“Two hundred ten thousand dollars. And change.”
“A bargain, since she has a partner,” Grandmother Miss Lacy added. “Me.”
The Colonel sank into a chair, the vein on his forehead bulging. He took three deep breaths and I knew he was counting to twenty, which is what he tells me to do when counting to ten won’t cover it.
The café door flew open. Mayor Little and the Azalea Women strolled in laughing.
“You people are a gold-plated hoot,” Mayor Little said, beaming at us. “Congratulations. Historic inn, springhouse, pavilion. I can’t wait to see what you do with the ghost!”
“Ghost?” the Colonel barked.
“The Colonel doesn’t believe in ghosts,” I said. “Neither do Miss Lana and Grandmother Miss Lacy.”
The Azalea Women turned to the Colonel, their eyes glinting. He studied the parking lot as four cars and a pickup pulled in, spilling auction-goers toward our door. Then he picked up a cloth and attacked a nonexistent spot on the counter. His lips weren’t moving, but I knew he was still counting.
“I’ll admit a historic inn is a risk,” he finally said, giving the mayor a gray-lipped smile. To me, Miss Lana looked worried. “But Lana and Miss Thornton are astute businesswomen. I trust their instinct. As for the ghost story . . .” He swallowed hard. “We’re regarding it as a public relations boon.”
Miss Lana smiled. “That’s right,” she said. “People will come from the ends of the earth to visit our faux ghost. I’ll handle the PR myself.” As she drifted toward the kitchen, I slipped my arm around the Colonel’s thin waist.
The Colonel is a genius. He’s also a sure bet in a fight.
• •
That night, I settled into bed and plucked The Piggly Wiggly Chronicles, Volume 6 off my bedside table. I started The Chronicles in kindergarten. Volume 1 features drawings of Attila Celeste covered in mud. Later volumes hold the clues to my life story and letters to the Upstream Mother who lost me in a flood the day I was born.
I used to think she would find me. Now I know she won’t. I write anyway, mostly to focus my thoughts.
Chapter 5
My Life Gets Worse
“Welcome to sixth grade,” Miss Retzyl said the next morning, the sun from the windows gleaming off her neat white blouse and blue skirt.
“Thank you,” I said very regal as ghost murmurs rippled across the room.
I bypassed the empty seat in the first row and slung myself into my usual desk next to Dale’s. There were nineteen of us if you count the Exum boys, who I hoped were only visiting. “Who’s the empty seat for?” I asked. “Because we’re all here, plus some.”
The Exums, on the back row, sat straight and still, one with brown hair and one with blond. They both wore pit bull faces, plaid shirts, jeans, and no necks. The Exums go to Creekside Baptist, with Dale. I know them from Bible school, where they’ve been voted Most Likely to Go to Hell three years running.
“Miss Retzyl, most of us been together since first grade,” I said. “There’s no point in adding Exums.”
Dark-haired Jake Exum raised his hand. “I’m Jake Exum,” he said. “This is my brother Jimmy. Until now we been homeschooled.”
“Mama expelled us,” Jimmy added.
Miss Retzyl twitched like a squirrel but recovered fast. “Welcome, boys,” she said, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “In fact, welcome to all of you. We’re going to have a wonderful time this year.” That would be in comparison to last year, when we had her for fifth grade thanks to the Curse of the Combined Grades. “This year we’re studying fractions, history, analogies, sentence construction, science . . . Anna, would you pass out the science books?” Attila jumped like a puppet possessed. “Any announcements before we get started?” Miss Retzyl asked.
“Miss Lana bought a ghost,” Atilla said, gathering an armload of books.
The class snickered. I went for a diversionary tactic, which the Colonel says makes a good defense. “Thank you for that intro, Anna,” I said, very smooth. “And let me be the first to congratulate you on those braces. Miss Retzyl, Dale and me got an announcement: We got our names in the newspaper this summer for solving a murder.”
“We were in the paper in a good way,” Dale added. “Not under Recent Arrests.” Like I say, Dale’s family’s jail prone. Recent Arrests is practically his family newsletter.
Attila pulled a ragged science book from the bottom of the stack and plunked it on my desk. “Actually, Miss Lana bought a certified ghost. Which is worse,” she said.
“I also got a What I Did on My Summer Vacation paper in here somewhere,” I lied, rummaging through my messenger bag. “It highlights the details of our recent cases. If you feel like extra crediting me, go ahead. I’ll get it to you at the end of class.”
Dale grabbed pencil and paper, and went into a quick scrawl:
WHAT I DID ON MY SUMMER VACATION
ßy Dale
What Mo said.
He folded the paper and raised his hand. “I got that too,” he said.
“Wonderful. I’ll read them at home,” she said. “Other announcements? No? Well, I have good news.”
Good news from a teacher. Dale and I exchanged looks. Danger. We slid low in our desks.
“We have an unusual opportunity to do something important for our community, and we have an important guest to introduce that opportunity. Class, please help me welcome Mayor Little.”
Our door swung open and Mayor Little bustled in, waving and beaming. “Good morning, future voters,” he said, tossing his hat on Miss Retzyl’s desk. “Thanks for inviting me here today.”
Dale raised his hand. “We didn’t invite you,” he said.
“Thanks, Dale,” the mayor said, smoothing his tie. “You have a wonderful way with the truth. The whole town appreciates what you and Mo did for us last summer.”
Attila dropped the last book on Jake Exum’s desk. “I don’t,” she said. “I also don’t appreciate Miss Lana buying a ghost, which makes the entire town look stupid.”
He rubbed his chubby hands together. “Thanks for that thought, Anna. Now, who knows what year it is?”
I raised my hand.
“Wonderful,” he said. “Mo?”
“Miss Lana’s not here to defend herself, so let’s leave her out of this,” I said, glaring at Attila.
Mayor Little looked uncertainly at Miss Retzyl, who stepped up beside him. “Class, let’s hold our thoughts until the end of the mayor’s presentation.”
He shot her a grateful look. “All right,” he said. “This is an important year for Tupelo Landing. Why?”
Thes raised his hand, but the mayor looked the other way.
“Because,” the mayor continued, “this year marks our community’s 250th anniversary. A milestone. And I am delighted to have led us to this dramatic moment in time. And where do you fit in?”
“Rhetorical,” I whispered, and Dale nodded.
“I’m pleased to announce that you, the sixth grade, will have the honor of writing a history of our community based on your interviews with our town elders.”
Dale folded forward, his forehead thumping against his desk. “Old people,” he moaned. “There’s nothing harder than old people.”
“I share your excitement,” the mayor replied. “I understand there’s extra credit for the student interviewing the oldest person. And best of all, we’ll make your papers into a book as part of our celebration. Miss Retzyl will handle the details.”
Attila raised her hand. “How long do the papers have to be?”
“Three pages,” Miss Retzyl said. “We’ll start choosing subjects today.”
Attila raised her hand again.
Miss Retzyl closed her eyes. “Before anyone asks, the papers will be half your history grade for first semester.”
Attila low
ered her hand.
“Your family is a good resource.”
Dale stopped breathing. Dale and me both run short on elders. Mine live somewhere Upstream. His are mostly Up the River.
“We’ll take Grandmother Miss Lacy,” I whispered, and he exhaled.
Attila raised her hand. “Dibs on Miss Lacy Thornton.”
“Hey!” I shouted. “She’s my grandmother! I’m taking her!”
“Oh, she is not your grandmother,” she sniped. “You only call her that because you don’t know who your family is, plus she’s richer than God.”
“Take that back,” I said.
“I asked her at the auction, and she said yes.”
At the auction? She gave Mayor Little a smile that would put a bee in a sugar coma. “No fair, the mayor tipped her off,” I said as Mayor Little grabbed his hat.
“Well, I’m glad this went so well,” he said. “Ta-ta for now, future voters. And by the way, I’m sure Mother would give someone an interview. She’s a real pip.”
“Thank you, Mayor Little,” Miss Retzyl said. “Class, please let me know by the end of the day who you’ll ask for an interview.”
• •
That afternoon I sat watching the clock’s hands jerk toward the final bell. Dale, who was practicing his ninja invisibility skills, sat so still, it was hard to be sure he was breathing. Miss Retzyl started taking names for interview subjects.
“Thes?” she asked.
“I got Great-Uncle Leroy,” Thes said, his voice dull. “He served in a war.”
“Wonderful,” she said, marking her book. “A war hero. Anna Celeste?” Attila sits in front of Dale. Dale stopped breathing altogether. His lips turned blue.
Atilla flounced her hair. “Like I said, I’m interviewing Miss Lacy Thornton, the oldest nice person in town. Automatic extra credit.”
“Thief,” I whispered.
“Thank you, Anna Celeste,” Miss Retzyl said. “Mo? Did you say something?”
“Three minutes,” Dale whispered, staring at the clock. “Stall.”
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. It’s about you and Detective Joe Starr, which on behalf of the entire class I’d like to congratulate you on your rumored upcoming nuptials, which we’re hoping you’ve set a date.” The Exums applauded. “I also want to mention Dale does a killer ‘Have-a-Maria,’ which goes over good at weddings.”
“That’s ‘Ave Maria,’” she said.
“Exactly. Naturally, I’m available for emergency bridesmaid if needed,” I added.
In truth, she could do better than Detective Joe Starr—Desperado Detective Agency’s main competition. But Starr, who’s from Winston-Salem, has somehow charmed Miss Retzyl and hangs around now much of the time.
Jimmy Exum raised his hand. “I got a suit. I can tote rings,” he said. The class gasped. The Exum boys are like crows when it comes to glittery objects.
“We can talk rings later,” I said. “The main thing is, right now we’d all like to get your date down so we don’t miss the Big Event.”
Sal beamed and opened her weekly planner.
Miss Retzyl, who secretly likes me, narrowed her brown eyes. “Detective Starr and I haven’t set a date, Mo. Let’s get back to the interviews. I’d like to know—”
The classroom door swung open. A lanky boy slouched against the door frame: thin face, tan shirt, black pants, scuffed shoes.
Crenshaw, Harm Crenshaw. What is he doing here?
Miss Retzyl smiled. “You must be Harmond. I have a desk right here for you,” she said, pointing to the front row.
He sauntered into the room. “It’s Harm. Harm Crenshaw. Brother of racecar driver Flick Crenshaw. I’ll be here a couple weeks and then I’m getting back to my real life in Greensboro.” He swung into the empty seat and turned to smirk at me. “Hey Ghost Girl. Seen any haints?”
Attila tittered, and his eyes flashed over her.
“Harm, Mo was just telling us about her interview for her history paper.”
“Dale and me are working together,” I said, willing the bell to ring.
“That’s fine,” she said. “You’ll need six pages rather than three.”
Attila smiled at Harm, pointed at me, and rolled her eyes.
Heat walked up the back of my neck. “Dale and me are interviewing somebody older than Grandmother Miss Lacy,” I said.
“Dale and I,” Miss Retzyl said. “Mayor Little’s mother is the oldest person in town.”
I shivered. Mayor Little’s mother is black-cat mean.
“No,” Dale whispered. “Not her.”
“It would mean extra credit,” Miss Retzyl reminded me.
“Yes,” Dale whispered. “Take her.”
Extra credit looms large with Dale, who specializes in the Recess Arts. On the other hand, Mrs. Little curdles milk by smiling at it. “Thank you, Miss Retzyl, but Dale and me got somebody even older,” I said, trying to think of someone.
Attila flashed her braces. “There isn’t anyone older, Mo-ron.”
Harm Crenshaw corkscrewed in his seat, his dark eyes laughing. “Mo-ron,” he mouthed.
My temper popped like bacon on a hot skillet. “There is too somebody older.” I glared at him. “Dale and me are interviewing a ghost.”
The problem with having a temper is you find out what you’re going to say at the exact same minute everybody else does.
The class gasped.
“No,” Dale moaned.
Like the Colonel says, sometimes the only way out is forward. “A ghost means extra credit,” I said as the bell rang. “There ain’t nobody older than dead.”
Chapter 6
Pre-Flunked
“I am not interviewing a ghost. I want out,” Dale said, hopping off his bike and dropping it by his mama’s front steps. “Hey Liz,” he murmured as Queen Elizabeth trotted over to greet him.
I leaned my bike against the porch. A scarecrow in a blue-plaid bathrobe watched over Miss Rose’s sprawling fall garden: pumpkins, collards, cabbage, gourds. “Isn’t that the robe you gave your daddy last Christmas?” I asked, squinting across the garden. Dale has a way with scarecrows.
“Don’t use the Colonel’s diversion tactics on me,” he said. “This is sixth grade, Mo. We got to get real interviews. With quotes and footnotes. It’s on the handout.”
There was a handout? And Dale took one?
“And I’m scared of ghosts,” he said. He picked up a stick and hurled it across the yard. Queen Elizabeth tilted her head, her pink tongue spilling out the side of her mouth. “Get it, girl,” he said. “Fetch!” Queen Elizabeth sat. She’s a self-starter unless she sees a squirrel, in which case she can’t be held responsible. “A ghost,” Dale said, his voice bitter. “I just hope Miss Retzyl hasn’t called Mama to pre-flunk us.”
Pre-flunk us? My blood ran cold. “You’re making that up.”
“It’s like being preapproved for a credit card you ain’t never gonna get,” he said. “Get on the pre-flunk list and you never get off.” Dale’s people ain’t good with credit cards. Neither are mine, but that’s because the Colonel doesn’t allow them, not because they don’t allow us.
Dale took the steps two at a time. “Mama,” he called, letting the front door slam behind us. “I’m home. I brought Mo.”
Miss Rose stuck her head out of the kitchen. “Hey, you two. How did it go?”
Dale slung his backpack on the settee and headed toward her. “That depends,” he said. “Did Miss Retzyl call?”
“No,” she said, looking puzzled.
“I guess it went okay then,” he said. “Do we have orange juice?” Miss Rose nodded toward the refrigerator—an old, round-shouldered Frigidaire.
“Hey Miss Rose,” I said. “You’re looking nice.” It was true. She wore faded blue corduroys and a blouse with the soft stripes washed
near off of it. She held a tape measure. A yellow pencil jutted from behind her ear.
Miss Rose used to be smack-down gorgeous before Dale’s daddy latched on to her. That’s what people say. She’s still pretty, but a tired shade of pretty: green eyes, bold chin, a sway that’s almost like dancing. She’s got music in her bones, Miss Lana says. Same as Dale.
Dale kicked the Frigidaire’s door closed. “I might as well tell you, Mama,” he said, pouring the juice and handing me a glass. “Sixth grade looks hard. I may be a repeat attender.”
“Don’t tell me your new ninja skills aren’t paying off,” she said, and I caught a hint of her dimples. “What’s that paper you’ve been studying?”
“Breathwork and Focus—Go Invisible the Ninja Way,” he said. “Sal and Skeeter found it on the Internet for me.” Skeeter—a seventh-grade legal whiz—got high-speed in July. High-speed’s rare in Tupelo Landing unless you live on First Street, which has cable. “My ninja skills are maybe working some,” he continued. “I didn’t disappear today, but I didn’t get called on, either.”
“Then what makes you think you’ll repeat sixth grade?”
Dale tells Miss Rose everything sooner or later. My Detective’s Instinct cried out for later. “Dale and me got assigned a history paper,” I said. “Dale’s antsy, is all.
“I hate to be nosy,” I added, bending the conversation in a safer direction, “but why are you holding Lavender’s tape measure?”
She laughed. “How do you know it’s Lavender’s?”
“I’m practically his assistant,” I explained. “I know Lavender’s tools by heart.”
She stretched the tape across her faded countertop. “Lavender’s installing a dishwasher for me,” she said. “I’m deciding how I’d like my kitchen to flow.” Miss Rose is one of the last in Greater Tupelo Landing to get a dishwasher. Dale’s daddy used to say if he had a dishwasher, he wouldn’t need a wife. That’s before Miss Rose kicked him out.
“Good. A dishwasher beats Dale’s daddy any day,” I said. The words went rancid the instant they hit the air.
Miss Rose didn’t look up from her tape measure, but a shadow darted across her face. “Macon is my ex-husband,” she said, smoothing the sharp from her voice. “Not Dale’s ex-father.”
The Ghosts of Tupelo Landing Page 4