“I didn’t come for pie,” Red Baker said. “I came to buy the inn.”
She hesitated, the knife hovering over the crust. She cut a careful wedge and slipped it onto a saucer. Red Baker grinned like a snake smiling at a mouse. A shiver crept up the back of my neck. “Even if you fix that inn up, nobody will stay there,” he said. “It’s too haunted. I’ve seen them myself. I’ll take the place off your hands, and pay you to boot.”
“How much?” I asked.
“Uppity kid,” he said without looking at me.
Miss Lana summoned a paper-thin smile. “Mo enjoys a certain joi de vivre. She also asks good questions.”
“Twenty thousand dollars, cash on the barrelhead,” he said. “Say the word.”
“Twenty thousand dollars?” I said. “We paid ten times that.”
“Good math,” Dale whispered.
Miss Lana slid the pie to Dale. “Mr. Baker, if that inn’s a bad investment, why would you buy it, even for that piddling amount?”
Another good question. Pop-pop-pop. “My pig operation bumps up against your property. I want to expand it.”
Pig operation? What pig operation?
I looked at Dale as he shoved a forkful of pie into his mouth. “Ah nebba sthmel ana piiihs,” he said, reaching for his milk.
“I never smelled any pigs either,” I said.
“You won’t.” Mr. Red tugged a roll of dirt-streaked cash out of his pocket. “Here’s my down payment. Take it or leave it.”
This time, Miss Lana’s smile was an out-and-out lie. “The inn’s not for sale.”
He shrugged. “Lacy Thornton can’t keep you afloat forever,” he said, stuffing his cash in his pocket. “She ain’t as rich as people think.”
“Grandmother Miss Lacy’s plenty rich,” I said.
“Really? Lacy Thornton’s father drove a rich man’s car,” he said. “Lacy drives a Buick old as you are. You call yourself a detective. You figure it out.”
He clomped to the door, leaving a trail of black shoeprints.
Chapter 16
Footnotes from Charleston
Friday evening, as I sat in my room contemplating the evils of fractions in general and common denominators in particular, my vintage bedside phone jangled. “Mo’s flat, Mo speaking,” I said. I possess killer telephone skills.
“Is this Mo LoBeau of Desperado Detective Agency?” a man asked.
“That’s right. Your life disaster is our pleasure. How can we help?”
“This is Cousin Gideon, Esquire.”
I laughed. “Cousin Gideon! How are you?”
“Fine, sugar. I hope you are. I just got your Skee-mail. Sounds like big goings-on in little Tupelo Landing.”
“Huge,” I agreed. “Dale and me hope to bring you on board as a footnote for our ghost case.”
He laughed liquid and slow. “I am scared to death of ghosts, sugar,” he drawled, “but I have an absolutely intrepid friend who investigates haunted places for a living. I showed her your questions and I have her answers here. Got a pencil handy?”
“Shoot,” I said, turning a page in my notebook.
“First, my friend prefers film cameras to digital ones. Ghosts generally show up like orbs of light.”
My heart skipped.
“She also suggests setting up a voice-activated recorder in the inn at night. I know Lana has one because I gave her one for Christmas years ago. It’s so old, it uses tapes, but it should work just fine.”
I shivered. “Ghosts talk to each other at night?”
“Well, I’m no expert, but I don’t see any reason to stop chatting just because you’re dead. Do you?” Cousin Gideon’s a notorious chatter.
“I saw that tape recorder in Miss Lana’s doodad drawer the other day,” I told him. “Did your friend mention seeing ghosts? Because Mr. Red says he’s seen them and Lavender’s workers claim ghosts move their tools. And Dale and me have heard things and seen a possible glimmer.”
“Hmmm.” Tap tap tap. Cousin Gideon taps his pen against his teeth when he’s thinking. A bad habit. “Well, she says some people see ghosts and others can’t. Others hear them, or smell them. She didn’t mention moving things specifically, but I suppose they can. I mean, they have a reputation for that kind of mischief, don’t they?”
“Right. Thanks, Cousin Gideon,” I said, jotting a few notes. “This makes dynamite background.” I made an executive decision. “In fact, I’m awarding you full footnote status. Congratulations.”
Miss Lana says people can hear you smile into the phone. She’s right. I could hear Cousin Gideon beaming. “Appreciate it, darling,” he said, and then hesitated. “You be careful with this stuff, Mo. You know what they say: Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. And you’re no fool, Mo LoBeau.”
“I ain’t much of an angel either,” I said, and he laughed.
“Come see me, sugar. Now, if Lana’s nearby I’d love to hear her voice.”
An hour later I pushed open the inn’s door and tugged Miss Lana’s tape recorder from my pocket. I crept across the lobby, Dale following so close, his toes snigged at my heels. “If Mama learns I snuck out, she’ll kill me. Don’t look at the chandelier. Or at the stairs,” he whispered, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Or the piano.”
I stopped and he slammed into me. “Open your eyes, Dale,” I snapped. “I ain’t a seeing eye friend.” I tiptoed behind the reservation desk, clicked the recorder on, and put it under Lavender’s dust mask. “We’ll come back in the morning to see who we caught chatting.”
I took Dale’s cold, clammy hand and led him to the door.
• •
The next morning, I called Dale the instant I opened my eyes. “Wake up,” I said.
“Saturday morning. Ghost tape,” he replied, and hung up.
The tape recorder sat right where we’d left it. Only one thing had changed: “It’s nearly full,” Dale said.
Ghost voices. On tape. Proof. Automatic A. The skin on the back of my neck crawled. “Let’s hear it,” I said.
He backed up, shoving his hands behind his back. “I don’t touch ghost things. It’s a rule.”
“Fine.” I hit rewind. Then play. We leaned toward the recorder, straining to hear. First, scrabbling. “Ghost fingers,” Dale whispered. “Or mice.” Then footsteps. My mouth went dry. “Ghost shoes,” he whispered.
A man’s voice jumped out at us: “Will you look at this.”
“Ghost!” Dale cried, grabbing my arm. I yanked free. The voice sputtered, and I heard something heavy slide across the floor. Then: “Where’s that hammer?”
“Ghost with hammer,” Dale breathed. “Bad.”
“Looks like they replaced that window glass again. Idiots.”
“Hold on, Dale,” I said, frowning. “I know that voice.”
Pop-pop-pop.
“That’s Red Baker popping his knuckles like always, and that’s his hateful old voice.”
“No,” Dale whispered.
I leaned closer to the recorder. “He’s dragging something,” I said. I looked around the inn, at a faint double track across the heart pine floor. “A stepladder,” I said, glancing at the ladder propped against the wall. On the tape, faint footsteps scuffed up the ladder’s steps. Then a sharp whack.
I looked at the parlor window. A crack zigzagged across its face.
A wave of anger nearly swept me off my feet. I jabbed the recorder, turning it off, and stared at Dale. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Dale whispered. He collapsed onto the stairs and rested his forehead against his palms. He drew a jagged breath.
Poor Dale. He’d known Red Baker all his life. Now this.
I sat beside him. “Are you okay?” I asked, trying to sound sensitive.
He looked up at me, his blue eyes glis
tening. “I think so. It’s just shocking is all. I mean, Red Baker.” He shook his head. “He looks so . . . lifelike.”
Lifelike?
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live in Dale’s world. Other times I think I wouldn’t last five minutes in there. “He is lifelike, Desperado. He’s alive.”
“Right,” he said, sagging with relief. “I think so too.”
I hopped up and paced, my hands behind my back. “We ain’t got ghosts, Dale. We got Red Baker tricking us. And you know what that means, don’t you?”
“We’re failing history. Again.”
“It means we’re on the verge of solving a major crime,” I said. “We need backup.”
• •
Detective Joe Starr blasted through the café door a half hour later. He’s dark and handsome in a plainclothes cop way, but I still think Miss Retzyl could do better. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, looking around the empty café.
Miss Lana looked up from her recipe book. “Well, I’m thinking of going vegetarian on Tuesdays, which I suppose some people could see as wrong. What do you think? You’re more of a meat-and-potatoes man, I believe.”
True. Joe Starr’s a carnivore, tooth and nail. “Pris said you have an emergency,” he said. He zeroed in on me, and his hands went to his hips. “You,” he said.
“Good afternoon Detective,” I replied, very professional. “Allow me to compliment you on your response time.” He waited, his sleet-gray eyes unsmiling. “The Desperados have solved another major crime and we’d like you to make an arrest. Lavender’s waiting for us at the inn. There’s just one more person we need to notify.”
“And without him we’re pretty much dead,” Dale added.
True. I dialed. Fortunately, Mr. Red picked up. “This is Mo LoBeau of Desperado Detective Agency. Miss Lana’s selling the inn,” I said. “Meet us there in a half hour.” I hung up before he could get a word out.
Twenty minutes later Red Baker ambled through the inn door and froze. Detective Starr simmered by the window, his arms crossed. Miss Lana perched on a sawhorse, filing her nails. Lavender leaned against the desk, looking good in corduroy.
“Thanks for dropping by,” I said.
He edged back toward the door, bumping into Harm. “I didn’t drop by. I came because you said Lana’s selling the inn. Why’s Starr here?”
I pulled the tape recorder from my pocket. “First Dale and me got something we’d like you to hear.” I pressed play. His gravelly voice flooded the room. “Left their tape measures out again. Idiots.” Pop-pop-pop.
Miss Lana stood up. “Sabotage,” she said, her voice drizzling scorn over the word.
I turned off the tape. “There’s more,” I said. “Moving tools, breaking that window.” I gave Starr a detective-to-detective smile. “We’ll turn our evidence over to you and prepare a press release including the correct spelling of our names.”
Starr slipped the recorder into his pocket. “If you have an explanation, Mr. Baker, this would be a good time,” he said.
Mr. Red shrugged. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s your voice and your popping knuckles,” Lavender said. “We know it, and a jury will know it.” He glared at Harm. “And what’s your role in this?” he demanded. “No wonder you wanted a job. Talk about easy access to your crime scene.” Harm’s mouth fell open. I’d seen him fake surprise in class, but this looked real.
Mr. Red stepped in front of Harm. “I’ll pay for your darned window,” he said. “Leave Harm out of this.”
“Who are you talking to on that tape?” Starr demanded.
“Myself,” Mr. Red growled. “I’m an old man.”
Interesting. Maybe Red Baker does care about Harm, I thought. He shoved Harm toward the door. On the other hand, I thought, maybe he doesn’t.
“What about the rest of it?” I asked. “What about the footsteps upstairs?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mr. Red said, heading for the door.
Starr reached for his handcuffs. “I take it you’ll press charges, Lana? Take your pick: malicious mischief, breaking and entering, harassment, trespassing. Mr. Baker, this way to the patrol car.”
Harm swallowed so hard, I could hear him from across the room. Miss Lana’s eyes went softer. “I’d like to talk to Lacy Thornton first, if you don’t mind. She’s home today, a little under the weather.”
“Let’s go see her then,” Starr said, glancing at Harm. “Stay where I can find you,” he said. “If Mr. Baker goes to jail, we’ll make arrangements for you.”
“Arrangements,” Dale mumbled under his breath. “Bad.”
Starr walked Mr. Red to the Impala, Lavender and Miss Lana trailing behind. That left me, Dale, and Queen Elizabeth. Plus Harm, and an accusing silence.
The Impala pulled away. “You getting left on your own is an Unforeseen Consequence of our good detective work,” I said. “It wasn’t part of our plan.”
“Same as Daddy staying in jail so long,” Dale said.
Harm shrugged, walked to the piano, and opened the keyboard. “It’s not the first time I been left. I always land on my feet.”
“Just between us, how did Mr. Red do the rest of the haunting?” I asked.
Harm stretched his hands across the piano keys and a soft chord rippled through the silence. Cold flooded the room. He spun to face us. “What the . . .”
“Like, how did he rig that?” Dale asked, snuggling into his sweatshirt.
Harm looked around the room. “How did he deep-freeze this dump?” he said, crossing his arms and shivering. “He didn’t. How could he?”
“And what about her?” Dale asked, pointing to the staircase. “How does Mr. Red make her happen?”
“Who?” Harm and I asked together, turning.
My heart jumped like a racer out of the blocks as a swirl of pale pink light wandered down the stairs, to the piano. It hovered, and then sailed straight for Harm.
Harm’s thin face went gray as a raw plaster wall. He backed, backed, backed away as the pink moved closer, closer, and churned to a halt inches from his face.
Red Baker didn’t concoct that. I grabbed my camera and pointed it with shaking hands.
“She’s . . . gone,” Dale said, looking around the room as the mist faded and the temperature rose.
“What was that?” Harm demanded.
“Our history interview,” Dale said. “She acted like she knew you.”
“Knew me? That’s crazy.”
Dale looked Harm up and down. “Ghost bait,” he said, his voice thoughtful. He looked at me. “I told you we’d need some.”
And Harm sat down on the floor. Hard.
Chapter 17
Spitting Image
Harm stood waiting for us Monday morning at the bicycle rack—a definite surprise. “Hey Ghoul Girl,” he said. Not a surprise. I nudged my bike into the rack.
“Hey yourself, Ghost Bait. What’s up?”
“Shhh,” he said, his gaze lingering on Attila and Hannah, who leaned against an oak tree, chatting. “Don’t call me that,” he said. “And nothing’s up. I mean, nobody pressed charges, which was . . . nice. I appreciate it.”
Thes blasted past. “Going to storm tonight,” he said. “Eighty percent chance. And a cold front drifting down, but no snow. It’s way too early for snow.”
“Thanks, Thes,” I said, and he trotted away. I looked at Harm. “Thes is weather-obsessed. There’s no way to stop him, so Miss Lana says to thank him.”
Dale jammed his bike in the rack. “Hey Harm, you want to talk ghosts? Because ours likes you, and as Ghost Bait for our interview, you got a right to ask.”
Harm crossed his arms. “You want me to help with your paper?” he asked, and we nodded. “Sure, I’ll do it. Cost you a hundred dollars,” he said.
“A hundred dollars?” I said. “We don’t have that kind of money.”
“Your call. You can get back to me,” he said, slipping back into his smirk, just like that. “You got your interview questions?” he asked. “After what I saw Saturday, I’m thinking they’d better be darned good ones.”
“We got them,” I said. “You first.”
To my surprise, he opened his notebook. “Questions for Red Baker. One: What’s your earliest memory of your father, Mr. Truman Baker? Two: What did Truman’s distillery smell like and how did it work? Three: How did Truman’s business affect local culture and commerce?”
“Fancy words and good questions,” Dale said. “Miss Retzyl will like those.”
Harm closed his notebook and stuffed it in his pack. “They’re only good questions if Red answers them. And since he hasn’t actually agreed to an interview, I see an F in my future.”
Dale shook his head. “He won’t want a grandson to flunk.” He tilted his head like a curious owl. “Funny, I never knew Mr. Red had a grandson. And I been knowing him all my life.”
“Well, you got me beat,” Harm said. “I only met him at the auction.”
My stomach fluttered like I’d stepped in an elevator going down too fast. He just met him? What if I met Upstream Mother and she turned out to be like Red Baker?
“So that’s why Mr. Red dressed up for the auction,” Dale said, his voice going soft. “To meet you. That was nice of him.”
“Charming,” Harm said. “What about you, Ghost Girl? You got questions?”
I knew them by heart. “One: What’s your name? Two: What happened to you? Three: How much allowance do you get in the next world?”
“Allowance,” Dale said, pulling a crumpled paper out of his pocket. “Good.” He smoothed his paper against his leg and read out his questions.
“One: Why are you still here? Two: Do you get lonely? Three: Do you dream about people you used to know?”
Sometimes it surprises me, the things Dale thinks about.
“Pathetic,” Attila said, brushing by. “Maybe you should try these. One: Who do I think I’m kidding? Two: Am I lying through my teeth? Three: How many times will I repeat sixth grade?”
The Ghosts of Tupelo Landing Page 10