Three Times Lucky

by Sheila Turnage

  I stepped back to admire my handiwork. Crud. The letters skinnied down near the edge of the board. “I made the letters at the edge thinner so they look like they’re going fast,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “Special effects,” he said, nodding. “Looks good, doesn’t it, Dale?”

  Dale frowned. “To me, it looks like you run out of room.”

  “How about putting this up for us?” I said, nudging the sign toward Sam. “Dale and me are making Lavender famous, and we’re doing it tonight.”

  “Famous?” Sam grinned. “Make us solvent and you’ll be a goddess to us both.”

  By 7:30 I was well on my way to goddess status.

  Miss Lana gave me a big boost, buying the entire hood to advertise the café. “Three hundred dollars? I’ll take it, sugar,” she said, whipping her checkbook out of her kimono sleeve. “Not a word of this to the Colonel,” she whispered.

  “Stick around and help us, Miss Lana?” I asked.

  “I’d love to, but I want to get a couple of turkeys into the oven for tomorrow’s special.” She leaned close to Dale. “I roast them on low heat, all night long. That’s why they’re so juicy. Don’t tell anyone,” she added, popping his arm with her fan.

  Dale nodded. “Thank you for buying the ad,” he said, blushing. “I know the café don’t need it. Everybody in town already eats there.”

  “Pish.” She turned to me. “Mo, I want you home at nine thirty, at the latest. I know Starr’s people are keeping an eye on you two, otherwise I’d never agree to this. Using children for bait,” she said, smoothing her red kimono. “What has the world come to?”

  “Rhetorical?” Dale whispered, and I winked.

  Moments later, Tammy of Tammy’s Daycare popped by. “I’ll take an ad on the driver’s door if you come up with a slogan for me,” she said.

  “Tammy’s, the We-Care Daycare,” I replied. “That will be sixty dollars—fifty for the ad and ten for the slogan. Make it seventy dollars and we’ll add your phone number.”

  She scribbled her number on a slip of pink paper. “How about giving my number to the driver instead?”

  “Dale’s his brother. He’ll do it,” I said. Dale moaned, but stuffed the paper in his pocket.

  Mr. Li bought a fender panel (Li’s Karate for a Kicking Good Time), and Buddha Jackson, owner of Buddha’s Bar & Tanning Salon, coughed up sixty bucks for a door panel (Get Toasted at Buddha’s). As he left, an Azalea Woman strolled over to ask about a spot for the Uptown Garden Club. “A panel costs just eighty-five dollars,” I said.

  “Eighty-five?” she said. “I heard fifty.”

  “That’s for a tacky spot,” I said. “I didn’t think you’d want it, but okay. Dale, give her the gas tank.”

  Her hand flashed to her throat. “The gas tank? We’ll take the nice one for eighty-five.” I winked at Dale. An Azalea Woman would rather be dead than tacky.

  Lavender showed up at 8:00, looking devilish handsome. The festival was in full riot by then: hobby horses twirled, the roller coaster rattled, the Tilt-A-Whirl squalled. “You two get yourselves something to eat,” he said, handing me a ten-dollar bill. “I’d recommend something wholesome, like the deep-fat-fried Oreos.”

  When we returned, the stand was swamped. With Lavender signing autographs, we sold the entire car by nine o’clock. “I can’t believe it: One thousand ninety-nine dollars and seventy-nine cents,” he told me, snapping our cash box shut.

  “Ninety-nine dollars and seventy-nine cents? How …”

  “Mayor Little said the town was short, so I cut him a deal.”

  What happened next will live as one of the great moments in history: Lavender smiled, bent down, and kissed my face.

  My first kiss! And it was from Lavender!

  “Mo,” he said, “you really are a goddess of free enterprise.”

  Me! A goddess of free enterprise!

  I shoved Dale into Lavender, and Lavender laughed. “Race you,” I shouted at Dale, and bolted from the stand. The crowd slipped by in a blur of lights. I ran faster than any human has ever run, speeding to the edge of town, turning toward the creek, zipping to the café.

  My sneakers pounded out Lavender’s kiss, Lavender’s kiss as I ran full-tilt around the corner of the café, down the walk, and up the steps. “Miss Lana!” I cried, the screen door slapping the wall as the soles of Dale’s shoes hit the porch behind me. “Miss Lana! Guess what!”

  My view of the living room hit me like a fist.

  The mahogany bookcase lay facedown. Miss Lana’s velvet chairs lay on their sides, their seats slit and torn. Sofa cushions lay helter-skelter across the floor, and the lamp dangled headfirst from the table, hanged by its own cord. The photos from my sixth birthday party tilted haphazardly across the wall, peering blindly through cracked glass. The desk’s gaping drawers spewed papers. “Miss Lana?” My voice sounded small and distant as Dale skidded to a halt behind me.

  “Find her!” I shouted. We ran across the wrecked living room, calling her name. The other rooms stared back at me, untouched but shocked and vacant and still.

  “What’s this?” Dale demanded, scooping a note from our kitchen table.

  I grabbed it, surprised at how far away my fingers felt, at how difficult it was to focus on the note’s block letters:

  STARR—WE BOTH NEED SOMETHING. YOU HELP ME AND I’LL HELP YOU.

  “What does it mean?” Dale whispered.

  “It’s the killer. He’s got Miss Lana. Run!” I shouted, pushing him toward the door. “Run!”

  As we crossed the living room, the front door slammed open and a man stood silhouetted against the stars.

  “My room, Dale,” I shouted, turning. “Go!”

  “Stop!” the man bellowed. “It’s Joe Starr! Everybody calm down!”

  I grabbed Starr’s hand. “This way,” I panted. “The killer’s got Miss Lana.”

  For the rest of the night, light flooded our house and yard as Starr’s people and our neighbors searched for Miss Lana. Deputy Marla found the double footprints along the café wall. “There was a scuffle. Looks like he dragged her the last few feet,” she told Starr, avoiding my eyes.

  I tried not to think about the instructions Starr had given his men as he’d sent them to search the woods: “The killer left his first victim in the creek,” Starr had said. “He could go there again. Be careful. Call me if you find anything.”

  Starr slid the killer’s note to his deputy. “What do you make of this, Marla?”

  A slow flush burned her face. “‘We both need something,’” she read, and scowled. “He’s playing us.”

  “Right,” Starr said. “But why?”

  “Maybe he’s angry,” Dale said. “Maybe it’s like you said when you took me out of Mr. Jesse’s in handcuffs. Maybe he doesn’t like me taking credit for his crime.”

  I glanced out the window. The yellow beams of the search party’s flashlights flickered high in the trees and low along the water. “Look like fireflies,” I murmured.

  “What?” Starr said, studying the road map on the kitchen counter.

  “The flashlights,” I said. “They look like fireflies.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t see anybody?” he asked again. “An unfamiliar car …”

  “Nobody,” I said. “I told you. Why don’t you stop picking on me and go find Miss Lana? She might be …” My voice broke up like a radio from too far away.

  The shaking started next. “Get a blanket,” Starr told Deputy Marla. “Dale, where’s your mother? I think Mo might like to spend some time with her.”

  “I already called her,” Dale said. “She’s waiting for Lavender to pick her up. She could have drove her own self, except Daddy swiped her Pinto and brought it back empty.”

  Deputy Marla settled the Colonel’s scratchy green army blanket over my shoulders and gave my arms a squeeze. The blanket smelled like pine and wood smoke, like camping in the backyard.

  I closed my eyes and the shaking stopped.
My fear melted, and Dale’s voice drifted away. I imagined I was camping in the springtime, in the backyard, just the Colonel and me.

  “There’s nothing like camping out to restore a sense of size, Soldier,” the Colonel was saying. “Remember that. When you lose your way, wait under the stars.”

  I spread out my blanket. “Wait for what?”

  “You’ll know,” he said, and closed his eyes, peaceful as a baby. “What do you hear?”

  “Well, I thought I heard a car crank. Might be Lavender. What do you hear?”

  “The usual,” he murmured. “The swirl of crickets, the whirl of stars. …

  “Listen to me,” he said. “We’re born over and over, day by day. When you feel lost, let the stars sing you to sleep. You’ll always wake up new.” He looked at me, his face fierce and beautiful as a rocky crag in the moonlight. “Do you understand what I’m telling you, Soldier?”

  I touched his hand. “I don’t know, sir,” I said. “But I admire the way it sounds.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Right-o!” he said. “You are honest as granite, my dear. Get the marshmallows, then. Let’s build us a roaring good fire.”

  “Mo?” Starr said, dropping a clumsy paw on my shoulder and shaking me like a bear. “Can you hear me? She’s going into shock,” he told someone. “Call a doctor.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Miss Rose said from the door.

  “Mama!” Dale cried.

  Miss Rose sailed across the kitchen, her green eyes worried. “Oh, Mo,” she said. “I’m so sorry.” Her arms closed around me, and my eyes filled with hot, frightened tears.

  I sobbed like a first grader.

  “We’ll find Miss Lana,” she said, smoothing my hair. “Don’t worry. We’ll find her.”

  “Mama, where’s Lavender?” Dale asked, looking up from Starr’s laptop.

  “He’s searching, like everybody else,” she said. Knowing he was near helped. “Dale,” she said, “what are you doing?”

  “Checking out mug shots,” he said, hunching forward to peer at the computer’s screen. “Mo and me got here right after the killer. Maybe we saw him and just don’t remember. That’s why.”

  “Rose, we’re doing everything we can to find your friend,” Starr said. “I have people scouring the woods, and we’ve set up roadblocks on US 264 and I-95. Deputy Marla is preparing to search the area’s vacant houses and barns. Rose, has Lana mentioned having difficulty with anyone? At the café, or in Charleston?”

  I leaned against Miss Rose. Her blouse smelled like just-cut grass. “Lana came by yesterday,” she said, “but she didn’t mention anything out of the ordinary. She was worried about Jesse’s … situation, and when that would be resolved.”

  “Did she mention the Colonel?”

  Miss Rose’s hand went still in my hair. “I might as well tell you,” she said. “The Colonel’s been away since late Thursday night. She said he called Monday, and sounded … strange.”

  “Strange, how?”

  “He called her baby. And he called Mo Moses. He never does that.”

  “Moses?” Dale said. “That’s weird.”

  Starr scribbled a note. “Anything else?”

  She shrugged. “Not really. She didn’t like him leaving, under the circumstances, but those two have always spent more time apart than together.”

  “Meaning, they fight?”

  “No,” she said. “Meaning they don’t fight, because they spend time apart. Believe me, Detective, some things that will cure you in a small dose will kill you in a larger one.”

  Starr clicked his pen. “Rose,” he said. “If you know where the Colonel is …”

  “If I knew,” she said, “he’d be on his way home.”

  “Hey,” Dale yelped. “Why is Plainclothes Phil in here?”

  I pushed away from Miss Rose to peer at the photo on the computer screen.

  “What’s your undercover man doing in there?” I demanded, glaring at Starr. “I don’t think you should ask Dale to help you, and then try to trick him.”

  “My undercover man? What are you talking about?” He spun the laptop around and squinted at the mug shot. “That’s Robert Slate, a bank robber. He broke out of prison a few weeks ago. He’s a wanted man.”

  “If you wanted him, you should have come to the festival,” Dale said.

  Starr jumped to his feet. “Slate’s here?” He turned to Deputy Marla. “You were watching Dale. Did you see him?”

  “No,” she said, looking bewildered. “I didn’t.”

  Gooseflesh walked across my arms. “You were watching us? I never saw you.”

  “That’s the idea, Mo,” she said. “I was undercover.”

  “And you didn’t see Slate?” I said, my voice rising. “He was at Mr. Jesse’s funeral. At the festival, in the azaleas across from Lavender’s …”

  She studied the photo, and then glanced at Starr. “I don’t know what to say, Joe. I could have missed him, I guess, but it doesn’t seem likely.”

  “Are you two sure?” Starr demanded, and we nodded. He ran his finger across his eyebrow. “Better safe than sorry,” he said. “Marla, notify the Highway Patrol. Tell them Robert Slate has a hostage and may be headed to Winston,” he said. “And tell them he might be driving one of Dolph Andrews’s missing cars.”

  “Dolph Andrews? The dead guy from Winston-Salem?” Dale whispered.

  I stood up. “If this guy hurts Miss Lana …” My voice crumbled, and Starr put his hand on my arm. His hand was strong, like the Colonel’s.

  “Mo, Miss Lana’s safety is my top priority. Dale? Thanks for your help, son,” he said. “Rose? I’d appreciate it if you took these children home so I can get to work. I’ll have someone watch your place until morning.”

  “No,” I said. “This is my house and I ain’t leaving unless you promise to find Miss Lana.”

  He took a deep breath. “Mo, I’ll do everything I can, and I’ll stop by Rose’s in the morning, to tell you what I’ve learned,” he said. “I promise.”

  Miss Rose put her arm across my shoulders. “Thank you, Detective. Come on, Mo,” she said. “Let’s get your things.”

  I felt like a stranger in my own room. My unmade bed stared as I dragged my old-timey suitcase from the chifforobe and popped its brass latches. Its navy-blue lining had faded to indigo splotches. I stood there, running my finger along its rough tan stripe, not sure what to do. “Miss Lana says never go anywhere without money to get home,” I finally said, checking the suitcase pocket for cash. “This Emergency Five’s brought me home every time,” I said. “I sure wish Miss Lana had it now.”

  “Lana’s smart,” Miss Rose said, folding my karate pants into the suitcase. “She’ll find her way home. She’ll be proud of the way you’re handling this. You’ll see.”

  I tossed Volume 6 into the suitcase as she added a stack of T-shirts. “I won’t need those,” I said. “Miss Lana will be back before daylight.”

  “Probably, but Starr will want to work here even after she comes home.”

  After she comes home. Please let her come home, I thought.

  I felt like a leaf, falling.

  “Mo, can you think of anything else you might need?”

  I grabbed my green scrapbook, the one Miss Lana put together in Charleston. “This is the last thing she gave me before …” My words collapsed.

  “It’s all right, Mo,” she whispered, wrapping me in a hug.

  “No, it’s not,” I said, tears rolling hot down my face. “They have to find her. Without Miss Lana, nothing will ever be all right again.”

  Chapter 19

  Listening to the Stars

  Later that night, Dale’s bedroom door creaked open, shooting a dart of light to the bed where I lay, pretending to sleep. I propped up on my elbow, the bedsprings grumbling. “Dale?”

  Queen Elizabeth’s toenails tick-tick-ticked across the floor. “Hey girl,” I whispered, putting my hand out. “Come on up.” She leaped onto the
bed and squirmed in beside me. I ran my hand down her velvety ears and she nudged my wrist, comforting me. I snapped on the lamp—a homemade one, from Miss Rose’s wine-bottle-craft phase.

  Dale’s room is okay unless you’re squeamish, which I ain’t. It smells rich and clean, like a just-plowed field, thanks to the earthworm farm in his closet—refugees from last summer’s get-rich-quick scheme. His sheets smell like wind.

  His newt, Sir Isaac, stirred in the terrarium. I leaned down and scooped my scrapbook off the floor. “Here, Liz,” I said, opening the book. “Sniff out a clue.”

  “What’s up?” Dale whispered from the door, and Liz and I both jumped.

  “We’re looking at photographs,” I said. “What are you doing up? Your mama’s gonna skin you alive if she finds you wandering around this house.”

  It was true. Once we got to her house, Miss Rose barked out sleeping assignments like the Colonel himself: I got Dale’s room. She gave Dale and Lavender, who stayed to protect us, Lavender’s old room. She kept hers. “Doors locked, lights out, everyone in bed until morning,” she’d ordered.

  “Liz got hungry. I got up to make her a peanut butter sandwich,” Dale said. “I made us one too. You seen her?”

  “She’s over here,” I said as Liz’s tail thumped the mattress.

  Dale dragged a cane-bottomed chair to my bedside. “Here, Liz,” he said as she jumped to the floor. She gently took the sandwich from his hand and stretched out at his feet. She held the sandwich between her paws and nipped it. “She eats ladylike,” Dale said, tossing a sandwich to me. Extra-crunchy—my PB of choice.

  “You’re not sleepy?” I asked.

  He yawned. “It ain’t that,” he said. “Lavender talks in his sleep.”

  My heart jumped. “Really? Did he mention me?”

  “Not unless you’ve changed your name to the Sycamore 200. What kind of photographs you got?” he asked, peeping at the scrapbook.

  “Some Miss Lana brought from Charleston.” Dale munched his sandwich, his hair spiked in a jagged halo, his pale blue pajamas mis-buttoned and lopsided. I looked around his room, at the faded wallpaper, at the NASCAR models his daddy gives him every year for his birthday even though he really wants a guitar, at the small rack of weights. “Since when do you lift weights?” I asked him.