I nodded. Dale stuck out his hand. “You can count on us.”
Lavender hid a flicker of surprise. “I know I can,” he said, shaking his hand. “That’s why I asked you.”
As Dale and I settled on the GMC’s tailgate, our backs to the twins, Lavender stepped into his well-patched race suit, wiggling it over his hips and shrugging it across his shoulders. He clamped his helmet on, swung his legs in through the driver-side window of number 32, and fishtailed onto the track.
“Look,” I said, elbowing Dale. Across the way Starr plowed through the tide of race fans like a tugboat, Miss Retzyl bobbing along in his wake. “They’re gonna miss the race,” I said as they exited the gate. I caught a flash of siren-blue light in the parking lot. “I hope Miss Retzyl ain’t under arrest,” I gasped as a siren wailed.
“For what?” Dale asked. “Bad taste in boyfriends?”
Lavender jostled in the pack, revving his engine. “He’s headed to the starting line!” Dale shouted. “Here we go.”
The flag fell.
The night roared.
The race was on.
Dale called out the times, lap after lap. On the twenty-eighth lap, Sam waved Lavender in, shouting and pointing at the rear left tire. Lavender slammed his palm against the dash and roared back into the race, tires screaming.
Sam stomped over and grabbed a soda from the cooler. “What’s wrong?” Dale asked. “Why’s Lavender mad?”
“Oh,” Sam fumed. “It’s probably nothing. That rear left tire don’t look right and your brother’s so damn stubborn. …” He took a deep breath. “Don’t pay any attention to me, Dale. Lavender’s right. I worry more than your mama does.”
The crash came three laps later. Lavender skidded sideways through the fourth turn, his back tires billowing smoke. The crowd rose like a thousand openmouthed puppets played by the same string, and I held my breath as Lavender hung sideways on the track—sliding, sliding, sliding—cars swerving miraculously by. Finally the number 45 car clipped his bumper, spinning him headfirst into the concrete barrier by the stands.
The night fell into slow motion as Lavender’s car somersaulted down the wall, bounced right side up, and wobbled to the infield. I found myself running toward him before I knew I was standing.
Dale sprinted past and lunged through the driver’s window. He and Sam pulled Lavender free, but he lay still in their arms as the EMTs rushed toward them.
A half hour later, Lavender sat in the rescue truck door, Doc Aikin turning his arm in the flat, yellow light. “It’s a wonder you walked away from that crash,” Doc said. “You could use some stitches in this arm. You got insurance?”
Lavender winced. “Are you kidding? Just tape it up, Doc.”
Doc nodded. “I’ll give you some antibiotics, then. As for your head …” he said, tilting Lavender’s head back and shining a pin-light in his eye. Again.
“What’s wrong with his head?” Dale asked, his voice wavering. He had barely spoken since Lavender came to sputtering and kicking on Doc’s gurney.
Doc’s a walrus of a man, tall as Lavender and twice as wide, but he gave Dale a kind smile. “He may have a concussion,” he said. “It’s too soon to tell.” He fished his card out of his wallet and stuck it in Lavender’s shirt pocket. “He needs to rest. But if he can’t stay awake or starts throwing up, you call me and I’ll meet you at the hospital. Pronto. Insurance or not. Understand?”
Dale and I nodded like dashboard dogs.
“Now, Lavender, where are you headed from here?”
Lavender was watching Sam winch what was left of the race car onto the flatbed truck. “I thought I’d take my crew home and go by Sam’s …”
Doc followed his gaze. “Nope. No alcohol, no women. Especially no twins.”
Dale touched Lavender’s hand. “You could stay at the house,” he said. “Just for tonight. Mama would be glad of it, and Daddy … probably wouldn’t mind.”
“Excellent,” Doc said. “Here’s my offer, then. Go to your mother’s with my appointed deputies here, or go to the hospital.”
“Deputies?” I repeated, standing tall. “Are badges involved?”
“It’s your choice, Lavender,” Doc said. “What’s it going to be?”
Lavender frowned. “I guess one night at home won’t kill me,” he muttered.
“Good. Of course you’re not driving with a head injury, so …”
I felt it coming: a phone call to the Colonel, begging him to collect us up like a pack of slick-nosed kids. I had to act fast. “Actually, Doc,” I said, “those big-haired twins over there are pining to drive us home. Crissy can take us three in the GMC, and Missy’s wild to drive the flatbed if Sam’s too upset. Those twins are willing, plus they’re sober out of their minds from sipping Diet 7UP all night. Don’t take my word for it. Give them a blood test. I don’t mind.”
It worked like a charm.
“You sure you know how to drive this truck?” Lavender asked Crissy a few minutes later as she slid behind the wheel of the GMC. “Because she’s a classic, and—”
“Ready!” I shouted, plopping down beside Dale and leaning against the cab. Crissy ground the gears, and we lunged into the night.
Dale and I dozed until an artless downshift woke us at the outskirts of town. “Must be taking the shortcut over Fool’s Bridge.” Dale yawned, peeking around the cab. Swirling blue lights swept the night. “Looks like a roadblock.”
“Maybe they’re breathalyzing everybody,” I said.
He shook his head. “Nah, too many lights. Cop lights, rescue lights, headlights. An accident, maybe,” he said. “Looks like they’re turning people back.”
Sure enough, a white Cadillac purred up the narrow road toward us and oozed to a stop. The window whirred down. Pinch-faced Mrs. Betsy Simpson—mother of my archenemy Anna Celeste—squinted in the dark. “Hey, Mrs. Simpson,” I said. “It’s Mo. How are you?”
“Mo,” she said, her eyes following the GMC’s lines. “In a jalopy. Not my taste, exactly, but how nice for you.”
Mean runs in the Simpson family. “It ain’t a jalopy, it’s a classic,” I said.
“Whatever it is, you might as well turn it around,” she said, glancing at Crissy. “Fool’s Bridge is closed. The police won’t let you through.”
“Closed?” Dale said. “Why? What happened?” But her window whirred back up, and she was gone.
Crissy did a surprisingly nice three-point turn and we detoured to Miss Rose’s house. As we lurched to a stop, Dale vaulted over the side of the truck. “You all wait out here while I see if Daddy’s up,” he said.
“Sorry to ruin your plans, sugar,” Crissy said, hopping out. “But I got to pee. So does Missy, I’m sure,” she said as Missy wheeled into the drive. The four of us traipsed onto the front porch, where Dale held the screen door for the twins.
“Mama,” he called. “I’m home.”
Miss Rose sat in her armchair, scribbling on a legal pad and listening to the radio. “Hey, baby,” she said without glancing up. “How’d it go?”
“Evening, Miss Rose,” I said, stepping into the lamplight.
“Hello, Mo.” She saw the twins for the first time. “My goodness,” she said, jumping to her feet. “I didn’t realize you’d brought company home, Dale.”
“They ain’t Dale’s, they’re Sam’s,” I said. “Miss Rose, I’d like to introduce you to twins. This one’s Crissy and that one’s Missy. Or the other way around.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” she said. “Won’t you sit down?”
“They can’t,” I said. “They got to pee.” I pointed to the hall. “Bathroom’s on your right. The light switch is in the hallway, by the door. Miss Rose,” I continued, “I think you better sit down yourself.”
Dale nodded encouragingly, and Miss Rose drifted to the settee. Miss Rose is the most graceful person I know. “Mama, where’s Daddy?” Dale asked.
Miss Rose hesitated. “He’s resting.”
Dale looked
relieved. “In Lavender’s old room?” She nodded.
Dale’s daddy sleeps in Lavender’s room when he’s had too much to drink, because Miss Rose can’t stand having him around her. I know that because Dale told me. It’s not something Miss Rose and me talk about. “He’s sleeping pretty sound?” he asked.
“Sleeping pretty sound” is their code for “passed out cold.”
She nodded slowly. “What’s this about?” she asked.
“Let me tell her, Dale,” I said. “The way you tell things, you’ll kill her.”
“Tell me what?” she asked, her green eyes suspicious.
I took a deep breath. “Miss Rose, I hate to mention it, but your firstborn’s crashed headfirst into a cement wall at maybe a hundred miles an hour, which we can all be grateful hard-headedness runs in your family. He’s outside right now hoping his daddy will let him in without any nastiness, and we’re hoping he don’t get medically no worse, because Doc Aikin says if he goes concussion, we got to rush him to the hospital. Dale and me are Doctor Appointed in this,” I concluded.
Miss Rose was already halfway across the room. “Lavender Shade Johnson, you get yourself in this house this instant,” she said, pushing the screen door open.
Lavender stepped in, looking embarrassed. “Hey, Mama,” he said.
She gasped. The bruise on his forehead had run dark, hungry fingers to his eye. “You sit down,” she said, pushing him onto the settee. “Dale, get me a towel and some ice. And bring a pillow off my bed.” She leaned down to tug Lavender’s boots off, pausing when she got a look at his socks—one gray and one black. “Thank God you didn’t have to go to the hospital,” she said. “Where’s Dale? Where’s that ice?”
“Hey, Miss Rose,” Sam said, stepping gingerly into the room. “Can I help?”
Miss Rose stood up and slugged him in the arm. Hard. “You’ve done enough,” she said. “Getting my son into racing. What on earth were you thinking?”
Lavender grinned.
“Me get him into racing?” Sam said, rubbing his arm and backing toward the door. “Miss Rose, I never—”
“He might have been killed,” she snapped.
“That’s the truth,” I added. “Doc Aikin said so. More or less.”
“And who’s responsible for those twins?” she demanded as the toilet flushed. “What do you have to say for yourself, Sam Quinerly?”
“I … What I mean is, I’ll just show the ladies out the back way,” he said, edging toward the hall door.
“Well, don’t wake up Lavender’s daddy,” she said. “And don’t you drive, either. You smell like a brewery. And tell Dale to get in here with that ice.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Mo, you want a ride home?”
“Go on, Mo,” Lavender said, winking. “You’ve saved me enough for one day.”
“Wait,” I said, grabbing Miss Rose’s hand. “Let me call the Colonel and see if I can stay over. Please,” I begged. “I’m Doctor Appointed.”
For the first time since Lavender walked through the door, Miss Rose actually looked at me. Her face softened, and she reached up to brush the hair from my eyes. “Sometimes I think you love Lavender near as much as I do,” she said.
“Gag me,” Dale said, handing his mother a towel full of ice.
“Call the Colonel, then,” she told me. “Tell him you’re invited.”
I darted across the room and scooped up the phone. The Colonel answered on the first ring. “This is the Colonel,” he said. “Speak to me.”
“Hey, Colonel,” I said. “It’s Mo.”
“Soldier,” he said. “Where are you?”
“I’m at Dale’s. I’m invited to spend the night, and—”
“I want you home,” he said.
“Yes, sir. The thing is—”
“I want you home. Now. That’s an order.”
“I see. Hold on a second, sir.” I covered the mouthpiece. “Miss Rose?” I said. “The Colonel would like to speak with you, to work out the details of my visit.”
Miss Rose glided toward me, reaching for the phone. “Good evening, Colonel,” she said. “I hope you’re well. We’d be delighted for Mo to stay with us tonight if—” She nodded as she listened, her smile fading away. “I see,” she finally said. “Sam is just leaving. I’ll send her with him.”
Her face went ashen. “No, I hadn’t heard.”
Her knees buckled and she sank onto the high-backed chair by the phone. “Certainly,” she said. “I’ll keep her safe until you arrive.” She let the phone clatter into its cradle, and a sharp-edged silence filled the room.
“What’s wrong?” Lavender asked, swinging his feet to the floor.
For a moment, she looked at us as if we were strangers. “There’s been a murder at Fool’s Bridge,” she said, her voice distant and off pitch. “Jesse Tatum is dead.”
“Mr. Jesse?” I yelped. “Our Mr. Jesse?”
“Who killed him?” Lavender asked.
“They don’t know who killed him, or why. Or where the murderer is, for that matter,” she said, glancing toward the door. “They found Jesse’s body adrift in his own rowboat. The one somebody stole … when was it … Monday? Tuesday?”
I looked at Dale.
The blood fell from his face in a single, swift curtain as Lavender stood up, crossed the room, and locked the door.
Chapter 6
Keep Your Windows and Doors Locked
The Colonel’s face looked gaunt in the dashboard’s glow as the Underbird bounced out of Miss Rose’s drive and onto the blacktop heading to town.
“Dead? Are you sure they mean our Mr. Jesse?” I asked.
“I’m sure.”
I settled into the Underbird’s bucket seat and took a deep breath. It felt like a thousand spiders had spun their silk inside my head. “Somebody’s made a mistake,” I said. “I served Mr. Jesse his lunch not eight hours ago. He stiffed me on the tip, just like always. He’s fine. Turn by Miss Blalock’s barn up here,” I said, pointing. “We can take the back way to Mr. Jesse’s, through the woods. He’ll straighten this out.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said, cruising past the turn.
My anger jumped like a cat and took a few quick, hot paces around my chest. “Turn around,” I heard myself shout. He didn’t blink. “Fine,” I muttered, scrunching down in the seat. “I’ll take my bike. I’ll find Mr. Jesse myself. Or the police will find him. You’ll see.”
The Colonel placed his hand on mine. “The police have already found Jesse Tatum,” he said. “That’s how we know he’s dead.”
They’re rough hands, the Colonel’s, with a touch soft as nightfall.
“Death always shocks, even when you expect it,” he said. “This is your first experience, and Jesse’s death is anything but expected. Take some time to get your bearings.”
I slumped, watching the pines flicker by in the headlights’ glow. “You may not know this, but Mr. Jesse was like a father to me,” I said. The Colonel’s right eyebrow drifted up. “Okay, not like a father,” I said. “More like an uncle, maybe. A stingy, selfish uncle who was secretly nice inside.”
The Colonel sighed. “Jesse Tatum was a miserly, fetid old goat. The truth is you didn’t particularly like him and neither did I. Still, we are accustomed to him,” he said. “He’s part of our world. I will miss him and I expect you will too.”
We rode in silence to the edge of town. “Colonel, who would kill Mr. Jesse?”
He shook his head, and his lips went tight. “I don’t know. The police are wondering the same thing,” he said, “not that they have enough sense to figure it out. Never underestimate the idiocy of our criminal justice system, Soldier.”
“No sir, I won’t. But—”
“Listen to me,” he said, his voice suddenly urgent. “Keep your eyes and ears open, and keep your opinions to yourself. Bring anything you learn about Jesse to me. Or, if I am away, to Lana. To no one else. Stay close to us until further notice. We are safe,
but there is a killer among us. We must prepare to defend ourselves if necessary. And the best defense is what, Soldier?”
“A good offense,” I said. “You’ve told me a million times. I just don’t see how—”
“Leave the ‘how’ to me. Here we are,” he added, hanging a right at the café. “Maybe my spot by the door is still open.”
I surveyed the packed parking lot. “Karate Night,” I muttered as the Underbird shuddered to a stop. “I forgot.”
He nodded. “And other people have stopped by to see about Jesse. They’re scared. Nothing like this has ever happened in Tupelo Landing.” He opened his door and gave me a quick smile. “Mr. Li’s karate class is nearly over, but maybe you’ll feel better if you practice your kicks.”
“Maybe,” I sighed, heading for the café door. “I can’t feel much worse.”
Mr. Li started Karate Night at the café two years ago. The Colonel keeps just the counter open after the supper rush, and lets Mr. Li push the tables to the walls and use the floor space. In return, Mr. Li gives Dale and me free lessons for life. Dale hates it. I enjoy kicking others, but would do better in an art that allows spitting.
The Colonel offers Karate Night as a public service, same as Jaycees on Tuesdays and Miss Jennifer’s Ballroom on Mondays. Wednesdays we hold open for Emergency Bridal Showers. As we entered the café, the Colonel draped a wiry arm across my shoulders. “Keep your wits about you,” he whispered. “There is an enemy among us, and you are new to the ways of war.”
Mr. Li, dressed in his trim white gi and faded black belt, spotted the Colonel at once. “Rei!” he shouted, and his students turned to the Colonel and bowed. We bowed back.
Some say the Colonel earned his black belt in Okinawa, and killed a man to get it. Others say he bought it used at a Fayetteville flea market and never had a lesson in his life. Either way, Mr. Li always bows—just in case, Miss Lana says.
“Miss Mo, will you please join us?” Mr. Li said. “Miss Anna needs a partner. No spitting.” I grabbed a set of pads and sprang in front of Anna Celeste Simpson.
Three Times Lucky Page 5