When Skeeter headed for her family’s van, I followed. “Skeeter, I need you to check a couple of serial numbers for me. One off a hundred-dollar bill from Mr. Jesse’s.” I swallowed hard. “And one off a five. Here, I wrote them down for you,” I said, handing her a page from my notebook.
“I don’t know, Mo,” she said, looking doubtful. “My cousin works drive-thru at the bank in Kinston but I don’t think … Well … Let me see what we can do.”
The first time Miss Rose’s phone rang, everybody froze. “Starr’s in there,” I called out. “They got a trace on the line. Go ahead with your lunches.”
They nodded. I moved to the door and pretended not to eavesdrop as Miss Rose took the call: “Oh, hello … No, no, it’s dreadful, my tomatoes have it too. …”
Dale cupped his hands around his mouth. “Wilt!” he bellowed.
“Pity,” Mayor Little sighed.
Lavender balanced his Pepsi on the porch rail. “They have a trace on the phone line? What kind of trace?”
Dale shrugged. “Beats me. Involves wires is all I know.”
“It’s the latest equipment from Winston-Salem,” I said, grabbing a deviled egg. “I held the screwdrivers, so I got a good look. Headphones, dials, everything. Deputy Marla set it up. She’s a genius. Wouldn’t surprise me if she went FBI someday.”
Sam slit open a honey bun with his pocketknife. “Mo, if I could I’d go over there and snatch a knot in whoever’s taken Miss Lana. If you ask me—”
“Have a Nab,” Lavender interrupted, holding out a pack of orange crackers. “Starr’s got this under control, Sam. All we got to do is keep cool. Right, Mo?”
I nodded, wishing I felt as sure as he sounded.
The phone jangled a second time a half hour later, as the lunch crowd packed up. Again, everyone froze. It looked like Miss Rose’s yard was full of picnicking mannequins. My heart pounded as Dale leaned against the door frame, listening. “Telemarketer trying to sell Mama a free vacation somewhere she wouldn’t go if they paid her!” he shouted, and folks headed for their vehicles.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Attila Celeste heading for us. Now what? “Hey,” she said, placing two tall, blue bottles on the porch. It looked like she’d regained her composure since we crossed paths at the church.
“What are those?” I asked.
“Nice bottles. With attractive corks.”
“Right,” Dale said, giving her a daredevil smile. “Very nice bottles.”
She gave him a quick smile and looked away. “Actually, I’ve had these in my window, catching sun. They made me think of you, Mo, because the ones you send out are ugly. Vinegar bottles, hot sauce bottles. They look trashy. Who would pick them up? Not me. Maybe not your mother.” She looked at me. “I thought you might have better luck with these.”
I hesitated. Was Attila actually being nice?
She blushed. “Anyway, I’m tired of them and the idea’s stupid enough to appeal to you, so I brought them by.” She glanced at Dale as he smoothed his hair. “You know, Mo, I’ve always thought you were lucky to have two mothers,” she said. “Miss Lana, plus a fantasy one.”
The word hit me like a splash of cold water. “A fantasy one?”
“Well, maybe fantasy’s not the right word …”
“Anna Celeste!” Mrs. Simpson shrilled. She glared, her hands on her bony hips.
“Coming, Mother.”
“Attila?” I said as she started toward her mother. “Thanks. For the bottles. They’re nice.”
“No problem, Mo-ron,” she said. And she was gone.
Grandmother Miss Lacy Thornton was among the last to finish lunch, primarily because she’d brought slices of her famous homemade coconut cake, which she kept concealed to prevent a riot. “Your family is odd, but well loved,” she said, sliding a piece of cake toward me.
I nodded, feeling shy. “Lunch was delicious. Thank you for coming.”
“Of course, dear,” she said, touching my face. “I thank you for having me.”
The third phone call came just as she drove away.
“Mo,” Miss Rose called, her voice strained. “It’s for you.”
As I walked in, Starr whispered, “It’s Slate, asking for you. Normally I wouldn’t ask a kid to do this, but …”
“No problem,” I said. “I’m a professional.”
He hesitated. “Just be polite. Stay calm and keep him talking so we can trace the call. That’s all. Don’t tell him I’m here, and don’t tell him we’ve identified him.”
“Act natural,” Dale whispered, crowding into me.
“I am natural,” I growled, taking the receiver. It felt like my heart would rip through my shirt, I was so scared. “Back up, Dale. Give me room to work. You’re breathing on me.”
Deputy Marla held up her hand, halting my words as she adjusted a dial. “Now,” she whispered, pointing to me like I was on TV.
“Mo LoBeau speaking,” I said, my voice like glass. “You better not hurt Miss Lana, or you’ll have me to deal with.”
The voice on the phone was faint and scratchy. “Is this the Colonel’s kid?”
“Of course it’s me, reptile brain,” I snapped. “What do you want? What have you done with Miss Lana? Is the Colonel over there?”
“Are you alone?”
“You just spoke to Miss Rose. How could I be alone?” I looked around the room. Starr and Deputy Marla hunched over their equipment, Miss Rose stood by the bookcase with her arm across Dale’s shoulders, Lavender and Sam slouched in the door like hounds. “Yeah,” I said. “Except for Miss Rose, I’m alone. Who’s this?”
Starr gave me a thumbs-up.
“I’ll ask the questions.”
“Who made up that rule?” When he didn’t answer, I pressed on. “You some kind of pervert, calling up little girls and asking if they’re alone? Because I’m not allowed to talk to perverts. That’s a rule. Miss Lana made it for me. If you don’t believe me, ask her. She’s there, right? In fact, put her on the phone and I’ll double-check it myself.”
No answer.
“You do have her over there, don’t you?” I demanded, my voice getting louder. Starr grabbed for the phone. I turned my back, ducking away from him. “Where are you?” I shouted. “Where’s Miss Lana?”
The phone went quiet save a distant crackling and, in the background, an odd sound: screeEEeek, like a swing on a rusty chain. Slate’s voice came back cold and mean. “Do you want to see the Colonel and Miss Lana alive again?”
“Of course I do, you idiot,” I shouted. “Bring them back right now!”
Starr snatched the phone away from me. “Hello? This is Detective Joe Starr. Who’s this?” His eyes narrowed. “Well, I just walked in,” he said. “Which is fortunate, since I’m the one you need to talk to.” He listened. “All right,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do, but I need to speak to Lana first. Or the Colonel. You choose.”
“Give me that! I got more to say,” I shouted, leaping for the phone. Lavender grabbed me around the waist, dragged me onto the porch, and pushed me into the swing.
“Calm down, Soldier,” he said.
He’d never called me Soldier before. My temper settled like ashes around a fire.
“Let Starr handle this,” he said, sitting beside me. “It’s his job. You did great, but Starr knows the psychological mumbo jumbo.”
“Could you tell anything?” Dale asked. “Was it really Slate?”
I shrugged, awash in misery. Why can’t I ever keep my mouth shut? Why didn’t I do what Starr told me? “I guess so. The line was too scratchy and far away. It sounded like … I don’t know. Like something metal. Something creaking …”
“Well, don’t worry,” Lavender said. “They’ll trace the call.”
Turned out, they couldn’t.
“It was Slate, all right,” Starr said a few minutes later as he came out onto the porch. “Marla says he hung up before she could trace him. I thought we had him,” he said, looking puzzled. “But
he’s smart,” he said, pulling up a chair to face me.
“Did you talk to Miss Lana?”
“Not yet,” he said. “Could you hear her?”
I shook my head.
“It’s okay. Slate needs her there, for some reason. We’ll talk to her next time.”
“I’m sorry,” I told him as Miss Rose came onto the porch. “I’ve been working on my temper, but sometimes it feels like my brain’s straight-wired to my mouth.”
“You did fine,” Starr said. He hesitated. “Mo, what do you know about the Colonel’s finances? Or Miss Lana’s?”
“Their money?” I shrugged. “Well, far as I know, Miss Lana ain’t got any. The Colonel, he’s got the café. I reckon that’s probably worth a fortune,” I said. “I mean, it’s creek-front. What do you think, Miss Rose?”
“The café?” She waggled her head. “Probably worth about eighty thousand.”
Dale whistled between his teeth. “I didn’t know you were rich,” he said.
“Eighty thousand? Is that all?” Starr asked.
She nodded. “Look around you, Detective. This isn’t Winston-Salem. Dirt’s still worth dirt around here.”
Starr rubbed his eyebrow, like he could coax an idea out of it. “Eighty thousand dollars,” he muttered. “Does the Colonel have other assets? Real estate? Stocks?”
I shook my head. “He mostly pays cash from the Crisco can.”
“Slate’s asking for a ransom,” he said, watching my face. “When a kidnapper asks for a ransom, he thinks the family can pay it. But in this case …”
“A ransom?” Dale gasped. “How much?”
“A half-million dollars,” he said, and Miss Rose sat down hard beside me.
Lavender gulped. “A half-million dollars? The Colonel ain’t got that kind of money. Shoot, everybody in town together ain’t got that kind of money.”
“I know,” Starr said. “But Slate thinks he does, and he seems to think Mo knows how to get her hands on it.”
“Me?” I cried. “I’m on allowance and tips, which I get docked almost every week for sloppy room keeping. I’m lucky to get five bucks!”
Dale’s face went pale. “What … what if she can’t come up with it?” he said. “Slate already killed Mr. Jesse. He won’t … I mean, he wouldn’t kill …”
I felt it coming like you feel a storm before it hits.
“Mo?” Starr said again. “Can you can think of anything that might help me?”
I meant to say no.
Instead, I threw up Grandmother Miss Lacy Thornton’s fried chicken and deviled eggs all over the porch, all over my daylilies, all over Starr’s perfectly shined black leather shoes.
Chapter 22
A Town Full of Nobodies
I woke up snuggled deep in Miss Rose’s feather bed, sunlight filtering through her lace-trimmed curtains and playing along her faded wallpaper. “Mo,” Dale whispered, rapping softly on the door. “You up?”
“Yeah,” I called. “Come on in.”
He peeked around the door. “You through barfing?”
Dale can’t tolerate other people throwing up. He gets what’s known as the Synchronized Heaves. Lavender says if they ever make it an Olympic sport, Dale’s an automatic for the gold. He placed a paper-towel-covered plate on the bed beside me. “Tomato sandwich,” he said. “I made it the way you like it: fat homegrown tomatoes, double mayo, salt and pepper.”
Dale and Miss Rose eat a lot of homegrown. They start their seeds early, in a hotbox around back. “Thanks,” I said. “I’m starving.”
I polished off the sandwich in record time, wiped my mouth, and settled back against the pillows. “It’s quiet,” I said. “Where is everybody?”
“Mama went to Snow Hill to see a lawyer,” he said.
“A lawyer? Who’s in jail this time?”
“Nobody. It’s about getting Daddy moved out. For good, I mean,” he said, not meeting my eyes. “She said not to worry, so I ain’t.”
Dale can choose not to worry like he chooses not to wear socks. Miss Lana says I have more of a Jack Russell brain. I think things apart for sport.
I glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Miss Rose needs to wind her clock.”
“No,” he said. “Eight o’clock tomorrow morning is right.”
I sat bolt upright. “It’s Friday morning?”
“Yep. You slept all Thursday afternoon, and all night too. Mama says you were worn slam out from worry.”
“Friday?” My life settled around me like a net of bad dreams. I couldn’t breathe. “Have they found Miss Lana?”
“Not yet,” he said, looking away.
“The Colonel?”
He shook his head.
I stared at the embroidery on Miss Rose’s bedspread until I was sure I wouldn’t cry. “Where’s Starr? Where’s Deputy Marla?”
“He’s in town, and she’s in the living room. Starr says Marla can handle Slate if he calls,” he said. He perched gingerly on the side of my bed, leaving himself a shot at the door. I tried to settle down.
It’s a pretty room, Miss Rose’s, with no sign of Dale’s daddy. An old-time clock on the mantel, a soft-bottomed chair by the open window, a desk against the wall. A gust of wind sent papers fluttering from desk to floor. “I got it,” I said, rising and padding across the worn wool rug. I scooped up the pamphlets, glad to have something new to focus on. “Hey, you all going on vacation?”
His face lit up. “Are we?”
“Looks like it,” I said, scanning the brochures. “Farm Life Museum, a Tobacco Museum … Sounds boring.”
“So don’t come with us,” he said, taking them from my hands. “Come on, Mo. Mama didn’t take your barfing self into her room so you could rummage through her desk,” he said, pulling the desk top down. “I got to water Cleo and fix that broke-down stuff at the barn,” he said. “You want to watch? We can discuss Miss Lana’s case.”
“I’m not much for watching,” I said, sliding my feet into my sneakers. “But I’ll help.” I opened the door—and ran square into Deputy Marla. “What are you doing here?” I asked, an uneasiness tickling the back of my neck.
“Me?” She grinned, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I was coming to check on you. How are you feeling, Mo?”
“Better,” I said. “Jumpy, I guess. Has Slate called?”
“No,” she said calmly, “but he will. We’re ready for him. And we still have people searching. No news is good news, right?”
It sure didn’t feel that way. “Slate wants money. Why hasn’t he called?” I asked.
She slid her arm across my shoulders. “Come have a glass of tea with me,” she said, herding me toward the kitchen. “Both of you.” She flowed around the kitchen like it was her own, filling glasses with ice as Dale and I sat at the table. She slid each of us a glass of tea and sat beside me. “Mo,” she said, “I’ve been thinking. Slate believes the Colonel has a ton of money.” Her eyes searched my face. “That means a safe, a lockbox, a bank book. If you have any idea …”
“I ain’t ever even heard of it,” I told her. “A half-million dollars is crazy. Why would the Colonel have that much money?”
“Yeah,” Dale said, and spit an ice cube back into his glass. “The only way he could get that much money would be to rob a … Oh.”
“Only the Colonel ain’t a thief,” I said.
Deputy Marla tilted her head, watching me. “I don’t think he is either,” she said. “But Slate’s asking for a half-million dollars—exactly what he and an accomplice stole in Winston-Salem, twelve years ago. An odd coincidence, wouldn’t you say? I would, since the money from Slate’s heist was never recovered.” I didn’t answer. “Mo,” she said, “it’s hard, being alone. I know. I want to find the Colonel and Miss Lana for you. So, please. Try to remember anything the Colonel’s said or done that might help us. A bank account, a hiding place. It’s important.”
Dale leaned away from her. “She already said she don’t know,” he said. “Plus, Mo�
��s a kid. If somebody’s thinking, I think it should be you and Starr.”
She hesitated. “Of course,” she said softly. She slid her hand to mine. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she said. “Sometimes I go overboard, trying to help. Tell me what you two have planned for today.”
I pulled my hand away. “We got chores.”
“You want to come?” Dale offered. He pointed out the window at his mule, Cleopatra, who stood in the pasture, munching grass. “Cleo’s a great mule. She’s half Tennessee Walker. You can water her if you like.”
Deputy Marla’s grin made her look younger. “I just might take you up on that one day. Where are you two working?”
“At the tobacco barn,” he said.
She poured herself another glass of tea. “Well, stay where I can see you. And if anything happens, call me. Understand? I’m stuck by the phone until Slate calls.”
We headed for the door.
“That was weird,” Dale said as Queen Elizabeth slunk out of hiding and fell in beside us. “What’s all that about her knowing what it’s like to be alone?”
“She’s an orphan,” I said. “She told me.”
He frowned. “Why would she tell you that?”
“Because I told her about Upstream Mother, and how I ain’t yet found her,” I said. “Deputy Marla and I got a lot in common.”
He snorted. “No you don’t. She’s playing you.”
“Playing me? Why would she? There ain’t nothing to win.”
“Yes there is, you just can’t name it yet,” he said. “Believe me. She’s as much a con as my uncle Mike, and he’s doing three to five.”
“You just don’t trust her because she’s law enforcement.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He slung a stick into the tobacco field. “Fetch it, Liz,” he said. “Good girl!” We walked the rest of the way in silence.
Skeeter showed up a half hour later, swinging a battered attaché case. “Hey,” she said. “I caught a ride with Mama so I wouldn’t mess up your phone tap. She brought y’all a broccoli casserole.”
I gasped.
“Broccoli casserole? Your mama’s Death Dish?” Dale said, looking up from the tangle of worn plow lines at his feet. “Who died? What have you heard?”
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