The Ghosts of Tupelo Landing Read online

  I surveyed her right back: thin face, spiky black hair, jittery eyes. Sleeveless black sweater, skinny pants, black stilettos. She crossed her bone-thin arms and jutted her hip forward like a high-fashion wharf rat. “She ain’t from around here,” Dale whispered.

  Dale has a flair for the obvious.

  The woman squinted at the pressed tin ceiling, clacked to a window, and peered between the boards. “At least it’s waterfront. I’ll pay two hundred ten thousand. Not a penny more. Let’s register,” she told the pudgy man. “You kids stay away from that piano. It’s mine,” she added, and headed out the door.

  “Rat Face,” I muttered. I would have said more, but Miss Lana don’t allow cursing. She does allow the creative use of animal names.

  “She’s buying this place? Because she’d be a terrible neighbor,” Dale said, looking nervous. “Unless she sings alto, which Mama says if you can sing alto, that means a lot to people.” Dale’s mama directs the church choir.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “she’d only buy this place to tear it down. But she would make a rotten neighbor. Miss Lana would hate her. Grandmother Miss Lacy would too.”

  Upstairs, glass crashed to the floor. Queen Elizabeth yelped and darted behind me. “Who’s there?” I shouted, trying to rub the goose bumps off my arms. I caught a whiff of rosemary, and Queen Elizabeth sneezed.

  A laugh floated down the stairway, secret and low. My heart jumped. So did Dale. “Steady, Dale,” I said, my voice shaking. “Don’t leap to conclusions. A good detective starts with the obvious and works toward the strange.”

  “You’re making that up,” he whispered.

  “It could still be true,” I said. “Somebody’s messing with us,” I added, walking to the bottom of the stairs: two solid stairs, three missing steps, eight solid stairs. “Hello?” The dust on the stairs lay thick and untouched.

  Someone skipped along the upstairs hall. “That’s a definite girl,” Dale whispered. “A boy would rather die than skip like that.” He whipped around to stare at me, his blue eyes wide. “Did I say die? That’s just a figure of speech. I didn’t mean anything.”

  A laugh floated down the stairs.

  “Run,” Dale said.

  I grabbed his arm, spinning him in a circle. “Hold your ground. If we run, it will be all over school. It’s probably Attila, trying to show us up.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, pointing to the open door. Outside, Attila sailed across the inn’s lawn, making a beeline for the auction tent.

  Another laugh floated down the stairs. Queen Elizabeth threw back her head and howled wild as a wolf in moonlight. I looked down at Queen Elizabeth. She looked up at me.

  We both looked at the open door.

  Dale was halfway across the yard, elbows and knees pumping like the devil’s hounds were nipping at his heels.

  Chapter 3

  Going, Going, Gone

  Moments later Dale and I skidded into our seats beneath the auction tent. “I was not scared,” Dale said again. “I just hate being late is all.”

  “Stop panting and look professional,” I said, wincing at the catch in my side. Onstage, Buddha Jackson wiggled out of his shiny suit jacket and pointed to a battered desk and chair. “Lot number six,” he shouted, and launched into a wild chant. “Who will give me two hundred dollars, two two two two, who will give me two hundred dollars?” Silence. “A hundred and fifty? One fifty one fifty one fifty?” We stared at him blank as stones. “All right, Tupelo Landing. Make me an offer.”

  “Twenty-five dollars,” Attila’s mother said. Attila sat beside her, calm as pond scum. It sure wasn’t her in the inn. Then who?

  “I have twenty-five, who will give me thirty? There,” Buddha said, pointing to the Azalea Women. “I have thirty over here, who will give me fifty?” The flow of the chant, the pulse of the bid. The auction swept over me like a dizzy tide.

  “Hey,” Dale said, breaking the spell. “There’s Thes.” I looked across the crowd. Red-headed Thessalonians and his dad, Reverend Thompson, had miraculously found seats behind the Azalea Women. “Thes!” Dale hissed, waving. “Over here!”

  “I got fifty dollars over here!” Buddha shouted, pointing at Dale.

  “No!” Dale clamped his hands over his mouth and his blue eyes filled with tears. “I was just saying hey,” he wailed between his fingers.

  “Who will give me a hundred?” Buddha boomed.

  “Please,” Dale whispered. “Somebody bid. I’ll sing in church every Sunday ’til Judgment Day.” He grabbed my arm. “Mo,” he said. “Bid.”

  I jerked my arm free.

  “Going once,” Buddha cried, pointing in our direction.

  “Hide,” I said, and threaded my way to the Azalea Women, who sat neat as a choir on the third row. “That’s an out-of-towner bidding against you,” I said. “She says keep your money for azaleas because yours are the tackiest she’s ever seen.” The Azalea Women gasped. Three hands shot into the air.

  “A hundred in the third row!” Buddha crowed as I raced for the exit.

  “Come on, Dale,” I said, dragging him toward sunlight.

  Dale had turned a throw-up shade of green. He leaned forward, putting his hands on his knees. “I ain’t never going into an auction tent again, not even if somebody’s life depends on it,” he panted. “Well, maybe if Mama’s life depended on it, I would,” he said. “Or Lavender’s.” He looked up at me. “They’re family. Of course, we’re best friends. That’s almost family.”

  “Take deep breaths,” I told him.

  I looked up. Harm Crenshaw slouched against a tree, a crooked smirk on his pale face. Of course. It must have been him in the inn. He had opportunity: We’d seen him on the path. And motive: He’s a proven jerk.

  “Dale, can you stand up?” I asked. “People are staring.” Harm cradled his arms like he was rocking a baby, and kissed the air. “Come on, Dale,” I said, glaring at Harm. “Let’s get something to drink.”

  Two Pepsis later, Dale’s color found his face. Buddha’s voice wafted from the tent to the refreshment cart. “Sold to number 72—Miss Lana, you got your umbrella stand!”

  Miss Lana exited the tent, lugging her trophy.

  We ran to her as Rat Face scuttled by. “If you ask me, they should sell all this junk in one lot,” Rat Face told Miss Lana. “But, when you go to a hick auction, this is what you get. Hicks.”

  Miss Lana’s eyebrows rose unnaturally high on her forehead. Dale and me took a big step back.

  “And what’s that auctioneer’s name?” Rat Face continued. “Buddha Jackson? Can you believe it?”

  “If I’m not mistaken, Buddha’s a family name,” Miss Lana said in a voice shaved from ice. It was quasi-true. Bubba is a family name. Buddha’s mama is dyslexic.

  Rat Face narrowed her eyes. “Nice spot for condos, though. I’ll wait,” she said, and scurried away.

  “Dreadful woman,” Miss Lana said, watching her burrow back into the crowd. “Mo, would you and Dale put our umbrella stand in the Buick? Hurry, sugar. We have what we came for, but you don’t want to miss the main event.”

  We made it back just in time. As we edged to the front of the tent, Dale took off his belt and handed it to me. “If I bid, strangle me,” he whispered. “Mama will understand.”

  “Here we go,” Buddha Jackson said, rubbing his hands together. “The inn with the furniture that’s left, plus the medicinal springs, the pavilion, and all the fine print. Who will give me a half-million dollars?” Nobody breathed. “Four hundred thousand?” We sat still as tombstones. “Make me an offer,” he said.

  Mr. Red Baker scratched his sandpaper face. “Twenty thousand dollars,” he rasped as Flick Crenshaw stepped up beside him.

  “Forty thousand,” Rat Face replied, studying her fingernails.

  “Who will give me fifty?” Buddha sang. Mr. Red cracke
d his knuckles and nodded. “Fifty thousand says Mr. Red,” Buddha said. “Now who will give me—”

  “Sixty,” Rat Face said, her voice like a steel trap.

  “Seventy.”

  “A hundred thousand.”

  The crowd murmured like pines in a breeze. “A hundred twenty,” Mr. Red said.

  “One hundred fifty thousand,” Rat Face called.

  “Mr. Baker?” Buddha said. “It’s up to you.” Mr. Red shook his head. “Going once,” Buddha said, pointing to Rat Face. “Going twice.”

  “A hundred and sixty thousand dollars,” a familiar voice sang out from the back of the tent. The crowd swiveled. A white parasol popped open.

  “No!” I tore across the tent. “Miss Lana,” I cried, grabbing her parasol and popping it closed. “We don’t have that kind of money!”

  “I will not have that horrible woman for a neighbor,” she said.

  “And we won’t have her replacing our history with condos,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said, seething.

  “One hundred eighty thousand dollars,” Rat Face said, crisp as a poisoned apple.

  Dale lurched to a stop beside me. “Stop, Miss Lana. That inn’s haunted sure as I’m breathing.”

  “Pish,” she replied. She looked at Grandmother Miss Lacy, who nodded. “Don’t worry, my dears, we’ll re-sell the inn to somebody nice,” she said. The worry melted from Dale’s face, just like that. “Two hundred thousand dollars,” Miss Lana cried.

  Rat Face jumped up, her thin face twitching. “Two hundred ten.”

  “Miss Lana, that’s her top bid,” Dale said. “We heard her say so in the inn.” He reached in his pocket. “I got a five. It’s yours if you want it. And Mo has a life savings of seven dollars and twenty-six cents,” he said. “Plus a Canada dime.”

  “My little hero,” she said, patting his face.

  “We bid twelve dollars and twenty-six cents more than she does,” Miss Lana screeched, pointing at Rat Face. “Plus a Canada dime.”

  “Sold to number 72,” Buddha Jackson shouted. “Miss Lana, you just bought yourself a historic inn—with a bona fide ghost in the fine print!”

  Chapter 4

  Ghost in the Fine Print

  “What?” Miss Lana cried as the crowd burst into applause.

  She bowed gracefully, twice, and then rushed Buddha’s stage.

  “Congrats, ladies,” Buddha said, rolling a speaker to the edge of the stage as the crowd jostled away, talking and laughing. “You got a real bargain.”

  “Yes,” she said, twirling her parasol. “But for a moment I thought you said we have an actual ghost in the fine print. Imagine!”

  Buddha nodded toward a stack of papers. “That’s right,” he said, and her smile wilted. “The law says you got to list ghosts strong enough to affect the property value. Same as a leaky roof, which you also got. This place has changed hands several times over the years, and your ghost got listed along the way. As you may recall, I talked about the fine print—including the ghost—before we got started. Sign here.”

  Miss Lana shot a look at Rat Face, who now stood chatting with Flick Crenshaw. “Strong enough to affect the property value? But as soon as she’s gone, we intend to re-sell the inn to someone nice.”

  “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said firmly, handing Buddha her pen. “Here you are, dear. Just X that bit out.”

  “Sorry,” he said, winding a cord. “I could lose my license.”

  Miss Lana snapped her parasol closed and slammed it against a speaker. A bad sign. “For heaven’s sake,” she said through clenched teeth, “who in her right mind would buy a ghost?”

  I clamped my hand over Dale’s mouth. “Rhetorical,” I whispered. Dale’s a sucker for rhetorical questions, especially Miss Lana’s.

  I slipped a clue pad from my pocket. “The name of the alleged ghost?”

  Buddha shrugged. “Fine print doesn’t say. Maybe you can figure it out.” He nudged the papers toward Miss Lana. “No refunds.”

  I slapped my clue pad closed. “Dale and I will be in our mobile crime unit if you need us,” I said, very professional. Dale’s blue eyes flew open. “The Buick,” I whispered. I marched into the crowd, chin up and eyes straight ahead the way the Colonel taught me.

  Sal, in her red Piggly Wiggly sunglasses, waved at Dale. He gave her an absent smile as Attila ambushed us by her mama’s Cadillac. “Interesting buy, Mo-ron,” she said. “But I suppose a ghost friend would be nice for you. Someone like your long-lost mother—not quite here, not quite there.”

  “Leave my Upstream Mother out of this, Attila.”

  She looked across the crowd and did a double take. “Who’s that?” she asked, her voice shifting gears.

  I followed her gaze. Harm Crenshaw skulked by the refreshment wagon. “Anna,” Attila’s mother said, mincing up. “We don’t mingle with the unsavory. Hurry, dear. You’ll be late for Voice.”

  Attila’s the only kid in rising sixth grade who takes Voice. It doesn’t help her all that much. She hopped in the car, her eyes still on Harm Crenshaw. The Cadillac oozed through the crowd.

  “Did she just call us unsavory?” Dale asked, his voice sharp. “Because that’s rude.” He lowered his voice. “What does it mean, exactly?”

  “It means we reek. Look,” I said. Flick Crenshaw had cornered Harm against a picnic table. As Flick talked, Harm’s face went thunderous as an August storm. “Looks interesting,” I said, darting through the crowd. We rocked to a halt behind a large, sweet-smelling woman in a flowered dress. I peeped around her sausage-like arm as Flick thumped his finger against Harm’s chest.

  “You’ll do what I say,” Flick growled.

  “But why?” Harm demanded, his voice cracking. “It’s not fair.”

  “Because I said so. Because I make the money. Because you’re cramping my style.”

  “What style?” Harm muttered as Flick turned and pushed through the crowd. He climbed in his red sports car and roared away. Harm’s eyes met mine and he blushed. “What are you gawking at, Ghost Girl?”

  Ghost Girl. Great.

  “Not much,” I said, looking him up and down.

  With that, I stalked through the crowd and climbed into the Buick. Dale helped Queen Elizabeth onto the seat between us as Miss Lana stormed up. She swung into the passenger’s seat, breathing ragged as torn construction paper, and slammed the door. “As God is my witness, I never meant to buy a ghost,” she said.

  Grandmother Miss Lacy slipped behind the wheel. “We didn’t buy a ghost, we bought an inn,” she corrected. “That ridiculous ghost story doesn’t make a whit of difference except that we planned to re-sell the inn and now we possibly . . . can’t.”

  Miss Lana adjusted her wig. “Everyone breathe,” she gasped. “We simply need a Plan B.” Miss Lana thrives on Plan Bs. So do I. In fact, my entire life is one big fat Plan B.

  “The inn’s still a lovely purchase. The fact that there’s a pedigreed poltergeist dwelling within is, well . . .”

  I pictured myself walking into sixth grade the next day. “A paranormal disaster,” I said.

  Dale shot me a Sympathy Look and rummaged in his snack pocket. “Accidental ghost purchase. Your social life is certified roadkill,” he said. “Peanuts, anyone?”

  Miss Lana held out her hand.

  “Very well,” she said as he shook peanuts into her palm. “We’ve hit uncharted rapids on the river of life. Don’t panic, don’t stand up in the boat. And not a word of this to the Colonel until our Plan B is in place.”

  The Colonel!

  I grinned. “Miss Lana,” I said, “I know the Colonel hates to admit it, but he is an attorney. If anybody can get you out of fine print, it’s him.”

  “Of course,” she said, her face brightening. “How could I have forgotten?”

  “Rhetorica
l?” Dale whispered, and I nodded.

  “The Colonel will straighten this out in a jiffy,” she said. “We just need to broach the subject artfully.”

  “And quickly,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said, cranking the Buick. “The entire town will head to the café to see how he takes our news.” We fishtailed across the meadow and headed for town.

  • •

  Moments later Dale held the door as we filed into the empty café like a lineup of nervous suspects. Like Lavender, Dale has manners. This is thanks to Miss Rose—not his daddy. “Hey, Colonel,” I said.

  He peeked up from the coffeemaker. “Hello, Soldier. Your report?”

  “The auction was exciting,” I said. Which was true.

  Miss Lana smiled. “Auctions are so electrifying.”

  Suspicion shot across his rugged face. “What did you buy?”

  Dale jumped like somebody bit him, and Grandmother Miss Lacy peeled away to pour a glass of water. “An umbrella stand,” Miss Lana replied. “It’s in the Buick.”

  The Colonel relaxed. “Good. I thought we might offer tuna salad sandwiches for lunch today, with your Practically Organic Soup.”

  “Perfect,” she said, sailing toward the kitchen. “I’ll get the blue plates. They’re so soothing. And while I’m thinking about it, I bought the inn. Would you like the sandwiches on white or whole wheat?”

  “What?” the Colonel asked, wheeling to face her.

  Poor Colonel. “She said white or whole wheat,” I said.

  “Lana? You bought that ramshackle hotel? Have you lost your mind? It’s over a hundred years old. The roof leaks, the windows are busted, the wiring’s shot. And who would stay there? Nobody comes to Tupelo Landing. Not on purpose, anyway.”

  She shrugged. “Life takes unexpected turns, mon cher.” Miss Lana likes to pretend she’s French. She says it helps her metabolize stress.

  “How much?” the Colonel demanded, his brown eyes wide.