The Ghosts of Tupelo Landing

by Sheila Turnage

  “Maybe the Colonel makes her nervous,” I answered.

  The path twisted down the hill to a small brick building. Its sunken steps led to a door wearing a heavy chain and padlock.

  “The springhouse,” Dale said, circling the building. A ramble of kudzu draped the back wall; red bricks peeked between large, deep-green leaves. “Used to have a back door,” he added. “Somebody filled it in with stacks of orange bricks. In a hurry too,” he said, poking at a crooked brick. “Weird.”

  “Why would anybody do that?” I murmured. Click.

  He looked toward the creek. “And there’s the old pavilion where my granddaddy first danced with the girl he would marry.” He gave me a shy smile. “My grandmother,” he said, like I couldn’t figure it out.

  We picked our way down the steep, washed-out path to a large riverside platform riddled by water and time. A snake slithered into the still water and zigzagged away. Dale didn’t even blink. “The band played at that end,” he said, pointing to a pile of boards. “Mama says they hung lanterns between these poles so light skipped across the water, and they kept the floor polished so the ladies could glide.”

  I looked at the broad cypress-lined creek and wondered if my Upstream Grandmothers once danced—if they had more grace than me. Click.

  A trace of rosemary drifted by. Queen Elizabeth sneezed and the hedge behind her moved against the breeze—just a glimmer of a form, a shimmer in the air, a rustle where a rustle shouldn’t be.

  Fear skated across my skin like heat lightning. “Dale,” I whispered.

  “I saw her,” he said. And he took a step closer to me.

  • •

  That night I settled into bed with the Piggly Wiggly Chronicles, Volume 6.

  Chapter 11

  The Alchemy of Light

  On Monday, interview refusals flocked in from elders with second thoughts. Maybe the weekend had something to do with it, maybe the promise of autumn brought it on. Either way, Hannah Greene got shot down by travel.

  “Grandmother went to Wrightsville Beach and decided to stay,” she explained. “My great-aunt Tildy’s subbing for me. She was at the Greensboro sit-ins.” She smiled in Harm’s direction. “You’re from Greensboro. Maybe you’ve heard of them.”

  He didn’t even look her way.

  I opened my notebook to the empty section, the one marked math. Harm = jerk.

  The Exums raised their hands. “Uncle Lewis remembered he can’t stand us. He says we should get lost, maybe forever.”

  Miss Retzyl squeezed off a Pity Look. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

  Attila raised her hand. “I think he did.”

  “We’re switching to Miss Delilah Exum,” Jake replied. “She runs the best candy counter in the county.”

  “She has to like us,” Jimmy added. “We’re customers.”

  Thes raised his hand. “My uncle backed out too.” He twisted in his desk, gazing hopefully at Attila. “Anybody want a partner?” Attila pretended to clean out her desk. “Fine,” Thes sighed. “I’ll take Mayor Little’s mother.”

  The class gasped. Thes? And the meanest woman in town?

  “I know,” he said. “But she goes to our church and Daddy says I have to.”

  “She’s a donut,” Dale explained.

  “Donor,” Thes said. “She’s a donor.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be delighted,” Miss Retzyl said. She looked at Harm, who sat with his eyes closed. “Harmond?” His snore zigzagged through the silence, soft and ragged as cotton. “Harmond Crenshaw!” she said, and he jumped like she’d Tasered him. “Whom will you interview? I need to know. Now.”

  “Interview?” Harm mumbled, his voice thick. “I’m working with Anna Celeste. She’s got old what’s-her-name.”

  Attila sat up. “Really?” she said. “I’m game if you are.”

  Thes gaped, his freckled face startled. “I thought you didn’t want a partner.”

  “She doesn’t want a partner with orange hair and freckles,” I explained. “Miss Retzyl, I object. I don’t like Harm snooping around Grandmother Miss Lacy.”

  Miss Retzyl ignored me. “Harmond, you’ve already dropped a grade for taking so long to name an interview subject. The best you can make at this point is a B.”

  Anna’s mouth fell open. “Does that apply to his partner too?”

  “Oh no, not a B,” Dale said, his voice quivering like a slap of lunchroom Jell-O.

  “And how’s your project coming?” Miss Retzyl asked, her stare ricocheting off me to hit Dale right between the eyes.

  “Mo’s got updates,” he said, and stopped breathing.

  “Thank you, Dale,” I said. “Everything’s going very smooth for Dale and me. We’ve introduced ourselves to our Entity, who prefers to remain anonymous for now, and presented our card. We’ve shot five rolls of film and we’re working in the darkroom with Miss Lacy Thornton this afternoon.”

  “I’m interviewing Miss Thornton after school,” Attila said. “She’s not available for lesser endeavors until later.”

  Lesser endeavors? I hate Attila Celeste.

  Miss Retzyl clapped her book shut. “Don’t forget your science chapter tonight. Harmond, a word please,” she said as the bell rang.

  Yes. Detention for sleepy-headed Harm Crenshaw.

  • •

  An hour later, I settled into Dale’s beanbag chair. I pulled a clue pad from my bag and scrawled a title across the page: Harm Crenshaw Investigation.

  “What do we know about the subject in question?” I asked.

  Dale sat cross-legged on the floor, cradling his guitar. He twisted a key on the guitar’s neck, sending the string’s tone higher. He closed his eyes, listening. “If you’re talking about science, I’m lost.”

  “I’m talking about Harm Crenshaw, our surveillance subject, who may be infiltrating Grandmother Miss Lacy’s house as we speak.”

  He opened his music book and studied a diagram. “It’s amazing how many songs you can play with just three chords. If you can sing, I mean. And I don’t think Harm’s infiltrating, Mo. I think he’s just desperate not to fail history, same as us. Why else would he work with Attila?”

  “What do we know about him, really?”

  Dale looked up. “Okay, here’s what I know: If Harm was any faster on that bicycle, we’d hear a sonic boom.”

  “First-class getaway vehicle. Check.”

  “He wears the same black pants and scuffed shoes every day, and has just three shirts. So he’s poor. Which,” he said, “poor happens.”

  Poor? I hadn’t noticed, maybe because of the fancy bike.

  He strummed his guitar. “That was a minor chord,” he announced, strumming again. “Minor chords sound like Spanish moss.” He was right. The sound felt lonely, like Spanish moss on a cloudy day. He played a cheerier chord. “Major chords sound like oak trees with their roots solid in the ground.” He rested his arm against his guitar. “And Harm doesn’t have a mother, same as you.”

  No mother? The words kicked me in the chest.

  “What makes you say that?” I asked, my voice going tight as his guitar string.

  “He eats a square meal every day,” he said. “Orange four-cornered Nabs. Square, get it? He brings them from home the poor way instead of getting them out of a vending machine the flashy way. What mother gives you nothing but Nabs for lunch?” He strummed. Queen Elizabeth pawed at her ear. “That can’t be right,” he muttered.

  He looked at me, his blue eyes serious. “Why do you care about Harm?”

  “It’s like Lavender says: Harm’s trouble. I don’t want him honing his evil skills on Grandmother Miss Lacy.”

  He shrugged. “Miss Thornton’s smart. She can take care of herself.”

  I glanced at the clock. “Speaking of Grandmother Miss Lacy, she’s expecting us at fi
ve o’clock to develop our photos. And I’ve shot enough photos of her and Miss Lana to paper the inn’s lobby. With any luck I also got a portrait of our ghost. Academic jackpot. Feel free to applaud.”

  Instead of clapping, Dale squinted at Sir Isaac Newton. Newton stood on a piece of driftwood, staring at a fly. Even for an introvert, he looked moody. “I would go with you,” Dale said, “but I promised Newton I’d write him a song.” He lowered his voice. “He’s going through an awkward stage and I’m the only friend he’s got.”

  What? I’m being dumped for a newt?

  “So far my entire life’s an awkward stage, but you don’t see me staring at flies,” I said. “You’re just afraid to see a possible ghost photo.” I stood up, very dignified. “And since when can you write a song?”

  “Since in about fifteen minutes from now.”

  Dale has an unusual grasp of time.

  “Fine,” I said. I closed the door behind me.

  • •

  “Come in, dear,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said, her carved oak door squeaking open. I peeped into the parlor. Attila perched on a velvet chair, a digital recorder at her side. “Anna Celeste is just finishing her interview,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said loudly. She leaned close to my ear. “Thank heavens you’re here. That child has interviewed me half to death.”

  I swept into the parlor. No Harm. “Hey Attila. Did you dump your partner?”

  “Dump is an unattractive term, Moses.”

  Sometimes I could kill the Colonel for naming me Moses. I know I washed into town, but give me a break.

  “Harmond and I agreed it’s to our mutual advantage to work alone.” A car horn tooted outside. “There’s Mother. Thank you, Miss Thornton. I may have follow-up questions.”

  “Good glory,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said, closing the door behind Attila. “I didn’t know one girl could be so pushy.” She smiled at me, her eyes twinkling. “Now you,” she said. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day. I can’t wait to introduce you to this form of . . . well, magic,” she said, heading down the hall. “The alchemy of light.”

  She opened a door and I followed her into her tiny darkroom. She plucked two heavy rubber aprons from a hook. She put on hers, and handed me the other. Metal pans spanned the countertops, an old-fashioned machine crouched in the corner like a giant praying mantis. The air smelled mysterious and sharp.

  “What is this stuff?” I asked, slipping the apron over my head. I wrapped the sash around, like the Colonel does with his cooking apron, and tied a half bow in front.

  She closed the door, turned off the regular light, and flipped a red one on. “My darkroom,” she said. I blinked in the eerie red glow. “Here’s the film you’ve shot,” she said, pointing to five strips of reddish brown negatives dangling from a line. “Some of your images mystify me, but I’d say you have a good eye, Mo. A very good eye.

  “Now, let’s see how things develop,” she said, opening a pack of paper. She smiled like a schoolgirl. “Develop. Photography humor,” she explained. “I haven’t had this much fun in years. What expectations do you have, dear?”

  “The Colonel says expectations are Fate’s ambush,” I said. “But I hope I’ve photographed a ghost.”

  I hadn’t.

  Two hours later my first batch of photos dangled from the wire, drying. “I don’t get it,” I said. “No ghost. And I’ve got all these nice crisp photos of Lavender, Dale, Miss Lana, the Colonel, the inn. But all my photos of you look like they’re sprinkled with light. I don’t have a single good photo of you in the inn, and you’re half owner!”

  “Perhaps I’m not photogenic,” she said in the easy way of people who know they photograph good. I looked at my photos of Harm.

  “Harm’s came out just like yours,” I said. “Like globs of light stuck to him.”

  “Maybe we splashed some chemicals,” she murmured.

  “Just on your photos and Harm’s? If they were all on one roll that might make sense. And every time I photograph the piano, I get nothing but a blur.”

  “An exposure issue, I imagine. That piano’s stood in that dark corner forever.”

  I grabbed a pair of tongs and swirled my last shot in its rinse. “Dale and me played ‘Heart and Soul’ on that piano the other day,” I said, remembering her humming in the café. Her elbow clattered against the enlarger. “You know it?”

  “Every child who’s ever graced a piano bench knows that old song. I’ve played it many times, with many friends.” She squinted at my library shots. “We’ll reshoot the library too. It’s as blurry as the piano. Don’t worry, dear, I have beau-coodles of film.”

  “That reminds me, I got an old photo to show you,” I said. “From the inn’s library.”

  She hung her rubber apron on the door. I followed her to the kitchen, where she poured two glasses of milk. I hesitated, wanting to tell her about the glimmer at the pavilion, and the footsteps in the inn. I eased up to the subject, not sure she’d believe me.

  “I’d hoped to photograph our ghost to prove things to . . . people.” She arranged our cookies on a plate. “You don’t believe in ghosts,” I said, sitting at her breakfast table. “I mean, I know you don’t out loud, in the café. But just between you and me. When it’s quiet. Do you?”

  She shook her head. “There’s all kinds of ghosts in this world, Mo, but the kind you mean? No, I don’t believe. Oh, I’d like to,” she added. “An unexplained breeze brushes my face or a sound turns my head, and I always hope to see someone I miss. So far, no one’s come for me.”

  I scooted to the edge of my seat. “But you believe in other kinds?”

  “In a way, I suppose,” she said, putting the cookies on the table. “At my age, I sit down to breakfast with memories more often than with people I can touch,” she said, and reached over to squeeze my hand.

  “Memories aren’t ghosts,” I told her.

  She smiled. “Perhaps not. I’m sure you’ll sort it all out, dear. Eternity is no match for the Desperados. Here,” she added, “try these cookies. They’re my favorites.”

  I reached for a cookie. “They’re homemade, I’m sure,” I said, very polite.

  “Mercy, no,” she said. “When you’re my age you don’t waste time making cookies.” We settled into a comfortable silence. “I wonder what a picture of a ghost would look like,” she finally said. “Don’t you?”

  Actually, I’d given it zero thought. Or if negative numbers can hook up to that idea, less than zero thought. “Yes ma’am,” I said, reaching for my milk. “Now that you mention it, I do. Speaking of photographs . . .”

  I opened my messenger bag and lifted out the photo from the library: two girls looking into the camera, a skirt-tail, a blur of a boy. “We found this in the library,” I said. “I hoped you might know who they are.”

  She grasped the photo in both hands and tilted it toward the lamp. “Will you look at that,” she said. “Of course. That’s me,” she said, pointing to the thin, smiling girl. “The sourpuss is Myrt Little, the mayor’s mother.” She stared at the blurry figure. “The skirt’s a mystery, but that’s Red Baker,” she said, tapping the boy’s image. “Always moving, whirling, never could stand still. I probably photographed him twenty times, and didn’t get more than two good photos for my trouble.”

  “Red Baker?” I said. “Why would you photograph him?”

  She laughed. “We were children together—and friends.” She propped her chin on her hand. “Don’t look so surprised. Red was a very nice boy. Besides, I like to live a little on the edge. And Red Baker was certainly edgy—in an old-fashioned way.”

  Grandmother Miss Lacy and Red Baker, friends? Had the earth reversed its poles? “Red Baker used to be nice? What happened to him?”

  “Anger, I suppose. Anger can corrode most anything if it sits still long enough.”

  Someone rapped at the doo
r and she bustled down the hall. “Dale,” she said, opening the door. “What a lovely surprise. And Queen Elizabeth. Do come in.”

  “We can’t,” Dale said. “Our paws are muddy. Excuse us, Miss Thornton, but is Mo here? Because I left my sweatshirt at the inn and Mama’s gonna skin me alive if we don’t get it back.”

  We? He wants me to go in a haunted inn at dusk for a sweatshirt?

  “Mama’s murderous careful about new clothes. And Mo is my best friend,” he added. True. Being a best friend has its price.

  I grabbed my messenger bag and headed for the door. The sun slanted low across Grandmother Miss Lacy’s lawn, outlining her old garage in soft, golden light. “Thank you for the darkroom lesson,” I said. “I loved it.”

  “So did I. You two be careful,” she called as we crossed the porch. “It’ll be dark before you know it.”

  I shivered. “She’s right, Desperado,” I said. “Let’s fly.”

  Chapter 12

  A Secret Uncovered

  We pedaled frantic as bats on a rising moon. “Hurry,” Dale panted as we swerved onto the inn’s drive and bounced down the path, Queen Elizabeth galloping behind us. We jumped off our bikes and landed on our feet running across the lawn as the bikes spiraled to the earth behind us.

  The inn’s windows stared at us blank and empty. “At least nobody’s looking at us this time,” Dale said, glancing at the upstairs windows.

  “Stop looking. She’ll feel it and know we’re here,” I said.

  “Right,” he said, squinting up at the window.

  “I said don’t look!” I told him. “Where’d you leave your sweatshirt?”

  “On the piano.”

  The one slammed shut by ghost hands?

  “You know Dale, I’ve never actually taken something from a ghost. I’m not sure how they feel about that—as a people, I mean.” He frowned. “Maybe you should let her have it,” I said. “It does get cold when she’s around. It could be a good deed.”

  He shook his head. “I promised Mama I’d bring it back.”