Starr’s back on Monday and I hope he arrests Gabriel Archer. This weekend we’re working on the riddle and developing our crime scene photos from Harm’s place. Starr will need them.
Mo
PS The fingerprints on our map were too smeared to lift. Crud.
Chapter Fourteen
The Cocoa Fingerprint
Monday morning Miss Lana and me taped a map of North Carolina on the wall by the jukebox and highlighted towns ending in TON. I freshened the stack of Ugly Trim flyers by the cash register and thumbtacked a photo of Always Man on the bulletin board.
By the time Starr blew in, we were ready for him too. Harm had already gone down his checklist: “Evidence from the break-in at my house, with photos—check. Notes on Gabriel in the graveyard—check. One cocoa fingerprint from Mo’s pendant—check.”
Starr strolled in, whistling. “Morning, everybody. Coffee please, Lana.” He scooted onto a stool and placed his hat on the counter. “Nice weather for January.”
Pleasant weather chitchat from Starr—a first.
“Welcome,” I said, writing out a check for his coffee and ripping it from my pad. I held it up, crumpled it into a ball, and tossed it toward the trash. “Your coffee’s on the Desperados this morning—a professional courtesy.”
“You have to be a professional to offer a professional courtesy, Mo,” he said, placing two dollars by his cup as Miss Lana splashed it full. “So. What’s new?”
“Let me, Mo,” Harm said. “First, you missed a robbery. At my place.”
“Gabriel broke in and stole our clue,” Dale added.
“Your clue? Anything else disturbed?” Starr asked.
“Harm and Mr. Red,” Dale said. “The dogs seemed fine.”
Harm slid my crime scene photos to Starr. He thumbed through, frowning at the photo of the weird footprints. He kept thumbing. Somehow, he didn’t seem surprised enough.
“Sorry I wasn’t here, Harm. Any idea who would do this?”
“Gabriel Archer, like Dale said,” I told him. “We found him in the graveyard, following up on our clue.”
Starr clicked his pen. “He’s not the only one after the treasure. There’s Kat and Anna. The Exum boys are digging up half the town—I have a hat full of complaints. I hear your uncles are poking around, Dale. And I’ve had to invite a couple of strangers to leave town.”
He studied the close-up of the handprint on Harm’s windowsill.
“No fingerprints and that weird lifeline,” Harm said. “I took a blood sample,” he added, dropping our paint chip by Starr’s cup.
“Nice job, Desperados,” Starr said. “Mo—great photography.”
Compliments? From Starr?
“I don’t mean to pry,” I lied. “But have you been away in rehab? Because you seem like a changed person and Oprah says that can happen.”
“Nope, but thanks for asking,” he said, opening his notepad. “A few days off and a rosy future always cheers me up. Harm, I hear Kat dropped by the night you were robbed.”
My Detective Senses went on red alert.
“How did you know?” I asked. “We didn’t tell you which night Harm got robbed, and we didn’t mention Kat’s visit.”
Starr clicked his pen. “Red left me a message the morning of the robbery. I called him this morning. I got his take on the breaking and entering, but I want your take too. As borderline professionals. So, Kat did stop in. Right?”
“She did, but she’s not in this,” Harm said.
Starr smoothed his eyebrow. “Right. I ran a background check on her.”
Harm went six shades of red. “You didn’t need to,” he said, his voice sharp. “You could have asked me. Bad checks, a couple of eviction notices, unpaid parking tickets. It’s hard to pay for everything when you’re gigging for next to nothing and trying to feed a kid.”
Starr nodded. “Right. So Kat comes to town with Gabriel and visits you for the first time in three years—on the day you find a treasure map. And that same night someone breaks in and takes your map and then runs off with your clue. Funny string of coincidences.”
Not that funny, I thought, reading Harm’s eyes.
“Did Kat see the map?” Starr asked.
“No,” Harm said. “She was with us the whole time.”
“Didn’t leave to use the bathroom? Or stretch her legs, anything like that?”
“No,” Harm said. “Besides, Kat has small feet. Those footprints are huge.”
“Size twelve in a man’s shoe,” Dale said, sliding the cast to Starr. “Sal looked it up.”
“Thanks. Anything else?”
Harm took out our cocoa fingerprint. “We’re hoping you’ll run this for us.”
Starr picked it up. “Cocoa powder?” he asked, sniffing. “Good use of resources. I’ll see what I can do.” He swaggered to the door, and turned. Starr’s nice-looking when he’s not being a jerk. “One more thing. Did you see the map after Kat left?”
“Sure,” Harm said. “I put it on the kitchen table.”
“Did you lock your doors? Any sign of a break-in?”
“I locked up for sure. And no sign of a break-in.”
“Interesting. Kat grew up in that house,” Starr said. “Does she still have a key?”
Harm went pale.
Crud. The house key. Why didn’t I think of that?
“We thought of that,” I said. “While I can neither deny nor confirm Kat’s key status, I can tell you we have the situation under investigation.”
“Great. So do I. Let’s stay in touch, Desperados,” Starr said, and stalked out the door.
* * *
That afternoon after school, Harm paced the length of my narrow flat. “She has to have a key. Why didn’t I see that?”
“Even if she does, that doesn’t mean she used it,” Dale said as Queen Elizabeth scratched at the door. He let her in. “Think about something else,” Dale told Harm. “You’re recessing.”
“I’m obsessing,” Harm said, taking a deep breath. “And you’re right.”
He riffled through the old newspaper clippings Miss Lana and the Colonel collected, when I was a baby. “Did I mention I’m cooking dinner for Kat on Thursday night?” he asked. “At Miss Thornton’s. You two are invited. And Sal.”
“You told us twice,” Dale said.
Harm studied a clipping. “You got a lot of publicity, Mo. You’d think somebody would have come for you. Only . . .” He scanned a photo of a flooded town, the roofs and chimneys peeking through the water. “Jeez, what a nightmare.”
He opened my scrapbook, stopping on the articles on our first case. “No wonder we get so many letters,” he said. “You guys were famous detectives before I ever came to town.”
“True,” I said, very modest. “Plus people write to see if I’m somebody they lost, or if I’m connected to their missing people. Miss Lana says it’s natural.”
“Really? What do you do with the letters?” Harm asked, turning another page.
I hesitated. “I archive them.”
“No you don’t,” Dale said. “You throw them in your sock drawer. You probably have fifty letters in there.” Harm lit up like Christmas.
“Fifty people looking for lost family members? Why didn’t you tell me? We can send them a photo of Always Man. One of them might recognize him.” He turned my album page, stopping on a scratchy old black-and-white. “Where’s this? I recognize Miss Lana, but . . .”
“That’s not Miss Lana,” I said. “That’s her mother. Outside Charleston.”
Dale opened my sock drawer and pawed through for letters. “Harm’s right, Mo. And Miss Lana looks like her mother, Harm looks like Mr. Red, I look like Daddy. Maybe you look like Upstream Mother did when she was a girl. We can send your school photo. Unless you want one where you actually comb your hair first.”
<
br /> Upstream Mother used to be a girl, like me. Somehow I never thought of that.
“Brilliant,” Harm said, grinning. “We need a letter, Mo. A good one. And then all we need is postage and a little luck to carry you home.”
* * *
The next afternoon, before the supper rush, I pulled the Colonel and Miss Lana aside. “I got a surprise, and I hope it’s a good one,” I told them.
Tinks watched as we moved to a table by the Winter Tree. Miss Lana read the letter low and sweet, wrapped in the tree’s neon halo.
Dear Possible Family Member,
Thanks for contacting the Desperado Detective Agency to see if I might be related to you or your missing loved one. Here’s two photos I hope you’ll take a look at. The first is a person of interest in the Mystery of My Life, and maybe yours too. Do you know him? Is he yours?
The second is me, Miss Moses LoBeau, a sixth grader in her prime. Are you missing me or anybody similar? And if you are missing somebody similar and she might be my Upstream Mother, do you know where she is?
I’m enclosing a stamped envelope addressed to my associate Harm Crenshaw for your reply. Or you can call the café at 252-555-CAFÉ.
Sincerely—or, if we are related—love,
Mo
The Colonel looked at the photo of Always Man, and then at my stack of envelopes, all addressed in Harm’s neat hand and stamped with Grandmother Miss Lacy’s stamps.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I think I’m an arrogant fool,” he said, looking at Miss Lana. “This was easy when we were looking for her. But now that we’re looking for a man, I’m a queasy sack of what-ifs and let’s-nots. I underestimated the collateral damage to your heart, Lana, and I am sorry.”
I went rudderless in the moment’s flow.
“You’re not that arrogant, sir, no matter what people say.”
He ruffled the envelopes. “You never completely understand what someone feels until you feel it yourself. Forgive me, Lana,” he said, his eyes glistening. “I admire your courage.”
“There’s nothing to forgive, Colonel,” she said. “You can’t know before you know.”
He stood and squared his shoulders. “Good letter, Soldier. Excellent planning deserves excellent follow-through. Hop in the Underbird, we’ll mail them now.”
I grabbed his elbow. “Wait, Colonel. I didn’t know you’d be scared.”
“Neither did I,” he said. “But fear is a bully best met head-on.”
Miss Lana snagged her 1940s swing jacket. “Tinks,” she said, “I know you can’t stand to touch meat and we cook up a lot of burgers, but can you handle the café until we get back? You can just do pb&j’s, or soup . . . Is that too crazy?”
“Crazy ain’t crazy if it works,” he said, slipping to the business side of the counter.
She hooked her arm in mine and gave the Colonel a smile that would have melted a lesser man. “Let’s get this show on the road,” she said, and headed for the door.
* * *
That night I sat in bed, my 6x4 of Always Man propped on my bookcase, the Piggly Wiggly Chronicles on my lap. My phone jangled. Nine twenty-eight p.m.
I snagged it. “Desperado Detective Agency. Misdemeanors intrigue, felonies delight. How may we serve in the darkest hour of your life?”
Skeeter’s voice came through calm and professional. “Mo? Skeeter. My staff’s left but I thought I’d pick up the phone.” Skeeter has staff like I got the measles. “The report on your sweater is in,” she continued. “I called the café earlier, but Tinks said you were out on a case.”
The sweater! My heart kicked into overdrive. “Is it hers?”
In the background, a knock at Skeeter’s door. “Skeeter?” her mom called. “Lights out.”
Skeeter sighed. “I’m sorry, Mo, I have a conference call coming through. Meet me at my satellite office tomorrow morning. All three of you.”
“Skeeter! Now!” her mother shouted, and Skeeter hung up the phone.
Chapter Fifteen
Cover for Me
The next morning, I woke up ready for the biggest news of my life.
I dressed and shot into the café, which was already standing room only. “Miss Lana,” I said, grabbing my order pad. “I got news. Big news. Skeeter called, and—”
“In a minute, sugar,” she told me, grabbing an order. “I’m up to my eyebrows. Colonel, can you reload the coffeemaker? Dale, toast? Mo, jump in, sugar.”
Miss Lana might be all smiles, but she ramrods a café crew good as the Colonel.
The town swirled in and out, keeping the cash register ringing.
“Good morning, fellow citizens,” the mayor called, smoothing his tie over his round belly and beaming around the room. “Mother and I have returned from the Thorny Plant Convention!”
“You were gone?” an Azalea Woman asked.
“You’re such a tease,” he replied, tiptoeing to his usual seat. “Mo, Mother and I would like an update on the treasure hunt this afternoon.”
“That’s bad,” Dale whispered. “We don’t have one.”
“Dale means our report is complete, minus charts and statistics. We’ll drop by this evening,” I told him as the phone rang again.
“Café,” I answered. “Mo speaking . . . Miss Retzyl! Dale and I were just saying how much we look forward to school today because . . . Gabriel Archer? Yes ma’am, please hold. GABRIEL! TELEPHONE.”
Gabriel pushed through the crowd, jostling Tinks, and grabbed the phone. “Priscilla? I was just thinking of you,” he said as Dale shot by with a tray of waters. “I hate to stand you up, but I must.”
Dale skidded to a halt. “He’s standing Miss Retzyl up,” he said, frowning. “That’s rude, only I’m glad. He’d be terrible for her.”
“Another time,” Gabriel said into the phone, smiling like an oil slick. “Ciao.” He winked at the Azalea Women, who smiled at him like high school girls smile at quarterbacks.
Dale looked at him, shocked. “You had a date with Miss Retzyl.”
Gabriel shrugged and strolled away.
“Nonsense,” Miss Lana said, loading up on toast. “Pris wouldn’t waste a minute on him.”
I glanced at the clock. Skeeter was waiting. “Desperados,” I called. “School!”
“But it’s so early, sugar,” Miss Lana said, frowning.
I turned my back to the Azalea Women, who may or may not read lips. “Miss Lana, we got a meeting with Skeeter. She called late last night, only you were asleep. My sweater’s back. She might even have Upstream Mother’s name—and her address.”
She went fragile as first ice.
“Miss Lana?” I gasped, grabbing her arm. “Are you okay?”
The Colonel hurtled over and slipped an arm around her. He pointed to a stranger at the counter. “Out,” he said, and helped her onto the stool.
Silence rippled across the café in soft, curious rings.
“I’m fine,” Miss Lana said, the color finding her pretty face. “It’s just . . . so sudden.”
Sudden? How could it be sudden when I been waiting all my life?
“I wanted to tell you sooner, but we got so busy.”
“I’m fine,” she said again, blinking at me. “Wear your mittens, sugar. It’s cold.”
Mittens? I haven’t worn mittens since second grade.
“Carry on, Soldier,” the Colonel said. “I’m with Lana.”
At the door, I turned to give her a smile. Even with the Colonel by her side, Miss Lana looked alone—like the still, forgotten place in the spin of a storm.
I swept back to give her a hug.
“Keep me posted, sugar,” she said, smoothing my hair. “I usually love surprises—but not about this. I hate being an understudy in my own life story.”
An understudy in her own life s
tory? Sometimes trying to unscramble Miss Lana’s words is like trying to unscramble eggs.
* * *
“Welcome, Desperados,” Skeeter said moments later. “Take a seat.”
We took a trio of teacher-quality chairs as Sal eased the office door closed. “Hey, Dale,” Sal said, and Dale went bright red. Again.
Skeeter slid my Belk box to me. “I only have a minute, so I’ll be brief.”
I opened it. My sweater lay inside.
Thank heavens, I thought. It’s come home.
Skeeter rattled a paper. “Mo, the DNA proves it. Your mom did wear this. Additionally, lab reports show the sweater’s pure wool—hand spun, hand knit. And it was patched. Here,” she said, turning the right sleeve toward me.
“I didn’t see that before,” I said. Somehow my voice sounded far away.
“Most people wouldn’t. The lab tested the repair. It’s a different yarn. There’s more.” She paused. “Sal’s cousin ran your mom’s DNA through the criminal database.”
My breath bottlenecked somewhere near my heart.
Harm leaned forward. “And?”
“No match,” Sal said, her voice soft. “I’m sorry she’s not doing time, Mo. It would have been an easy I.D.”
“I’m not sorry,” Dale said. “Being in an outlaw family makes you a social leopard.”
“A social leper, Dale,” Sal said as Skeeter popped open her briefcase and shuffled some papers.
The first bell rang.
I scooped up my sweater box. “I got to make a phone call. Cover for me,” I told Dale as they trooped toward class.
Skeeter nodded toward the phone on a neighboring desk. “I hate to mention it, but our internet search for Ann’s Clothes came up empty too. I’m really sorry, Mo,” she said, her voice soft. Beneath her hard-as-nails professional patina, she’s really soft as Sal.
I dialed the café. “Miss Lana,” I said, and my voice quavered away to soggy breathing. I hate it when I soggy breathe. I pressed the phone against my ear, trying to get closer.
The Law of Finders Keepers Page 11