The Ghosts of Tupelo Landing

by Sheila Turnage

  She shot us a withering glare. “My paper’s done. I only need to print it.”

  “Like we care, Metal Mouth,” Harm said. He looked sheepish as she stomped away. “I guess I’d have braces too if I could afford them,” he said. “Flick says a good smile’s worth thousands of dollars later in life. Listen,” he said, “what are you two doing this afternoon? Because I actually would like to talk about . . . things.”

  “We’re going to Grandmother Miss Lacy’s with our latest batch of film.”

  “I’m not,” Dale said, backing away. “Not if you’re carrying ghost film.”

  “You’re just scared to look a ghost in the eye,” I said. “But you are too going. If Miss Retzyl asks you about developing film, you got to answer. Besides, Grandmother Miss Lacy’s not feeling good. It would be a good social skill to pay her a call.”

  For a split second I thought Harm would ask to come along. Then: “Thank her for me,” he said. “For not pressing charges against Red. Thank Miss Lana too.”

  “Thank them yourself,” I said, and headed up the steps.

  • •

  That afternoon, Dale and I stood on Grandmother Miss Lacy’s porch, shivering in a chill wind. Thes had nailed it: cold front. I knocked on the carved front door.

  Dale stared at Queen Elizabeth hard enough to bend spoons. “Sit,” he said. To my shock, she plopped down by the door. “Good girl. I can’t believe you came to school,” he told her, ruffling her ears. “She’s never done that before, Mo.”

  “She’s brilliant,” I lied, and knocked again.

  “Miss Thornton’s yellow pansies look good,” he said, peering at the wide-faced little flowers. “Mama says they’re tougher than they look.”

  The door creaked open. “I thought I heard voices,” Miss Lana said. “Miss Thornton’s in the parlor. The doctor told her to rest and avoid stress. She’s bored out of her mind. She’ll be glad to see you.” She kissed my face. “Don’t get her too excited though, sugar,” she said, and hurried toward the café.

  “Too excited?” Dale echoed. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “No darkroom,” I said, and he smiled like I’d yanked him out of detention.

  “You go on in,” he said. “I’ll be there after Liz settles in.”

  I found Grandmother Miss Lacy thumbing through a photo album. She sat with a green shawl draped over her thin shoulders, her blue hair glinting in the glow of the fireplace. I knocked on the door casing. “Mo! Thank heavens. I’m bored within an inch of my life. Sit down and talk to me.”

  I filled her in on school faster than Lavender at the racetrack: word problems, analogies, book reports. “Plus I shot more film for history,” I told her. “But it can wait.”

  Finally we turned to Red Baker and his fake ghost.

  “I’ve known Red Baker all my life, and he has never made me so furious,” she fumed as Dale tiptoed by cradling something in his arms. “What did he hope to accomplish by scaring our workers away? He doesn’t need land for his pigs.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “He’s up to something.”

  “Red’s been up to something since birth,” she said, and then laughed like water breaking through a dam. She reached for her album and thumbed through the pages. “I have a photo I’d like you to see.” I peeped at the pages. “Here I am with Father’s Duesenberg,” she said, showing me a black-and-white of a short, birdlike girl and a long, pale car. She turned the page. “And this blur in knickers is Red Baker.”

  She flipped the page. “Here’s a rare image of him standing still.” I peered at the photo as Dale walked into the room holding a clear bowl of suspiciously familiar yellow pansies.

  “I hope you feel better soon,” he said, trying not to slosh water on the floor.

  Grandmother Miss Lacy blinked at her own pansies. “Thank you, dear,” she said. “They’d look best on the marble-topped table, perhaps.”

  I turned back to the old photo of Mr. Red as a boy. Black hair, thin face. He wore a long-sleeve shirt and tie, knickers and argyles. He held a cap in his hand and stood lanky as a coyote, his thin shoulders sloping a modicum to the left. “That’s Red Baker?” I asked. “He’s a dead ringer for Harm Crenshaw.”

  “Or the other way around,” Dale said, peering at the photo.

  She laughed. “It took me a while to place Harm the day we drove to the auction. But you’re right. Harm’s the spitting image of his grandfather.”

  People say that like it’s nothing—being the spitting image of somebody else.

  “Can I borrow this?” I asked.

  “I suppose,” she said, sliding it out and handing it to me. “I’ll want it back, though,” she added as the phone jangled. “Could you get that, dear? It’s probably another Azalea Woman calling to see if I’m dying and if so, who’s in the will. Take a message,” she called as I trotted down the hall. “I’ll return calls tomorrow.”

  I swept into the kitchen. The supper plate Miss Lana brought over rested on the counter, covered with a neat white napkin. I grabbed the phone, the antique kind that clings to the wall. “Grandmother Miss Lacy’s residence, honorary granddaughter Mo LoBeau speaking,” I said.

  “Who?” a woman said.

  “Mo LoBeau, cofounder of Desperado Detective Agency. Who’s this?”

  “Miss Filch, manager at State Bank, calling for Lacy Thornton.”

  I frowned. The old “I got a title and you don’t” trick. I’d used it before, mostly on third graders.

  “Greetings, Filch,” I replied. “Miss Thornton is resting. I am Miss LoBeau, her ambassador. May I help you?”

  “I need her, sweetie. Call her to the phone.”

  I smiled so wide my lips hurt, in case Miss Lana was right and smiling might put Filch in a better mood. “I can take a message. She’ll call you.”

  She huffed like she could blow my house down. “Tell her Miss Filch called. Again. Tell her we have still not received payment. Tell her she needs to call me by ten o’clock tomorrow morning or I’ll start the paperwork. Understand?”

  I gasped. “Paperwork? What’s going on?”

  The phone went dead in my hand.

  Chapter 18

  A Paying Customer,

  Sort Of

  “Paperwork?” Dale said that evening as thunder galloped across the sky. We sat in my flat—me on the bed and Dale at my desk—schoolbooks scattered around us. “Paperwork’s bad,” he said. “Paperwork happens just before they take your car. Not that anybody would want Miss Thornton’s old Buick. And what payment? And how come it’s late? Miss Thornton’s got more gold than Fort Knox.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, trying to dis-remember Red Baker’s warnings.

  “Did you ask her?”

  “Not exactly. I told her State Bank called and I’d left the message in the kitchen. She said ‘that terrible Filch woman again.’ Then she said not to worry, she’d handle it.”

  “Well then,” he said, swiveling back and forth on my desk chair. “We might as well not worry.”

  Dale kills me. He’s got a worry switch he flips just like that. It’s something he got from his daddy, not from Miss Rose. “I hate English,” he said. “Why do we have to study a foreign language anyway?”

  “English ain’t a foreign language,” I told him.

  “Are you English?” he demanded. “Because I’m not.” I could see his point, which made me uncomfortable. “What’s an analogy again?” he asked.

  “A double-barreled comparison. Miss Retzyl’s crazy about them. Here, try another one: Chicken is to feather as mink is to blank.”

  “Coat?” he guessed.

  “Fur,” I said, drawing a picture of a fluffy chicken and a slender mink. I turned my notebook toward him. “See?”

  He frowned. “What’s that supposed to be? Dwarves? Because you can’t make fun of people,
Mo. It isn’t right.”

  I took a moment. Only the intrepid study with Dale.

  “Forget the pictures,” I said. “Chickens have feathers and minks have fur. Chicken is to feather as mink is to fur. You got to give it both barrels. Our test is tomorrow, Dale. Try again: Dark is to night as light is to . . .” Dale sucked his lip in and squeezed his eyebrows together. If I waited any longer, he might swallow his face. “Day,” I said, exasperated. “Dark is to night as light is to day.”

  I sighed. I needed a hot chocolate. Maybe a double.

  Dale jumped. “What was that?”

  “The storm,” I said as a gust of wind hit the house and rain pounded the roof. “You want some hot chocolate?”

  Footsteps clomped across the porch. “Mo, somebody’s out there.”

  “Probably the Colonel. Who’s there?” I called. “Colonel?”

  The footsteps stopped at my door. “It’s Harm. Let me in.”

  Crenshaw, Harm Crenshaw? Here?

  I opened the door on a night wild with bluster and rain. “What are you doing out on a night like this?”

  Harm shrugged out of his soggy jacket, stepped inside, and shook his head like a dog, splattering storm across my wall. “I need a detective, and I’ve got cash.”

  Cash?

  I went into my bathroom and grabbed a towel. “Here,” I said, tossing it to him. “Park your shoes by the door.”

  He kicked his shoes off, revealing bare feet. “Have a seat,” I told him, nodding to my rocking chair. “Dale and me were just wrapping up some paperwork. We’ll listen to your story. I can’t promise the Desperados will take your case, but anything you say to us is confidential.”

  Dale nodded, and settled back.

  Harm sank into the rocker, leaned forward, and tossed the towel over his head. He emerged tousled and a little drier, his dark hair curling around his pale face. He should wear his hair curly more often, I thought.

  Not that I care.

  “What’s this about?” Dale asked.

  “It’s about Red. And Joe Starr.”

  Dale leaned forward. “You call your granddaddy by his first name,” he said. “Lavender calls Daddy by his first name too: Macon. Daddy can be hard to live with.”

  “I know the feeling,” Harm muttered as I picked up my pen and clue pad. “Anyway, Detective Starr’s watching Red. Watching him close.”

  I tapped my pen against my pad. “Starr’s a law man. Mr. Red’s a moonshiner.”

  “Mr. Red is to Joe Starr as a bone is to Queen Elizabeth,” Dale announced. “Analogy,” he added in the silence that followed. I gave him a thumbs-up.

  “Plus Starr’s probably professionally ticked by that stunt Mr. Red pulled at the inn. You can’t tell by looking at him, but Starr likes us.”

  Harm settled back and crossed his legs. “I’ve been watching Red. I think he’s got a still somewhere—but he swears he doesn’t. He doesn’t have a job, but every couple weeks he disappears at night. He leaves broke and comes home flush. I can’t find his still, but I’m worried Joe Starr will.”

  “Probably,” Dale said. “But moonshining’s a federal charge, and a federal pen’s like a Hotel 6 with a good weight room. Mr. Red can do that time standing on his head.”

  Harm’s voice cracked out like a shot: “No. I don’t want him to do any time.”

  Could Harm actually care about Red Baker? Interesting.

  “You can’t undo time once you’re down for it,” Dale said. “If you could, Daddy would be out by now.” Like I’ve said, if things were up to me, Mr. Macon would stay put. Nobody hits Dale and Miss Rose and walks free if I can help it.

  “We’ve worked with Starr before,” I told Harm. “He’s smart. And stubborn. And Dale’s right: If he’s decided to take Mr. Red down, he’s going down.”

  “Not if you find the still first,” Harm said. “We could destroy it before Starr throws Red in jail.”

  “Even if we do destroy it, he’ll go right back at it,” Dale said. “Dogs don’t change their spots.”

  “Leopards,” Harm said, frowning. “Leopards don’t change their spots.”

  “The animal of the saying can be changed,” Dale said, very cool. “The spots cannot.”

  I studied Harm as silence settled around us. The night had washed the smirk off of him. Without it, he looked tender and thin, like bamboo growing too fast for its roots. “Why don’t you want him doing time?” I asked.

  “He can’t,” he said. “He’s too old.”

  My stare pinned him to the chair the way Miss Lana’s pins me when she waits for the truth. He did what I do: looked at my rug, my Elvis calendar, my NC wall map marking the many places I know my Upstream Mother ain’t. Finally he looked at me.

  “If Red goes to jail, I got nothing. And nowhere.”

  His words landed true as rain.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of dirt-streaked cash. “I’ve tried following him, but he’s always watching me. Now you guys . . .” He drummed up a smile. “Don’t ask me why, but he thinks you’re idiots. You could watch him twenty-four/seven without him even caring.”

  “Automatic cover,” I said.

  “Excellent,” Dale replied. “We’d need to come to your house,” he added as Harm began counting the bills: $20, $30, $40. “A hundred dollars,” Harm offered.

  A hundred dollars? Dale’s mouth fell open.

  I narrowed my eyes. “That’s what you wanted to charge us for being ghost bait.”

  “Really?” Harm said, grinning. “What a coincidence. If you still need my help with your interview, I’ll put my money away and call it even.”

  Dale looked at me and I nodded. “Deal,” Dale said.

  “Done,” Harm said, stuffing the cash in his pocket. “What’s your ghost plan?”

  “Stakeout,” Dale replied faster than I could blink.

  Dale’s ideas often surprise me. Fortunately, this one made sense. “Dale’s right,” I said. “We’ll treat the ghostly suspect like any other. We’re going for proof of identification admissible in a court of law. Plus motive if we can find it.”

  “Motive?” Harm asked, looking puzzled.

  “Motive for post-mortem loitering,” I said. “I’ll let you know when and where. Meanwhile, call us next time Mr. Red acts suspicious.”

  Harm slipped his feet into his shoes. “Come over Saturday if you want,” he said. “You can check our place for clues. I’ll be around all day.”

  As he headed into a blustery night, Dale looked at me. “Did he just do us a favor or did we do a favor for him?” he asked.

  “Good question,” I said. “Sometimes you got to wait and see.”

  Chapter 19

  Mr. Red’s Secret

  After Saturday morning’s breakfast rush, Dale and I climbed the crooked cinderblock steps to Red Baker’s front door. “Stay sharp,” I whispered as the door squeaked open.

  “Hey,” Harm said. “Come on in.”

  I stepped inside and blinked, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. The small, stuffy room smelled faintly of broccoli. Or worse. A gas heater sat in one corner. A fake leather couch the color of tired baloney hunkered against one wall, and a broke-down La-Z-Boy slumped beside it.

  “Nice place,” Dale lied.

  “Not really, but have a seat anyway,” Harm said, nodding to the sofa. I pushed a jacket out of the way and sat, ignoring the duct tape on the arm. Dale settled beside me. Harm slung himself into the La-Z-Boy, turned sideways, and draped his long legs over the arm. “I forgot to ask you if you wanted something to drink,” he said, looking startled.

  Dale grinned.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You’re working on social skills.” He raised one eyebrow. “Girls?” he guessed.

  Harm shrugged. “Flick says they like man
ners. I got iced tea. I’d offer you something to eat, but . . .”

  “Four-cornered Nabs would look nice on a plate,” Dale suggested.

  A few minutes later I brushed orange Nab crumbs off my shirt front. “We brought something,” I said, opening my messenger bag. I handed him the photo from the library. “We found this in the inn.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Sparrow-girl is Grandmother Miss Lacy,” I said.

  “She’s pretty, in a birdy way,” he said.

  “And the scowling one’s Myrt Little, the mayor’s mom.”

  Harm barked out a laugh. “Thes’s interview? She looks even meaner than Red.”

  Dale nodded happily. “Thes is doomed.”

  Harm squinted at the photo. “Who’s the guy?”

  “That’s what we wanted to show you,” I said. I waited for him to look at me—a trick Miss Lana taught me. “That’s Red Baker.”

  “Get out of here.” He turned a tiny knob on the lamp and clicked a switch. The lamp flared on as he shoved a pile of clutter off the table—old newspapers, a compass, a set of keys. He held the photo to the light.

  “If you like that photo, try this,” I said. I handed him Grandmother Miss Lacy’s photo of Mr. Red standing still. Harm’s mouth fell open.

  “Spittin’ image,” Dale said, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head.

  Harm snorted. “If I ever had any doubt . . .”

  “Doubt about what?” Red Baker demanded, clomping in from the hall. He stopped dead as his eyes settled on me. “What the Sam Hill are you doing in my house?”

  “I invited them,” Harm said, jumping up. “Look.” He held out the photo. “We could be twins out of time.”

  Mr. Red rubbed his whiskery face. “If that’s so, you haven’t got much to look forward to in your old age.”

  A joke? From Mr. Red?

  “Here’s another one,” Harm said, handing him the library photo. Mr. Red tilted it toward the light.

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “The inn,” I said. “Grandmother Miss Lacy says it’s her and Myrt Little and you. And somebody running out of the photo—she didn’t know who.”