I looked again. Suddenly the outfit didn’t look so bad.
White polka dots on soft navy fabric. A skirt whose shirred waist somehow created the illusion of a waistline. A neat white blouse and ultra-cool navy bolero, something a matador might wear. Nellie would like these clothes, I thought.
I dressed, and knocked on Miss Lana’s door. “Come in,” she called, and turned to look at me. “You’re as beautiful as I knew you’d be,” she told me, her eyes glistening. She looked at my shoes and laughed. “One hundred percent Mo.”
On my way out I detoured by my desk, snagged Volume 6, and dashed off a letter to leave on Nellie’s piano.
Chapter 39
The Bash
“Wow, Mo,” Dale said as I crossed the pavilion a couple hours later. “You look great.” It was true: Even my hair had tamed down good.
“Thanks,” I said. “You too.” Dale’s bash ensemble looked suspiciously like his funeral ensemble: black pants, black shirt, black tie. He’d styled his blond hair up in front, like Lavender. “What’s that?” I asked, glancing at the suit bag slung over his shoulder.
“A surprise. We’ll need about fifteen minutes before we go on,” he said, hanging the bag on a corner post as Queen Elizabeth wandered by in a sequined collar.
“What surprise?” I demanded. “As your manager, I got to know.”
“You’ll see,” he said, opening his guitar case and grabbing his guitar. Photos stared up at me from the bottom of the case. My old school photo, a snapshot of Queen Elizabeth, the family photo from Miss Rose’s piano— him, Miss Rose, and Mr. Macon. Only he’d taped the photo of Lavender and the Colonel over Mr. Macon.
“I brought them for good luck,” he explained, following my gaze. He placed his guitar in the case as Lavender walked up with a bag of ice. Lavender cleans up better than anybody I know. I grabbed my camera. Click.
“You two look great,” he said. “Where’s Mama?”
“She’s not coming,” Dale said.
Not coming? Lavender looked surprised as I felt. “Is she sick?”
“No. It’s okay,” he lied, adjusting Queen Elizabeth’s collar. “She’s heard us sing plenty at home.” Dale don’t lie good. “I think she wishes she had a date,” he added.
Lavender winced. “Yeah, she probably does,” he said, dropping the ice to loosen it up. I rushed to hold the cooler steady. “Thanks Mo. Mama’s proud of you, Dale, whether she’s here or not. I am too.”
“I know,” Dale said.
Lavender dumped the ice, and spanked the wet off his hands. “Listen Dale, I want you to dance with everybody you can tonight. Ask any girl old enough to walk, any lady who can get out on the floor without a walker, and every female in between—except Anna Celeste.”
“But Sal and me are meeting up in a few minutes.”
“Dance the first dance with Sal and dance with her most of the night. She’ll understand if you explain it to her. Ladies love gentlemen, little brother. Trust me.”
“Okay,” Dale said, looking doubtful. “But if Sal kills me, it’s on you.”
“Deal,” he said, and winked at me. “Don’t forget our dance, Mo.”
Forget our dance? Is he mad?
“I wore my dancing shoes,” I said, and he hurried away.
• •
The cars started grumbling up the inn’s drive just after sunset. Tinks and Sam handled parking. Miss Lana, in her Jean Harlow wig and shimmering party dress, met the guests at the door while Dale and me kept the pavilion punch flowing. The Colonel strode up handsome and confident in his dress blues, his hat tucked smartly beneath his arm.
“My goodness,” Mayor Little said, taking a cup of punch and smoothing his ruffled shirt. “I’ve never seen us looking so elegant. Did you bring your camera?” he asked, straightening his ice-blue bow tie. He held out his glass, turned his head, and fake laughed. Click.
He waggled his fingers at Attila’s mom. “I’m sure the media will want copies,” he said as she minced over in her beige dress.
“Good evening, Mr. Mayor,” Mrs. Simpson said. Her gaze swept me head to toe, lingering on my plaid Mary Janes. “And Mo, don’t you look . . . comfortable. Have you seen Anna Celeste? She said she was coming with Sal.”
I looked at the archway. There stood Attila—with Harm Crenshaw!
“No,” Dale whispered. “Harm’s gone over to the other side.”
Mrs. Simpson’s hand went to her pearls. “But isn’t that . . . Red Baker’s grandson?”
“Spittin’ image,” I said. Click.
Harm and Attila rolled toward us. Harm looked sharp in his usual black pants, plus Mr. Red’s crisp white auction shirt and red bow tie. Attila looked frilly. “Mother,” she said, “this is my friend Harmond Crenshaw. Harm? My mother, Betsy Simpson.”
Harm grinned wide as Texas.
Mrs. Simpson stared a long, chilly moment. “Harm,” she said. If her voice went any colder, the punch bowl would freeze solid. Click.
“There’s Daddy,” Attila said, leading Harm away.
I smiled at Mrs. Simpson. “They look nice together, don’t they?” I said, cranking my film forward. “I hope they name their first child after me. Mo’s a name that works for a boy or a girl. Refreshment?” I asked as Dale ladled a cup of punch.
Mrs. Simpson spun and walked away.
“How did that train wreck happen?” Dale muttered, staring after Harm and Attila.
“No clue,” I said, unfocusing my eyes to scan the crowd. No sign of Nellie. Not yet.
The crowd seemed to breathe as townsfolk flowed in and out. “Wow,” Dale whispered as Miss Retsyl walked up. “Why’s she wasting time on us?” I could see his point. With her hair up and her long dress sparkling, she could have been going to the Country Music Awards.
“There’s Myrt Little,” I said, peering through a flock of preening Azalea Women.
Mrs. Little perched at the edge of the crowd like a vulture with a new perm. I unfocused my eyes and scanned. Still no Nellie.
Dale and me waved as Hannah Greene and her sister paused in the archway with the Exums. “Don’t stare at the Exums’ eyebrows,” I added as the boys plowed toward us like a couple of tugboats in brown suits.
“Four cups of punch,” Jake said. “We came with girls.” I filled their cups, trying to ignore the wobbly black arcs sketched high on their foreheads.
“Nice face art,” Dale said, very smooth. “Did you use Magic Markers?”
“Sharpies,” Jimmy said.
Jake spun to look at Hannah. “The girls are getting away,” he said, and they grabbed their punch and dove back into the crowd.
“Salamander’s here,” Dale said, dropping his ladle. I waved at Sal, who’d gone Extreme Strategic Ruffles. She looked like a glittery bottle brush.
“Hey, Thes, your turn!” Dale shouted, pointing to the punch bowl. Thes, who stood at the pavilion’s edge watching clouds drift across the moon, smoothed his orange hair and trotted toward me as Lavender walked by with a pretty auburn-haired woman. I did a double take. “Hey, that’s not a big-haired twin.”
“No,” Thes said. “That’s Miss Retzyl’s little sister, from Winston-Salem.”
My heart folded its wings and plunged into a screaming nosedive.
Imported competition? Is that fair?
As I struggled to regain my legendary poise, the evening’s next Catastrophe Couple stepped into the archway. “Rat Face,” I said as broad-shouldered Flick Crenshaw stepped up beside her. “What’s she doing here?”
She scurried to the refreshment table.
“You again,” Rat Face said, glaring at me. “Where’s Lacy Thornton?”
The Colonel stepped from the crowd. If Rat Face had been a Chihuahua, she would have growled. “Thes,” he said, “Skeeter’s having trouble with the sound system. Could you give her a hand?” he
asked, and Thes hurried away. “Miss Filch,” he continued, his voice a velvet-draped dagger. “To what do we owe the . . . honor?”
“Where’s Lacy?” she demanded, her beady eyes roving the crowd. Across the way, Harm and Lavender started toward us. “I want to make sure she hasn’t forgotten our little agreement. And we want to admire our property.”
“Admire it now because you’ll never see it again,” the Colonel said, tugging an envelope from his inside pocket. “A certified check for the inn’s mortgage. Paid in full.”
She stamped her foot. “What? But that’s not possible.”
He slipped the envelope in his pocket. “The possible shocks me every day, Miss Filch. We’ll see you November first, as agreed,” he said as Lavender and Harm stepped up beside him. “I believe that concludes our business.”
Dale rocketed up. “What’s going on?” he asked. “What’s she doing here?”
“Still hanging with these losers, Harm?” Flick asked. “I’d move up if I were you.”
Harm stared back steady and cool. “You never did have good taste in friends, Flick.” Harm didn’t look scared anymore. Or angry. In fact, he looked sure as the wind setting Miss Lana’s lanterns swaying.
Flick grabbed Harm’s shirt and dragged Harm toward him. “You little . . .”
“Leave Harm alone, Flick,” I said, “or you got me and Dale to deal with.”
“And me,” Lavender said.
“And most of Tupelo Landing,” the Colonel added, “including me.”
Flick opened his hand finger by finger, and patted Harm’s shirt back into place, a trace of sneer haunting his lips. “Good riddance, then.” He turned to Lavender. “As for you, we’ll settle things on the racetrack.”
“I don’t settle things on a racetrack,” Lavender said. True. There’s not a revenge bone in Lavender’s body. Dale’s neither. Fortunately I got enough for all of us.
“That’s right, carrion breath,” I said. “But Lavender will be back—soon. We’ll blow you off the track. Dale and me are working honorary pit crew,” I added. The last was more of a pre-truth than a lie. We’ve timed laps before.
Flick grabbed Rat Face’s bony elbow. “Let’s dump these low-lifes.”
“One more thing,” the Colonel said, his dark eyes glinting. “Miss Filch, you might like to know I’ve recommended you to your boss.”
A recommendation? For her?
“Sir,” I whispered, “is your amnesia back?”
He ignored me. “I’m sure your boss will be impressed with your creative use of bank records, Miss Filch, not to mention your stalking and badgering a customer.” Her eyes flew wide. “I’ve never seen a bank employee so skilled at taking property for her own,” he said. “I’m sure your actions matched bank policy, didn’t they?”
Dale frowned. “It sounds bad when you say it out loud, Colonel.” He looked at Rat Face. “She could get fired.”
She kept her eyes on the Colonel, quivering like a field mouse staring down a wolf. For a minute I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. I showed her my tongue.
She hissed, and burrowed into the night.
As Flick took off behind her, Lavender glanced at Harm. “Don’t worry, you’ll see him again,” he said. “Life has a way of circling back around until things get finished.”
“Spoken like a true racecar driver,” the Colonel murmured.
Harm jammed his hands in his pockets and watched his brother walk away.
• •
Moments later, Skeeter tapped the mic. “Testing, testing. Almost ready, Colonel.”
“Nice move bringing that check, sir,” I said. “Are you really back to being an attorney? I only ask because I hate change unless it’s my idea. I need time to over-prepare.”
“That wasn’t a check, Soldier, it was our utility bill. I scribbled my opening remarks on it last night. But we’ll have the check in time and yes, I’m back to being an attorney, of sorts.”
He sighed. “I’d better get this show on the road. I don’t know how I let Lana talk me into these things,” he said, glancing her way.
Miss Lana stood in a group of friends, her head thrown back as she laughed. The lanterns’ soft light played against her face. “She looks beautiful,” I said. “Maybe it’s the dress. Or the wig.”
“No,” he said, his eyes going soft. “It’s one hundred percent Lana.”
“Colonel,” Skeeter called, putting her headset on. “It’s time.”
He nodded. “I’d hoped Miss Thornton would show up before I . . .” He chuckled. “Ah-ha!” he boomed, looking toward the trail.
The crowd turned to follow his gaze and fell silent. The frogs’ song spiraled around us, and water lapped against the pilings. “What’s wrong?” Dale said, looking around. “Are the police here already?”
Two figures made their way through the shadows at the pavilion’s edge, to the archway. “It’s Grandmother Miss Lacy,” I said as she stepped into the light in a midnight-blue dress, dark blue sequins flowing across her shoulders like a stole of stars.
The figure behind her stepped into the light and the crowd gasped. The Colonel grinned. “And Red Baker. In a tux—one that fits.”
Mr. Red adjusted his bow tie and held out his arm. Grandmother Miss Lacy hooked her hand in his elbow. An Azalea Woman dropped her cup.
“Red, you’ve managed to arrive with the most beautiful woman in town,” the Colonel said. “Miss Thornton, will you join me onstage?”
Contrary to popular belief, the Colonel can be charming. And kind.
She smiled and shook her head. A small spotlight tracked the Colonel to the microphone. “Cut that light,” he ordered, squinting. “You’re blinding me.”
“So much for Prince Charming,” Thes said, taking his place at the punch bowl.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the Colonel said. “I welcome you to Tupelo Landing’s 250th Anniversary Bash. And now, the man who promised to save my life by emceeing this event: Mayor Clayburn Little.”
Mayor Little bounded onstage. “Hello, fellow citizens,” he said. “Eat hearty, dance much, stay long. Before we get started, Reverend Thompson will offer a prayer.”
“Brace yourself for the Shy Stampede,” I whispered as he started his prayer.
“The what?” Thes whispered.
“Amen,” Reverend Thompson said.
“Dance!” the mayor commanded, jumping onto the dance floor as Skeeter revved up the sound system. As Mayor Little began his electric slide, every shy person within earshot charged the refreshments table, filling plates like they were filling lifeboats on a sinking ship.
Thes cleared his throat. “Want to dance?” he asked. “I’m not very good.”
“Me either,” I said as Dale and Sal spun by. “We need cover.” After a few songs the dance floor filled, and we stepped onto its edge. Thes’s hand felt like a feverish fish. “Here goes nothing,” he mumbled.
We started out jerky, but when nobody laughed I relaxed. “We look good,” Thes said, snigging my foot. “Get ready to twirl.”
Before long, we all got good. Lavender looked like a movie star, dancing with Miss Retzyl’s sister, and then with every woman and pre-woman there—including me. “You look beautiful, Mo,” he said, holding out his hand. “Dance with me?”
Even the stars smiled.
Dale danced with everybody too, just like Lavender told him. Once he even struggled by with Mrs. Little. I was watching Sal wiggle past with Jake Exum when someone tapped my shoulder. Harm Crenshaw. “Oh. It’s you,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s me.” He held out his hand. “Dance?”
Me? Dance with Harm? I grinned. “Where’s Attila?”
“Who knows? I didn’t mean to come with her, really. It’s just that you asked Thes, and Sal asked Dale. And I hated to be the only one coming alone. Attila asked me and I tho
ught it would be fun to terrify her mom . . . Anyway, she’s not with me now,” he said as Grandmother Miss Lacy and Mr. Red tangoed past. “I thought Mrs. Simpson would cough up her pedicure when she saw me. So?” he said, jerking his head toward the dance floor. “How about it?”
Somebody shoved me from behind. “Hey!” I shouted, stumbling forward. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Grandmother Miss Lacy dance away, laughing. Harm grabbed my hand. “Come on, Ghost Girl. Give me a chance.”
It’s hard to dance and glare at Grandmother Miss Lacy at the same time, but it can be done. Not long, though. “Wow,” I said as we skimmed along, “you’re good.”
“You’re not bad yourself, once you escape Thes,” he said. “Here’s an analogy for you. Thes is to dance as fish is to ski.”
I laughed as the song ended and Skeeter pulled the microphone close to her lips. “And now, our last number before special guest stars On the Verge.”
Already?
Harm dropped my hand. His face went green. “Where’s Dale?”
“Over there,” I said, pointing to the stage. Dale grabbed his suit bag and shot out of sight. “Get ready. I’ll introduce you slow. And Harm? You guys sound good,” I said. “Really good.”
Chapter 40
On the Verge
As the last strains of “Thriller” died away, I stepped up to the mic. Skeeter darted forward to lower it.
“Thanks, Skeeter,” I said, stalling. “Great music selection. Let’s hear it for Skeeter!” The crowd clapped. “Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, “I know the sixth grade’s excited about what’s coming up next, and I feel sure the rest of you will be too.”
“Psssst,” Sal said from the side of the stage. She put the tips of her fingers together and pulled her hands apart like pulling taffy. “Talk slow,” she whispered.
I nodded as Skeeter set up a second mic. “I’m sure we’re all dying to hear On the Verge.”
“Don’t say dying,” Dale stage-whispered from somewhere behind me.
“But before they get out here, I’d like to congratulate Detective Joe Starr for landing Miss Retzyl. Where’s Detective Starr?” I peered out over the crowd. Starr waved. He has dimples when embarrassed. Interesting. “Way to reel her in, Joe,” I said. “The entire sixth grade wishes you luck. Feel free to come to us for advice. And thanks for that fingerprint report. Dale and me appreciate it.”
The Ghosts of Tupelo Landing Page 22