The Ghosts of Tupelo Landing

by Sheila Turnage

  “We must be going the other way. Toward the inn.”

  “Nellie’s house,” Dale said, covering his head with his arm. “Great.”

  The truck hit a hole, throwing us into the air and jolting us down hard. Again, brambles squeaked along the truck’s panels. Finally the brakes squealed, and we lurched to a halt. “Shhh,” I whispered. The truck door slammed, and Mr. Red crunched to the side of the truck. I held my breath as he fumbled with the tarp.

  The shovel!

  I nudged it toward him with my foot. He brushed my shoe as he grabbed it. His footsteps faded away. “Come on,” I whispered.

  We eased out from under the tarp, and slipped off the tailgate smooth as water over a dam. “He’s over there,” I said, pointing.

  Mr. Red held the shovel by his side. He looked right and left, the way the Colonel does when he’s lining up on something. I looked behind me. Through the trees, I could just make out the glint of moonlight tiptoeing the inn’s roofline. Mr. Red peered over his shoulder, tugged something out of his pocket, and studied it a moment. He started through the forest, stepping long and careful and mumbling under his breath.

  “What’s he doing?” Dale whispered.

  “Counting,” I guessed. Mr. Red stopped, made a neat turn, and took off again. We crept through the moonlight-silvered trees and settled behind a blackberry thicket.

  “Where are we?” Dale asked, looking around.

  Good question.

  “Somewhere between the springhouse and town. Maybe. The inn’s behind us. The cemetery would be over there,” I said, pointing.

  Dale yanked my hand down. “Don’t point,” he said. “It bothers . . . people.”

  Mr. Red tipped the shovel into the ground and jumped on it, driving it into the earth.

  “What’s he doing?” I whispered.

  “Digging. With a shovel.”

  Why do I even ask?

  Mr. Red grunted softly as he worked, lifting shovel after shovel of soil and heaving it to one side. Finally, the rough shriek of metal against metal. He knelt and reached into the earth. “Flashlights. Now,” I whispered, and we clicked on our lights.

  Mr. Red looked up like an animal snared. “Who’s there?” he asked, scrambling to his feet, a dirty Mason jar in his hands.

  “Desperado Detective Agency. Mo and Dale at your service.”

  He shielded his eyes. “Turn those blasted things off. You’re blinding me.”

  Dale clicked his light off and I tilted mine to the ground. “Hey Mr. Red,” Dale said. “Nice night for digging. What did you find?”

  “None of your business,” he said.

  “Moonshine, maybe?” I guessed.

  “I wish you’d tell us,” Dale said. “Because this doesn’t look good, you digging up things on somebody else’s land.”

  “I take care of my own. That’s all you need to know,” he said, settling the jar in the crook of his arm. “Get lost.”

  “We already are,” Dale said, very even. A tree frog chirped.

  “This land ain’t yours,” I added. “What’s in that jar?”

  Dale grabbed my arm. “Mo,” he whispered.

  “Not now,” I told him. “I’m questioning a suspect.”

  “Mo,” Dale said, pointing through the forest. “Look.”

  “What?” I peered through the trees. In the distance, a set of headlights charged toward us. “Is there a path through here?” I asked, looking at Mr. Red. “Maybe I’m turned around.”

  “Path? There’s no path, not anymore,” Red Baker said, staring at the lights. “That’s . . . No . . . It can’t be.”

  “Those are headlights,” Dale said.

  The hair on my arms stood up and my fingers tingled. “That car’s driving right through those trees,” I said. The headlights zoomed toward us like the trees didn’t exist. The car roared closer, lights and engine blaring brighter and brighter, louder and louder.

  “Move!” Dale cried.

  Red Baker dropped his shovel and ran. My feet felt rooted as pines.

  “AhhoooOOOoooo-Gah.”

  “MOVE!” Dale shouted, shoving me hard.

  I slammed onto the forest floor and rolled, briars ripping at my skin. Dale somersaulted past. The car thundered so near, I smelled its exhaust.

  Dale jumped up. “That’s a Model T!” he said, staring at the taillights.

  Another horn blared as a second car zoomed by. “And an old Duesenberg.” He looked at me. “Ghost cars.”

  “Ghost cars?”

  “I just hope they don’t turn around.”

  My heart pounded. We stood close, watching the lights disappear. The engine’s roar faded away, swallowed by the uneven song of tree frogs. I peered into the dark. “Mr. Red? Are you okay?”

  No answer.

  “Mr. Baker?”

  “I hope he ain’t run over by ghosts,” Dale whispered, slapping at a mosquito. “That would be hard to explain at the emergency room.”

  “Mr. Red?”

  A truck door slammed somewhere distant. “Son of a gun,” Dale said as Mr. Red’s headlights flared and his truck choked to life. “He’s leaving us.”

  His truck roared away, and we stood alone in the forest.

  Chapter 22

  The Judas Trail

  I trained my light along the ghost cars’ mysterious path—a path thick with trees and brambles—and then tilted my beam to the treetops. “These trees stand shorter than the others.”

  “The old Judas Trail from the inn to the store at the edge of town,” Dale said. “The path they let grow up when the inn closed. It has to be.”

  A raw scream jolted the night, bouncing off trees, zinging my nerves. I hit the ground and looked over at Dale’s feet.

  “Screech owl,” Dale whispered. “Get up.”

  Crud.

  I jumped up and dusted myself off. “I knew that,” I said, zipping my light along the forest floor. Something glinted: Mr. Red’s jar. “It doesn’t slosh,” Dale said, picking it up. He tried the lid. “Rusted shut.”

  “We’ll open it later. Turn your flashlight off,” I whispered. “Somebody might come hunting us.”

  Mr. Red lay in wait behind us, probably at the inn, blocking two ways out—the inn’s drive and his own path. The ghost cars had barreled toward the inn too. I made an executive decision. “We’ll take the Judas Trail. I just hope we can find it in the dark.”

  As my words died, a mist gathered in the distance. “It’s Nellie,” I whispered.

  Dale gulped. “That would be sweeter if she had a pulse.” Nellie crept closer. “Don’t crowd me,” he called. “I’m ghost-shy.” She faded back. “She has social skills,” he whispered. “That’s good.” We began the slow trek following Nellie back to town.

  • •

  “Cash,” the Colonel said an hour later, wiping earth from the jar.

  “Of course,” Miss Lana said, pouring two glasses of milk and sliding them to Dale and me. “Moonshine is a cash-only business.” She laughed. “No wonder Red wants the inn. It’s his bank account.”

  I looked around the deserted café. The 7UP clock on the wall said five to nine. We hadn’t mentioned Nellie or the ghost cars. Not yet. Talking solids seemed easier: We had the jar as proof.

  The Colonel shook two dirt-streaked rolls of cash onto the table, each held tight by a rubber band. He counted slowly, peeling each bill from the roll. “Three thousand dollars.” He drummed his long fingers against the counter. “It was on your property,” he said, glancing at Miss Lana. “It’s yours.”

  Miss Lana adjusted her Gone with the Wind bed jacket on her shoulders. The Colonel and me gave it to her for Christmas last year. It looks good. “Technically it’s ours, but Red put it there. I’ll talk to Miss Thornton in the morning, and we’ll decide what to do.”

&nbs
p; “There’s something else,” I said.

  How to describe ghost cars to people who don’t believe in ghosts?

  “That’s right,” Dale said, looking dapper in a milk mustache. “I can’t believe we didn’t already say it.”

  Good. I’d let Dale take the lead.

  He took a deep breath. “Queen Elizabeth got lost and she’s not outdoorsy. We got to find her.”

  Queen Elizabeth, who can find Dale no matter where he is? Can’t she find her own way home?

  “Actually,” I said, “I meant . . .”

  The phone jangled and the Colonel scooped it up. “This is the Colonel. We’re closed. Don’t beg.” He squinted. “I see.” He lowered the phone. “It’s Red Baker. He’s taken Queen Elizabeth into custody.”

  Dale went six shades of pale.

  The Colonel turned back to the phone. “Where was she when the alleged offense . . . I see. The charges?” He winced. “No, Mo and Dale are here. In fact, they have something you dropped. We can talk about it tomorrow morning when we pick up Queen Elizabeth. And Red,” he said, making his voice level as moonlight, “we expect to find her in good health and good spirits when we get there.”

  He hung up. “Red says Queen Elizabeth killed a chicken. He’s penned her for the night.”

  “He’s a liar!” Dale shouted. “She’s never killed a chicken in her life.”

  Miss Lana, who says never say never, raised her eyebrows.

  I tried to think ahead. “Dale’s right—unless maybe Queen Elizabeth yawned and a hen impaled herself,” I added. Just in case.

  “Red claims he has proof,” the Colonel replied.

  He put his hand on Dale’s shoulder. “There’s no point going over there when Red’s angry. Let him cool off until morning. He’ll keep her safe—he has to.”

  “Don’t worry,” Miss Lana said. “We’ll get her back. Call Rose and tell her you’re staying here tonight.”

  Dale dragged himself to the phone. I slipped my arm around the Colonel’s waist. He’s sinewy as an old oak, the Colonel, with a heart just as true. He’d have Queen Elizabeth sprung by lunchtime.

  Next to Lavender, he’s the best father Dale’s got.

  • •

  That night, I couldn’t sleep. Could have been the ghost cars, could have been Queen Elizabeth’s capture, could have been the Colonel’s snores rattling the house.

  I clicked on my light. Miss Lana says insomnia is life’s invitation to overachieve.

  I grabbed Volume 6 and my homework list. In a diabolical display of teacher cunning, Miss Retzyl had combined our language arts and history assignments: Write a polite business letter setting up a time for your history interview. Use good style. I picked up my pencil.

  I turned the page and licked the tip of my pencil.

  Chapter 23

  Freedom!

  “It’s Liz!” Dale shouted the next morning, slamming a bowl of grits au red-eye on the café counter and bolting for the door. “She’s free!”

  I looked up from the toaster and my half loaf of Wonder Bread. Harm strolled across the parking lot, Queen Elizabeth trotting by his side. I slapped two slices of cold bread on a saucer and slid it to Tinks. “Today’s special: Toast Tartare. Enjoy.”

  I ran across the parking lot as Dale dropped to his knees to hug Queen Elizabeth. He looked up at Harm. “Thanks. I owe you. And the . . . late chicken?” he asked, his voice tiptoeing up to the words.

  Harm shrugged. “A weasel got that hen. Red knows that. For some reason, he came home in a bad mood last night.”

  A bad mood? Good, I thought. “I’d like to take a look at Mr. Red’s blueprints again. Can you set it up?” He shook his head.

  “He locked them in his dresser drawer last night. Maybe he got antsy, with you all coming over.” He scanned the packed parking lot. “Speaking of Red, any updates?”

  Across the lot a car door opened, and an Azalea Woman popped out. “Yes, but we’re not yet prepared to discuss the details,” I whispered as she sashayed toward us.

  “A jar full of money,” Dale added. “And two ghost cars.”

  “Money and ghost cars?” Harm said, looking like Liz when she smells a squirrel.

  Dale stood and dusted his knees. “We’ll fill you in later. Breakfast is on me, to thank you for taking care of Liz. The special today’s Miss Lana’s Georgia toast and bacon.”

  “We’ve reserved a table overlooking the jukebox,” I added. “We recommend reservations Saturday mornings. The place fills up fast.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned. “Best offer I’ve had all day.”

  Harm had just settled in when Thes bellied up to the counter, his smile crinkling his freckled nose. “Better take your plants in, Miss Lana, I’m predicting frost.”

  “Frost?” an Azalea Woman chirped. “Already?”

  “A light one,” Thes said. “Don’t worry, we’ll be back in the seventies day after tomorrow. You know what they say: If you don’t like the weather in North Carolina, just wait a few minutes.” He studied the Specials Board. “Georgia toast, please. And okra.”

  I tried not to retch. “Coming up,” I said, scribbling on my order pad.

  “I’ll have the same,” his father called from the other side of the room. Nobody works a room like Reverend Thompson. He’d already shaken a half-dozen hands and cornered the Exums by the jukebox.

  “What did the Exums do this time?” Dale asked, pouring Thes a water.

  Thes lowered his voice. “Spray painted a bad word on the church pump house.” He glanced at me. “One I can’t repeat in front of girls.”

  I studied the Exums. Jimmy’s shoulders quivered. Jake hung his head. “What makes your daddy think they did it?”

  “They signed it,” Thes said.

  Dale snickered and headed for Harm’s table as I turned toward the kitchen. “Wait, Mo,” Thes said. “I got to interview Mrs. Little and I’m hoping you Desperados might go with me. Like bodyguards.”

  “Mayor Little’s mother?” I looked down the counter.

  Mayor Little had spun backward on his stool. He leaned against the counter, his elbows back. “Mother simply dotes on the thorny plant family,” he was telling the Azalea Women. “She calls them nature’s barbed wire.” He laughed. “Mother’s such a hoot.”

  “Sorry Thes, but I ain’t inspired for it. An excellent interview requires virtuoso-level questioning, plus Dale and me got a couple other cases under way. Don’t worry. Your daddy can pray you out of there.”

  He cast a worried look at his father, who shook a finger in Jake Exum’s face. “You’re supposed to have a buddy in a dangerous situation,” Thes said.

  “That’s when swimming over your head.”

  “I am in over my head,” he said, his green eyes pleading. “Daddy set my interview up for this afternoon. All I got’s three questions and a throw-up feeling.”

  I grabbed a Biscuit Carnivore for table six. “Sorry,” I said, “but we already got all the pro bono work we can handle.”

  Skeeter looked up from her law book, one stool over. “That means for free.”

  Thes frowned. “Who said anything about free? I got seventeen dollars saved up. Cash. Bodyguard me this afternoon and it’s yours.”

  Seventeen dollars? Why didn’t he say so?

  “You’re on. I’ll even throw in a photo.”

  Chapter 24

  Murdered Sure as Sin

  That afternoon, Dale and I headed for the neat cottage Mayor Little shares with his mother, Myrt. Queen Elizabeth pranced at our side.

  A chilly wind whipped along the street. I buttoned my sweater and put my hands in my pockets. “I wrote to Nellie Blake requesting a full-moon interview, but I don’t know how to mail it,” I told Dale.

  He took a hank of yellow yarn from his pocket and tied Liz to the fen
ce post. “Maybe you could leave it on the piano.” He nibbled his lower lip. “But a full-moon interview,” he said, his voice doubtful. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t worry, I got a plan.”

  “Am I in it?”

  “Of course you’re in it.”

  “Then I’m worried,” he said as Thes wandered up.

  “Thanks for coming,” Thes said, handing me a wad of crumpled dollar bills. “We might as well get this over with.” We trailed him up the walk. The door opened as he raised his fist to knock.

  “Good afternoon, Thes and Desperados,” Mayor Little said, smoothing his tie. “Welcome. Mother will receive you in the drawing room.”

  “Thanks,” I said, unbuttoning my sweater. I smiled. “We’re hoping you’ll sit in on the interview since we assume she likes you.”

  “Well, for a few minutes,” he said, ushering us to a hot, crowded room that smelled faintly of mothballs and cat. “Mother, your guests have arrived.”

  She looked up from her rocking chair.

  As a member of Tupelo Landing’s First Family, Mrs. Little naturally dresses good. Shiny dress with a ruffle at the collar, neat stockings, polished shoes. But above the collar floated a lemony face and yellow-gray hair pulled into a bitter bun.

  We perched on her flowery sofa, me in the middle. “Good afternoon,” I said. She stared at me with hooded eyes. “I think you know us, but in case Old Age ironed the wrinkles out of your brain, allow me. I’m Mo LoBeau of Desperado Detective Agency. To my left you got my partner Dale, and to my right, Thes. You know us from church.”

  I looked at Thes. Silence.

  “On behalf of Thes, I’d like to say you look lovely,” I added.

  She rapped on her chair arm. “Get on with it.”

  The mayor chuckled. “I’m sure Mother meant to offer refreshments. Let me see what I can rummage up,” he said, scurrying away. “Mother’s been looking forward to this for days.”