Three Times Lucky

by Sheila Turnage

  I won’t say it was my finest hour, but it was stacking up pretty good.

  I stood at attention, more or less, until the Colonel nodded. “Rose?” he said, his eyes questioning.

  She hesitated. “Colonel, you have to promise …”

  “With my life,” he said.

  “You’re taking those kids with you? You’re all crazy,” Mr. Macon snarled as Dale trotted to his room for rain slickers. “That boy’s a coward. He ain’t going to be nothing but in the way.”

  The Colonel shook his head. “A coward? Dale’s already twice the man you’ll ever be,” he said, slipping the pistol in his pack.

  “Here, Mo,” Dale said, tossing me a rain jacket.

  The Colonel grabbed his pack and chainsaw, opened the door, and pushed his way onto the porch. As we watched from the window he staggered down the steps, the hurricane shoving him like a schoolyard bully. He pried open the Pinto’s front door, swung the chainsaw in, and then folded himself into the car like a contortionist.

  Miss Rose fussed with our rain jackets until the Pinto’s headlights flared. “I’ll hold the door,” she said. “You hold on to each other and go to the passenger’s side. The Colonel will help you.” She tried to kiss Dale, but he ducked.

  “Ah, Mama,” he said, shrugging away.

  “Don’t you ‘ah, Mama’ me,” she said.

  She opened the door and held on as we scampered into a wall of wind. It clutched at us, slid us across the porch like skaters. “Hold on!” she shouted. Dale grabbed my arm and we shoved our way down the steps, the wind pushing, tripping, grabbing.

  “Well done,” the Colonel said as the wind slammed the door behind us. Dale dove into the backseat and we took off at a snail’s pace. The Colonel hunched over the wheel as he crept down the drive and onto the road. Hurricane Amy pounded our little car with both fists.

  “It’s like riding in a drum,” I shouted, wiping the fog off the windshield.

  “Help me watch for fallen trees!” he bellowed. Dale and I leaned forward. We were lucky to see ten feet ahead.

  Twice we stopped to chainsaw trees out of our path.

  “Are you okay, sir?” I asked as we drove around the second tree. He nodded, but he clenched his jaw and his fingers went white, he gripped the wheel so hard.

  When we reached the small, open field near the Crash Pine, he stopped. “Double-check seat belts,” he said, and edged out of the woods.

  The wind grabbed our little car’s nose and turned us. “Hang on!” he shouted as the wind pushed us sideways down the road, skidding, skidding, skidding. Our fender grazed the Crash Pine, and the Colonel gasped. Slowly we slid toward the bridge.

  “Unfasten seat belts!” he yelled. “Prepare for emergency exit!”

  I fumbled with my belt as he floored the gas. I couldn’t hear our engine through the storm’s howl, but I felt our wheels spin and finally catch in the wet gravel. We fishtailed past the bridge, the beams of our headlights dancing jagged through the trees as we bounced onto the lane leading to Mr. Jesse’s.

  The trees blocked the wind again, and I could hear Dale singing himself calm in the backseat. We inched on, to Mr. Jesse’s drive. “We’ll leave the car here,” the Colonel said. He held his door as we struggled out after him. “No flashlights,” he said. “Stay behind me. No noise. Be careful.”

  We bent low, crawling over fallen trees and slipping through wet grass to Mr. Jesse’s porch. The Colonel rolled onto the porch silent as fog, and we followed. “There’s Slate,” I whispered, peeping over the windowsill. “Where’s Miss Lana?”

  “You two stay here,” the Colonel told us. “I’ll find her.”

  He disappeared into the rain.

  Slate had balanced his flashlight on Mr. Jesse’s La-Z-Boy, propping it in place with two pillows. His pistol lay by the flashlight, blunt-nosed and mean. Dale and I watched, barely breathing, as Slate peeled back Mr. Jesse’s rug and picked up a pry bar.

  His bald head glistened, and sweat ran crooked down the side of his face. He worried the pry bar under a floorboard and stepped on the high end of the bar. The board broke loose with a dusty scream.

  “What’s he after?” Dale asked.

  “A half-million bucks,” I whispered.

  As I watched Slate work, my mind raced. What did I know about this house? Old, wood, sitting two feet off the ground on brick pillars. Or was it? “Is Mr. Jesse’s house underpinned?” I whispered.

  “Yeah,” Dale said as Slate pried the third board free. “Solid brick. Why?”

  Slate pried board after board free. When he had a gap large enough, he grabbed his flashlight and leaned into the space, peering into the darkness beneath the house.

  “Attack,” I whispered.

  “But the Colonel said …”

  “Field command. Attack!” We snuck through the door and across the room. Slate knelt before us, grunting like a pig as he shone the light beneath the floorboards. I pointed to Mr. Jesse’s massive oak coffee table. Dale crept toward it.

  “Go!” I shouted, placing a perfect flying front kick on Slate’s backside. Slate bellowed as he dove headfirst beneath the house. “The table!” We dragged it over the hole in the floor, jumped on, and held on for dear life. The table, with its stubby legs, left just enough space for us to see the glow of Slate’s light.

  “Now what?” Dale gasped as the table bucked.

  “We wait for the Colonel,” I said. “You hear that, Slate? We got reinforcements coming.”

  Slate kicked, roared, and kicked again. “Let me out of here,” he demanded, panting. I could hear him struggle to his back under the house. His flashlight beam darted around the table edges as he explored his new prison. His voice was cold and sly. “How about I give you kids a hundred bucks apiece to go away? Make it two hundred. You can buy anything you want. Hey, Mo, you could hire a real detective to find out who your mother is. How about it?”

  Dale leaned toward me. “How does he know …”

  “Deputy Marla,” I reminded him.

  “Don’t care about your true folks? No skin off my back. Dale, what you gonna do with your money? I’ll throw in a couple of tickets to Daytona. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “Forget it, Slate,” he said. “What do you think, I’m stupid?”

  “I think you’re your father’s son,” he said, his light darting frantically around his prison. “Let me out of here!” Slate roared, pushing up on the table. The table rose into the air and tilted, toppling us to the floor. “You think you’re taking me down?” he shouted, his hand closing around my ankle and dragging me toward him.

  “Let her go, Slate!” the Colonel shouted, jerking me out of the way. He shoved Mr. Macon’s empty pistol into Slate’s face. “Tell me where Lana is. Now.”

  “How should I know?” he snarled. “I don’t know where she is, and I don’t care.”

  The overhead lights flickered on. “Wow,” Dale said, blinking like an owl. “Even dead guys get their lights turned back on before we do.”

  I peered at the bloody bandage on Slate’s hand, and the cut on his head. “Looks like you had an accident,” I said.

  “That lunatic mother of yours hit me with a lamp,” he sputtered. “She nearly killed me.”

  I grinned. “I guess that explains all the blood at the Blalock place. Too bad you didn’t bleed to death.”

  Dale nodded. “You might want to ask the prison doctor for some stitches for that head, Mr. Slate. That’s one good thing about hard time. Free medical.”

  “Slate, put your hands behind your head,” the Colonel commanded. “Mo?”

  “Got it, Colonel,” I said, yanking an extension cord out of the wall. He tied Slate’s hands and handed me the empty pistol. “Keep this pointed at him.”

  “Do you think it’s safe, sir?” I asked. “I’ve been going through an awkward stage. I hope my finger doesn’t slip,” I said as the Colonel dragged Slate into the room.

  “Dale?” the Colonel said. “Tie his feet,
son.”

  “Yes sir. I have Boy Scout skills.” Dale kills me. He went to Boy Scouts twice, before Mr. Macon refused to buy him a uniform and he had to drop out. Dale has Boy Scout skills like I got a Harley.

  “Now,” the Colonel said, taking the gun. “I’ll ask again. Where’s Lana?”

  “She got away from me, and ran,” Slate said, ducking away from the pistol. “I don’t know where she is.”

  “I do,” a voice at the door said.

  “Starr!” I gasped. Starr stood in the doorway, his pistol drawn.

  Friend or enemy?

  The Colonel turned and pointed his empty pistol at Starr.

  “She’s right here,” Starr said, stepping aside.

  Miss Lana ran toward me, her arms open.

  “Thank God,” the Colonel murmured as her arms wrapped around me. “Thank God.”

  Chapter 28

  Didn’t See It Coming

  We waited out the rest of the storm at Mr. Jesse’s.

  Miss Lana and I settled in on Mr. Jesse’s hideous plaid sofa. I couldn’t sit close enough, couldn’t touch her hand enough, couldn’t hear the sound of her voice enough. She told us how Slate had kidnapped her, how she and the Colonel had worked together to loosen the Colonel’s bonds so he could escape. “When you didn’t come back for me, I knew something was wrong,” she told the Colonel. “And when Slate tried to move me, I knew my situation was dire. I attacked.”

  “You almost killed me,” Slate whined.

  “Maybe next time,” Dale muttered. He smiled at Miss Lana. “Mo and I mostly captured Slate for you, Miss Lana,” he said.

  “Such lovely children,” she said, rumpling his hair. “You’ll get some type of badge for this, I imagine.”

  “Probably,” he said, blushing.

  She turned to the Colonel. “Once I escaped, I made my way to Priscilla’s. I assumed Starr would be there. Lavender had just called. …”

  “Lavender?” My heart scrabbled around my rib cage like a wild kitten.

  “Yes, sugar,” she said. “He heard you tell Rose I was in trouble, before the phone line went dead. He was finally able to get through to Priscilla, and Starr. I showed up at their door, windblown and bedraggled. Starr and I drove to Rose’s as soon as we could—only to learn you’d gone to Jesse’s on the back road.”

  While we talked, Joe Starr cuffed Slate and peered beneath the house. “Well, well. What have we here?” He tugged a metal box up into the room.

  “The loot from Slate’s bank robbery,” I said. “And the source of Mr. Jesse’s Saturday night church donations.”

  “Why do you say that?” the Colonel demanded.

  “Because the serial numbers from Mr. Jesse’s donations match the cash from the bank robbery,” I said, enjoying the shock on Starr’s face. “That’s the information Desperado Detectives has, anyway. I feel like it will check out.”

  “It does check out,” Starr said. “But how did you know?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “We always protect our sources.”

  The Colonel frowned. “But why is there money under Jesse’s house?”

  “Because,” I said, settling against Miss Lana’s arm. “Mr. Jesse brought it here after Slate and Dolph Andrews stole it from the bank in Winston-Salem. Mr. Jesse was in on the heist too. Right, Slate?”

  Starr watched Slate carefully. “Actually,” Starr said, “I’m not sure Jesse was in on the heist. But his cousin was.”

  “His dead one?” Dale asked.

  “That’s right. Jesse Tatum’s cousin was a guard at the bank. He got shot in the holdup and died a week later, Jesse Tatum at his side. Slate stood trial for his murder, but a slick-talking attorney got him off.” Starr dusted his hands off and glanced at the Colonel. “Sound familiar?”

  The Colonel didn’t blink. “Why would it?” he asked.

  I jumped in before Starr could reply. “So Mr. Jesse’s cousin was in on your holdup,” I said, studying Slate. “He told Mr. Jesse where to find the loot.”

  “Then, when Mr. Jesse wouldn’t share, you killed him. That was mean,” Dale said, heading for the kitchen.

  “And stupid,” I added.

  Starr’s gaze moved from the Colonel, to Slate. “Or maybe you killed Jesse just so he couldn’t turn you in,” Starr said. “What about it, Slate?”

  Slate scowled. “You’re all crazy,” he said. “I didn’t kill anybody.”

  “Come on, Slate,” I said. “You might as well tell us before your girlfriend does.”

  Slate glared at me, his pudgy face blank. “What girlfriend?”

  “Deputy Marla,” I said. “The one that’s gonna turn state’s evidence on you to keep her own cold-blooded self off Death Row.”

  Slate winced. “Never heard of her.”

  “Balderdash,” Miss Lana said. “I saw you with her at Lucy Blalock’s.”

  “And I heard her explaining our Three Day Rule before you made me call home,” the Colonel said. He glanced at me. “I’m sorry I called you Moses, Soldier. I was trying to warn you.”

  “Missed it, sir,” I told him. “But Dale and me didn’t miss hearing Slate and Marla talking together on our porch, just before the storm.” I glared at Slate. “You’re lying. You and Deputy Marla are in this thing together.”

  Starr scratched his head. “You and Marla Everette,” he said, sitting on Mr. Jesse’s piano bench. He wore the same look Miss Lana wears when she’s working a jigsaw puzzle. “I have to admit, she had me fooled.”

  “Didn’t you wonder why Slate was always one step ahead of you?” I asked. “Who set up roadblocks that didn’t work? Who couldn’t trace Slate’s call? Who searched the Blalock place? Deputy Marla. She’s been Slate’s inside man all along.”

  Dale filed in from the kitchen with a bag of cheese puffs. He tipped the bag toward Miss Lana, who shook her head. Only Dale would eat a dead man’s snacks.

  “Priscilla warned me about Marla,” Starr muttered. “She didn’t trust her. Especially when it came to you kids.” He stood Slate up and walked him to Mr. Jesse’s old piano. “You and Marla Everette,” he said again, anger twisting his voice tight as a piano wire. “I must be getting old. I never saw that one coming.”

  Poor Joe Starr.

  “You are getting old,” I said. “But don’t feel bad. I’m only eleven and I didn’t see it coming either. Did you, Dale?”

  Dale shook his head, orange crumbs glistening on his face. “But I did know she was a con, Detective. And I only known her a few weeks.”

  Starr cuffed Slate to the upright. “Colonel, I’d like a word in the kitchen, please,” he said, unfolding a news clipping from his pocket. Miss Lana went tense beside me.

  The Colonel looked at us, squared his shoulders, and followed Starr, who closed the kitchen door firmly behind them. “What’s going on, Miss Lana?” I asked.

  “Everything will be okay, Mo,” she said. She took my hand, but her silence stretched like old elastic about to give. I’d never seen her so pale.

  The kitchen door flew open.

  “This is an outrage,” the Colonel shouted, storming into the living room.

  “Sir,” Starr said, “this clipping confirms everything I’ve told you.”

  “No matter what the Colonel’s done, he’s innocent,” I said, rising.

  The Colonel grabbed the clipping out of Starr’s hand. “This is rubbish,” he said. “Me …” He glared at the news article, and then dropped it like it was stained with blood.

  I stared at the paper.

  A photograph of a younger, dark-haired Colonel filled the page. He wore an expensive suit, a ponytail, and a close-clipped beard.

  The Colonel backed away like he’d seen the Devil himself.

  “God help me,” he sobbed, sinking onto Mr. Jesse’s sofa and hiding his face in his hands. “I’m a lawyer.”

  Chapter 29

  Dear Upstream Mother

  The café reopened two busy weeks later.

  In those two weeks Miss Lana, Dale,
and I repaired the café’s busted windows, swept the hurricane out of the dining room, and mended the roof. The old sign—NO LAWYERS—came down. A new sign—WELCOME FRIENDS—went up.

  Miss Rose shocked us twice in those weeks. First by divorcing Mr. Macon. Then by starting her own business—a living history tour of a 1930s tobacco farm. “She has two bus tours a day booked for the rest of the summer,” Dale told me. He grinned. “She didn’t want to tell us until she knew it would work out. And until I repaired all that trash at the tobacco barn.”

  Other folks were busy too.

  Slate and Deputy Marla were charged with kidnapping the Colonel and Miss Lana, and with murdering Mr. Jesse and Dolph Andrews. Mr. Macon turned state’s witness.

  Spitz the Cat disappeared in the hurricane. Again. And Thes hired Desperado Detectives. Again. “I’ll find him this time, but that’s it,” Dale said, marking Lost Pets Found for Free off our sign.

  Lavender came home a hero—but not the way I expected.

  We learned about Lavender’s race the day of the hurricane. The television stations were still out, but a voice sputtered through Mr. Jesse’s radio. “And today at the Sycamore 200 …”

  “That’s Lavender’s race!” Dale cried. “Come on, baby,” he whispered, twisting the dial. The station crackled: “… dramatic finish … And with me now in the winner’s circle, driver of the thirty-two car …”

  “That’s us!” Dale yelped. “We won! Lavender won!”

  “Here’s driver Hank Richmond,” the announcer said.

  “Hank Richmond? Who’s that?” I gasped.

  Hank turned out to be the driver Lavender sold his car to just before the race.

  “A thirty-thousand-dollar bird in the hand is a tempting creature,” Lavender explained when he got home. He put a thousand dollars in bank accounts for Dale and me, and handed the rest to Miss Rose. “I love building cars,” he said. “I’ll be ready to test a new one by Christmas.”

  What he didn’t say was, he spent most of the race on the phone with law enforcement, trying to get in touch with Joe Starr, and to get help to Miss Lana.