Sal waved her arms over her head. This time she gave me two thumbs-up.
I cued Buddha to spin the lights around the stage and went into my Prepared Remarks, spreading my voice out like a roller derby announcer. “Tonight’s duo promises to shock and thrill. They got voices smooth as butter and moves sweet as Miss Lana’s blackberry jam. Ladies and gentlemen, the pride of the sixth grade . . .” I pointed side stage. “ON . . . THE . . . VERGE!”
The sixth grade roared.
I backed into the shadows as Dale and Harm rushed onstage and skidded up to their mics, both of them sleek in tuck-wasted, broad-shouldered 1930s suits. They tilted their fedoras low over their eyes and the spotlight skinnied in on Harm as he stepped up to his mic. “Helloooo Tupelo Landing,” he crooned.
“Wow,” I told Sal. “Looks like he got over his nerves.”
She beamed. “Mama’s suits look just right on them.”
“I’m Harm and he’s Dale, and we’re On the Verge of . . . well, something good, we hope. Our first number’s our three-chord version of the 1938 hit ‘Boogie Woogie.’ If you can’t dance to this, you won’t ever dance. Everybody get up,” he said, clapping his hands as Dale started slapping out a boogie on his guitar. “That includes you, Gramps and Miss Thornton. Everybody dance.”
The sixth grade careened onto the dance floor—dancing alone, dancing in pairs, dancing in clusters. The rest of Tupelo Landing swept around them, jostling and swinging. Thes hopped through the crowd like a berserk robot, twisting and turning nearly in time to the music. Hannah, whose sister had gone AWOL, danced with both Exums until Sal skidded onto the dance floor to take up the slack.
The Colonel and Miss Lana swayed by, the Colonel stiff and self-conscious, Miss Lana practically floating. Queen Elizabeth flew from dancer to dancer—a tornado of sequins and fur.
Dale and Harm sang and played and danced like the music had moved in and set up housekeeping in their souls, their voices clear and strong, their rhythm wild and true. They bridged into another song, and another, and another.
Twice I caught a glimpse of pink. The first turned out to be a scarf. The second, a sweater.
At the end of their set, Dale and Harm bowed and Tupelo Landing went nuts.
I rushed onstage. “On the Verge,” I shouted above the hubbub.
“Encore,” Miss Retzyl shouted, clapping her hands over her head. “Encore!” The crowd took up the chant.
“Play an old-fashioned neon cha-cha,” the mayor shouted, trying to herd the Azalea Women into a line. Dale grinned at Harm and stepped up to the microphone.
“Thank you all for clapping,” Dale said, breathing heavy. “We were afraid you might not.” He froze, his eyes on the archway. His first-grade smile broke across his flushed face. “Hey, Mama,” he said, his voice soft. “You look wonderful.”
We all turned.
Miss Rose stood in the archway, strong and elegant, and every inch herself. I ran to her as the crowd turned back to Dale. “Miss Rose,” I said. “I’m glad you came.”
She hugged me so strong, I almost didn’t feel her tremble. “Thanks, Mo. It’s never too late to make a better decision.”
I took her hand. No ring.
Onstage, Dale looked at Harm. “This one’s slower,” he said, “so we can all catch our breath.” He took a minute to tune his guitar while the crowd settled down. He hesitated. “I wrote this song for Nellie Blake. Nellie, I hope you like it,” he said, looking into the night. He gave the rest of us a shy smile. “I hope you all like it too. Especially you, Mama. And you, Mr. Red. It’s called ‘Nellie’s Waltz.’”
He played a sweet, simple intro and he and Harm stepped to their mics, their voices twining like wood smoke over the Colonel’s campfire.
Waltz across lifetimes with me
Spin through the stars in my arms
When I look in your eyes
I know love never dies
Please waltz through these lifetimes with me.
Drift down life’s river with me
Inhale the moon’s secret charms
We know love never dies
as we say our good-byes
Please waltz beyond heartbreak with me.
The town whirled through “Nellie’s Waltz,” feet whispering, hearts floating until finally the night stood balanced on the last clear sound of Dale’s voice. For a moment I heard only the slap of endless river and the sigh of wandering wind.
Then I smelled rosemary.
Queen Elizabeth sneezed.
Dale and Harm bowed, and the town burst into applause. “Bravo,” Mayor Little called. “Bravo, boys!”
The crowd took up the chant, pressing close. I jumped onto the stage and grabbed the mic. “On the Verge,” I shouted, and Harm and Dale bowed. “Tupelo Landing’s finest!”
They took another bow, and a woman screamed. Then another.
“Is it Nellie? Is she here?” Dale whispered.
The crowd flapped and scattered like terrified chickens as Dale’s mule Cleo staggered onto the dance floor, flattened her ears, and trumpeted a ragged bray. She wobbled into a patch of grass at river’s edge, sat on her haunches like a dog, and keeled over in the grass.
“Cleo!” Dale tore across the pavilion and leaped the rail. I sprinted after him.
“Is she dead?” I asked.
He looked at me, his face ashen. “Dead drunk. But how?”
Good question.
“Mr. Red’s still,” I whispered, and he nodded. “We got our chance to pay Harm back for being Ghost Bait. But we better find that still before Starr does.”
I looked up. The entire town lined the pavilion’s rail, staring. “Skeeter, can you get the music going?” Starr asked, leaping nimbly from the dance floor. “Everybody go back to your business.”
“Don’t sign anything, Dale,” Skeeter called as Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” hit the air again. “Let’s see that moonwalk, Mayor Little,” she sang out over the sound system.
My plaid Mary Janes squished. How could we explain Cleo without tipping Starr off to Mr. Red’s still? I stalled. “I accept full responsibility for Cleo’s condition unless there’s a penalty for contributing to the delinquency of a mule, in which case I had nothing to do with this,” I said.
“Good,” Dale whispered.
Starr clicked his pen. “Go ahead.”
I took a moment. Miss Lana, who possesses world-class ad-lib skills, says the word if skirts the truth graceful as an ice skater skirts thin ice. I went for it. “If I recall, Anita Filch spiked the punch bowl early this evening.”
“Really? When?” Dale asked. Dale ad-libs like a box turtle pole vaults.
“Also, if memory serves, I set the spiked punch aside and got a new bowl. It looks like Cleo got into the bad punch. I hope you’ll go easy on her. We can get her into rehab if necessary. If I’m not mistaken, this is her first offense.”
Dale nodded. “She’s too sensitive to do time.”
Starr jammed his pen in his pocket. “Keep her off the dance floor,” he said. “I’ll figure out how she got plastered myself—if I get over that load of ifs you just served up.”
Crud. He didn’t buy it.
He climbed onto the dance floor and strode away.
I grabbed Dale’s arm. “Dale, you moved Cleo today,” I said, talking quiet and fast. “Where’d you put her?”
“In the meadow near Mr. Red’s house.”
The still must be close by. In the house? Ridiculous. The shed? No. The dog pen? Of course. “The brambles in the center of his stinking dog pen,” I said. “His still was under our noses the whole time. Those dogs would keep anybody out.”
I squinted across the pavilion, to Mr. Red’s table. “We got to get to him before Starr figures it out.”
Harm joined us as we threaded our way through the dancers. �
�We’ve found Mr. Red’s still,” I whispered. “But we got to hurry.”
“You’re busted, Mr. Red,” Dale said, pulling a chair up beside Grandmother Miss Lacy. “A mule won’t drink moonshine, but she’ll eat corn mash dumped from a still. And you dumped yours in the meadow today, didn’t you?” he asked, his voice accusing. “You were in too much of a hurry to haul it down to your pigs.”
Mr. Red swallowed, bobbing his bow tie. “No idea what he’s talking about, Lacy.”
“We’ll prove it,” I said, pulling up a chair. “We’ll follow Cleo’s tracks to the mash, and your tracks to the still in your dog pen.”
“The dog pen?” Harm said. “No wonder you didn’t want me to mess with those dogs. Gramps, if Starr finds that still, you’re really busted. And where does that leave us?”
Mr. Red looked away from him. Not a good sign.
“Dale and me been thinking,” I continued.
“I haven’t,” Dale said quickly, “unless what she says next sounds good.”
I ignored him. “A faux still would be a good draw for the inn. A local history angle.”
Grandmother Miss Lacy draped her arm across my shoulders. She smelled like powder and lemons. “A non-working still,” she said, staring hat pins at Mr. Red. She placed a dollar on the table. “I’ll buy that display, Red Baker, if it will keep you out of jail.”
Red Baker looked at Harm, and then at the dollar bill. Then he locked eyes with Joe Starr. Starr sat watching us like a hawk watches a ditch bank at suppertime.
“Take the dollar,” Harm said. I could almost feel the wind whistle through his heart.
“You can’t pull the fur over Joe Starr’s eyes,” Dale warned.
“Wool,” Harm and I said together as Detective Joe Starr headed for us.
“Mr. Baker,” Starr said. “I’ll start following Cleo’s tracks tomorrow morning. If I find a still on your property, I’ll turn you over to the Feds.” He looked at Grandmother Miss Lacy. “I apologize in advance, Miss Thornton,” he said, and walked away.
Chapter 41
We Say Our Good-byes
The party wound down hours later.
As the last guests straggled up the path with Mayor Little, Miss Lana yawned and surveyed the landslide of dirty cups and dishes. “Let’s leave this happy mess for later,” she said, hooking her arm in Miss Rose’s. “Come on, Rose, I’ll walk up with you.”
“And I’ll turn out the lights and walk with you,” I told Grandmother Miss Lacy as Dale packed up his guitar.
Sal and Dale caught up with us halfway to the inn. “Did you dance with everybody?” Sal asked Dale, slipping her hand into his.
“Yes,” he said, and then hesitated. “Well,” he said, turning to look at the deserted pavilion. “Almost everybody. I’ll catch up with you at the inn,” he told her.
Sal shrugged. Dale handed me his guitar and trotted back down the path. “What on earth?” Grandmother Miss Lacy murmured.
“I think I know,” I said. I led her to a bench in the crook of the path.
Harm stepped from the shadows. “Hey, Miss Thornton,” he said. “Where’s Gramps?”
“Red?” she asked, settling onto the bench. “Didn’t he tell you?” Harm shook his head, his dark hair falling across his forehead. “He’s helping the Colonel dismantle my new still,” she replied, stifling a yawn.
“He went for it?”
“Hook, line, and sinker,” she said. She looked at Harm. “You’re the reason he agreed, Harm Crenshaw. Red could do the time, but he can’t stand to think of you without a home.”
“Son of a gun,” Harm muttered.
Below us, Dale strolled to the center of the moonlit dance floor, bowed, and opened his arms. He tilted his head back and sang to the stars.
“Waltz across lifetimes with me.
Spin through the stars in my arms . . .”
“‘Nellie’s Waltz,’” Grandmother Miss Lacy said. “Nellie would have given the world to dance that dance with Red. Can you see her, Mo?”
“No,” I said, my heart tumbling. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“There,” Harm said, pointing. “Across the floor from Dale.” He was right. A delicate pink mist floated up from the river, onto the dance floor.
“I still don’t see her,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said.
Harm smoothed his hair. “Maybe Lavender’s right. Maybe life does have a way of circling back around,” he murmured. He drew a give-me-courage breath, and jogged down the path onto the dance floor. Click.
Dale stepped aside, still singing, as Harm looked at Nellie and opened his arms.
Maybe it was Harm’s 1930s suit, or the moonlight, or the rhythm of the waltz. But time folded back on itself soft and easy as Miss Lana’s silk scarf, and a dark-haired girl swept across the dance floor in his arms.
“I do see her,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said, her voice full of tears.
Harm and Nellie danced until the music floated away on Dale’s last crystal note. Harm bowed. Nellie smiled and looked up at us.
Grandmother Miss Lacy held out her hand and opened it, letting go. “Good-bye, dear friend,” she whispered.
“I love you,” Nellie mouthed, lowering her hand to her heart. Nellie’s eyes met mine and she stood there, waiting.
I smiled. “That’s what she wanted Mr. Red to tell you the night she died,” I told Grandmother Miss Lacy. “I love you.”
Nellie smiled like a blaze of sunshine, and she was gone. Truly gone.
I knew it to my bones.
Harm and Dale strolled from the pavilion, side by side. “Case closed,” I whispered, and squeezed Grandmother Miss Lacy’s hand.
Acknowledgments
So many people had a hand in the creation of this book!
Thank you, Rodney L. Beasley—my first reader and intrepid fellow traveler in life—for your love, your support and your unfailing sense of direction.
My gratitude goes to everyone who offered input on the early drafts of this book, especially Allison Turnage, Claire Pittman, Mamie Dixon, Eileen LaGreca, Miriam Taylor Bailey, and Patsy Baker O’Leary and her creative writing class.
Thank you, Eileen LaGreca, for the fantastic map!
Thanks to my agent, Melissa Jeglinski of The Knight Agency.
Thanks, Alisha Niehaus, for first welcoming Mo and Dale to Penguin. Thanks, Mary Jo Floyd, for everything. And thanks, Gilbert Ford, for the knock-out covers.
Hats off to the scores of wonderful people at Penguin Books for Young Readers who poured time and talent into this book. In particular, thank you, Lauri Hornik, for your support. Thanks, Scottie Bowditch, Laura Antonocci, Sara Ortiz, Meg Beade, and Bridget Ryan for introducing Mo and Dale to libraries and schools around the country; and thanks to Doni Kay, Alex Genis, and their fellow sales reps for introducing Mo to booksellers from NC to CA. Thanks to designer Jasmin Rubero, copyeditor Regina Castillo, and publicist Marisa Russell. And thanks, Claire Evans, for always knowing what’s going on and for keeping an eye on Mo and Dale when they’re in New York.
Last but never least, thanks to my very talented editor and publisher, Kathy Dawson, of Kathy Dawson Books, whose clear-sightedness and wonderful feel for language helped make this a much better book—and a joy to write.
Tupelo Landing is a better place because of all of you.
Sheila Turnage grew up on a farm in eastern North Carolina. A graduate of East Carolina University, she now lives on a farm with her husband, a smart dog, a dozen chickens, and a flock of guineas. Sheila is the author of two nonfiction books—Haunted Inns of the Southeast and Compass American Guide: North Carolina—and one picture book, Trout the Magnificent, as well as the Newbery Honor–winning Three Times Lucky. Three Times Lucky is Sheila’s first middle grade story and is also a New York Times bestseller, an Edgar Award finalist, an E. B. White Read-Aloud Honor Book, and was selec
ted for many best of the year lists.
Visit sheilaturnage.com to learn more.
The Ghosts of Tupelo Landing Page 23