The Ghosts of Tupelo Landing Page 7
“Excellent,” he said, and smiled.
Miss Lana turned a page in her magazine. “Homework all done?”
“It’s Friday,” I reminded her. “We prefer our homework to age over the weekend, making it tender. We’re here on business. It’s about the inn.”
She closed her magazine. “Wonderful. I’ve been considering your interview. A brilliant idea! Such creative children. Ghost stories can be very lucrative.” The lamplight made her hair glow coppery. “We’ll need a sweet ghost. A poster ghost, really, something amusing for guests. Have you composed your interview questions?”
“The questions aren’t due for weeks,” I said. “The thing is, Miss Lana . . .”
“I’d gladly give them a look-see when you’re ready,” she said, and winked. “Or help you get started.” The Colonel cleared his throat. “Not that we’d cheat,” she added. “But since I’ll build my PR campaign on your interview, we want a good foundation. We might even bring in a ghost investigator. My treat.”
The Colonel snorted.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m glad you’re excited, because we got a Situation.”
“Snacks?” Dale asked, jumping up. Dale is a stress eater.
The Colonel turned a page. “Pantry,” he said without looking over. “Second shelf.” Dale padded past Miss Lana’s suite, into the kitchen.
“Dale and me bumped into the entity in question this afternoon,” I continued. “She comes across kind of . . . cold. More like the Anti–Poster Ghost.”
Dale ambled back with a bag of coconut macaroons and settled beside me.
Miss Lana blinked slowly. “What could I possibly do with a cold ghost?”
“Rhetorical,” I whispered to Dale. Too late.
“You could try a catch and release, but you’d need a live trap,” he said.
A live trap?
The Colonel looked up from his book.
“That’s what Lavender does when possums come after Mama’s chickens at night,” Dale continued. “Of course,” he added, “we’d have to consider bait.”
A hush fell over the room.
The Colonel closed his book. “You actually believe there’s a ghost in the inn? Why? Did you see something?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “Unless you count the piano slamming shut on its own.”
“I’d count that,” Dale said. “And I did see a girl in a window, but she’d evaporated by the time we got there. Unless she was a shadow.”
“But we heard her,” I added, keeping my eyes on the Colonel. “She ran down the stairs—including the ones that aren’t there. And she laughed.”
“Alternative explanations?” he said. The Colonel’s big on alternative explanations. It’s one of the things I like about him.
“The first time we heard her, I thought it might’ve been Harm Crenshaw,” I said. “But today it couldn’t have been.”
“Well,” Dale said, helping himself to another cookie, “we did see a silver flash at the edge of the meadow. And Harm’s bike is silver.”
“It couldn’t have been him,” I said again. “The footsteps ran straight at us. And those footsteps were empty. And it got cold—a funny cold, one without edges.”
“Like a bite without teeth,” Dale added.
Miss Lana and the Colonel exchanged looks. The Colonel tapped his long fingers against his law book. “I’ll look into it first thing in the morning, Soldier. You have my word. Thank you for your report.”
I relaxed. The Colonel’s word is gold.
“Maybe Dale and me can look with you, sir,” I said, and Dale choked, sending a soft spray of crumbs across the settee. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, and this is our case,” I said, staring at Dale. “And half our history grade.”
“I guess so,” he mumbled.
“We just need a good plan of attack.”
The Colonel nodded. “I’d appreciate the reinforcements. Why don’t you two come over after you help with the breakfast rush?” He rose. “Cot or couch, son?”
“Couch,” Dale said, heading for the linen closet. Dale stays here so much lately, Miss Lana gave him his own sheets.
I snatched Miss Lana’s Rainbow Row pillows from the couch and tossed them into a chair. Ghost Patrol with the Colonel.
We’d have our ghost sorted out in no time.
Chapter 10
Ghost Patrol with the Colonel
The next morning, Dale and me pedaled for the inn. “Let’s take the shortcut by Red Baker’s,” I said, coasting across Fool’s Bridge and into the countryside.
“No,” he said, looking at Queen Elizabeth, who loped behind us.
Before he could explain, the cornfield beside me exploded in a flash of silver. I slammed on brakes, skidding sideways as Dale slid to a halt alongside.
“Looking for me?” Harm asked, balancing his bike with his toes. “I know you been following me. Thought I’d help you out.”
“We have not been following you,” I lied.
“Well, we did try,” Dale admitted. Dale will go truthful faster than anybody I know. I like that about him, but it can cripple an investigation. He looked at Harm’s bike. “Fast ride.”
“Smart rider,” Harm replied, smiling. He wasn’t entirely bad when he smiled. “Where you headed? Tell me and I’ll go slow so you can keep up.”
“To the inn,” Dale said. “The Colonel’s put us on—”
“On photography duty,” I said before Dale could say Ghost Patrol.
“Right. I hear he’s hiring,” Harm said. “Him and Lavender. It’s all over town.”
“Maybe,” I said. “What you doing in Red Baker’s cornfield?”
“Waiting for you. I’m hoping you’ll put in a good word for me with the Colonel,” he said. “I can build most anything. I took shop in Greensboro.”
Me? Put in a good word for him?
Dale whistled between his teeth. “Shop. Nice. I do a good scarecrow, but that’s about it,” he said. “I made one for Mama and I got a freelance one not too far from here. I’m self-taught. We don’t have shop until high school.”
“Right,” Harm said, not even bothering to smile. “Think about it, Ghoul Girl,” he said. “You’d be doing the Colonel a good turn.” He shoved off, heading for town.
Dale leaned down to scratch Liz’s ears. “He’s got some nerve, asking you to do him a favor and calling you names in the same breath.”
“Race you,” I replied, and blasted off down the road.
As we rocketed up to the inn, Lavender’s mechanic, Sam, stood on the porch talking to Tinks Williams. “Morning, sunshine,” Sam said, giving me a lopsided grin. “The Colonel’s inside. Me and Tinks just signed on.”
“Great.” I grabbed my camera and lined them up. Click. “Hey Dale, stand over there,” I said. “I’ll immortalize you.”
Dale bounced up on the porch and leaned against a fancy post, Liz by his side. “Give me a second, this ain’t automatic,” I reminded him. I held the camera against my belly and peered into the window on top.
Dale grinned.
“Don’t smile,” I told him. “Think DVD cover. And hold still.”
He crossed his arms and leaned against the post, setting off a shower of paint flakes. “Attitude, Liz,” he said. She slouched as Dale blazed a look into the camera.
“Perfect.” Click.
“Hey, there’s Mama,” Dale said as Miss Rose rumbled across the yard in a pickup, a horse trailer bouncing behind. Dale rushed to open the trailer. His ill-tempered mule, Cleopatra, stomped out braying and rolling her eyes. “Isn’t she a beauty?” he said.
Miss Lana says beauty’s in the eye of the beholder. Cleo proves it. Long soot-black ears, sullen black-rimmed eyes in a maple-colored face, legs too stubby for her body. Miss Rose grabbed Cleo’s bridle. Click.
“The Colonel invited C
leo to eat this grass down,” Dale said, “which is lucky for us. Our pasture needs a rest.” I nodded, but if I knew the Colonel, luck didn’t write that invitation.
The inn’s front door creaked open. Lavender in a tool belt. Click.
“Hey Mama,” Lavender said. “Come in, I’ll show you around. Mo, there’s some shots in here that will blow you away.” Lavender in a tool belt had already blown me away. Now I just needed the Colonel to handle our ghost.
• •
The Colonel had his battle plan. We searched the downstairs room by room. First the vestibule, with its check-in desk. Then the dining room, small back rooms, and dungeon of a kitchen. “All clear,” the Colonel sang.
Finally the parlor, with its piano.
Dale hadn’t looked square at the piano since we got there. “We were playing ‘Heart and Soul’ last time, sir,” I said. “Maybe we should play it again.”
He nodded and grabbed a picnic basket. “Carry on. I’ll set up Lana’s picnic.”
“Miss Lana’s picnic and not his,” Dale whispered. “That’s good.” It was true. Miss Lana packs a picnic like it could be your last meal. The Colonel leans toward beef jerky and water.
“Come on, Dale,” I said. He slipped onto the bench and opened the keyboard. “You might want to move away from the stairs,” I told the Colonel. “She’s fast.”
“Ten-four, Soldier.” He carried the basket to the desk, and lifted out a white tablecloth and a silver candlestick.
Dale rolled an easy river of sound through the inn and I placed my hands in the go position. “Now,” he whispered. He sang as I plinked out the melody. “Heart and soul . . .”
I looked over my shoulder, at the staircase. “Keep singing,” I whispered. We played the song top to bottom three times. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Being stood up by a ghost hurts, mostly because there’s no way to get even.
“Perhaps your ghost is upstairs. We’ll check after lunch,” the Colonel said. He shook open his cloth napkin. “Lana’s picnic is served.”
A half hour later he polished off the last of Miss Lana’s chicken salad, licked his fingertips, and smiled. “Ready, Desperados?” he asked, looking at the stairs.
“I’d better go check on Cleo,” Dale replied, grabbing a handful of Oreos.
“Cleo’s fine,” I told him, putting the lid on Miss Lana’s Practically Organic Bread-and-Butter Pickles. “We’re ready, sir.”
The Colonel stacked our plates in the basket and blew out the candles. Dale looked at the stairs. “I got a question before we go up, sir. In case I don’t make it back down.”
“We’ll make it down,” the Colonel replied. “But shoot.”
“It’s about Daddy.”
I grabbed the tablecloth and bunched it up to hold in the crumbs.
I knew Dale would ask about Mr. Macon sooner or later. On one hand, it made perfect sense: Mr. Macon and the Colonel used to be friends, so you’d think the Colonel, who’s turned out to be an attorney, might help Mr. Macon now. On the other hand, it didn’t make a lick of sense, as Mr. Macon was in jail for helping kidnap the Colonel and Miss Lana, and for giving Miss Rose a black eye.
If you ask me, jail suits him fine. Nobody hurts my people and walks free—not if I can help it.
“Daddy needs a good lawyer,” Dale said. “I know most people say you’re crazy, but I figure you’re still better than most.”
“Thank you,” the Colonel replied, and dropped his napkin in the picnic basket. “Dale, I can’t represent Macon, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Dale bobbed his head, same as he does when he learns he flunked a test. “In fact,” the Colonel said, “I’ll probably be called as a witness against him.” His brown eyes searched Dale’s face. “You and Mo might be called too.”
Us? Testify? I’d never thought of that.
“We’re ready, sir,” I said, and Dale twisted his napkin.
“I’m not,” Dale said.
The Colonel studied him. “Macon’s in jail because of what he did, Dale. Not because of what you did.”
“That’s what Mama says,” Dale told him, twisting his napkin tighter. The Colonel took it from his hands and tossed it into the basket. “I just figured you ain’t all that reliable as a witness because of your amnesia. So maybe they’d let you be an attorney instead.” He gazed into the Colonel’s eyes.
The Colonel grinned. “Good point. One that’s sure to come up at trial. I can’t defend Macon,” he added. “But I’ll make sure he gets a good attorney.”
Dale smiled and offered his hand. “Thank you.”
The Colonel shook his hand and clapped his shoulder. “I believe Lavender’s put boards over those missing steps,” he said. “Let’s track your ghost.”
I grabbed my camera and looked at the stairs. My chicken salad sandwich flapped its wings. “Age before beauty, sir,” I said.
“Thank you, my dear,” he replied, and headed up the steps.
The wide upstairs hallway, with its faintly stained wainscot and faded wallpaper, split two sets of rooms. An old steamer trunk stood halfway down the hall. I lined up a shot of its worn leather handle. Click.
The Colonel tried guestroom #1. Saggy brass bed, a rocking chair, a tilted washbasin. Click. “Nobody here,” he said, peering in an open chifforobe.
We headed down the hall, opening door after door. #2, #3, #4. Nobody, nobody, nobody. #5, #6, #7. Click, click, click. “Last room,” he announced.
The library door creaked open. A mouse scurried from the cabinet, and Queen Elizabeth bounded after it. “No, Liz,” Dale shouted. “Spit it out!”
“Lana will love this room,” the Colonel said, and plucked a ragged book from the shelf. He leaned against the window frame, opened the book, and held it flat on his palm. Click. A paper slipped from his book and swooped to the floor.
“A photo!” I said, picking it up.
Two girls in old-timey dresses peered at us from the photo. A blur of a boy reached for a third girl. The camera had caught only her heel and ragged skirt-tail as she ran away. “Who’s this?” I asked, turning the photo over, hoping for a footnote. Nothing.
“Miss Thornton might know,” the Colonel said, and Queen Elizabeth sneezed. “We’re out of rooms,” he added, his patient brown eyes watching mine.
“Colonel, I know I heard somebody run down those stairs,” I said, pocketing the photo. “And the keyboard slammed shut and the place chilled meat-locker cold.”
“I know it too,” Dale said.
The Colonel crossed his arms over his thin chest. “Whatever you saw is no longer in evidence,” he said. “I’m not sure what else we can do.”
Downstairs, the front door opened and closed. Lavender called up to us. “Colonel? The mayor’s here.”
The Colonel scowled. “I’d rather go toe-to-toe with your ghost,” he muttered. “I haven’t had time to explore the grounds,” he said. “Could you two investigate?” He reached in his pocket. “You’re welcome to my compass.”
The Colonel never leaves home without his compass.
“Thank you, sir,” I said. “But we’ll stick to the paths.”
Downstairs, the Colonel headed for the mayor and I made a beeline for Lavender, who was sanding the old reservation desk.
“No key,” he said, tugging at a small drawer. “I’d hate to call a locksmith.” He smiled. “How’d Ghost Patrol go?”
“Bad,” I admitted. “Just like our surveillance of Harm Crenshaw.”
The door swung open. “Speak of the devil,” Dale said.
“That’s some hello.” Harm walked over to Lavender and stuck out his hand. “Crenshaw,” he said. “Harm Crenshaw. Mo tells me you’re hiring.”
I glared at him. “I did not.”
“I’m good with tools. I’m strong. And I’m not afraid of ghosts. How about it?”
“You know my brother, Flick,” Harm said—like that would be a good thing. “I’m only in this two-bit town until Flick gets me set up in Greensboro, but I’ll work hard while I’m here. How about it? You could use a good man.”
Lavender picked up his paint scraper. Click. “Thanks, but Miss Retzyl would pin my ears back if I kept you out of school,” he said. “We have laws, even in this ‘two-bit town.’”
I clicked the shutter again just as Harm shifted to one side. Crud. A photo of Harm.
“Didn’t mean anything by it,” Harm told Lavender. “Some people like two-bit towns.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. He might have looked cool if his fists hadn’t strained against the fabric. “As for Miss Retzyl, I’m not worried about that backwoods nag.”
Backwoods nag? Miss Retzyl?
“Take that back!” I shouted. “You ain’t known her long enough to call her names.”
“Sorry,” Harm said, keeping his eyes on Lavender. “An after-school job? How about it? Minimum wage won’t hurt my feelings.”
“No thanks,” Lavender said, his voice firm.
He shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, heading for the door. “See you around, Ghost Girl.”
Click. Just in case I ever need a photo for evidence, I thought.
“That kid’s too much like his brother,” Lavender said, watching him mount his bike. Harm zipped past the window and headed for the meadow.
I smiled at Lavender. “We’d love to stay and chat, but the Colonel has entrusted us with a critical task of an outdoor nature.”
“We got to look around,” Dale added, peeling off his sweatshirt.
Lavender picked up his sandpaper. “Watch out for snakes if you go down to the water.”
Snakes. Great.
We crossed the front yard and headed for the trail leading to the creek.
“I don’t understand ghosts any more than I understand girls,” Dale said, kicking a pinecone ahead for Queen Elizabeth. “Why didn’t she come? We even played her song.”