The Odds of Getting Even (26 page)

I faux-smiled at Attila and her parents, who sat by a
window like a family of glossy mannequins. “This loot includes Attila's show bike. Mrs. Simpson, thank you for that two-thousand-dollar reward, which we hope you'll cough up before you leave. Small bills work best for us.”

Jimmy Exum raised a grubby hand. “What about our party?”

Crud. I'd forgotten I promised cash for a class party. Would there be
anything
left for the Desperados?

“Naturally, a chunk of the reward will go into the sixth-grade party fund,” I said, and the sixth grade cheered.

Harm stepped near and whispered, “Present the clues we know for sure first. Without that DNA, this thing is a whole lot of Show and See What Happens.”

“Right.”

He strolled to the front door and crossed his arms. The Colonel moved to the kitchen door. I took a deep breath.

“Mr. Macon's guilty of a lot of crimes,” I said. “But he ain't guilty of everything. Dale, who would probably be a genius in another dimension, knew that from the start.”

Mayor Little's mother hooked a finger at me. “Get on with it. Stop putting on airs.”

Lavender held up ten fingers. I counted them down.

“Thank you for mentioning air, Mrs. Little. That reminds me of air fresheners.” I strolled over and picked
up the photo of Flick's car. “Exhibit A,” I said. “An excellent photo of the air freshener dangling from Flick Crenshaw's rearview mirror.”

“Lovely darkroom skills,” Grandmother Miss Lacy murmured.

Flick's beady eyes glinted. “I hate a stale-smelling car. So what?”

I handed the photo to Starr. “See anything unusual about this air freshener?”

He shrugged. “It's a skull-and-crossbones, torn across one corner.” I opened our evidence file and lifted out the air freshener from the patrol car. “And is it an exact match for this one? From the stolen patrol car?”

“An exact match.” He did a double take. “From the
patrol car
?”

“Two-fers,” Harm said, pointing at his brother. “Sad proof that Flick drove the patrol car from the courthouse.”

Flick scowled. “I did not.”

Dale stood, holding little Mary Queen of Scots. “Flick knocked the guard out and put the keys where Daddy would see them. Only Daddy's too smart to swipe a black-and-white. He ran instead.”

“I didn't,” Flick said, looking around the room.

I walked away from him, every eye following me. “Flick drove the stolen patrol car to Miss Rose's. He
kicked in the door, and took things to make it look like Mr. Macon did it.”

Dale shook his head. “Squash,” he muttered. “Daddy won't eat squash.”

I pressed on. “Flick waited until dark and hid the patrol car in the woods.”

“It's a lie,” Flick said. He whipped a look toward the door. Mr. Red walked over to stand by Harm. “I can explain this,” Flick said. He pointed at Capers. “She—”

“Don't listen to him. He hates me,” Capers interrupted.

Excellent, I thought. Flick's already turning on Capers.

Capers smiled around the café. The café smiled back. “Flick asked me out,” she said. “Of course I said no. He tried to push me around and . . . Mo and Dale
saw
me slap him. Ask them. Flick will say anything to get even with me.”

The café glared at Flick.

She's smart, I thought. But not smart enough.

“After Flick left Miss Rose's house,
Mr. Macon
drove up in his brother's old car.” I grabbed my crime scene photo of the two sets of tracks—one leading to Dale's stable. “Exhibit B. Two sets of tracks.”

“Circumstantial,” Flick muttered, crossing his arms.

“Then there's the break-in at the church,” I said. “Harm?”

Harm looked at Starr. “Did you bring Mr. Macon's
hunting jacket from the patrol car? Is it missing a button?”

Starr opened the bag, holding it away from him. He peeked in. “The buttons are all here.”

I opened our evidence file. “This thread came from the windowsill where the robber slithered into the church. Is it a match for Mr. Macon's jacket?”

He held it to the jacket. “No,” he said, looking puzzled.

“How about this button?” Harm asked. “Thes found it in the church, beneath the window that was the point of entry.” Harm winked at me. TV detective lingo. Good.

Starr shook his head. “That's not from Macon's jacket either. So what?”

“So Mr. Macon's jacket didn't skinny through the church window when it was robbed, but another hunting jacket did,” Harm said.

I hesitated. Flick or Capers?

I'd never once seen Capers wear brown. And if
she
lost a button, she'd be smart enough to find it—or replace it. Like the Colonel says, sometimes you just got to take your best shot. I went for it.

“Flick hunts,” I said. “If you search his place, you'll find the jacket that wants this button—and Miss Rose's shotgun too.”

“Bull. It was her,” Flick said, pointing at Capers. “Search her place.”

“Why don't I search both places?” Starr suggested, and Flick went red with anger.

“Then there's the loot from the Simpson break-in,” I said. “Anna's bike and jewelry. . . .”

“That was definitely Macon,” Mrs. Simpson said. “We have his footprint.”

“Dale found Mr. Macon's shoes at the old fish camp with the rest of the loot—the shoes used to
plant
prints at your break-in,” I said. “The church break-in too.”

Capers snorted. “Plant footprints? I say Macon was wearing those shoes.”

Dale shook his head. “Why would Daddy wear slick-soled toe-pinchers when he could wear his brogans?”

Grandmother Miss Lacy raised her hand. “Brogans, dear?”

“Prison boots,” Dale explained.

“Very penitentiary chic,” the mayor said, nodding.

“She's wrong,” Capers said. “Those shoes
tie
Macon to the break-ins. Ask Starr.”

“No, Mo's not wrong,” Dale snapped. “Nobody walks with their feet totally flat. Nobody steps in just the clear spots or leaves just one footprint. And only a rookie wears the same shoes to two robberies in a row. Do that, and you tie the crimes together for any chucklehead to see.”

I gave Starr a smile. “We mean c
hucklehead
in the best way,” I said.

Little Agnes grabbed my arm. “Mo, this picture is different,” she said again.

She placed a pudgy finger on my photo. “Capers is different. She's smiling.”

I looked at the photo and my stomach dropped like an anchor. Why hadn't I noticed that?

“Exactly, Little Agnes,” I said, very smooth. I walked away, pulling the café's attention like a magnet draws iron. “Detective Starr, perhaps you will tell us why criminals return to the scene of the crime,” I said.

He shifted. “To watch investigations of their crimes unfold. Why?”

“Correct,” I said. “And who kept showing up at
our
crime scenes? Capers Dylan.”

Capers looked at the ocean of shocked faces. “I'm a reporter. It's my job.”

“Or your cover,” the Colonel said.

I held up a photo like show-and-tell. “I took this at the river, the day Starr pulled the patrol car out of the water. We thought Mr. Macon was in that car. Every face in this photo looks sick with dread—except one. Capers is smiling.”

The room gasped.

“Different,” Little Agnes said, shaking her head.

I handed a stack of photos to Hannah. “Pass these around. You'll be surprised how often Capers shows up
at crime scenes. You won't want to miss the one where she's spying on us through binoculars as we investigate the Simpson break-in.”

“I haven't done anything wrong,” Capers said. “You people know me.”

“Do we?” I asked. “We know you crashed in our parking lot the day of the trial.”

“Dreadful,” Mayor Little said. “Run off the road.”

“No. Capers fell down all by herself,” Little Agnes said. “Nobody pushed her.”

“Thank you for that eyewitness account, Little Agnes—the only person in the café who saw the crash.” I whipped to Capers. “That crash made us want to take you in. Even a Desperado was smitten by you,” I said, my voice like steel. Harm shrugged.

“She isn't even really from Charleston,” Miss Lana said, her voice hushed.

“Then we caught you trick-riding on your motorcycle. You're good. Good enough to fake-crash along the only clear pathway in the parking lot that day.”

“What?”
the mayor cried.

Capers nudged her saddlebag forward with her foot and leaned to open it. She winced as she raked her notebook off the table and into the bag.

Why the wince?

I looked at her soft new gloves. My blood ran cold.

Of course.

“But what about motive?” I said.

“Good question,” Starr said, eyeing Capers.

“Who would benefit most from the Tupelo Landing crime spree? At this time, I'd like to introduce Desperado Detective Agency's consultant Sally Amanda Jones. Sal?”

Sal stood and smoothed her skirt. “I'm pleased to announce I've deciphered Capers's coded messages.”

“Coded messages?” Starr said, leaning forward. “What are you talking about?”

“Messages between Capers and her sister—Deputy Marla Everette,” she said.

The crowd roared. “Deputy Marla? But she's in jail!”

“Her
sister?
I knew Capers looked familiar,” Miss Retzyl cried.

Sal adjusted her beret and waited for the crowd to settle down. “The notes were taken from Capers's trash.”

“My notes are protected by the First Amendment,” Capers snapped.

Attila flounced her hair. “At least you got the amendment right this time.”

“Shut up, you mealy-mouthed little cretin,” Capers snarled.

“Hey!” I shouted. “Attila is
my
enemy. Leave her alone.”

“You're all crazy,” Capers said, jumping up. “I don't have to listen to this.”

“I think you do,” Starr said, rising. “Sit down.”

Capers slammed back into her seat and Sal waited for our eyes to find her. “Dale?” she said. “My easel, please.”

Dale darted into the kitchen and staggered out with an easel. Sal's notes hung on the board in two neat rows. “These messages between Capers and Deputy Marla lay out their plan, beginning to end,” she said, whipping out her laser pointer.

“Their plan? To
re-create
the pattern of Deputy Marla's crimes.” She walked briskly to the easel, her Mary Janes clicking on the tiles. “Capers and Flick framed Mr. Macon for a long list of crimes.”

“You're nuts. It was her,” Flick said again, pointing at Capers.

“Dale?” Sal said, and Dale rose.

“This is a Big Picture issue,” he said. “It came to me when I was trying to think about science. Look at the Big Picture of what Slate and Marla have been charged with,” he told the café. “With killing a man and sending his body floating down the river. Robbing a bank and shooting a guard. Breaking and entering. Kidnapping.”

The café nodded. So did Harm and me.

“Now look at the Big Picture pattern in Tupelo Landing. No murder,” he said. “But everything else matches.
Bank job, shots fired, breaking and entering, evidence placed in the river.”

“So?” Starr said, but he'd opened his clue pad.

“Retro-framing,” Dale said. “First they framed Daddy for the crimes here in Tupelo Landing. Then they could retro-frame him for the crimes they already did before. They made the crimes match up. And they used a new given to make the whole thing go. They tried to make it look like Daddy was mastermind of their group.”

The café chuckled.

“Retro-framing?” Harm muttered. “Dale, you
are
a genius.”

Dale beamed at Sal. “You tell why they did it,” he said, and she blushed.

Sal tapped the easel. “To create
reasonable doubt
for her sister, Deputy Marla. Because if there was even a
suspicion
that Macon could have done Deputy Marla's crimes, Marla would get off.”

The Colonel poured himself a cup of coffee. “Brilliant plan,” he said, studying Capers.

“Flick and Capers even attempted murder,” I said, pointing to them. “Once with a slit tire at the racetrack, once with the guard's gun at the bank, once in the fire at Lavender's garage.”

“The crimes got bolder and bolder,” Harm said. “Adrenaline is an addiction.”

“Hold it,” Flick said. “I didn't try to kill anybody. This was all Capers.”

The café turned toward him.

“She hired me to knock out the guard and make it look like Macon robbed Rose's house. She paid cash—fine. I needed the work. She hired me to rob the church. Fine again, nobody got hurt.
Then
she fired me for trying to join Starr's search, said I was too stupid to ad-lib her jobs. But I didn't try to kill
anybody.
I left the guard's pistol with her.
She
used it to rob that bank.”

Gotcha
, I thought.

“He's lying,” Capers shouted over the hubbub. “
He's
your man, Starr. Who else knows how to slit a tire so it blows after a few laps?”

Flick jumped to his feet, his face red with fury. “Liar. I refused that job. She slit that tire herself. And she called me yesterday, and said if I didn't move the loot from the store to the fish camp, she'd turn me in for stealing all of it. I'm telling the truth. Check with my phone company. You'll see.”

I looked at Harm. He winked.

“Flick's telling the truth, for once.” I reached into the evidence box. “Here's Attila's hideously ugly turkey earring, stolen from her home and recovered by Dale at the old store.”