The Ghosts of Tupelo Landing

by Sheila Turnage

True or False?

  “Arrest me?” I cried. “For what?”

  “Whatever it is, Mo didn’t do it. Plus she has an alibi,” Dale said.

  I brain-scanned the last few days, searching for crimes.

  Dale glared at Detective Starr. “Besides, you can’t go around arresting kids.”

  “If Mo didn’t do it, he did,” Red Baker said, pointing at Harm. “One of these little bandits took my blueprints and I know it.”

  Harm went pale around the gills. So Harm did take those blueprints.

  To my relief, Detective Starr turned on Red Baker. “Now you’re saying one of them has your blueprints? A half hour ago you said you saw Mo running across your yard with them. Which is it?”

  “And what blueprints?” Dale demanded. Smart move. Would Mr. Red actually accuse me of stealing his moonshine map in front of a lawman?

  “You know what I’m talking about,” Mr. Red shouted, flushing beneath his stubble. “My blueprints.”

  “Blueprints of what?” I said, innocent as rain. “You mean a map? A map from where to where?”

  He clamped his mouth shut and I smiled.

  Starr took out his notepad. “According to Mr. Baker’s statement, someone slipped through his bedroom window last night, jimmied the lock on his dresser, and stole his blueprints.” I glimpsed the desk out of the corner of my eye. Crud. Miss Rose’s tiny screwdriver lay there bold as day. That’s why Harm had it in his pocket. He broke in and jimmied that lock. I looked away.

  “So?” Dale said. “What’s that got to do with Mo?”

  “I dusted Mr. Baker’s dresser for fingerprints. Found a couple kid-size prints.”

  Fingerprints? I tried to remember what I’d touched. The blueprints, for sure . . .

  “I’d like to check these prints against yours, if you don’t mind,” Starr said. “To eliminate you as suspects. That way I won’t have to take you in.”

  “That’s all you got?” Dale demanded. “Red Baker’s no-good word?” He sounded angry, but his eyes had gone glassy with fear. Dale getting fingerprinted would break Miss Rose’s heart.

  Harm shoved his hands in his pockets. “You’ll find my prints all over that house,” he said. “I used to live there. You’ll find Mo’s and Dale’s too. I showed them around the first time they came, to make them feel welcome.”

  “It’s a social skill,” Dale explained.

  “Dale’s prints might be in Red’s room, but I’ll bet money you find Mo’s. She picked up everything in sight. You know how she is,” he said.

  What was that supposed to mean? But like Miss Lana says: Any port in a storm. “Harm’s right,” I said. “Picking up things and setting them down is a habit I got.”

  “A bad habit,” Dale said, his voice stern. “Very bad.”

  Starr wavered.

  I took a chance. A big one. “The Desperados always cooperate with fellow law enforcement. Go ahead,” I said, holding out my hands. “I been hoping to see your fingerprint kit. We’re thinking of ordering one, aren’t we, Dale?”

  “Yes,” Dale said, looking totally baffled. “I feel that could be true.”

  Starr squinted at me, and then at Mr. Red. “Mr. Baker, did Harm have access to your room? Did these two visit your home?”

  Mr. Red scowled.

  “I wish you’d told me earlier,” Starr said, closing his notepad. “It would have saved me tracking these kids down.”

  “These scoundrels robbed me,” Mr. Red snarled. “Do your job, confound you.”

  The pulse on Starr’s forehead jumped. “Mr. Baker, these kids could worry the bark off a tree, but I don’t appreciate you calling them names.”

  “Thank you,” I said, very dignified.

  “Do you kids have Mr. Baker’s blueprints?” Starr demanded.

  “No,” we sang out like a choir of heavenly hosts.

  “Search me,” I offered, spreading my wings.

  Starr ignored me. “Let’s go back to your place, Mr. Baker,” he said. “I’d like to take another look around.”

  I bet he would. Another look—for a still. Mr. Red seemed to have the same idea. “Forget it,” he said, heading for the door. “I’ll handle it myself.”

  “Fine. But stay away from these kids,” Starr said.

  Like I said, Starr secretly likes us.

  Detective Starr stood by the window, watching Red Baker stomp across the yard. “Stay clear of him,” he said, putting his notepad back in his shirt pocket. “You wouldn’t know anything about his still, would you?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. Unfortunately it was true. I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever get another break on Harm’s case.

  “If you hear anything, let me know,” he said. “I’m offering a reward.”

  “A . . . reward?” Harm said. “How much?”

  Starr smiled the way Dale smiles when he hooks a fish. “Five hundred dollars for information leading to an arrest.”

  “Five hundred dollars? American?” I said, my heart pounding.

  “Any thoughts you’d like to share?” Starr asked, clicking his pen.

  “No sir,” Harm said. Dale and me shook our heads.

  Starr handed Harm his card. “Call if you think of anything.” We trailed him to the porch and watched him climb into his dirt-colored Impala.

  “That’s a lot of money,” Harm said as Starr pulled away. “Hope it’s not enough to give you any ideas.”

  “I’m blank,” Dale said.

  “The Desperados never turn their back on a client,” I told him. “Besides, he gave the card to you. Not us.” Harm snorted and headed for his bike. “Hold it. Where’s those blueprints?” I demanded.

  He threw his leg across the seat, and studied us like he was balancing an equation. “I hid them in Miss Thornton’s garage early this morning. Sorry I didn’t make it back to your place by sunrise, Dale. Red surprised me and I had to hide.”

  “That’s okay, I left Mama a note for both of us,” Dale said.

  “You better keep those blueprints hid or else get rid of them, Harm Crenshaw,” I said. “Starr won’t give up as easy as he pretends he will.”

  “Neither will Red,” he replied.

  • •

  Early that afternoon we snuck around Grandmother Miss Lacy’s house, past the Buick, to the old garage nestled in her juniper grove. Harm unfastened the door’s clasp and it squawked open. “Shhhh,” I whispered. “Grandmother Miss Lacy’s napping.”

  My eyes adjusted to the dim light. We edged around a tarp-covered pile of machinery, slipped past some old luggage, and skirted a stack of empty buckets. Harm reached behind a stack of fertilizer bags and pulled out the blueprints.

  “Over here,” I said, motioning to the tarp. “Dale—your flashlight.”

  Harm and I spread the blueprints across the tarp. We leaned over the map, staring at the tiny fractions spattered across the page—some crossed out, some not. “Which cross-out looks newest?” I asked.

  Harm squinted at the page. “This one, I think.” 12/256 x 17/89.

  “The top numbers must be step-offs,” I said. I nudged Dale. “We heard Mr. Red counting off steps in the forest. Remember?”

  “Right,” he said.

  “But the numbers on the bottom,” Harm said. “What the deuce . . .”

  I tapped the page. “He got out of the truck here, and lined up with the roofline of the inn, here. And . . .” I hated to say it. “He looked over his shoulder, this way. I think he lined up with the cemetery,” I said, and Dale gulped. “Then he started walking.”

  “The bottom numbers must be his which-way numbers,” Dale said, and tilted the flashlight up into his own face. He looked like a freckle-faced ghoul. I tilted it back down. “They help him get his bearings, somehow.”

  Bearings. “That’s it,” I said so loud, they b
oth jumped.

  “The bottom numbers are compass bearings,” I said, picturing the Colonel blazing a trail through the forest. “A compass is an old-timey GPS,” I explained. “It’s magnet-powered. You line the arrow up with north and then read the numbers around the compass rim. Those are your which-way numbers,” I added, and Dale nodded.

  “Right,” Harm murmured. “Red keeps a compass lying around. These aren’t fractions, they’re locations. You step it off and dig.”

  Dale whistled. “Each number’s a money jar? No wonder he called a lawman. Mr. Red’s rich—if he can dig up his bank account.”

  He studied Harm. “Why’d you take it?” he asked. “For the money? I never figured you for a thief.”

  The word stretched between them flat and sad.

  “Thief?” Harm said, his voice rising. The blueprints slipped, and I scooted them back in place, hoisting the edge of the tarp like the hem of a skirt.

  Harm glared in the semi-dark. “True or false,” he said. “If Flick and his rodent-faced girlfriend get their claws on his money, Red will never see another penny. Neither will Miss Lana or Miss Lacy.”

  “True,” Dale said.

  “True or false? Without his buried bank account, Red’s broke.”

  “True,” Dale said. “Most likely.”

  “True or false? If Red’s broke, I’m never going home. If that’s . . . really home, I mean,” he added, his voice trailing away.

  Dale didn’t answer. “If you ain’t taking the money, why take the blueprints?”

  “I thought Miss Thornton could use some of the money and we’d keep the rest for Red. Besides, Red’s the last person I’d figure to call the cops.”

  Dale frowned. I could practically see the wheels turning and smell the smoke. “You haven’t been officially caught, which means you’re still in a family-borrowing situation,” he said. He looked at him, his blue eyes serious. “But you better give them back before you get caught, Harm. I mean it. Starr will take you in.”

  Harm gulped. “I’ll put them in Red’s truck,” he said as the blueprints skidded.

  “Dag this tarp,” Dale griped, shoving the blueprints into place and dragging a handful of tarp with it. “What’s under there, anyway? Lawnmowers?” Harm lifted the corner of the tarp and peeped underneath.

  “Noooo way,” Harm said. “Dale, give me a hand.”

  Dale grabbed a corner. Together they peeled the tarp back. A chrome bumper. A pale blue sculpted hood. An elegantly swooped fender. A whitewall tire yellowed by time. A running board, a cab, a handsome boot. “Ghost car,” Dale announced, his eyes like saucers.

  “Ghost car? That’s a Duesenberg,” Harm said.

  Dale pressed his finger against the fender and looked at me. “It’s 3-D,” he said. “It’s worth . . . I don’t know. A lot.”

  Harm ran his hand along the sleek fender. “Running, it’s worth a fortune. Broke down, I’m not so sure. Is the key in it?” Dale shone his light through the window, and whistled.

  “Original leather, inlaid dash . . . She’s a beauty.”

  “You’re early,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said, strolling through the door. I shoved the blueprints behind me. “I see you found Father’s car.”

  “Does she run?” Dale asked.

  “I doubt it,” she said. “It’s been here for years. It reminded me so much of Father, I just couldn’t part with it. The rakes are over here,” she said, edging past me. I turned like a rotisserie chicken as she passed, keeping the blueprints hidden.

  “Miss Thornton,” Harm said. “This is a Duesenberg.”

  “I know, dear. A 1933 Model J. Father told me a thousand times.”

  “Do you know what it’s worth?” he asked.

  She turned to him, and I shoved the blueprints behind a cob-webby trunk. “Value’s relative, dear. It’s worth the world to me, because Father loved it. But in dollars? I’d have to pay somebody to haul it off, I imagine.”

  Harm’s mouth fell open. So did Dale’s. It wasn’t a good look. “Miss Thornton, Duesenbergs sell for real money,” Harm said.

  “Tens of thousands of dollars, maybe,” Dale added.

  “Or more,” Harm said. “Way more. Especially if they run.”

  “Do you think so?” she said, her hand fluttering to her throat.

  “I know so,” Dale said.

  “Dale’s people know cars,” I added.

  She sat down on the old trunk. “Thank you, Father,” she whispered, and blinked back quick tears. “Perhaps we should have an expert look at it before we get too excited,” she said.

  “Lavender,” I told her. “He’ll know what to do.”

  Chapter 33

  Jailhouse Interview

  Lavender went to work on the Duesenberg that afternoon. “She hasn’t budged since World War II,” he warned. “The tires have dry-rotted and the seals need to be replaced, but if you can invest a little money in her, Sam and I will do the rest. No guarantees, but it could pay off big.”

  She gave him a crisp nod. “If it pays off, it pays off for all of us,” she said. “Tell me what you need and I’ll manage it somehow. Let’s get started.”

  While Lavender and Sam set up in the garage, we raked leaves and watched for a chance to snag the blueprints from behind the trunk.

  Our chance never came.

  That evening, Dale and Harm practiced their performance pieces—again. “It’s amazing what you can do with three chords and good harmony,” Dale said, grinning at Harm. “I wish you could sing, Mo. If you could, you’d sound good.”

  Miss Lana says Dale’s compliments are an acquired taste.

  He plopped into his beanbag chair as Harm grabbed his science book.

  “We need to talk about Nellie,” I said.

  Harm turned a page in his book.

  “I know. Murdered, or not murdered?” Dale replied. “I hate to ask her straight out,” he continued. “It seems so . . . personal. Mama wouldn’t like it.”

  While I digested that, he moved on. “Who’s the hands-down expert on local crime? Not rhetorical,” he prompted.

  “Detective Joe Starr?”

  He shook his head. “Daddy. And murder’s the kind of story that gets passed down at family reunions.”

  “It is?” Harm and I said together.

  “Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Dale continued. “Visiting Day. We could pay a visit and ask him, if you want.”

  I felt like magnetic north wobbled. “I didn’t think you wanted to see your daddy—not after the way he treated you and Miss Rose.”

  Dale leaned over to tie his shoe. “It’s always going to be after the way he treated us, Mo. You only get one daddy and he’s the one I got.” He looked up at me. “I got to talk to Macon again sometime. This is as good a time as any.”

  Hearing Dale call his daddy by his first name made me feel older than stone. “I’m with you, Desperado,” I said.

  “Me too,” Harm said. “Didn’t he do business with Red?”

  “I ain’t confessing him to anything,” Dale said. “But you can ask him. Only thing is, Lavender won’t leave the Duesenberg unless we got a 911 situation, and I can’t ask Mama to take us.”

  “We’ll ask the Colonel,” I said.

  • •

  The next afternoon, we climbed into the Underbird. “Used to be a Thunderbird, but the T and h fell off,” I told Harm as he slammed the door.

  A half hour later, the three of us sat across a lunchroom table from Mr. Macon. The Colonel and Queen Elizabeth waited outside.

  Mr. Macon looked lean and tough as wire cable and his blue eyes glinted like glass. I remembered what Miss Lana had said just before we left: “Be positive, my intrepids. Remember: A caged bird warbles sweetest in sunshine.”

  “Why does she talk like that?” Dale had whispered as we headed for the Underbi
rd.

  “The Colonel says it’s in her blood,” I’d told him.

  He’d nodded. “Maybe they’ll find a cure.”

  Now, as I studied the stark room and the guard at the door, I thought I knew what she meant. I slapped on my sunniest smile. “Hey Mr. Macon,” I said, taking out my clue pad. “Miss Lana says jumpsuits are making a comeback this season, but even if they don’t, orange is a real good color for you.”

  “Shut up Mo,” he growled.

  I smiled like he didn’t mean it. I’ve never been his favorite, and getting him thrown in the slammer hadn’t honeyed him up. Still, if my Detective’s Instinct was right, he secretly longed for conversation. I nudged Dale. Silence. I moved on to Harm. “Mr. Macon, this is Harm Crenshaw,” I said. “Red Baker’s grandson.”

  “Pleased to meet you, sir,” Harm said, very smooth. “I understand you and my grandfather go back a ways.”

  Mr. Macon sliced a look at the guard. “We speak, that’s about it.” His ice-blue eyes found Dale’s. “Hey, Dale. How are you, son?”

  Dale looked up. “Hey Daddy,” he said. “I’m good.”

  “How’s fifth grade treating you?”

  “Dale’s in sixth,” I said. “It’s nosebleed difficult.”

  Dale nodded. “Very hard. Harm and me started a singing group. We’re good.”

  Mr. Macon crossed his arms. “School’s wasted on some folks. You’re one of them.”

  Shock shot across Harm’s face like lightning across an unguarded sky. “Nothing’s wasted on Dale,” he said. “He’s making B’s. And we are good.”

  Mr. Macon leaned on the table. “How’d you get here?” he asked, darting a look toward the door. “Is Rose outside?”

  A stupid question. Why would Miss Rose divorce him, and then come calling? “The Colonel brought us,” I said. “He’s outside with Queen Elizabeth.”

  “How’s your mother, Dale?”

  “Good. She got a dishwasher.”

  He leaned back and watched Dale through narrowed eyes. “Tell her I miss her. You hear me, son? Tell her I miss her.”

  Dale froze like a fox smelling metal. “We came because we got a question,” he said. “For our history paper.”