The Ghosts of Tupelo Landing

by Sheila Turnage

  Thes smiled. “Thank you for talking to me today,” he said, sounding like a robot. He placed a recorder on the coffee table. “It’s for history.”

  Silence. His smile slid off his face.

  “I got a few questions. First, how old are you? Extra credit’s at stake.”

  “None of your business.”

  “Okay. Thanks for that,” he said, marking an X on his paper. “What’s your first memory of Tupelo Landing?”

  “Pigs. We fenced in the town to keep them out.”

  Thes looked at his paper. “What’s the most important thing you learned in life?”

  “Drink water.”

  Mayor Little tipped in with a tray of soft drinks. We settled into a silence prickly as the cactus on the windowsill. The glasses sweated. So did Thes. “That’s all the questions I got,” he told me, looking worried. I opened my camera. Mrs. Little stared at Thes like a vulture eying carrion. Click.

  “I got something,” I said. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the old photo from the library. “Do you recognize these kids?”

  Her face came to life. “Heavens yes,” she said, her gnarled hand going to her throat. “That’s Goody Two-Shoes Lacy Thornton grinning into the camera like a little gargoyle. I’m the pretty one standing next to her. The blurry boy’s Red Baker, and the skirt-tail and shoe at the edge of the photo . . . Why, that’s Nellie Blake.”

  I sloshed my Coke onto my pants. “Nellie Blake? Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. See how that skirt’s torn? Looks like a kite tail flapping behind her. Nellie had the prettiest clothes in town. Never did take care of them. She probably tore that climbing a tree or chasing her dog. Besides, where Lacy went, Nellie followed. They were practically joined at the hip.”

  Really? Grandmother Miss Lacy made it seem like she hardly knew Nellie.

  “Nellie’s folks owned the inn,” she continued. “Nouveau riche. Not old money like Lacy Thornton’s family. But nice enough.”

  “Nouveau riche?” Thes repeated.

  “New money. Flashy money. Nellie was smart as a whip, but troublesome. Quick tempered. A pain in the sit bone.” She jabbed a crooked finger at me. “Reminds me of you.”

  I counted to ten. “Thank you,” I said. “Was she a good reader? I mean, could she read invitations left on a piano for instance?”

  “Of course she was a good reader,” she said. “We all were.” She laughed sudden as a swift flying up a chimney. “Nellie made Lacy drink that spring water like it was going out of style. Lacy’s strung tighter than a warped fiddle, you know. Spring water calmed her down, I always thought.”

  She looked at Mayor Little. “Where’s that musty old paper I found the other day?”

  Mayor Little jumped up and rushed to the desk. “Here we go,” he said, handing a time-yellowed pamphlet to me. “An old ad for the inn.” I gave it a quick scan.

  TUPELO SPRINGS CURE YOUR ILLS

  SPRING 1. Cools fevers.

  SPRING 2. Cures depression and illusions.

  SPRING 3. Quickens faint hearts.

  SPRING 4. Eases breathing.

  SPRING 5. Invigorates the liver.

  SPRING 6. Calms indigestion.

  SPRING 7. Steadies the nerves.

  “A footnote,” Dale said. He smiled at her. “Thank you.”

  She leaned forward. “Nellie was murdered, you know.”

  Murdered? Is that why Nellie’s still here? To solve her own murder?

  “Mother! How unpleasant!” Mayor Little cried, jumping to his feet. “Well, this has been nice,” he told us. “But I’m sure you need to run.”

  “No,” Dale said, “we’re good.”

  She ignored them. “Most people called it an automobile accident. Not me. I say someone sabotaged her car. Nellie was murdered sure as sin.”

  I gulped. “Why would somebody murder Nellie Blake?”

  She looked at me, her eyes sharp. “Maybe they didn’t want to. Maybe Nellie died in someone else’s place. Maybe there’s a Judas in our town,” she said, and my heart pumped ice.

  “Ask Red Baker. He was the first one there.” She looked at her son. “I’m tired,” she said. “Show these children to the door.”

  Chapter 25

  Blackmail

  Whoever says blackmail doesn’t pay hasn’t tried it. To everyone’s surprise but my own, Red Baker agreed to see us the very next afternoon—Sunday.

  “We’ll pump Mr. Red for information on Nellie’s murder and the ghost cars, plus his still,” I told Dale as we walked across Mr. Red’s front yard. “I just hope he’s in a halfway decent mood.”

  He wasn’t.

  “I don’t know what’s got into him,” Harm said as Dale and I tossed our jackets on an old footstool and settled on the duct-tape couch. “All I know is Red slammed his truck door this morning and stomped in here crumpling a piece of notebook paper. He said, ‘Call those blasted friends of yours and tell them I’ll do their dad-blamed interviews at four o’clock this afternoon. Yours too. You got twenty minutes. But that’s the last I want to hear about it. Ever.’”

  “That was real thoughtful,” I said, slipping my tape recorder out of my bag. Dale pulled a tape out of his pocket, blew off the lint, and popped it in.

  “Gives me a chance to pass history,” Harm said. “It’s a long shot, but . . .”

  “Life’s a long shot,” Red Baker growled from the hallway door. He stomped into the room, sank into the crippled La-Z-Boy and glared at me. “Twenty minutes. Go.”

  I turned Miss Lana’s old tape recorder on and hit the record key. “Mo and Dale interview with Mr. Red Baker, Harm Crenshaw assisting. Take one.

  “Thanks for inviting us,” I said. “I’m glad Miss Lana and Grandmother Miss Lacy decided to let you have the money we found even if the Colonel says it’s theirs.”

  “I see it different,” Mr. Red snapped.

  “There’s a lot of ‘seeing different’ going around lately,” I said, giving him a faux smile. “For instance, seeing ghost cars is different for Dale and me.”

  “Way different,” Dale said, leaning forward. “You seen them before, Mr. Red?”

  The same question had been pacing my mind, followed by others: Who’d drive dead cars down a forgotten path? Where were they going? Were they running away from or flying to?

  Red Baker looked at us, his eyes like steel. “What cars?” he said.

  Harm frowned. “You know what they’re talking about.”

  “The ghost cars that ran us down,” Dale said. “The ones you ran away from.”

  Red Baker crossed his arms. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Really?” I said. “Because I figure you been in those woods plenty of times digging for treasure.”

  “You’re crazy,” he said, and pointed to the recorder. “You got fifteen minutes.”

  “Fine,” I said, thrusting the word like a bayonet.

  Harm wiped his palms on the legs of his pants. “Here’s the deal. We need interviews,” he said, looking at his grandfather. “All of us do. I’m writing about you, and our family’s distillery. And they’re writing about a girl you used to know.”

  Mr. Red slouched sideways. The sunshine cut a dusty beam through the window and across his grizzled face. “Dale and me are writing about Nellie Blake. Mayor Little’s mom thought you could help us with some details.”

  Dale took out his clue pad. “We need thoughts from Nellie’s friends because Nellie’s . . . well, I hate to say dead exactly, but . . .”

  “I know what she is,” he said, his voice sharp. “You leave her alone.”

  I pictured the cemetery, every blade of grass just so. Then I pictured the swing blade leaning against the shed. The room wobbled.

  It’s one thing knowing a ghost. It’s another thing wh
en an adult knows her too—even if that adult’s Red Baker.

  “Mrs. Little says you were first on the scene the night Nellie died,” I said. “That makes you an eyewitness to history.”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice going dull. “I was that.”

  “She also says somebody tampered with Nellie’s car,” I added. “That Nellie died in someone else’s place.”

  He shrugged. “People say all kinds of things.”

  Dead end. I went another way.

  “Your daddy and Nellie’s daddy worked together. Yours owned the distillery,” I prompted.

  He nodded. “That’s right. Blake supplied the spring water and the tavern inside the inn; Papa supplied the recipe and the know-how. We were as legit as they come—until Congress outlawed distilleries back in the 1920s and ’30s.

  “Old Man Blake threw us out like trash and tore the distillery down. It was on his land. We couldn’t do a thing to stop him.”

  Dale whistled. “So Nellie’s daddy ended up nouveau riche and yours . . .”

  “. . . Didn’t. So what? You saying we tampered with Nellie’s car?” he said, his voice rising. “That we killed her? Over money? You wouldn’t be the first to say it.”

  “Gramps,” Harm said, reaching for his arm. “Calm down.”

  He snatched his arm away. “It’s a bald-faced lie,” he said, glaring at Dale.

  Dale scooted to the edge of the settee. A ready-to-run move. “We’re not saying anything mean, Mr. Red,” Dale said. “We’re just trying to pass history. Right Mo?”

  “Right.”

  Mr. Red simmered like the Colonel’s sauce pot. I changed tack. “What kind of car did Nellie’s father drive?”

  “Don’t know. A Chevy, maybe. Why?”

  He didn’t know? That was a bald-faced lie. If people accuse you of tampering with a car and killing somebody, you remember.

  “How about your daddy?” I asked, very easy. “What did he drive?”

  “We drive Fords. Family tradition. He drove a Model A.”

  “Like in the woods,” Dale said, his voice soft.

  Mr. Red flushed. “Stop bringing up those woods, confound you.”

  Dale stood up. “We better go. Thanks Mr. Red, but I can see we’re barking in the wrong direction on this.”

  “Barking up the wrong tree,” Harm and me said at the same time.

  Red Baker sprang to his feet. “Why did you follow me into those woods?” he shouted. I snatched up the recorder. “You couldn’t have known I’d be there unless . . .”

  He wheezed like somebody’d punched him in the gut and looked at Harm. His old face sagged. “You,” he said, his voice going gray. “A traitor under my own roof.”

  “A traitor? No! I’m not,” Harm said, rising uncertainly to his feet.

  “Get out,” Mr. Red said. “Get out!” he snarled, grabbing Harm’s shirt and twisting it in his fist. He shoved him. Harm staggered toward us like an out-of-kilter scarecrow, his long legs scrambling. Red lunged forward and snatched the tape recorder from my hand.

  “Go,” he yelled.

  He shoved all three of us out and slammed the door behind us.

  We stood on the porch, stunned by sudden light. Harm stared out across the yard, blinking fast. The chickens clucked and scratched by the shed.

  I straightened my messenger bag on my shoulder. “That didn’t go quite as good as I hoped it would,” I said.

  “No,” Dale sighed. “Probably not.”

  I looked at the closed door. Bully. “Hey!” I shouted, pounding the door with both fists. “Give us our jackets and Miss Lana’s tape recorder. Don’t, I’m calling the law.” Silence. “You want Joe Starr over here? I’ll have him here before sundown.”

  Mr. Red yanked the door open and hurled a pile of jackets to the porch. Miss Lana’s tape recorder sailed by, landing on top. “Leave that fancy bike I paid for right where it is or I’m calling the law, you ungrateful whelp.” He slammed the door and clicked the dead bolt into place.

  I picked up the recorder. He’d kept the tape.

  “Old people,” Dale said, handing out the jackets.

  Mr. Red jerked the window shade down.

  “Let’s go to the café,” I said. “The special tonight’s Goulash-a-Go-Go. Miss Lana’s wearing her white go-go boots and a tie-dye outfit. Probably can’t hold a candle to whatever you’re planning,” I told Harm, “but you might enjoy it. You too, Dale.”

  Dale shook his head. “I promised Mama I’d be home before dark.” He gave Harm a shy smile. “I’ve been hoping you’d come see my room. You could meet Mama and Newton. It would be nice if you could spend the night.”

  Harm shrugged into his slate-gray jacket, not meeting our eyes.

  “You’d be doing Dale a favor,” I added. “His social skills need work. And you could do your homework together.”

  I didn’t mention it, but Harm’s books were inside and when it comes to homework, the only excuse Miss Retzyl takes is Precise Death—death that happens to the Precise Student and not to a relative. If they have known relatives.

  Harm zipped his thin jacket to his chin. He stood for a minute, scanning the bramble-and-trash dog pen, the old shed, the chicken house.

  “I hate this place,” he said, and tromped down the steps.

  Chapter 26

  Bad News or Worse?

  Next morning, Miss Rose dropped Harm and Dale off at school, her ancient Pinto belching smoke as she turned toward the Piggly Wiggly. “Talk about ghost cars. I didn’t know Pintos still roamed the earth,” Harm said as they joined me by my bike.

  Dale grinned. “Lavender’s brought that old car back from the dead so many times, he named it Lazarus.”

  Harm went blank as sand.

  “Sunday school joke,” I explained, slinging my messenger bag over my shoulder.

  “Right.” He gave me a sleepy smile and headed for the door. He veered around Attila, who sat in the sun preening like a pigeon.

  “Where’s he going?” I asked.

  “To ask Miss Retzyl for new books. Mr. Red might never take him back.”

  It could be true, I thought. The Colonel says Red Baker holds a grudge better than anybody in Tupelo Landing, including me. “How’d it go last night?”

  “Good,” he said, combing his fingers through his hair. “I like company.” Nights wear thin at Dale’s house, where Miss Rose keeps the TV dark to fend off brain rot.

  Dale yawned. “Of course, Mr. Red kicking Harm out might be a sheep in wolf’s clothing,” he said. My brain did an unexpected backbend as I tried to follow. “You know, when something good is dressed up bad,” he explained, heading inside and down the hall. “Maybe Harm’s lucky to escape. Just too bad Mr. Red kept his stuff.”

  I looked across the classroom at Harm, who wore yesterday’s rumpled clothes. “Good stuff’s hard to come by,” Dale said as we slid into our desks. “Especially if you’re poor. And honest.”

  Miss Retzyl, dressed in a normal brown skirt and a blouse the colors of autumn, walked to the center of the room. She smiled like an angel. “Pop test—word problems,” she said. An Exum retched. “Take out a clean sheet of paper.”

  • •

  When the lunch bell finally jangled, I cut Dale from the stampede and edged him toward the hall. I didn’t ask about the test. Dale is to word problems as ship is to the Bermuda Triangle.

  “Come on, Desperado,” I said. “Skeeter’s on office duty today and I got to make a call. Walk like you’re innocent.”

  “I am innocent,” he said.

  “Pass, please,” Skeeter said, looking up from her desk. I flashed a hall pass with Miss Retzyl’s name on the bottom. Her signature’s the only cursive the Exums know, but they know it perfect.

  “Nice,” she said, holding the forgery to the light. “You got a story for the l
og?”

  I clutched my belly. “I may have caught something during math. I got to call Miss Lana for medical advice.”

  “She’s been burping,” Dale added, stepping away from me.

  “Potential barf event. Check,” Skeeter said, making a note. She tapped her pen against the log book. “Real reason? Anything you say to me is confidential.”

  “Property dispute,” I said. “We got to make a call on our client’s behalf.”

  “Bike-napping case,” Dale added.

  Skeeter studied her fingernails. “Have we discussed my fee? I can’t recall.”

  I’d prepared a proposal during science. “Miss Lana’s contemplating an online order: Her outfit for The Bash and the Colonel’s.” And mine, I thought, if I’m not careful. “She’s planning on visiting a library, where the Internet’s free,” I said.

  Skeeter frowned.

  “But I can try to turn her business your way. Miss Lana’s word-of-mouth is unstoppable.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Deal. You have two minutes. I’ll stand watch,” she added, and we shot to the phone. Red Baker picked up on the fourth ring. I heard him slurp something. Maybe soup.

  “Thanks for the half-interview,” I said. The slurping stopped. “Give Harm his stuff, and we’re even.”

  Red Baker slammed the phone down.

  • •

  That afternoon when we left school, Harm’s silver bike sat in the rack, a note duct taped to the handlebar. “It’s from Red,” Harm said, peeling it off. He read it and shoved it into his pocket. “Bad news and worse. Which you want first?”

  “The bad news,” Dale said.

  He looked at Dale. “Looks like you’re stuck with me,” he said. “Until Gramps calms down, anyway, which could be never.”

  “That’s not bad news,” Dale told him. “You can take Lavender’s room.”

  Lavender’s room? That’s like taking in boarders at Graceland.

  “What’s the worse news?” Dale asked.

  “Gramps dropped off my stuff,” he said, nodding to a backpack propped at the end of the rack. “Including my books. No excuse not to do our homework.”