The screech of tires on pavement gobbled up the rest of his words.
The café whipped toward the window as a bright red sports car skidded across the parking lot, spewing an arc of sand.
“Hey,” Dale shouted, stepping in front of Queen Elizabeth. “Watch it!”
The car doors flew open. A dark-haired man and a blond woman jumped out, the woman shouting and the man jabbing his finger toward her face.
“Oh my,” Miss Lana murmured as a boy—a younger, thinner version of the man—unfolded himself from the car. He wiped his palms on his shiny black slacks, looked from the man to the woman, and then at Dale.
Dale’s flowered apron fluttered in the breeze.
The boy grabbed the man’s arm and pointed. The trio turned to Dale like a pack of jackals. Dale’s hand twitched toward the apron, but I knew he’d die before he took it off now. The man’s laugh cracked like a whip.
Bullies.
My temper sprang straight to my mouth. “Hey you,” I yelled, charging into the sunshine. “Crawl back in that clown car and get out of here.”
Dale gasped.
“Not real clowns,” I whispered. Dale has a terror of clowns. Also of ghosts.
The café door opened behind me, and the Colonel’s hand fell gently on my shoulder. The man studied the Colonel and whispered in the woman’s ear. The couple jumped in the car and fishtailed across the parking lot.
“Wait!” the boy shouted. He chased the car for a few awkward steps. “Stop!” His arms fell to his sides as the car disappeared around the curve.
“Despicable,” the Colonel muttered. “Never leave a comrade on the battlefield, Soldier.”
“No sir,” I said. “I won’t.”
“Me either,” Dale said.
The Colonel glanced at Dale. “You’re out of uniform, son.”
Dale ripped the apron off and held it behind his back. “New shorts,” he explained. That’s what Dale bought with his summer job money: school clothes. That and a pawnshop guitar. Dale is musical. I ain’t.
The boy from the car turned and walked toward us, barely whistling.
From a distance, I didn’t like him. Up close, I liked him less. Black hair, thin face, mole under his left eye. Scuffed black shoes, cheap clothes put together to look like money. He walked up lanky as a coyote, his thin shoulders sloping a modicum to the left.
“At ease, you two,” the Colonel said as the boy scuffled to a halt.
The boy’s eyes drifted from the Colonel, to me, to Dale. “Crenshaw,” he said, trying to make his voice low. “Harm Crenshaw.” Like he was Bond, James Bond.
Give me a break.
“The Third,” Dale replied. “Dale Earnhardt Johnson the Third. And this is LoBeau, Mo LoBeau. And . . .”
“The Colonel,” I said before Dale could get tangled up.
Crenshaw, Harm Crenshaw nodded, not quite meeting our eyes. “I need a ride to the auction,” he said, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “Anybody going that way?”
Chapter 2
Crenshaw, Harm Crenshaw
An hour later Dale and me settled in the backseat of Grandmother Miss Lacy’s old Buick. “I don’t see why he has to ride with us,” Dale said, watching Harm Crenshaw swagger across the parking lot.
“Grandmother Miss Lacy’s generous about giving rides,” I said. “It cuts both ways.” The dark-haired boy opened Dale’s door and peered in. “Queen Elizabeth gets queasy without a window seat,” I told him. “You sit in the middle.”
Harm Crenshaw crawled over Queen Elizabeth and Dale and collapsed into the space between us, reeking of cheap aftershave. I rolled my window down. “You aren’t old enough to shave,” I said. He stared straight ahead, his knobby knees nearly bumping his chin.
Grandmother Miss Lacy slipped behind the wheel and adjusted the rearview mirror. “You look familiar, Harm,” she said as Miss Lana clambered into the front seat with her white parasol. “Have we met?”
“Nope. I’m here for the auction and then back to Greensboro fast as I can go.”
“Don’t ‘nope’ her,” Dale said, pulling Queen Elizabeth into his lap. “It ain’t polite.”
Harm shifted, his pants legs rising to reveal pale, bony ankles and no socks. “Somebody told me the inn they’re selling is haunted,” he said. “It’s got to be a lie. Who’d want to spend eternity here?”
I glared at him, but Dale gulped. “Haunted?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said. “I’ve lived here eighty years. If there were a ghost story connected to that inn, I assure you I’d know it.”
We rode in silence past the Piggly Wiggly, past the old brick school, to the sign at town’s edge: Tupelo Landing, population 148. Someone had scrawled a 7 over the 8. Harm Crenshaw raised an eyebrow. “Murder,” I explained. “Dale and me solved it.”
“Sure you did,” he muttered.
“Press kit,” Dale whispered.
I reached into my olive drab messenger bag and rummaged through the clue pads and hand-lettered business cards for our laminated newspaper clip. I passed it to him.
LOCAL KIDS HELP SOLVE MURDER
Miss Mo LoBeau and Dale Earnhardt Johnson III, rising sixth graders, have helped solve a murder, authorities say. In the process they also helped put Dale’s father behind bars and jump-started the memory of Mo’s guardian, the Colonel—a café owner who’s had total amnesia for over a decade.
“To make a long story short, I remembered I’m an attorney and that I used to be engaged to Lana,” the Colonel told this reporter. “Realizing I’m an attorney has been a blow, but Mo and Dale did a great job with their first case and I’m proud of them. Now order something or get out.”
Mo and Dale, who founded Desperado Detective Agency in June, are accepting new cases. Call the café for details.
Harm Crenshaw handed it back without a word. Jerk.
“What are you buying today, Miss Lana?” I asked, to break the silence.
“An umbrella stand,” she said. “A bit of Tupelo history.”
“Boring,” Harm Crenshaw said beneath his breath.
I elbowed him—hard.
“And I’m only here for the excitement,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said.
We crept across Fool’s Bridge, past the old store with its ancient bubble-headed gas pumps, through acres of spent tobacco and drying corn. “Here’s my old shortcut,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said, easing the Buick onto a faint path. “Father used to come this way in the Duesenberg.”
Dale jumped like Queen Elizabeth spotting a squirrel. “A Duesenberg?” He looked over at me. “Duesenbergs were super-expensive roadsters made in Germany,” he said. Dale’s people know cars.
“Made in Indiana, actually,” Harm said as we bounced into a clearing. “Jeez,” he gasped before Dale could reply. “Who lives there?”
The unpainted farm house listed on brick piers like a squared-off old woman rising on a bad knee. Queen Elizabeth jumped up, her tail wagging as she peered at a pack of bone-thin beagles in a rickety pen. “I believe that’s Red Baker’s place,” Miss Lana said as the Buick eased forward. “Why?”
Harm shouldered Queen Elizabeth aside to stare out the window. “Whose place? Does he even have electricity?” Good question. There wasn’t an electric line in sight.
“Red Baker,” I said. “The moonshiner. The Azalea Women say—”
“Mo LoBeau,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said, “I will not have you spreading rumors.” She slammed on brakes, sending Queen Elizabeth tumbling to the floor, and whipped around to stare at Harm. “Do you know Red Baker, young man?”
“Me? How would I know somebody like that?” The wind shifted and he grimaced. “Doesn’t he ever clean out that dog pen? It stinks.”
She gave him an inscrutable old-person stare as Dale hoisted a kicking Queen Elizabeth
back in his lap. “Will wonders never cease,” she murmured to Miss Lana, and turned back to her driving.
“Old people,” Dale whispered. “Go figure.”
Miss Lacy eased the Buick through Red Baker’s dirt yard, into a grassy meadow of cars and trucks. Dale pointed to a red sports car as we tumbled from the Buick. “Over there,” he said.
Harm stalked off without even a good-bye.
This time I said it out loud: “Jerk.”
I did my Upstream Mother scan of the crowd—a check for possible relatives.
“See anybody that looks like you?” Dale asked.
I squinted. The grounds swarmed with strangers and townsfolk. The Azalea Women trooped toward the red-and-white auction tent. Sal, in her red sunglasses, sailed behind them. Miss Retzyl sat beneath the tent while Attila, who’d perched beside her, was chatting her so-called heart out.
I shook my head. “But there’s Lavender!” I cried, and my morning went golden.
Dale’s big brother, Lavender, stood in the shade of a maple, his tanned arms crossed, talking to one of the big-haired twins—either Crissy or Missy, I couldn’t tell which. Have I mentioned I will one day marry Lavender? Lavender, who’s nineteen, laughs whenever I ask him—which is not the same as saying no.
“Lavender,” I bellowed, rocking up on my toes and waving. A grin split his face as I sprinted toward him. “Hey,” I said, skidding to a sophisticated halt. “I see you run aground on a twin.”
“Crissy,” he said, “you remember Mo LoBeau and my little brother Dale, don’t you?”
“Sure, I remember,” she said, sipping a Diet 7UP. “I met them at the Speedway the night you wrecked your racecar. Met him too.” She nodded toward a nearby picnic table. “He was driving the car that spun you into the wall.”
“He did that?” I said, zeroing in on the driver of the red sports car.
“Flick Crenshaw,” Lavender said. “He drives the 45 car.” Flick looked about Lavender’s age. Beyond that, they were alike as yes and no.
Lavender has eyes blue as October’s sky and hair like just-mown wheat. He’s wiry and tall, and flows like a lullaby. Dark-haired Flick Crenshaw looked coiled and compact, an explosion set to happen. Flick smirked at us, scooped the blond woman close, and whispered in her ear. She barked out a laugh.
“Ignore them,” Lavender said. “Cars bump, Mo. It’s part of racing.”
“Almost killing somebody ain’t.”
He shrugged. “Flick’s one of those guys you pass in life. You steer around him if you can. If you can’t, you don’t let him slow you down more than you have to.”
“Right,” I said, making a mental note to hate Flick for eternity.
Crissy narrowed her eyes. “Wonder what Flick’s doing here,” she said. “You think he’s buying the inn?”
“Nah,” Lavender said. “If he has money he’s driving it or wearing it. But I hear Red Baker’s interested. His property backs up against this one. And he has money.”
“He got most of Daddy’s,” Dale said. “That’s what Mama says.”
“Let’s go talk to people,” Crissy said, like Dale and me weren’t people. She slipped her hand into Lavender’s, but he didn’t budge. I followed his gaze to Harm, who elbowed through the crowd with three drinks. Flick grabbed two, handed one to the blond, and punched Harm’s shoulder. Harm swiveled with the blow, hiding a wince.
“That’s Flick’s little brother,” Lavender said, glancing at Dale. “I’d stay away from him if I was you. He’ll be trouble soon as he figures out how.” Dale nodded.
“I’d love to stay and chat with you, Crissy,” I said, “but I and Dale are here on detective business. Come on, Dale,” I said. “Let’s check out the inn.”
“Now?” Dale gulped. “After what Harm said about a ghost?”
Lavender gave him a wink. “Go on, little brother. There’s no such thing as ghosts,” he said as Crissy tugged him away from us.
“Bye, Lavender,” I called. “Good luck with those head lice.” Crissy dropped his hand. Lavender grinned at me and followed her into the crowd.
I peered at the tent where auctioneer Buddha Jackson warmed up the crowd. “Everybody got a number?” Buddha asked, whipping the microphone cord behind him like a rock star. “Bidding’s easiest with a number. We’ll auction a little furniture, then the inn with whatever’s left inside.”
“I only want an umbrella stand,” Miss Lana shouted. She’d slipped into her 1960s sunglasses—the round ones with the white rims—and closed her parasol.
Buddha pointed at her. “Yes ma’am, Miss Lana. I’ll be looking for you. Now let’s talk about what conveys. That means what goes with the inn itself. Those of you bidding on the inn, listen up. I think you’ll find this amusing.” He continued as Miss Lana and Grandmother Miss Lacy Thornton meandered toward the refreshment wagon.
I turned to Dale. “As Tupelo Landing’s most successful detectives, we really ought to scope out the inn. Investigating means bragging rights in sixth grade. And Lavender says it’s safe,” I reminded him.
To Dale, Lavender’s word is gospel. He gave a faint nod.
“Race you,” I said before he could change his mind. We sprinted for the wooded path leading to the inn, Queen Elizabeth at our heels.
• •
“There it is,” I said as the path opened onto a ragged lawn. The ancient two-story inn may have been a beauty in her day. But today, with her windows boarded up and her front porch sagging, she looked forlorn and helpless on her knee-deep carpet of weeds. The steps listed. Rust streaked the tin roof. Shaggy cedars crowded the drive.
“Okay, we’ve seen it,” Dale said, stepping over a No Trespassing sign someone had pried from its post. “Let’s go.”
“Don’t be a baby,” I told him as a quick pop-pop-pop rolled from the thicket. My heart jumped. “Who’s there?” I demanded.
The thicket rustled. A white-haired man with a sharp fox face peered between the branches. Queen Elizabeth growled, her hackles rising, and Dale grabbed her collar.
Red Baker stepped onto the path.
Most days, Mr. Red looks like a bundle of throw-away clothes. Today he wore shoes fresh from the box, creased chinos, a blinding white shirt, and a red bow tie. “Hey,” I said, and his pale eyes flickered over me like lizard eyes over a fly.
Mr. Red looked Dale up and down. “You’re Macon Johnson’s boy,” he said, his voice splintery as just-sawn pine. “I hear he’s doing time in Raleigh for a murder he didn’t commit.”
“You almost heard right,” Dale said, very smooth. Dale’s family’s jail prone. To him, jail time is as normal as clean socks. “Daddy’s over in county lock-up on reduced charges. We’re hoping for a plea bargain or a smart attorney.”
That “we” would be Dale and Queen Elizabeth—not Dale’s mama, Miss Rose, who hocked her diamond in June. Miss Rose ain’t studying Dale’s daddy. Neither am I. Not after the things he’s done.
“You bidding today, Mr. Red?” I asked. “I hear you want to buy the inn.”
“You’re nosy,” he said. He didn’t say it mean; he said it straight out.
“Occupational hazard,” I said. “Detective,” I added, in case he hadn’t heard. He cracked his knuckles. That explained the popping sound. Nervous joints.
He licked his thin lips. “You headed for the inn? There’s nothing in there but run-down, wore out, and fell through. And it’s haunted thicker than the devil’s parlor. I’d turn around if I was you.”
“Haunted? Thicker than the . . . the devil’s parlor?” Dale stammered. “I didn’t know he had one.” He turned to me, his blue eyes worried. “Have you ever heard of that?” he whispered. “A parlor at . . . the bad place?” Dale is Baptist. He doesn’t worry about much in life, but he worries about the devil afterwards.
Mr. Red stared at him. “You two best head for folks that
make footprints.” He peered up the path and cracked his knuckles again. “Who’s that?”
A boy strolled around the bend, barely whistling.
“Harm Crenshaw,” Dale said. “From Greensboro. You want to meet him? I’ve been working on my social skills. I can introduce you.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey Harm, come meet Mr. Red Baker,” he called.
Harm froze. He and Mr. Red stared at each other like wild animals. Harm spun and marched the other way as Mr. Red faded back into the forest.
“Weird,” Dale murmured.
“True. But we got enough weird in our lives without worrying about theirs. Come on. We haven’t got much time,” I said, and plowed through the weeds to the inn’s creaky steps. The wind blew, setting three splintery old rocking chairs rocking.
“And what did Mr. Red mean when he said we should head for folks that make footprints?” Dale asked as we crossed the front porch.
“He meant to scare you.”
“Right,” he said. “I’m pretty sure it worked.”
I pushed the heavy front door and it moaned open, scraping an arc across the dusty floor. I followed Queen Elizabeth into the gloom, and waited for my eyes to adjust. A tin ceiling soared high above us. A snaggletoothed mahogany staircase climbed along one cracked plaster wall. To our right, the huge dining room stood a-jumble in crippled tables and upturned chairs. Its chandelier wore a bride’s veil of spiderwebs and dust.
Queen Elizabeth darted away, her nose zigzagging across a carpet worn so thin, I could see the plank skeleton underneath. “This way,” I whispered, heading into a parlor of sheet-covered settees and chairs.
“Hey! A piano,” Dale said, relaxing. Like I said, Dale’s musical. He strained to open the keyboard. The hinges’ rusty squeal echoed around the room. Dale spread his hands over the uneven, yellowed keys and the piano’s tinny voice plinked through the dusty silence.
The front door banged against the wall behind us and we jumped.
“For heaven’s sake,” a woman said, “I don’t care what that hideous old man says, that is not a ghost playing the piano.” A pin-skinny woman minced into the room trailed by a pudgy man. She surveyed us like we came with the furniture. “See? Just kids.”
The Ghosts of Tupelo Landing Page 2