Three Times Lucky Page 10

So that was why he was being nice. He wanted my clues. “Beats me. You can let me out at the head of that path,” I added, pointing. “I got to pick up my bike.”

  He didn’t even slow down. “I don’t mind giving you a lift to the café,” he said. “I don’t want you out by yourself. Besides, I’d like to have a word with the Colonel.”

  My confidence wobbled like a bike in heavy sand. “The Colonel?” I said.

  “Yeah. That’s not a problem, is it?”

  I shrugged. “Not for me,” I said, hoping I was right.

  A few minutes later Starr parked beside the Colonel’s Underbird and followed me into the café. “Come in,” Miss Lana sang from the kitchen. “I’ll be with you in a minute!”

  Starr swept off his hat. “Things have changed a little since I was here,” he said.

  That was an understatement.

  You can tell who’s running the café the instant you walk through the door. The Colonel keeps the café military crisp; Miss Lana prefers a theme. Glancing around, I pegged today’s theme as 1930s Paris—her favorite. A miniature Eiffel Tower graced the counter, and scratchy accordion music crackled from the ancient Victrola she’d placed near the jukebox. The red Formica tables sported white lace cloths, which she’d turned catty-corner, lending the café a bohemian flair. The blackboard behind the counter read: Le Menu.

  “Bonjour,” Miss Lana said, backing through the kitchen’s swinging doors. Her calf-length, pale pink dress clung to her body like a fine, shimmering mold. “Welcome to la café.” She wheeled gracefully, placed a tray of sparkling glasses on the counter, and beamed at Joe Starr. “Mo, where are your manners? Take the gentleman’s hat,” she said, picking up her fan and, with a practiced flick of her wrist, snapping it open. “Welcome, mon capitán.”

  When Miss Lana goes into character, she goes into character.

  I popped Starr’s hat onto the counter. “He ain’t a captain, he’s a detective,” I said, wiggling my eyebrows in the universally recognized sign for Be Quiet. “He’s here about the murder.”

  She ignored me. “Wine, sir? Unless you’re on duty …”

  “Iced tea,” Starr said, his eyes traveling past Miss Lana’s Jean Harlow wig to the 1930s black-and-white Hollywood photos on the wall.

  I elbowed back into the conversation. “Detective Joe Starr, this is Miss Lana. Miss Lana, DETECTIVE Joe Starr,” I said. “The one I told you about. The one investigating Mr. Jesse’s murder. Are those our lunches over there?”

  “Yes, sugar,” she said, glancing at the neat row of brown paper bags lining the counter. “All packed up and ready to go. Sal brought me the takeout list. She said Anna’s lunch was prepaid … ?”

  “Right,” I said, cutting her short. “I got her money right here. You want to carry some of these lunches out for me?” I asked Starr. “Maybe give me a ride back to the driveway? Folks are hungry, and you are a public servant, after all.”

  Now he ignored me. “It’s slow for lunchtime,” he said to Miss Lana.

  “Naturally,” she said. “No one’s thinking of the café today. All eyes are on you.”

  Starr glanced at the café’s one occupied table. Miss Lana’s lone customer had slumped forward, cradling his head in his arms. “Too much wine?” Starr asked, nodding toward the man.

  She sighed. “Too much drink well before he arrived at my door.” She picked up the coffeepot, swayed across the room, and carefully topped off the man’s cup. He sat up and focused blearily in our direction.

  Crud. Dale’s daddy. Could my day get any worse?

  “Hey, Mo,” Mr. Macon mumbled. He looked horrible—like time had grabbed his face with both hands and stretched the life right out of him.

  “Hey,” I muttered, heading for the jukebox. Maybe if I stood here long enough, he’d go back to sleep. Dale’s was the last name I wanted to come up with Starr in the room.

  “Where’s the Colonel?” Starr asked. “I’d like a word with him, if you don’t mind.”

  “The Colonel?” Miss Lana hesitated. “Why, I don’t believe he’s here. Then again, he’s so hard to keep up with … Such a mercurial personality.” She smiled. “Is his car out front?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “Go to the kitchen and call him, sugar,” she told me. “Maybe he’s out back, fishing.”

  If he is, he ain’t the only one, I thought.

  I shot Dale’s daddy a quick look. Out cold again, thank heavens. I tromped through the kitchen to the side door and cupped my hands around my mouth. “Colonel?” I called, so Starr could hear me. “Miss Lana wants you.” I waited a minute, and came back inside.

  “Very well, Detective,” Miss Lana was saying. “Two hamburgers to go. Pity you’re not staying for lunch. We could get better acquainted.”

  “The Colonel didn’t answer me,” I said. “I guess he couldn’t hear me.”

  “That man will be the death of me.” She sighed, giving Starr a baleful look. “Oh, he’ll come slipping back in when I least expect it with some ridiculous story about a bass or a … What are those other things he talks about, sugar?”

  “Catfish?” I suggested. It was all bunk, the idea of the Colonel fishing. The Colonel’s only fishing story involves a stick of dynamite and a bushel basket.

  “Catfish,” she said, beaming. “Of course.”

  She smiled her most leisurely smile, but moved like lightning as she slapped Starr’s hamburgers together, folded them in crisp tissue, and put them in a bag. She wanted Starr gone as bad as I did. “There you are. On the house,” she said, sliding the bag toward him.

  “Thanks anyway,” he said, putting a ten on the counter. “Keep the change.”

  “Très bien,” she sang. “Au revoir!”

  “Merci,” Starr muttered, heading for the door. “Oh,” he said, turning. “You haven’t mentioned the murder, which I find odd. That’s the first thing most folks ask about.”

  “Well, pardonez-moi,” she said. “How is your investigation going, Detective?”

  “Fine. And don’t worry about not asking. After all, there are a few things I haven’t asked you,” he said. “For instance, any idea who might want Jesse Tatum dead?”

  I stood behind Starr, waving my arms, mouthing the words No! No! as Miss Lana studied me.

  She shrugged delicately. “Well,” she said, “his girlfriend may have wanted him dead. Or her jealous husband. I’m sure you know about them. Selma and Albert Foster, from Kinston?”

  I went dizzy. Those were my best clues!

  “You know them, then?” Starr said, taking out his pad.

  “No,” she said. “But you hear things when you run a café.”

  Starr nodded. “And where were you the night Jesse Tatum died?”

  “On a Greyhound, coming home from Charleston.”

  “Alone?”

  She smiled. “In the existential sense, we all travel alone, don’t we?” she said. “At times I feel it like a dull, aching pain, right here,” she said, bringing her hand to her heart. “Don’t you? Like a child yearning to go home.”

  Starr frowned. “Right,” he said. “I had the same thing last Thursday. But I’m asking more in the alibi sense of things. Were you alone physically?”

  “I was on a bus,” she said, her smile slipping. “I’m sure that’s easy to confirm.”

  Starr nodded and snapped his pad shut. “Probably so. I’ll find out for you. You want a ride back to Jesse Tatum’s driveway, Mo?”

  Before I could say yes, Miss Lana’s hand fell on my shoulder. “No, thank you, Detective,” she said. “I’ll drive her back.”

  Now what? Miss Lana can’t drive.

  “One more question,” Starr said. “Somebody mentioned seeing a boy near Mr. Jesse’s the day he died. Scrawny kid, blond hair, black T-shirt. Any idea who that was?”

  “My goodness,” she said. “Surely you don’t suspect a child.”

  “I’ve seen murders done by kids younger than Mo, there,” Starr said. “Shrinks say bad p
arenting’s to blame, but who knows?”

  “Yes, they can be such mad dogs, the poor dears,” she said, patting my head.

  Behind me, Dale’s daddy’s chair scrubbed against the floor. “Hold it right there, you slick-talking son of a gun,” he slurred.

  “Macon!” Miss Lana cried.

  Mr. Macon rose unsteadily, his face twisted in rage. “There ain’t nothing wrong with the way I’m raising my boy,” he said, his voice thick. “If anybody’s to blame for the way he’s turned out, it’s his mama. Ain’t that right, Mo? Who does she think she is, telling me to get out of my own house?”

  “Miss Rose threw you out?” I said. “Does Dale know? Because it’s news to me.”

  “Mo,” Miss Lana said. “Hush.”

  Mr. Macon glared at Starr. “Dale don’t need nothing he ain’t getting from me.”

  “Tell me, sir, your kid got blond hair?” Starr asked. “Like to wear black T-shirts?”

  Mr. Macon lurched across the room. “So what if he does? Leave my boy alone,” he said, jabbing a finger into Starr’s chest. Starr stepped back lightly, like a cat. “Don’t nobody tell Dale what to do except me. He’s a good boy. Ain’t he a good boy, Mo?”

  “Dale?” Starr kept his eyes on Mr. Macon, but I knew he was talking to me. “That’s your friend, isn’t it, Mo? The spooky kid I met the first time I came in here?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He turned back to Mr. Macon. “Where’s your son now?”

  “Probably home with that no-good mother of his,” he said. “Throw me out of my own house after I treated her like gold all these years …”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake,” Miss Lana said, her hands going to her hips. “That house is Rose’s, not yours. Her father left it to her. If it wasn’t for her good name and good graces, you’d have been locked up years ago. You never gave her anything except a couple of good-looking kids, a mountain of bills, and a heart turned to stone with grief.”

  She turned to Starr. “I’ve known Dale since he was a baby, and I’ve never known a gentler soul. I can’t even pay him to kill a garden snake. The idea that he murdered Jesse is ludicrous. Please stop wasting time on him and find the killer. We’re all worried to death.”

  Starr stared at her a moment. “Miss Lana, I need to talk to Dale and his mother. If you see them, please tell them I’ll be at Jesse Tatum’s place all afternoon. If I don’t see them by the end of the day, I’ll come looking for them. And when the Colonel gets in, let him know I’d like to talk to him too. You,” he said, looking at me. “Stay away from my crime scene. And you, sir,” he said, looking at Dale’s daddy. “If you ever jab your finger in my chest again, you’ll wake up in handcuffs. Are we all clear?”

  When we didn’t answer, he smiled. “I thought so,” he said, and headed for the door.

  Chapter 13

  Don’t Call Me Baby

  Miss Lana shoved the bagged lunches into the Underbird’s backseat, tossed her fan beside them, and opened the driver’s door. “You’re really driving?” I said, backing away from the car. “Couldn’t we call Miss Rose? Or hire a driver?”

  “Bad news is best delivered in person, and I have no driver at the moment,” she said, sliding behind the wheel. “Everybody’s either working or at Jesse’s. Besides, I’ve already called Rose once this morning, to update her on Macon’s condition. That bulletin sent her to the garden for the rest of the day. Dale will be in shackles before I can reach her again by phone,” she said, squinting at the dashboard. “That garden has saved Rose a fortune in therapy over the years,” she muttered.

  “It’s cranked out some good tomatoes too,” I said. “But you still can’t—”

  “Mo, please get in the car.” She tugged the rearview mirror down and applied a fresh coat of lipstick. “We’ll drop the lunches off on our way.”

  I slid in. “Miss Lana?” I said.

  “Yes, sugar?”

  “I think maybe I better drive.”

  She glared at me, her wig glistening gold in the sun. “How old are you?”

  “Eleven,” I said.

  “And why should you drive?”

  I looked away. “Because, Miss Lana,” I said. “You don’t know how.” She graced me with a stony silence, the chill rolling off her in the noonday heat. “Everybody in town knows you can’t drive,” I said. “It’s common knowledge.”

  “There is nothing common about knowledge,” she replied. “The fact that I haven’t driven doesn’t mean I can’t. Now,” she said, tilting her head. “This vehicle is new to me. Where is the ignition?”

  I slumped in my seat, fastened my seat belt, and prepared to die. “Right there,” I muttered, pointing. I closed my eyes as she turned the key.

  “I am ready to back up now, if common knowledge will allow,” she said, studying the gear shift.

  I sighed. “The Underbird is an automatic. Just put that pointer on R.”

  “R?” she said, placing her foot on the accelerator and pressing it toward the floor.

  “It means ‘reverse,’” I shouted over the engine’s roar. “You don’t give it gas until after—”

  She yanked the gearshift to R. The Underbird lunged backward and we skidded across the parking lot in a spray of gray gravel and dust. Only our collision with the sycamore kept us from careening around the building, down into the backyard.

  “See?” she said, taking her foot from the gas.

  “D means ‘drive.’ This time, shift before you give it gas. That way—” Spinning wheels and flying gravel chewed up the end of my sentence, spitting it across the parking lot like a fighter spitting teeth, and we were on our way.

  To my relief, Miss Lana had the Underbird somewhat under control by the time we swerved into Mr. Jesse’s drive. I thought so, anyway, until she took dead aim at a throng of our neighbors. “Use the brake!” I cried, diving into the foot of the car and slamming both hands onto the brake.

  “Lunch, dears!” she called as a pine branch whipped across our windshield. “Mo,” she said, “get up. People will think you’re daft.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I muttered, wiping the grit from my hands.

  Ten minutes later we headed for Miss Rose’s. “Dale’s house is around this curve,” I said. “I mention that because you might want to slow down. By using the brake,” I added.

  She hunched over the wheel. “Rose is already depressed, so we’ll present our news gently,” she said, easing up on the gas. “Be positive. Follow my lead.”

  She gave the steering wheel a tug to the left. The tires screamed as we skidded across the asphalt, bounced off the drive, and crunched across Miss Rose’s petunia bed. As we lurched to a halt with our front left tire on the porch step, Miss Rose dropped her hoe and sprinted toward us. “P for ‘park,’” I instructed as the Underbird issued an ominous hiss. I opened my door and stepped out.

  “Remember,” Miss Lana said. “Be positive.”

  “Hey, Miss Rose,” I said, smiling. “I’m sorry Mr. Macon took drunk again, but at least there ain’t nobody in jail yet. That’s positive.”

  “Mama,” Dale cried, pounding around the corner of the house. “I heard tires. Is Lavender here? Oh!” he said, spotting me and Miss Lana. He stared at the pine branch trapped beneath the Underbird’s windshield wiper, his mouth falling open.

  “Hello, dear friends,” Miss Lana said, opening her door as far as the front porch would allow. She slithered out sideways, wiggling her butt along the porch until she reached the back of the car.

  “Gosh,” Dale said. “I didn’t know you could drive.”

  “She can’t,” Miss Rose said, her voice flat as her petunias. Like Dale, Miss Rose has a firm grasp of the obvious.

  “Rose,” Miss Lana said, “if you don’t mind, we need to talk. You don’t have any tea, do you? I’m parched.”

  A half glass of iced tea later, the four of us roared back toward Mr. Jesse’s place, with Miss Rose at the wheel. Dale and me huddled in the backseat. I could feel him tremblin
g. I pressed my shoulder against his, trying to will my calm into his body. “I just know I’m going to jail,” he whispered.

  “No you ain’t,” I told him. “You’re a juvenile. Besides, even if you do, it won’t be so bad. You can bond with the incarcerated side of your family. And I’ll bring you your homework assignments so you don’t fall behind in school.”

  “Great,” he muttered. “Jail time and math. My life can’t get no worse than this.”

  He was wrong.

  Dale’s life got a lot worse just about the time Detective Starr started asking questions.

  “So, you admit to stealing the boat?” Starr asked, taking his notepad from his pocket and sitting on Mr. Jesse’s porch rail. I tugged my clue pad out of my pocket and settled in the porch swing beside Dale.

  “Dale didn’t steal nothing,” I said.

  “Stealing is such a harsh concept,” Miss Lana agreed, popping her fan open. “Dale didn’t say he stole Jesse’s boat, he said he returned it.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Dale?” Starr said. “I’m talking to you, son.”

  “I … I guess it might look like I stole it, but I didn’t,” Dale stammered. “I just borrowed it good and strong. Me and a friend wanted to go fishing is all.”

  “Fishing ain’t no crime,” I added quickly.

  “Depends on what kind of license you got,” Starr said, and the blood ran from Dale’s face. It’s just like Dale to worry about getting caught without a fishing license after he admitted to stealing a boat.

  “Who were you going fishing with?” Starr asked.

  “Me,” I said, saving Dale having to rat me out.

  “Dale?” Starr said. “I’m talking to you.”

  “I was gonna take it back.” Dale looked at Miss Rose. “I did take it back,” he pleaded.

  Miss Rose nodded. She sat in Mr. Jesse’s rickety old rocking chair, her hands folded calm as prayers in her lap. To me, she looked worried.

  “When did you return it?” Starr asked.

  “Right after my brother invited me and Mo to time laps at Carolina Raceway,” Dale said. “Yesterday. Same day we saw you at the speedway with Miss Retzyl.”