The Odds of Getting Even (16 page)

I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Liz!”

A faint echo bounced from the forest. The coyotes yodeled back.

They're death on lone creatures, I thought.

“They're hunting. We have to find her,” Dale said, panic edging his voice. “Queen Elizabeth counts on me.”

“Those coyotes are miles away,” I said, hoping I was right. “Don't worry, Desperado. We'll find her.”

We didn't.

An hour later, we climbed up from the river, our voices hoarse from calling. We'd looked everywhere: springhouse, dance pavilion, even the edge of the old cemetery. My heart and my feet felt like ice.

“I've been hovering,” Dale fretted as we headed for the inn. “She's run away.”

I looked at the inn and my heart exploded like fireworks. “Dale. Look.”

A lumpy, triangular silhouette darkened the edge of the inn's porch. The lump tilted its nose to sniff the wind.

“Liz,” Dale said, relief sweeping his voice. He broke into a run. As he hugged Queen Elizabeth, a voice sliced the night.

“Deal with it,” a woman said.

Capers?

“I thought she was sick,” Dale whispered. “What's she doing out here?”

“Shhhh.” I peeped around the side of the inn. “Let's find out.”

“Stay, Liz,” he murmured. “I mean it this time.”

We slipped behind the boxwoods and crept down the side of the inn. Capers stood in the moonlight, her gown
flapping in the breeze. A man walked to her, his body a shifty gray shadow in the moonlight. “Moves like a wolf,” Dale whispered.

The man slipped close to Capers . . . Did he hand her something? Take something? I squinted as he stepped away. “It's too dangerous,” he told her. He turned and disappeared into the woods.

Dale frowned. “Too dangerous? What's too dangerous?”

Capers strolled toward us. We flattened against the clapboards.

She sniffed the night like a wild animal. Then she froze, her attention focused dead ahead, the wind trifling with her hair. Slowly I turned my head to look.

Queen Elizabeth strutted across the yard like a hired gun. She snuffled the crisp night air, wagged her tail—and waddled for Dale.

The Colonel says sometimes you got to turn the tables while you got a table to turn. I stepped into the moonlight: “You don't look sick,” I said. “Explain yourself.”

She jumped. “Jeez Louise,” she gasped. “What are you doing here?” She wrapped Miss Lana's bed jacket tight around her. Was she hiding something against her rib cage? “Okay, you got me. I
am
sick, but I came out to meet a source.”

Does she think we're blind
and
stupid?

I smiled, pretending to be both. “What source? We didn't see anybody. Did we, Dale?”

“No?” he guessed. “What did he say?”

“Sorry,” she said, trying to brush past. “A journalist always protects her sources.”

“Off the record, then,” I said, stepping in front of her.

Dale stepped up beside me. “We took you to the patrol car that wasn't there—off the record,” he added.

Good move.

She tilted her head and the breeze caught her curls. That ain't Sick Bed Hair, I thought. She's lying from here to Christmas. But why?

“I've said too much, Desperados,” she said. “I'm sick and I need to go back to bed. But I'll tell you this: His lead will help your father, Dale—if it plays out.”

Smart. That's exactly the bait to reel Dale in, I thought.

Dale stepped aside and she swept past us, the inn's door locking behind her.

Five minutes later we stood in Harm's kitchen, warming our hands at the stove.

“A shadowy wolf-looking guy with Capers?” Harm said. He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the counter—a good look. “And you told her you
didn't
see him?”

“Yeah,” Dale said, looking at me. “Why did we do that?”

“Because detective work is half what you know—and half what other people don't
know
you know.” I held my palms to the stove, loving the heat's sharp bite. I shook my head. “I can't quite explain it, but there's something about Capers.”

“She's smart, hot-headed, and nosy. Reminds me of you,” Harm said, setting a cookie jar on the table and opening it.

“I don't like her either,” Dale said, taking a cookie.

What?

“She's like you on the outside, Mo, but not on the inside,” he said. He gulped his cookies, filled a bowl with water, and headed for Queen Elizabeth.

“What did she say about spying on us?” Harm asked.

“At Attila's, with binoculars,” I said, to fill Dale in. “I forgot to ask her,” I admitted. I frowned. “What
do
we know about Capers, really?”

Dale shrugged. “People like her. Guys like her because . . . you know,” he said, and Harm nodded. “And the town likes her. Normally the town hates strangers, but she wrecked and nearly got killed—but didn't. She's a miracle and everybody loves a miracle except the Devil. And Miss Lana likes her because she's from Charleston. She treats her like family.”

“She's not family,” I said, shocked. “But she does pay cash, and Miss Lana says that's sort of like being a distant cousin.”

Dale snorted. “People pay cash so you can't trace them. Everybody knows that.”

I nibbled a cookie. “Let's background check her. I'll call Skeeter.”

“Good,” Dale said, stuffing an extra cookie in his pocket. “Mo, we better get going.” He looked at Harm. “This is because we're riding our bikes in pitch-dark and nobody's offered us a ride.”

Harm grinned. “Hey, Gramps,” he called. “Mo and Dale need a ride.”

In the living room, something crashed. “Dog bite it,” Mr. Red shouted.

“What's he doing?” Dale asked as Mr. Red opened the living room door. “It smells bad.”

“Cupid attack,” Harm said. “He says he's fixing the place for me and him—and he is. But he's hoping Miss Thornton will like it too.
Really
like it.”

Mr. Red stomped into the kitchen, tool belt clacking. My eyes traveled from his paint-stained ratty sweater to the baggy britches cinched tight with an electric cord. Plaster dust covered him from his messy hair to his untied hunting boots. “Get in the truck,” he said, and stomped out the door.

“So that's what Cupid looks like,” Dale said. “I'd wondered.”

That night I settled into bed and dialed. Skeeter picked up immediately. “Skeeter and Associates.”

“Skeeter? It's Mo.”

“Please hold, I'll see if she's available,” she replied.

Brilliant. A faux assistant. I tucked the idea away for later.

Skeeter came back on: “Hi, Mo. What's up?”

“Can you handle a background check? Capers Dylan.”

“I'm curious too,” she admitted. “She looks familiar. The way she walks. . . . I don't know. Other people have mentioned it too.” She hesitated. “Sal and I will each want not just
any
puppy, but pick-of-the-litter rights in exchange for our services.”

I grinned. Dale would love it.

“Done,” I said, and hung up the phone.

Dear Upstream Mother,

Cupid's set up shop at Harm's house. The smell is repulsive.

We're hosting Thanksgiving dinner at our personal home this year. You're invited.

Miss Lana's invited Capers Dylan, from
Charleston. I'd like your take on her. Lately I'm having more questions than answers.

I'll set a place for you next to me, same as always. No need to RSVP.

Mo

PS: I hope you like collards.

Consider It Done

The background check went through with blinding speed. “Desperados,” Skeeter whispered as we zipped down the hall the next day. “In here.”

She closed the office door behind us. “First a message from Miss Lana,” she said. “Please pick up the inn's trash after school. The Colonel's on strike.”

“Now the nitty-gritty,” Sal said, perching on the desk and crossing her legs.

Skeeter slid a paper to us. “A hard copy of Capers Dylan's website.” I squinted at a blurry photo of a redheaded woman with a big smile and a long list of publications.

“I called the editor of the
Greensboro Gazette,
” Skeeter continued.

“Capers has written several articles that didn't make our paper, including an interview with Deputy Marla, who's volunteering in the prison kitchen while she awaits trial. Deputy Marla offered some pretty interesting quotes.” She flipped to an article and read: “‘I'm not
surprised Macon's escaped,' Deputy Marla said. ‘He's smart, he's fast. He was the brains of our operation. People underestimate him.'”

“Daddy?” Dale said, frowning. “Is Deputy Marla saying Daddy's the brains of her and Slate? Because Daddy's mostly drunk. He ain't even the brains of himself half the time.”

True.

“But Capers checks out,” Harm said, leaning forward.

“You decide. Here's her bio,” she said, turning a page toward us. “She's vague about her age, but so is Miss Lana. Says she lives in Columbia, South Carolina. No family but a cat.”

“She lives in
Columbia?
She told us she lives in Charleston,” I said.

Skeeter shrugged. “The website's a few years old. She could have moved.”

“And she told me she has a sister.”

She stacked her papers and stapled them. “This is the South. People disown and reclaim relatives just to pass the time.”

Harm reached for her information. Skeeter pulled it away and slid it to Dale. “There you go, one dog lover to another,” she said. “Can we confirm pick of the litter?”

Dale blazed a look straight into Sal's eyes. “You would have been my first choice anyway. These puppies are family to me.”

Sal gasped and knocked over Skeeter's pencil cup. “I won't let you down, Dale.”

“I know,” he said. And we headed for the door.

“Have a wonderful Thanksgiving!” Miss Retzyl shouted that afternoon as the bell rang and we stampeded the door.

Moments later we Desperados pedaled up the inn's drive.

“Back in a flash,” I said, and ran inside. “Capers?” I shouted, flying through the front door. I pounded up the steps. Her trash bag sat outside her door. Outside the other doors—zip. Optimal. I bolted out and slung the bag into my bicycle basket. “We'll mine this for reporter notes later.”

Then came the surprise du jour.

“Who's that?” Dale asked as someone revved an engine at the head of the drive.

“A motorcycle,” Harm said. “Capers?”

The rider gunned the engine. As the bike hurtled up the path, Capers pulled her feet onto the seat beneath her and rose, her arms wide as bird wings. As the bike slowed, she dropped onto it and headed for the inn.

“Where did she learn to do that?” Dale asked.

“She learned when she was a girl,” I said. “She told me. She broke her nose trying.”

“She's a stunter,” Harm said as she roared toward us.
“No wonder that parking lot crash didn't kill her.”

The motorcycle coughed to a stop. “Fantastic,” Harm said as we stepped from behind the cedars. “I didn't know you were a trick rider.”

She jumped. “And I didn't know I had an audience.” She took off her helmet. “It's an old bicycle trick. I've missed stretching my wings.” She shook out her long red hair. “What are you Musketeers up to?”

“About four foot three,” Dale said, standing a little taller.

“You must feel better,” I said as she hopped off her bike.

She unbuckled her saddlebag. “I do. Guess I just had a sinus thing. I'm glad I ran into you all,” she added, giving Harm a smile that would cripple a frail boy. “I have a question. What do you think about all these Tupelo crimes?”

“We think Daddy didn't do them,” Dale said.

“Really?” she said, arching her eyebrows and looking at me.

I gulped. The Desperados had never really discussed Macon's guilt—not straight out. I wanted to support Dale and be a kind friend, but so far the clues didn't help. I turned the conversation in a safer direction. “What do
you
think?” I asked.

She studied us like we were a hand of cards. “I'm like
everybody who's playing the clues instead of their hearts,” she said. “I think Macon's as guilty as they come. I also think he's smarter than people think. I've interviewed Slate and Marla. They don't seem that bright—especially Marla. But Macon? So far he's outsmarted us all.”

She headed for the steps.

“Wait,” I said, and she turned. “We saw you spying on us at Attila's.”

She laughed, her red hair shimmering like sunset. “I wasn't spying on you, sweetie, I was trying to get my story. Maybe you'll invite me along next time. Oh, could you tell Lana I'll miss Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow? I have to go to Raleigh.”

“To visit your sister?” I asked, but the door slapped shut behind her.

“I'm home,” I shouted moments later, hurling my messenger bag and Capers's trash onto my desk and kicking off my sneakers.

“In the kitchen, Mo,” Miss Lana called.

Miss Lana's true coppery hair glowed warm and soft as she worked on a bowl of stuffing, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. “I love Thanksgiving,” she said, smiling.

“Me too.” We always back-and-forth with Miss Rose for Thanksgiving. Last year we ate at her card tables. This year we'll set up tables in our living room. People
think we'd host in the café, but hosting there says work.

Hosting here says home.

“Capers says to tell you she can't come tomorrow,” I said, washing my hands.

“Something else to be grateful for,” the Colonel muttered. “The presence of the two of you in my life, and her absence. That woman gets on my nerves.”

I looked at Miss Lana. “She's a trick bike rider. We saw her. And her website says she's from Columbia. Not Charleston.”

Miss Lana floured the countertop and set out sugar and butter. “I know,” she said, getting out a pie plate. “She mentioned her bike riding—remnants of a misspent youth. And nobody from Charleston makes the mistakes Capers makes. Rainbow
Road
instead of Rainbow
Row
? Really.” She shook her head. “Don't hold it against her, sugar. Everybody has a past except me. And secretly, everybody wants to be from Charleston. Who wouldn't?”

Miss Lana's Go With the Flow has a generosity I admire.

The Colonel tumbled a bag of sweet potatoes into the sink and turned on the water. “I don't know about you, but I'd be more grateful for Thanksgiving if it meant less work,” he said, and she laughed.

Miss Lana loves Thanksgiving because it's
Thanksgiving. The Colonel loves it because Miss Lana loves it, and I love it because it's with them.

He tipped his head toward a knife. “KP duty, Soldier.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, slipping in beside him.

We settled into the kitchen, the three of us, slicing, dicing, roasting.

The round, rich scent of baking sweet potatoes and boiling collard greens, the tang of sage, the drowsy smell of rising bread. This is how family smells, I thought.

This is what it means to belong.