and the Desperados will prove it.”

He gave Harm and me a smile. “Don't worry,” he said. “I have a plan.”

Mr. Macon snorted. “He's too addled to have a plan. But he's right about one thing: I'm not guilty.”

“Dale isn't addled and he does too have a plan,” I snapped. I shifted into ad-lib overdrive. “In fact, the Desperado case is borderline ready,” I told Starr. Harm looked at me like I'd just sprouted an extra head. “We'll lay our evidence out for you as soon as humanly possible.”

“Or sooner,” Dale added.

Ad-libbing is like dreaming you're flying. As long as you believe it yourself, you sail on. “In the meantime,” I said, “throw the book at him if you want to, but don't tell a soul you nabbed his sorry hide.”

“Right,” Harm said. “Especially don't tell Capers Dylan. We don't want this in the paper. We don't want to tip off our prey.”

“Prey,” Dale said. “Good.”

I finished our pitch: “I'll notify you when we're ready for our Big Reveal.”

It sounded good. Darned good.

Starr shook his head. “Sorry, kids.”

Kids?

Grandmother Miss Lacy put her hand on Starr's arm. “Really, dear. The Desperados have given you Macon. Why not give them a chance? What can you lose?”

Being old is like being bulletproof. Not even Joe Starr fires back.

I looked at the clock over Grandmother Miss Lacy's stove. “It's five o'clock in the morning,” I said, trying to figure how much time we'd need.

“Longest night of my life,” Harm muttered.

Starr pushed Mr. Macon toward the door. “I'll give you until five p.m. tomorrow, but that's it,” he said.

Five p.m. tomorrow? Is he mad?

That's just a day and a half, and we don't know squat! And most of that would be gobbled up by sleep and school. Plus puppies, homework . . . We needed more time!

Dale gave Starr a quick nod. “We could do it faster, but as lead detective I accept,” he said.

Crud.

“One condition,” I added, glancing at Lavender, who sat simmering like one of the Colonel's pots. Lavender Shade Johnson, who sang to Dale and me when we were little even though he can't sing, who's taken us to the speedway to time laps, who's listened to our problems and driven us around like he felt proud to know us.

I stared into Starr's eyes. “Mr. Macon ain't worth spit, but if he
did
watch over Lavender and help us in that fire, that's one thing for him. With him in custody, you better protect Lavender. I mean it. Because if Mr. Macon didn't
set that fire, Lavender's still in danger. And if anything happens to him, you have me to deal with. Forever.”

A hint of Lavender's old smile flitted across his face.

“Believe me, sir,” Harm told Starr. “You don't want that. Forever is a very long time.”

Even the moon looked sleepy as Starr carted Mr. Macon away.

Grandmother Miss Lacy and me walked Lavender to the door. “I've been thinking,” she said. “The old store on the way to the inn's empty, and it happens to belong to me.”

It's amazing how many things happen to belong to her.

“Buildings are like people: Nothing destroys them like emptiness. That store would make a wonderful garage, and I'd love to have a tenant,” she said. “Or a partner. Why don't you see what you think?”

“Thanks,” he said. “I'll look, but all my tools were in that garage. My car. I just don't know if . . .” His voice fell away like ashes.

He turned to me. “Mo, I'm sorry,” he said.

“I'm okay,” I said, very quick. “I just never seen you like that before.”

“And you never will again,” he said. “Not if I can help it.”

He walked away like a soldier who'd just lost his war.

“He'll be okay, Mo,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said as his truck roared into the darkness. “He needs time. And time . . . takes time.”