Three Times Lucky (10 page)

As they drove away, Dale and I came clean: about borrowing Mr. Jesse’s boat, the reward, the murder, the Underbird, and Detective Joe Starr.

“Miss Lana, that could have been the killer at my window,” I said. “Shouldn’t we call Joe Starr?”

She shook her head. “Starr doesn’t need to know the Colonel’s gone. Besides, Tinks looked for footprints. There are none. I don’t know what else anyone can do.” She stretched, patted her curlers, and began carefully freeing her curls. Her hair looked sleepy and warm, like copper at sunset. “Mo,” she said, “has anyone mentioned a memorial service for Jesse?”

“No, ma’am. Mr. Jesse didn’t go to church, and didn’t have a family. Well, he used to have a cousin, but he died. I guess you were his only friend. It looks like he’s on his own, in the eternal sense of things.”

“No one’s on their own in the eternal sense of things,
Mo,” she said. “If no one else volunteers, we’ll have a service at the café.”

“A funeral? For Mr. Jesse?” I said. “Do you think anybody will come?”

“Murder’s always standing room only,” she said. “Everybody will come—including, probably, the murderer. Hopefully Joe Starr will be grateful enough to ease up on the Colonel. He can’t seriously think Dale’s a suspect,” she said, “but you may want to talk with Skeeter in the morning, before she mentions her suspicions to Starr.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I already made the appointment and I already got a plan.”

“Wonderful,” she said, glancing at her watch. “You two need to sleep. Dale, you’re welcome to the Colonel’s bunk.”

I hugged her, my head fitting neatly just beneath her chin. Her heart beat strong and sure, steadying my own. “Thank you for coming home so quick,” I said.

“I’ll always come home to you, Mo,” she said. “You know that.”

“Yes ma’am.” And I headed for bed, leaving my door ajar in case she needed me.

Humidity rolled off our slow, black-water creek as Dale and I pedaled past the Piggly Wiggly just a few hours later and dropped our bikes on Skeeter McMillan’s lawn. I smoothed my hair—which had gone feral in the heat—and tapped on the open door. “Morning, Skeeter,” I said.

“Hey,” she said, looking up from her law book. Skeeter opened her Pre-Law Office here in the storage room of her mama’s hair salon last summer. It’s nice, except for the smell of hairspray. “I’ve been expecting you,” she said, nodding to two lawn chairs. “Let me start by assuring you anything you say here is confidential.”

Actually, I thought, I’m counting on it.

“Dale and me would like to retain your services,” I said as we sat down.

As if on cue a thin, dark-haired girl appeared at the door. “I believe you know my partner and accountant-in-waiting, Sally Amanda Jones,” Skeeter said.

“Hey, Salamander. You’ve grown,” Dale said, and Sal blushed.

Sal, the smallest kid in our class, is shaped like a tube of lipstick. She wears Strategic Ruffles and curls her short brown hair to create the illusion of shape. She also possesses a calculator brain and a love for Dale that will go epic, if he ever notices.

“In addition to standard services,” Skeeter said, “we offer unlimited access to the Cousin Information Network.” I nodded. Between them, Skeeter and Sal are related to half the county. Maybe the entire state.

Sal hopped onto the edge of the desk and smoothed her skirt. “Let’s talk turkey,” she said, very professional. “Cash or trade?”

Dale sat up straight. “Trade. I got a heirloom lava lamp, circa 1984.”

She wrinkled her nose and shook her head, her tight curls glinting.

“Plus an Elvis night-light,” I offered. She shuddered.

Dale shifted and peered into her eyes. He’d borrowed my Carolina blue T-shirt, which made his eyes blue as a July sky. “An original
metal
model of Dale Earnhardt Sr.’s first race car,” he said. “Worth seventy dollars, easy.”

She knocked the stapler to the floor. “Deal,” she breathed.

“Excellent.” I ripped a page from my notebook. “We
need background on these persons of interest: Selma and Albert Foster, of Kinston. Friends of Mr. Jesse’s.”

“My cousin reads meters in Kinston,” Skeeter said, taking the paper. “I’ll see what we can do. And to fill us in on the case?”

“We’re totally confidential?” They both nodded. “Okay. Dale is the boy Anna Celeste saw the day of the murder. He’d borrowed Mr. Jesse’s boat, and was returning it for the reward money. Dale? You got anything to add?”

“I didn’t know you were going to confess me,” he gasped. “I’m innocent,” he added, looking from Sal to Skeeter. “I didn’t kill Mr. Jesse.”

“We believe you,” Sal said.

Skeeter hid a smile. “Mo, you all haven’t told me anything I hadn’t figured out.”

“Exactly,” I told her. “Dale and me want this
kept
confidential until we clear Dale’s name, which should be soon. We’ve gone professional.”

“Detectives,” Dale said modestly, handing Sal his card.

She read the hand-lettered card aloud: “
Desperado Detectives. Murders solved cheap, lost pets found for free. Dale, Chief of Lost Pets.
Impressive,” she said.

He smiled. “I’d like to have that back when you’re through with it,” he said. “We just opened this morning, and I only had time to make one card.”

Sal handed it back. Then she tapped her knuckle against her chin, the way she does when confronted with Diabolical-Level Math. “What about Anna Celeste?”

“What about her?” Dale asked.

“She knows.” My stomach dropped like I was on a Ferris wheel. “She called me last night, about her party,” she explained, fluffing a ruffle. She looked at Dale. “Are you going? I am.”

Dale’s eyes had glazed over. “Party? What party?” he replied. “And what do you mean, Anna knows? Is she turning me in?”

“I … don’t think so. She didn’t say. Actually, I think the fact that it was you she saw kind of slipped out.”

Sal was right. Attila wouldn’t give away that information for the same reason a trained assassin wouldn’t give away bullets. Dale closed his eyes. I knew he was picturing himself in an orange jumpsuit and trying not to cry.

“Sal,” I said, “could you call her back, maybe ask her to keep this quiet until—”

“No, I don’t ask Anna Celeste for things. Her parents either. Family rule,” she said.

Sal is what’s known as a Poor Relation of Anna’s, meaning she gets invited to Attila’s parties, but not to riding lessons. Sal’s daddy stocks shelves at the Piggly Wiggly and her mother stays home with Sal’s little brother, a confirmed biter. They ain’t Money, but somehow
Sal still manages to dress like a fashion plate out of JCPenney.

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I told her. I tugged Dale to his feet. “Don’t worry, Desperado,” I told him. “We’ll think of something. Sal? Skeeter? We’ll be in touch. Right now we got to get to the café before the breakfast rush sucks Miss Lana under.”

The breakfast rush had just begun to fade when we finally taped our sign near the cash register:

Desperado Detectives.

Murders Solved Cheap.

Lost Pets Found For Free.

“You’re doing great,” I whispered to Dale. “Just act calm and look innocent. And stay away from Attila and Joe Starr.”

As he headed for the kitchen, Grandmother Miss Lacy Thornton bustled in, lugging a funeral wreath. She took a seat at the counter, swinging the wreath onto the stool beside her. “Good morning, dear,” she said. “I hear Lana’s home. I’m glad.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “She’s whipped up a pancake special. Nice wreath,” I added, sliding a glass of water across the counter. “Is it for Mr. Jesse?”

“Gracious, no,” she said. “It’s for me. I’m driving over
to Tarboro today, to visit my burial site. I’m prepaid, you know.”

“Congratulations,” I told her. “You like some bacon with your pancakes?”

“No, thank you,” she said, straightening the wreath’s bow. “Care to come along? It’s a lovely cemetery. We could make a day of it.”

“Normally I’d say yes, but I got detective work to do,” I said.

She glanced at our sign. “Lovely,” she said. “May I launch a bottle for you, then? The cemetery practically overlooks the Tar River.”

I reached under the counter and selected a vinegar bottle with my standard Upstream Mother message inside. “Thanks,” I said. “And if you think of any murder clues, keep us in mind. There may be a reward involved.”

She tucked the bottle in her bag. “You’ll be the first to know, dear.”

Thes bellied up to the counter with his father, Reverend Thompson. “Have you seen the weather? We got a storm forming in the tropics.”

Attila breezed in and Dale ducked behind the counter.

“There’s always a storm forming in the tropics,” Attila snipped as she claimed a window table. “I’ll have two
poached eggs and a diet soda, Mo. And I’m in a hurry. I’m picking out my party decorations today.” She flounced her hair and sat down, my anti-invitation hanging in the air like eau de skunk.

“Be nice,” Dale hissed from somewhere near my feet.

I squinted at her, trying to cripple her with my Karate Death Chi. She smiled and put her napkin in her lap. I sighed. “Coming up, Anna,” I said.

Miss Lana came to the kitchen door moments later. “Friends,” she said. “Mo and I are hosting a memorial service for Jesse Tatum here at the café, Sunday afternoon. You’re all invited. Please help spread the word.”

Attila looked up from her soda. “A funeral?
Here?
”

Reverend Thompson tugged his napkin from his collar. “Lana, a service for Jesse is a wonderful idea. This is a great venue, but I wish you’d consider having it at Creekside Church. We have a large sanctuary, and I’m sure Rose would play for the service.” Miss Rose is Creekside’s pianist. Sometimes Dale solos while she plays. “It would mean a lot to me,” Reverend Thompson added.

I looked around the café, into a sea of baffled faces. Mr. Jesse had never set foot in Creekside Church, as far as I knew. But Miss Lana’s Go with the Flow kicked into overdrive. “Wonderful,” she said. “Shall we say Sunday at two p.m.?”

“Perfect,” Reverend Thompson said, and Miss Lana returned to her griddle.

To my surprise, the breakfast crowd headed out early. To my horror, Attila stuck me with her check. On the back, she’d scribbled a message:
Thanks for breakfast, Mo-ron. Say hi to Dale for me.

As Dale and I finally sat down to eat, around 9:30, Thes darted back in. “I didn’t want to mention it with Daddy here, but Spitz is missing. The case is yours.”

“Your cat? Again?” Dale said. “Spitz runs away every time the wind changes. He’s a repeat offender, Thes. We ain’t looking for him.”

“You advertised,” he said, pointing to our sign. “That’s like giving your word.”

I sighed and opened my order pad. “We’ll need an official description.”

“Cat,” Thes said. “Orange hair, green eyes, chunky body.”

Spitz,
I wrote.
Looks like Thes
.

“Last known whereabouts?”

“The churchyard,” he said. “Yesterday. About the same time Mr. Jesse turned up dead.” He swallowed hard. “You don’t think …”

“Nobody’s thinking serial killer,” Dale said, his blue eyes serious. “Not yet.”

Reverend Thompson honked his horn, and Thes bolted. “We need to hurry too,” I told Dale. “We gotta get to the crime scene.”

“Us?” he said. “The crime scene?”

“Of course,” I said, ignoring the syrup on his chin. “We’re professionals.”

“Okay, but I better check in with Mama first,” he said. He folded his last pancake into his mouth.

One thing about Miss Rose: She likes to keep track of her baby.

Twenty minutes later, we pounded up Miss Rose’s steps. “Mama,” Dale called as the screen door slapped shut behind us. “I’m home.” Silence. “Must be out in the garden,” he muttered. “Come on. She’ll want to say hello.”

We were halfway down the hall when a door opened behind us. “Hold it right there, young man,” Miss Rose said, sticking her head out of her bedroom. “Where do you think you’re going?” I knew from the panic on Dale’s face that he’d forgotten he’d snuck out last night to come to my house.

How he forgets these things remains a mystery to me.

“Morning, Miss Rose,” I said. “Nice morning to sleep in, ain’t it?”

“I imagine it would be, if I had the wherewithal to live that way,” she said, the frost in her voice nipping my ears.

Her green eyes settled on Dale. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Morning, Mama,” Dale said, offering a weak smile.
“Did you find my note? I left one so you wouldn’t worry.”

“A note,” she said, fishing through her skirt pocket. “A note. Let me see if I can lay my hand on a note. Oh! That’s right. I found something on your bed when I went in to wake you for breakfast. Here it is. What a happy circumstance.”

Somehow I doubted the circumstance was going to be happy much longer.

She held out a crumpled scrap of paper and adjusted her reading glasses. “‘Mama,’” she read. “‘I am a murder suspect over at Mo’s if you need me. Please do not worry. Your loving son, Dale.’” She glanced up. “Is
that
the note you’re referring to?”