The Ghosts of Tupelo Landing Page 9

  Dale’s a Mama’s Boy through and through. Of course, with the daddy he’s got, what choice does he have?

  He pushed the front door open. “Hello? Anybody home?” He peeked inside. “There it is,” he whispered. “I hope she hasn’t been wearing it.” He looked around the room. “Not that there’s anything wrong with you having nice things,” he said, louder. He turned to me. “I’ll sneak in and grab it. You wait out here with Queen Elizabeth. But if I scream, come get me.”

  Wait out here? Joy surged through me.

  “If anything happens, I’ll save you,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t run the other way instead. He flexed his knees like he stood on the free-throw line. Then he tiptoed in, every muscle set to run. “Don’t look at the stairs,” I whispered. “Or touch the piano keys. And don’t . . .”

  He snagged the sweatshirt, wheeled, and sprinted toward me. “Did you see her?” I demanded, slamming the door behind him.

  “No,” he said. “But I feel her staring at us. Let’s go.”

  I grabbed my bike. If we went the long way, it would be pitch dark before we made the café. “The shortcut,” I said, looking at Red Baker’s path.

  He gulped. “Stay close,” he told Queen Elizabeth. “No trash-talking to Red’s dogs. You ain’t as big as you think.”

  We barreled across the meadow and onto the path, our tires crunching across a carpet of leaves. Near Red Baker’s place, Dale hopped off his bike and waved toward the ground in the universally recognized signal for Dismount and Slink.

  He swore softly as he peered across the yard. “Mr. Red’s outside,” he whispered. “Somebody’s with him.”

  A man’s harsh voice shoved through the silence. “They’ll never make it,” he said. A man stepped into the light. Flick Crenshaw! Flick spit in the grass. “That inn will bleed them dry. That wing nut and the old biddy . . .”

  Mr. Red scowled. “Watch your mouth. I’ve known Lacy Thornton all my life.”

  Flick shrugged. “Have it your way.” He got in his red sports car. It roared to life and sped toward us. “The bikes!” We yanked them into the bushes as Flick tore past, headed for the inn’s driveway. The engine’s sound faded away.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Dale whispered. He stepped back, and a twig snapped.

  Red Baker wheeled to face us. “Who’s over there?” he demanded, picking up a swing blade. We froze. “Detective Joe Starr? Come out where I can see you.”

  He took a step toward us. “I know you’re there. Show yourself.”

  His front door scricked open. “Stew’s ready, Gramps,” a familiar voice said. “Is Flick staying? I made enough for all of us.”

  “Hush.” Mr. Red’s gaze patrolled the edge of his yard.

  Behind us, a fox squirrel scampered along a tree limb and sprang to the ground. Dale grabbed Liz and clamped his hand over her muzzle.

  Red stared at the squirrel, his face relaxing, and then turned toward the house. “Keep your shirt on, boy, I’m coming. You nag me worse than your mama ever did,” he said, and headed for the house.

  I bent the sassafras branch down. A dark-haired boy slouched tall and lanky in the doorway. Mr. Red clomped up the crooked cinderblock steps and across the porch. The boy at the door turned into the light.

  “Crenshaw, Harm Crenshaw,” I whispered. “He’s Red Baker’s grandson.”

  Chapter 13

  Preemptive Strike

  The next morning, we dropped our bikes and headed for the schoolhouse door. “Desperados,” a voice called. “Wait up.”

  We turned to see Harm Crenshaw pedaling hard across the grounds. He hopped off his bike, chained it to the bicycle rack, and swaggered over to us. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” Dale replied, giving him a gunslinger look.

  “I checked out your scarecrow,” Harm said.

  “Who cares?” I demanded.

  “Good work,” he told Dale. “The lederhosen are a nice touch.”

  “Of course it’s nice work,” I said. “Miss Lana says Dale’s an artist. Like van Gogh, only with both ears.”

  He frowned and glanced at Dale’s ears. “Right,” he said. “Look, I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Lavender. He seems like a nice guy. I’d like to help him and . . .” He hesitated and changed course. “Okay, I’ll level with you. I could use the money. If either of you could put in a word for me. With Lavender or the Colonel . . .”

  He stared at me, making his eyes soft and pleading.

  “Puppy eyes,” Dale warned, his voice scornful.

  Harm Crenshaw was trying to play me! I swung my messenger bag over my shoulder. “If you need money, maybe your granddaddy can help you out,” I said, heading toward the school.

  Harm’s puppy eyes disappeared. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Red Baker dresses poor but people say he carries a roll of moonshine cash that would choke a mule.” I looked at Dale.

  “I know. Figure of speech,” he said, beating me to it.

  Harm hooked his thumb in his pocket and tried to smirk, but he moved jerky and off rhythm. “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Red Baker,” I said, heading up the steps. “He’s your grandpa. Right?”

  The door flew open. Attila stood with her hands on her hips, studying Harm with the gleam she usually reserves for research frogs. “You’re Red Baker’s grandson?”

  “What if I am?” he asked, blushing. For a half second I felt sorry for him. I hate a blush. It’s like a traitor riding beneath your skin.

  “You eavesdropping, Attila?” I said. “Because where I come from, that’s rude.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And where do you come from?” She eyed Harm up and down. “That explains why you didn’t want us to know where you live. I’d be ashamed too.”

  “Who says I’m ashamed?” Harm shot back.

  “Actions speak louder than words,” Attila retorted. “Excuse me, I’d hate to miss morning announcements. Wouldn’t you, Harmond?” The door hissed closed behind her.

  “What did you do to her?” Dale asked.

  Harm shrugged. “She dumped me as her history partner, so I called her queen of the backwater brown-nosers.”

  Dale whistled. “She’ll be gunning for you,” he said as the three of us headed down the hall and settled into our desks.

  Miss Retzyl claimed her place at the front of the room looking pretty in a regular pink dress and her own hair. She doesn’t own a wig—I’ve asked. Dressing normal’s a way of life for her—something I appreciate after a lifetime with Miss Lana. “Good morning,” she sang.

  Attila raised her hand. “I have an announcement. Normally I wouldn’t say this, but I feel full disclosure’s best in a small town. I’m sure we’d all agree.”

  Full disclosure? Has she lost her mind?

  “She’s ratting him out,” Dale whispered, and I nodded.

  I looked at Harm, who clenched his fist and took a deep breath. He wasn’t going down without a fight. The Colonel says my enemy’s enemy is my friend. I raised my hand, buying Harm some time. “I hear the Exums got in trouble last night,” I said. “I thought I’d mention it in the interest of full disclosure.”

  “We did not!” Jake cried. “We don’t even own any paint!”

  Paint? What was that about?

  Miss Retzyl clapped her hands. “Anna Celeste, you have the floor,” she said.

  Harm’s voice boomed out. “Miss Retzyl, I’ve decided on my history paper. I’m interviewing my grandfather Mr. Red Baker, well-known moonshine consultant.” The class gasped. Attila looked like a first grader who’d swallowed her ice cream money.

  “Preemptive strike,” Dale murmured. “Good.”

  “Your grandfather?” Sal said, studying him. “So that’s who you are.”

  “You’re interviewing Red Baker?” Hannah
said, her voice tinted with admiration. “He’s even meaner than Mayor Little’s mother.”

  Harm’s eyes never left Miss Retzyl’s face. “I know I can only make a B at this point, but it’s taken me this long to confirm my interview. Red’s temperamental. I appreciate your patience and hope my paper’s worth your wait.”

  The class swiveled to Miss Retzyl. “Thank you, Harmond,” she said, her voice bland as vanilla pudding. “I look forward to your report.”

  He gave Attila a smile. “Sorry I interrupted you, Anna,” he said. “What were you saying?”

  Attila slammed her book report onto her desk. “Never mind.”

  I grinned. Anna Celeste Simpson had met her match.

  Chapter 14

  Somebody Screamed.

  Maybe Me.

  Labor Day—with Miss Lana’s famous Farewell to Summer Parking Lot Cookout—came and went, clearing the way for the first quick breath of autumn. The next day—Tuesday—Dale and me dropped by the inn after school. We found Lavender fuming on the front porch.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said, grabbing an armload of tools and taking them to his truck. “Everybody we hire runs away. Even Sam and Tinks quit. I’m never going to get this place ready in time for the party.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “What are you two doing out here, anyway?” he asked, slapping his cap against his knee. “I’m in such a bad mood, I forgot to ask.”

  Lavender’s bad moods fall rare as snow and melt just as quick.

  “We got to reshoot some photos,” I said.

  “Come in, then. Tell me what you think,” he said, slamming the tailgate shut and heading up the steps.

  He pushed the door open and we stepped inside. Without their skins of cobwebs and dust, the rooms stood sleek and elegant. The heart pine floorboards stretched on like rivers of honey, the windows flooded the rooms with afternoon light. We walked across the lobby, our steps echoing. “It’s big as Kansas in here,” Dale said as Queen Elizabeth sniffed the baseboards.

  “Five rooms cleaned, seven to go. But without Sam and Tinks . . .” He slapped his cap against his leg again. “I might as well tell you. I don’t believe in ghosts, but it looks like everybody else in the county does.”

  Including us, I thought.

  “Ghosts?” Dale said, looking worried. “Plural?”

  “They swear ghosts move their tools. They hear footsteps and voices. A girl’s voice, men’s voices . . .” I heard myself swallow. “Window glass that shouldn’t break does break. It’s ridiculous,” he said. “I’m in and out of this place all the time and I haven’t heard a thing. But I still have to hire again. Because of ghosts.”

  “Are you sure they hear voices?” Dale asked, darting an anxious peek at the stairs. “Because there’s only one ghost in Miss Lana’s contract.” He looked at me, his face grave. “We could have squatters from the other side.”

  Lavender snorted. “There’s no ghost, little brother,” he said. “Those guys are scaring themselves out of here. Which means telling the ladies we got to post another ad. Are they at the café?”

  “Miss Lana is,” I said. “Grandmother Miss Lacy’s gone to see her accountant.”

  “Again?”

  “It’s a full-time job being rich,” I said. “That’s what Miss Lana says.”

  He stuffed his shirttail in his jeans. “I wouldn’t know about that, but I’d like to find out.”

  “You will, soon as you win Daytona,” I told him.

  “I do admire your confidence, Mo,” he said. “You all want a ride to the café? I can put your bikes in the back of the truck.”

  Riding in the GMC with Lavender. Tempting. But I didn’t want to see Miss Lana’s face when he told her their workers had flaked like crescent rolls. “Thanks,” I said, “but Attila’s burning a DVD of Grandmother Miss Lacy and we got to get top-grade photos or risk Comparative Flunking. Skeeter can give us PowerPoint for a fee—if we get the photos in time.”

  “PowerPoint? Good name for a bird dog.” He grinned. “Dale?”

  “I’ll stay,” Dale said, his voice dull. “If I don’t come out, tell Mama I love her.”

  “I think she’s noticed,” Lavender said. “Let me get this over with.” He hates giving Miss Lana bad news. Even his hair lost its luster.

  I made my voice easy, the way Miss Lana does when I head for school shy a book report. “Lavender, even if you fail and ruin the biggest party in history and even if the entire town turns against you, Dale and me won’t feel let down.”

  “I might,” Dale said, putting his hands in his pockets. “A little.”

  Outside, the wind set the porch chairs rocking. Lavender stared at me a moment, possibly overwhelmed by my compassion.

  “Thanks, Mo,” he said. “I appreciate your support. Close the door on your way out,” he added, and strolled out whistling.

  “I’ll be quick, Dale,” I promised. I shot three fast ones of the piano, and headed for the dining room. The chandelier looked great against the high, pressed-tin ceiling. I focused on a tear-shaped prism. Click. “Let’s get the library,” I called, backtracking.

  “No,” Dale said. “I’m not going up there. Neither is Queen Elizabeth.”

  As I started toward him, a low voice rumbled through the room. My sneakers squeaked to a halt. The dining room stood empty and still. “Lavender?” Dale called, turning to the door. “Did you forget something?”

  Thank goodness. Lavender. A voice shivered through the silence: “Get . . . out.”

  My heart stuttered. That wasn’t Lavender.

  “Mo?” Dale called, his voice off pitch.

  “Get . . . out . . . of . . . my . . . inn.” Every nerve in my body jumped. My fingers went numb. The voice floated out of nowhere, louder, whispery rough. “Get . . . out . . . now . . .”

  Somebody screamed. Maybe me.

  “Run!” Dale shouted, pounding toward the door. He jerked it open as a second voice shot down the stairs. “Help,” a high-pitched voice called. “Help!” I twirled on the dining room threshold as the chandelier started swinging. Click.

  “Wait for me, Dale!” I shouted. I bolted across the porch and jumped the steps. Dale wobbled down the drive, steering his bike with one arm. Liz dangled wildly beneath the other, all four paws trying to run.

  Chapter 15

  Not for Sale

  The next afternoon, Dale sat in the café nursing a milkshake and poring over my photos. “What do you mean, what would a photo of a ghost look like?”

  “Interesting question,” Lavender said from the counter. He’d dropped by to pick up a couple checks for supplies. He’d lured Sam and Tinks back with the promise of a spin around the racetrack, once he’s racing again.

  “I see why you want to reshoot,” Dale said. “We got blurry piano and library pictures, and Miss Lacy Thornton and Harm look like they got light blobs stuck to them.” He smiled at Lavender. “At least she got some good shots of you,” he said, thumbing through the stack. “This one’s nice,” he added, studying a photo of the Colonel and Lavender, side by side.

  “It’s yours,” I said, and he slipped it into his pocket.

  Miss Lana smiled. “Cousin Gideon might have some ideas about your photos, sugar,” she said. “He dabbles in unusual things. Why don’t you write to him? He loves letters, which he claims are a lost art.”

  The Colonel backed in from the kitchen carrying a tray of coffee cups. “With Gideon, working’s a lost art,” he said. “He should get a job.”

  Miss Lana ignored him. “And if Gideon can’t answer your questions,” she continued, signing the last check with a flourish, “he may know someone who can. He attracts interesting people.”

  “He attracts flakes,” the Colonel said.

  I nodded. I’d get Skeeter to email my note. It only cost a quarter, and it would save time.

&nbs
p; Lavender slipped the checks in his pocket. “Thanks, Miss Lana,” he said. “Ready, Colonel? We got a meeting with the building inspector in half an hour.”

  The Colonel sighed. “Roger.” He headed for the Underbird.

  Poor Colonel. Before his memory found him, he spent days plotting courses through wild forests and nights sleeping beneath the stars. Now he has mayors and building inspectors to deal with.

  When you’re not used to normal, it pinches like new shoes.

  No sooner had Lavender and the Colonel rounded the curve than Red Baker’s rattletrap truck wheeled into the parking lot. Mr. Red stepped out in his auction clothes: white shirt, red tie, pressed chinos, black shoes polished to a high sheen.

  Now what?

  “Good afternoon,” Miss Lana said as he scuffed across the tiles to the counter. She patted her Marilyn Monroe wig into place. “How can we help you today?”

  “You can’t. I came to do you a favor.” Miss Lana smiled so quick, I almost missed the suspicion in her eyes. I walked over beside her and stepped up on my Pepsi crate. Red Baker’s eyes flickered over me. “Nobody wants to work for you,” he told Miss Lana. “That inn’s haunted, whether you got the eyes to see it or not.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with Miss Lana’s eyes,” I told him.

  “Didn’t say there is.” He ran a hand across his whiskers. “You got ghosts. People talk. You’ll run out of money soon enough, and then what?”

  He popped his knuckles. “I hate seeing Lacy Thornton struggle,” he said. “If Lacy goes down, others go down. Lacy’s a silent partner with his mama,” he said, nodding at Dale. “And others besides.”

  Miss Lana’s face went calm as porcelain. “How can I help you?” she asked. Miss Lana says when dealing with a person of Unknown Intentions, you should be double polite—once for them, once for you. The Colonel says you should look for a weapon. “Pear pie, perhaps?” she offered, removing the pie cover and picking up a knife.

  “I’ll take a piece if it will help,” Dale offered, vaulting onto a stool.