The Ghosts of Tupelo Landing Page 5

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, and Dale nodded.

  She smiled at Dale. “That reminds me, Lavender says he’ll take you over there Sunday if you want to visit your daddy.” Over there means the county jail.

  “Lavender’s driving? I’ll go,” I offered.

  “Maybe later,” Dale muttered.

  Dale’s always claimed two speeds for forgiving: fast or never. Lately I suspect he’s developing a new gear just for his daddy. One that grinds slow. Real slow.

  “So what’s this I hear about history?” Miss Rose asked, turning to her measuring.

  “Ghost,” Dale blurted. I winced.

  She stopped scribbling. “What?”

  “Mo volunteered us to interview a ghost for history. I’m going to fail sixth grade. I hope you aren’t disappointed.” Silence settled over us like plaster dust. Miss Rose tilted her chin and let her glasses slide down the bridge of her nose.

  I gave her my best smile. “A ghost means extra credit, plus Miss Lana can use our interview for her public relations campaign, for the inn. It’s win-win.”

  She blinked at me rapid-fire, like an alien brain-mapping a new life form. “There’s no such thing as ghosts, Mo,” she said. “I’m sure Miss Retzyl will let you choose a new subject.”

  “It’s too late,” I told her.

  She picked up her tape. “It’s never too late to make a better decision, Mo. Dale, why don’t you show Mo what you’ve learned on your guitar?”

  “Come on, Mo,” he said. “I can already play a song.”

  • •

  “That went better than expected,” he said, sinking into his beanbag chair.

  I walked over to his terrarium, where his newt, Sir Isaac Newton, stirred beneath a leaf. By Newton’s terrarium sat a paperback, Manners Girls Like. Lately, Dale thinks about dates. I will never go out on a date until I am old enough to go with Lavender, which gives me seven years to plan my wardrobe.

  “Social skills,” Dale explained, watching me thumb through the book. “I need some in case a girl ever likes me.” In case? If Sal likes Dale one degree more, she’ll evaporate. “We got to think of somebody else to interview, Mo.”

  I walked to his bookshelf, playing for time. I scanned the titles: I’m Okay, You’re a Dog. Hound: A Spirit Journey. Get Rich with an Earthworm Ranch! “You’re missing the beauty of my plan,” I said. “If we interview a ghost, we’ll go famous.” I let the word famous sit like bait on still water. I jiggled the line: “You enjoy famous.”

  He slipped me a sideways look. “Some,” he admitted.

  “If we don’t land an interview with a ghost,” I continued, “we’ll fake one in ghostly voices. Easy A.”

  He shook his head. “Mama doesn’t like me to cheat.” He picked up his guitar and strummed. “I wish Miss Lacy Thornton would dump Attila so we could interview her. That would be an easy A.” He snorted. “Attila probably didn’t even ask her. She was probably bluffing.”

  Bluffing? I hadn’t thought of that.

  The Colonel says great leaders compromise. “How about this: If Attila’s bluffing and Grandmother Miss Lacy says yes to our interview, we’ll grab her. If she says no, we’ll stick with the ghost—if you don’t mind risking fame.”

  “Deal,” he said, laying his guitar aside. “Let’s roll.”

  A few minutes later we dropped our bikes in a spatter of red dogwood leaves by Grandmother Miss Lacy’s steps. “Who’s that?” Dale asked as a silver BMW roared away from the curb.

  “Rat Face, from the auction,” I murmured. “What’s she doing here?”

  “Hello, dears,” Grandmother Miss Lacy called. She sat in her porch swing, picking out pecans calm as Sunday. Grandmother Miss Lacy lives in the grandest house in town: two stories, with a wide front porch. Its clapboards wear dark green paint and its tall shutters wear black. Grandmother Miss Lacy keeps it decked out in flowers.

  “What was Rat Face doing over here?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry, it’s nothing a phone call won’t fix. What are you two up to?”

  Dale perched on the rail. “We’re practicing our social skills,” he said. He opened his pack, pulled out Manners Girls Like, and shyly tilted it toward her. “After my Anna Celeste disaster, I decided to brush up.”

  Groundwork for our interview request. Brilliant. “You may not realize it,” I said, “but Anna Celeste liked Dale for a few days this summer and then dumped him like a truckload of bad meat. She about broke his heart.”

  He nodded. “That’s why I’ve taken up the guitar.”

  “A wonderful channel for heartbreak,” she said. “How’s sixth grade?”

  I studied her powdered face. “That depends,” I said. “On you.” I took a deep breath. “Grandmother Miss Lacy, we want to interview you for history, only Anna Celeste claims she already asked. I hate to say anything bad about her but we feel like she’s Devil Spawn and we’re pretty sure she’s lying. We dropped by to ask, may we please have the honor of an interview?”

  She gave the swing a little push. “Oh, dear. She asked me at the auction. I’m sorry, dears, but I didn’t realize I’d be such a popular commodity.” She cracked a pecan. “I believe Myrt Little might be available, though.”

  “The mayor’s mother? But she’s mean as a snake,” Dale said. “Unless she’s your best friend,” he added, very smooth. “In which case she could be secretly nice.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” she said. “Come in. I have some cookies for you. And don’t worry, you’ll stumble across a suitable old person somewhere.”

  As she disappeared down the paneled hall, Dale and I wandered into her parlor. “Wow,” he said. “I didn’t know she lived in a museum.” I followed him across the flowery wine-colored carpet, past the settee, to a round marble-top table. He picked up a photo in a silver frame. In it a slim, dark-haired woman leaned against a long pale car.

  “That’s the Duesenberg.” He wandered to the fireplace, where black-and-white photos lined the mantelpiece. “Nice,” he said as Grandmother Miss Lacy breezed in.

  “Thank you, Dale.” She put a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the marble-top table. “I find black-and-white film captures emotion so much better than color. The only exception would be school photos,” she added, glancing at her Mo LoBeau Collection.

  Dale perched on her settee and gulped cookies like a seal gulps fish. I nibbled, like Grandmother Miss Lacy. Miss Lana says that’s how you learn manners. By watching people who’ve got them and doing what they do. She says that way you move like a bird in a flock, banking across the sky, adjusting so smooth, nobody notices you.

  The Colonel says that’s a good way to get shot.

  “You know, dear,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said, “since Dale’s taking up the guitar, you might want an art form too.” She went to her bookshelf, took down a small black box, and handed it to me. Its stippled sides felt cool in my hands.

  Dale leaned forward. “What is it?”

  “My old camera,” she said.

  I turned it in my hands. Two silver-rimmed portholes stared at me. I ran my finger across a series of levers and knobs on the front and top of the camera. “Where do the batteries go?”

  “No batteries, dear.” She flipped up a little window on the top of the box. “You look in here, focus here, and press the shutter,” she said. “Light does the rest.”

  “It’s solar,” Dale breathed. “Cool.”

  “I thought you might document the inn’s changes. They’ll be dramatic. Historic.”

  “Historic?” Dale said, perking up.

  “We could display the photos in the inn’s lobby,” she said.

  “Sounds like extra credit,” Dale said, looking at me.

  I grinned. “Maybe I can even photograph the ghost.”

  Grandmother Miss Lacy laughed. “There’s no such thing, Mo, but do give it
your best shot. That’s photography humor—best shot. And please tell Lana I’ll see her at supper,” she said, rising. “I’ll bring the camera over and give you a few pointers.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  We ran down the steps and grabbed our bikes. “That went great,” I said, picturing my photos on the inn’s wall.

  Dale swung onto his bike. “Not really. We’re still stuck interviewing a ghost.”

  Chapter 7

  Deadlines

  The next afternoon—Friday—Miss Retzyl took out her grade book. “Let’s nail down your interview subjects,” she said, and scanned her book. “I’ll need a potential interview subject from everyone today; otherwise you drop a grade. Mo? I encourage you and Dale to rethink your selection. I’m requiring taped interviews.”

  Sal raised her hand. “Plus they could lose their souls.”

  Dale went pale.

  “Thank you, Miss Retzyl, but Dale and me plan to interview our ghost on a full moon to be arranged. We’ll need the project deadlines as soon as possible, in case we need to consult outside experts,” I added, very professional. “I understand they teach ghost hunting at the community college.”

  “Did she say deadlines?” Harm asked, and Attila tittered like a wind-up toy.

  “Harm, that’s enough,” Miss Retzyl said. “Dale?”

  Dale sighed. “I’m with Mo,” he said, his voice limp as an old sock. “We’ll get modern historic photos. Maybe of the ghost too.”

  I nodded. Brilliant. All it would take is a sheet in a window.

  “Grandmother Miss Lacy’s loaning us her solar camera,” I explained. “An automatic footnote. I had my first photography lesson last night.”

  The class buzzed.

  “Photographs? A wonderful idea,” Miss Retzyl said. “And of course you know I’ll recognize your voices if you try to fake an interview with a ghost.”

  My stomach swallowed itself alive. “Fake an interview? We’d never dream of it.”

  Dale put his head on his desk.

  “I’ll also expect background interviews,” she said. “With the living. Last chance, you two. Change your minds?” Harm and Attila smirked.

  “We never back out on a case,” I said. “Desperado Detective Agency’s Paranormal Division is open for business.”

  She marked her book. “Very well. Sal? What do you have in mind?” Sal’s the smallest girl in rising sixth grade—a full half inch shorter than Dale. She fluffed the Strategic Ruffles camouflaging her lipstick-shaped physique. “I’ll interview Grandmama Betty, Retro Fashionista. Her mother specialized in semi-tailoring deluxe Sears garments—which were the bee’s knees in the ’30s.” She smiled at Dale, her eyes bright. He didn’t even try to lift his head.

  “Excellent. Harmond,” Miss Retzyl said, “whom will you interview?”

  Whom. She said it like it made sense.

  Harm shifted his lean body. “Skip me. I won’t be in the boondocks that long.”

  Miss Retzyl’s pen clattered against her book.

  The class gulped.

  “I mean, I won’t be in Tupelo Landing that long, Miss Retzyl,” he finally said. “Besides, I don’t know anybody here. I can’t get an interview.”

  Attila raised her hand. “You have to know somebody. Where do you live?” she asked. “Not that I care,” she added. “It’s just that some of us wonder.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Guess whom.” I smiled at Miss Retzyl, hoping for a compliment on whom. Nothing.

  “Where I live is my business,” Harm said, his voice cracking. He took a breath, packing calm around his anger the way Miss Lana packs tissue paper around her mother’s crystal. “I’ll give you an answer next week, Miss Retzyl,” he said as the bell rang.

  Our stampede for the door muffled her reply.

  Dale and I walked across the playground, to our bikes. The afternoon heat lay against the earth, swollen and still. “Why doesn’t Harm want anybody to know where he lives?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Maybe he’s in the witness protection program. Or maybe he doesn’t want Attila zipping after him like a bloodhound. You want to come over and watch me practice my guitar?”

  The school door banged opened and Harm swaggered out. Attila loitered near the edge of the playground, cradling her books in a sophisticated high school way. She zinged him her best smile. He looked her way, swung onto his bike, and headed toward Fool’s Bridge and the inn.

  I smiled at her and waved.

  “Come on,” Dale said. “I’ll let you feed Newton.”

  Newton eats dead bugs. “I’d love to, but Newton’s gaining weight and I’d hate to put too much strain on his knees. Miss Lana says added pounds mean added sorrow later in life.” I watched Harm pedal away. “Where’s he going? He headed the other way yesterday—toward the Piggly Wiggly.”

  “Who cares?” Dale yawned.

  “Okay, I’ll feed Newton, but let’s swing by the inn first,” I said. “We need before photos.”

  He grinned. “You want to follow Harm Crenshaw,” he said, hopping on his bike. “I’m curious too.”

  Five minutes later, Dale skidded to a stop on the blacktop. We stared up and down the empty highway. “Harm Crenshaw doesn’t have invisibility skills, does he?”

  The sweat trickled down my spine and wicked along the waistband of my shorts. “No. Just long legs and a fast bike. Maybe he hid,” I said, scanning the drying cornfields along the road. “Come on,” I said, heading for the inn’s drive. “Let’s get some photos.”

  We stopped in the last curve of the cedar-lined drive. I held the old camera against my belly and lined up my first shot of the inn. Click. Dale pointed to an upstairs window. “Who’s that?”

  “Where?”

  “In the corner room. Somebody’s watching us.”

  The wavy old window glass glinted as a gust of wind shook the cedars, and the clouds shifted overhead. “The sun, maybe,” I told him, but even in the afternoon heat a shiver tiptoed up my spine.

  “Maybe it’s the girl from auction day. I hate to say ghost,” he whispered.

  “Auction day? That was Harm Crenshaw.”

  “You’re guessing,” he said as we crept toward the inn.

  “I’m deducing,” I said. “Clue number one: We’d already caught him following us once—on the path with Mr. Red. Number two: Harm wasn’t in the auction tent when we got back. Clue three: Lavender said it himself—Harm’s trouble.”

  I peered at the upstairs window. “In fact,” I said, heading for the steps, “if anybody’s in that window now, I’m betting it’s Harm Crenshaw.”

  A gust of wind sent a swirl of leaves tumbling down the porch. An old rocking chair creaked. Click. I pushed the front door open, strolled to the foot of the staircase, and lined up a photo: two stairs, three steps missing, eight good stairs to the top. “Thirteen steps,” Dale muttered. “That’s bad.”

  “Detectives ain’t superstitious,” I told him. Click. “Hello?” I called, aiming my camera at the top of the stairs. “Harm?”

  Nothing.

  “Be careful, Dale,” I said, starting up the stairs. “Keep to the edges.” When I reached the missing steps, I balanced on the runners. “Hello?” Still nothing. I looked down the long hall. “Which room, Dale?”

  He pointed to a closed door.

  “If it’s Harm, we got him cornered,” I whispered.

  “If it’s a ghost, it’s got us cornered,” he said, his voice bleak.

  I tiptoed to the door and turned the knob. The door squeaked open on a room lined with bookshelves. “A library,” I said. I walked to the window and pushed back a rotting curtain. “An old one,” I added as dusty light flooded the room. Click.

  Dale rounded an ancient leather sofa. He brushed a shelf, sending a book tumbling to the ragged carpet. I scooped it up and blew the dust off. “Geo
metry,” I murmured, opening it. Faded brown ink flowed across the end paper.

  “Cursive,” Dale whispered, and I nodded. Miss Retzyl’s a fan of cursive writing. I tilted the book to the window’s light.

  I hate math. N.B.—August 28, 1937.

  Inky fingerprints stained the bottom of the page.

  Dale ambled to the window. “I must have been seeing things,” he said, peering behind the curtain. “There’s nobody up here but us.” He padded to a cabinet with double doors at its base. “What’s in here?” he asked, squatting down.

  He tugged. The doors didn’t budge. He shifted his weight, and yanked hard. Harder. The doors flew open. Dale rolled backward, a ragged wave of mice scurrying across the rug. “Rats!” he screamed, swatting at his feet.

  I grabbed the back of his shirt and dragged him toward the door. “Run!” We thundered down the stairs, hurling ourselves over the missing steps and landing at the bottom of the staircase, panting.

  “Mice,” Dale said, looking sheepish. “Maybe babies.”

  I tried to catch my breath. “Miss Lana says everything’s relative,” I told him, shoving the geometry book into my messenger bag. “They looked relatively huge to me,” I lied. Dale scuffed to the old piano and opened the keyboard. Music settles Dale the way rain settles dust.

  “‘Heart and Soul’?” he invited, scooting the piano bench out. “Heart and Soul” is the only performance piece I got. Miss Rose tried to show me more, but when it comes to music, I’m a good listener. I put the camera on top of the piano, slipped onto the bench, and placed my fingers in the go position.

  He sang as we played. “Heart and soul . . .”

  Upstairs, a door slammed. Footsteps pounded to the top of the stairs.

  “That’s not mice!” Dale said, jumping up and spinning to face the stairs.

  “Harm Crenshaw?” I bellowed. “Cut it out!”

  A girl laughed and a wave of cold fell over us like a curtain of ice. “That ain’t Harm,” Dale whispered. Footsteps flew down the empty staircase like a ragged drumroll, hitting every step dead center—all thirteen of them.