“Such a good boy,” Miss Lana said, beaming at him. “You took that boat back out of the goodness of your heart, didn’t you, Dale?”
“No, ma’am,” Dale said. “I took it back because we needed the reward money for fried baloney sandwiches.”
I winced. Dale is not cut out for a life of crime.
“Tell me about the boat,” Starr said.
“Well, Mr. Jesse hardly ever used it, and I only hid it a ways down from his place. He coulda found it if he really wanted to.”
Starr looked at Dale, his eyes hard. “Tell me about taking it back.”
Dale shoved his hands in his pockets. It made him look smaller, somehow. “Well,” he said, “I walked the boat up the creek. Then I went over to Mr. Jesse’s house and knocked on his door. And Mr. Jesse, he come to the door and he said, ‘Afternoon Dale, how’s your mother?’
“And I said, ‘She’s fine, Mr. Jesse. I sure hope you are. I got exciting news for you: I found your boat. I hope it wasn’t a hardship, not having it.’
“And he said, ‘Not at all. Thank you, son. Here’s your reward money,’ and I left.”
Starr looked up from his notes. “No kidding,” he said. “That was real cordial.”
“Sure,” Dale said. “Mr. Jesse was a real cordial man.”
Starr scratched an eyebrow. “Well, I guess I’m a little surprised,” he said. “From what folks have told me, I didn’t think Jesse Tatum was a particularly cordial kind of guy. Did you find him cordial, Miss Rose?”
“Of course not,” she snapped. “Dale Earnhardt Johnson III, you stop this foolishness,” she said, cracking her words like a whip. “You tell Detective Starr the truth and you tell it now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dale said. His chin quivered, and he looked at Starr. “Maybe just you and me could talk,” he said. “Man to man.”
“Dale, whatever it is, just say it,” Miss Rose said, her voice gentler now.
He looked across the yard, fixing on Starr’s car like he could stare the shine right off of it. “All right,” he said. “I walked the boat up the creek to Mr. Jesse’s dock, and I knocked on the door, like I said. Mr. Jesse come to the door in his pants and his undershirt, and he unlatched the door and pushed it open, and …” Dale took a deep breath. “And he said, ‘What are you doing on my door stoop, you no-good son of a white trash drunk.’”
Miss Rose gasped, but Miss Lana nodded. “That’s the Jesse I knew,” she said.
Dale’s voice was low. “Then Mr. Jesse said, ‘You get your scrawny good-for-nothing self off my land before I call the law. And you tell your daddy if I see him on my land again I’ll call the law on him too, no warning given.’
“Then I said, ‘I’ll be glad to get off your filthy scrap of swamp soon as you pay the reward you owe me for getting your boat back, you ugly old waste of human skin. And if you got a message for my daddy, you can deliver it yourself, if you ain’t scared.’
“Then he said, ‘You think I’m shelling out ten bucks on the word of Macon Johnson’s leftovers? You show me my boat if you got it.’ So we walked down to the creek and he saw his boat. He gave me ten dollars and no thank you, and I skedaddled.”
Starr nodded. “Which way did you go?”
“Through the woods.”
“Who was with you?”
“Nobody.”
I raised my hand. “Even if somebody was with him, which there wasn’t, it wasn’t me,” I said. “I can tell you an alibi, if needed.”
Starr didn’t take his eyes off Dale. “Don’t lie to me, son,” he said. “There were two sets of footprints where you hid the boat, and there were two sets on the creek bed, by the dock. Yours, and an adult’s.”
Two sets of footprints?
“I’ll ask you again,” Starr said. “Who was with you?”
“Nobody,” Dale said, looking scared. “I got the boat and walked it up the creek. I tied it right about where I found it.”
“Where it was when you stole it?” Starr asked.
“I object,” I said. “We’ve already established this wasn’t a technical steal. This was more like a surprise borrowing between neighbors. Don’t say nothing, Dale,” I warned.
Starr turned to Miss Rose. “Doesn’t sound like Mr. Jesse thought much of your husband.”
She looked suddenly tired. “Nobody thinks much of my husband,” she said. “Can’t say that I blame them.”
“Where was he last night?”
“He came home around eight. He left maybe three hours later. I’m not sure where he came from, or where he went.”
“Had he been drinking?”
“He’s always been drinking,” Dale said. “You leave Mama out of this.”
Starr ignored him. “What size shoe does your husband wear?”
“Nine, nine and a half.”
“Well, here’s the situation,” Starr said. “I’ve got Dale’s footprints and an adult’s footprints at the scene of a crime. Dale admits stealing Jesse Tatum’s boat. Your husband was drinking and his whereabouts at the time of the murder are unknown. So, I need you to fill in some blanks for me—unless you really do want to call a lawyer.”
Now Miss Rose looked scared. “I don’t know that I can fill in many blanks,” she said, “but I can tell you Dale is no murderer.” She gave Dale a look that would break a stone. “A thief, maybe, but not a murderer.”
“I promise,” Dale said, his eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t steal nothing. And I don’t know whose footprints got tangled up with mine.”
I thought back, to Dale returning the boat, and then farther back, to the day he took it. “I know,” I said quietly. I studied my notes until everyone was looking. There’s no need to waste a dramatic pause—that’s what Miss Lana says. “Those prints you found were from Lavender’s shoes.”
“Lavender’s?” Miss Rose cried, grabbing Miss Lana’s arm for support.
Dale blinked, and then smacked himself on the forehead. “Right,” he said. “Lavender’s shoes made those prints, only he wasn’t in them. See, when I decided to borrow Mr. Jesse’s boat, I borrowed Lavender’s sandals too. They’re huge. That way if Mr. Jesse saw my footprints, he’d think somebody else took his boat.”
Starr blinked, startled. “Hold on,” he said. “Lavender is …”
“My brother,” Dale said. “The racecar driver.”
“What size shoes does he …”
“Twelve,” Miss Rose said.
Starr stared at Dale, his face thoughtful. “That would explain why the footprints are so shallow,” he said. “You can’t weigh more than, what, seventy pounds?”
“Seventy-two,” Dale muttered. Like I say, Dale is the second-smallest in our class, behind Salamander. He’s sensitive.
“Dale and me been busy,” I told Starr. “He ain’t had time to grow. The important thing is, Dale didn’t have no accomplice except a pair of sandals.”
“And where are those sandals now?”
“In the café,” I told him. “By the drink machine.”
“I’ll need them,” he said. He studied Dale, looking friendlier now. “Dale, I’d like for you to ride out of here in the back of my car. In fact, come here.” Dale stepped forward uncertainly as Starr produced a pair of handcuffs. “Hold out your hands.”
“Now I object!” Miss Lana cried.
“We want an attorney,” Miss Rose said, stepping in front of Dale.
“I’m not charging Dale with anything,” Starr said. “If you let him ride out in cuffs I’ll take them off of him as soon as we get to the café. Dale’s no killer, I know that. But there’s a chance the killer’s watching this investigation, and if he thinks Dale’s our suspect, he might get sloppy.”
“Sexist,” Miss Lana hissed. “The killer could be a woman.”
“Could be,” Starr said. “In fact, it could be a woman in a bad wig, for all I know.” Miss Lana’s hand flew to her wig. “Rose, it’s a lot to ask, but it could really help,” he said. “I’d want people to think I’
ve released Dale into your custody. Dale, I’d need you to let people see the handcuffs when we drive out.”
“A setup,” I breathed. “Excellent.”
“Rose, I’m not going to lie. We don’t have many leads. If you’ll agree to this, we’ll watch Dale like he’s our own until this case is closed,” he said. “And we’ll hope Mr. Jesse’s real killer makes a mistake—either because he thinks he’s in the clear, or because he doesn’t like someone else taking credit for his work. Either way, mistakes work in our favor.”
Dale looked at me, his blue eyes full of questions.
“If you’re in, I’m in,” I said.
“What … what would we have to do?” Dale asked.
Starr gave him a quick smile. “Do whatever it is you do when you’re not conning cantankerous old men out of pocket change and interfering with my investigation. We’ll do the rest.” Starr glanced at Miss Rose. “My deputy is renting a room from Priscilla Retzyl, and I’m staying in Greenville. Between us, we’re here twenty-four/seven. What do you say?”
Miss Rose looked at Dale. “Baby?”
Dale squared his shoulders. “Don’t call me baby,” he said, and held out his hands.
Chapter 14
Deputy Marla
Dale went instantly famous. In fact, he’s all people talked about: Dale waving from Starr’s Impala, his handcuffs glinting. Dale being followed out by Miss Rose, Miss Lana, and me in the Pinto. Dale being released to Miss Rose with a warning not to leave the county. As if he had anywhere to go.
Fame changed him. He got in the Impala a terrified kid. He stepped out a rock star. If Miss Rose hadn’t already grounded him, he probably would have thrown himself a parade.
His faux-suspect status had another benefit: Attila lost her power over us. With Dale in fake custody, she couldn’t turn him in.
I dropped the lunch bill she’d stuck me with in the mail.
Meanwhile, Miss Lana grew quiet. On Saturday she closed the café and hung a wreath by the door.
“I don’t like it,” I told her, polishing off my cereal. “If the Colonel comes home and sees that wreath, it will scare him crazy.”
She looked up from the papers spread across our kitchen table. NPR hummed in the background. “There’s nothing wrong with the world taking note when a person dies, sugar,” she said. “Besides, I can’t write a eulogy while I’m feeding everybody in town. And I need my beauty rest. We’ll be center stage at the funeral tomorrow.”
“How’s the eulogy going?” I asked, peeking at her paper. It looked like my autobiography: false starts, scribble-throughs, cross-outs.
“Slow,” she admitted. “At the moment I’m listing things Jesse taught me. You might like to do the same.”
“Sounds … good,” I said. “I’ll be sure to do that.” I hovered until she looked up again. She laid her pen down, glanced at the clock, and took a deep breath. Her face was drawn, and her hands shook slightly. I recognized the symptoms: homework anxiety. Next she would crave salty foods. Then chocolate.
“Miss Lana, have you heard from the Colonel?”
“No, I haven’t heard from him yet, Mo,” she said, ironing the sharp out of her voice. “But today’s just his second day away.”
“But you’d think with a killer on the loose …”
“Let’s not worry unless there’s something to worry about.” She smiled. “I wonder if you’d do me a favor. Priscilla Retzyl has offered to arrange flowers for Jesse’s service, and I told her we’d drop some glads by.”
My mouth went dry. Please, God, not another road trip.
“The Underbird hasn’t recovered from our last drive,” I told her. “Lavender’s still got it. Besides, Joe Starr hangs around Miss Retzyl like a fly around sugar. If he sees you driving, you’ll be living with Dale’s people, in the slammer.”
She laughed. “I’ve sworn off driving, Mo,” she said. “I have no flair. But I cut a basket of glads for Priscilla this morning. Could you take them to her? They’re on the porch.”
Me? Visit a teacher? The tips of my fingers and toes tingled.
“Miss Lacy Thornton will be by in a few minutes, on her morning walk,” she said. “You could walk with her.”
That’s another thing about a small town: Everybody knows everybody’s schedule. We spin around each other like planets around an invisible sun.
“Yes ma’am,” I sighed.
“Great. I’ll let Priscilla know you’re coming.”
I rinsed my cereal bowl as the radio announcer’s voice whispered across the airwaves. “The first hurricane of the season’s barreling across the Atlantic. Amy, they’re calling her. Let’s hope she spins herself out at sea. And now, Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, written when Ludwig was thirty-one years old.”
“Turn that radio off, would you, sugar?” she said. “NPR’s too chatty this morning.” I clicked it off and headed for the door.
A short time later Miss Retzyl stepped out on her front porch. A trellis dappled the soft light. “Morning, Mo,” she said. “I hope you’re well. Aren’t those gladiolas beautiful,” she continued, smiling. “Let’s get them in some water.”
I stepped into the Teacher’s Lair and waited for my eyes to adjust.
To my surprise, her living room looked nothing at all like homeroom. Wicker chairs and a love seat sat angled around a quiet Oriental carpet, and a ceiling fan swiped lazily from her high, white ceiling. As she took my basket, something stirred in the corner, by a large fern. “Mo, this is Deputy Marla Everette,” Miss Retzyl said, heading for the kitchen. “Marla, this is one of my best students, Mo LoBeau.”
One of her best students? I felt a surge of confidence.
Deputy Marla leaned into the light, her gray eyes flickering over me. She’d swept her short, dark hair up. “Detective Mo LoBeau, I believe,” she said, a smile softening her broad face. “How are you today?”
“Fine,” I said, giving her a sophisticated nod. “I hope you are.” She sat forward to take a coffee cup from the table. A forsythia swayed outside the window, sending a mosaic of faint shadows across her face and coarse linen blouse.
“Can I get you something, Mo?” Miss Retzyl called from the kitchen. “A glass of lemonade? I just made a pitcher.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking a seat. “It’s hotter than the devil’s curling iron out there.” Deputy Marla sipped her coffee. “Joe says you bagged the murder weapon for me,” I told her. “Thanks.”
“Who said that?” Miss Retzyl said, strolling in with two tall glasses of lemonade.
“Detective Joe Starr,” I said quickly. “That’s what I meant to say, anyway.” She handed me a napkin and sat down. I hesitated, and then draped the napkin over my knee. When Miss Retzyl put hers on a side table and set her glass on it, I smoothly followed suit. I looked around the room. “Nice house,” I told Miss Retzyl. “Dale’s not going to believe you let me in here.”
She smiled. “I’m glad you like it, Mo,” she said.
“I see you got cable.” I leaned slightly, trying to look down the hall. “Where are your encyclopedias? I know you got some.”
“Upstairs,” she said. “Mo, Deputy Marla was telling me about her work. You might find it interesting. She handles Detective Starr’s communications and does fieldwork too.”
The deputy sipped her coffee. “As I was saying, I primarily help with homicides,” she said. “But we handle other cases. Robberies, forgeries, abductions. Even missing persons now and then, if things are super-slow.”
“Missing persons?” The words jumped me like a bobcat.
“Really?” Miss Retzyl said, tilting her head. “Joe never mentioned that.”
“It’s rare,” she said. “We’re usually busy with other things. It’s great when a missing person case works out, and you can reunite a family. But it can be tough when things don’t go well, especially when a kid’s involved.”
I spit an ice cube back into my glass. “You ever look into cold cases?”
She sm
iled, her eyes glinting. “I’m afraid not,” she said. She rose up, tall and slender. “I wish we had time for them.” Her sandals whispered across the floor. “Pris, I’ve got to go, but I should be back before dark.”
Miss Retzyl nodded. “Must be tough, working weekends.”
She shrugged. “I might as well, there’s nobody waiting at home.” She glanced at me. “Mo, would you like a ride?”
Before I could answer, Miss Retzyl stood up. “Don’t worry about it, Marla. I’m going by Mo’s on my way to the church,” she said. “I’ll give her a lift.”
“See you at the funeral, then,” Deputy Marla told me, and disappeared.
Poor Miss Retzyl, I thought as the deputy drove away. Only two roads in town, and she doesn’t know which one leads to the café, and which one leads to the church.
She’s direction-impaired, I thought. Wait until I tell Dale.
Chapter 15
A Spiritual Curveball
As it turned out, Mr. Jesse was way more popular dead than alive.
Lavender, Dale, and me showed up for his service early, only to find the church parking lot packed. People streamed toward the glistening white church in busy, crooked lines, like ants heading for a sugar cube. The church’s windows arched like praying hands, and a graveyard meandered to the creek.
Lavender adjusted his blue tie in his truck’s rearview mirror as Dale peered in the side mirror and raked his fingers through his hair. “That tie looks good with what’s left of your black eye, Lavender,” I said.
“Thanks, Mo,” he said. “You look pretty too.”
I smoothed my dress—black, with pockets in the skirt—and ignored Attila Celeste, who nudged open the door of her mother’s white Cadillac and looked our way. “Hey Dale,” she said, drawing out the words. “You look nice.”
It was true. Dale had selected his Outlaw Funeral Ensemble: black pants, black shirt, black flip-flops, black tie. She swung her legs out of the car like her knees and ankles were glued together, and pushed her blond hair back. Dale veered toward her like a compass needle toward magnetic north and grabbed her door. “Aren’t you sweet,” she said. “Sorry you couldn’t come to my party last night.”
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