The Law of Finders Keepers

by Sheila Turnage

  “Right,” Harm said, his voice tight. “And that’s half a fortune to us.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Fix-It Yarn, Dinner & a Spy

  The next day at school, Harm unraveled like a cheap ball of yarn. “Did I tell you I’m cooking for Kat at Miss Thornton’s tonight? You’re invited,” he said at lunch, an orange crumb on his lip. Harm’s lips never crumb.

  “You told us plenty,” I said. “We’ll be there.”

  “Wow,” Dale whispered as Harm left for the boys’ room. “I haven’t seen Harm this uncool since our first gig.”

  After school, it got worse.

  “Mama, I’m home,” Dale shouted as we pounded through the living room, to his boy pit of a room. He peeled off his jacket and dropped it on the floor.

  “We’re in the kitchen,” Miss Rose called as Harm collapsed onto the beanbag chair.

  Dale scratched Queen Elizabeth’s head and hurried to his terrarium. “Hello, little newts,” he said. “Dale’s home. You remember Mo and Harm.” They blinked. “Take it easy. Calm down, sweet amphibians.”

  Harm hopped up and paced, frowning. “Wear something nice tonight, Mo. Not too dressy but . . . you know. Your usual cool.”

  “You already told her,” Dale said. He grabbed his jar of freeze-dried bugs and sprinkled them at his newts’ feet. “Newts are introverts. Newton’s more outgoing, but Madame Curie’s picking up social skills.” Newton sat still as mud. “See?”

  Sometimes I wonder how Dale and me can live in such different worlds and still be on the same planet.

  “We need to refocus on our case before I start obsessing,” Harm said, like we weren’t a day too late on that one. He tugged his math test from his backpack and flipped it over to an obsessively neat list. “Okay, here’s my report on the Always Man letters. So far, three people have written back.”

  My nerves stretched tight as fiddle strings. “And?”

  “They were no’s,” he said, and my heartstrings sagged. “Which means we have forty-seven letters still out.”

  “We’re closing in on her,” Dale whispered to his newts.

  “And then there’s the sweater,” Harm continued. “We know it’s got two different kinds of wool, and two people wove it. We know it’s old, and we know it’s from Ireland.”

  Dale settled down by his bed, his arm around Queen Elizabeth. “You’re from Ireland,” he said, studying me. “Mo O’LoBeau. It has a nice ring.” Liz leaned to lick his chin. She would die a thousand times for Dale, I thought, and him for her.

  It’s good to have people. And dogs.

  Dale smiled at her. “Liz, play dead.” She keeled over. “Good!” He scooped half a peanut butter sandwich from beneath his bed and tossed it to her. She thumped her tail.

  Harm tapped his list. “You might be Irish, Mo, but I don’t see how it helps us.”

  “Me either. Yet,” I said, scratching my arm where the mend hit. I stepped over Dale’s guitar and walked over to the puppy portraits hung two feet off the floor. “I thought Grandmother Miss Lacy said to hang these at eye height,” I said, straightening a photo.

  “I did,” Dale said. “Queen Elizabeth’s eye height.

  “Hey, Bill Glasgow works in a museum. He’s a history guy. He might know about old-timey spinners. Of course,” he mused, “Bill Glasgow and me are complicated. I made him godfather of Madame Curie. That could make Bill my godfather once removed, but I don’t think he’s a newt-in-law. I could be wrong. But even if he is, we could ask him about your sweater.”

  He shot to the kitchen, Harm and me on his heels.

  “Hey, Desperados,” Bill said, taking a pie out of the oven. Bill Glasgow visits Miss Rose most days after work. He’s thin and wiry and moves like music owns his bones. He listens to Dale same as Lavender does, and he makes Miss Rose shine. “How was school?”

  “School was need-to-know today and we didn’t need to know it,” I said.

  “Sal and me are pre-kissing,” Dale added, and Miss Rose looked up from her ledger. Miss Rose has dark hair and green eyes. She’s look-again pretty and smiling more now that Dale’s daddy ain’t around. She’s smart and warm, and moves easy as a wheat field in a breeze.

  Dale took the plates out of the cabinet. “I’d love to have your top three tips on a first kiss when you have time,” he told Bill.

  Miss Rose’s smile went horizontal. I jumped in, very sensitive. “This ain’t a kiss-and-tell situation, Dale. I got a different question, Bill Glasgow. We know you’re a history expert. It’s about my sweater,” I said, holding the mend toward Miss Rose as he cut his sweet potato pie.

  “Beautiful work,” she said. “Does that mend itch you, Mo? Some wools do.”

  “A little. Do you know anybody that makes old-timey yarn?” I asked Bill.

  “You mean a re-enactor?” he asked. “Lots of historic sites use them. I can check for you.” He hesitated. “You know, you can buy handspun yarn too.”

  My heart skipped like an engine with a bad spark plug.

  “No. Mo’s got rookie fix-it yarn,” Dale said. “Not store quality.”

  Bill grinned, his smile lines deep as gorges. “Good focus, Dale. I’ll make some calls, Mo. Meet tomorrow? Same place, new pie.”

  Harm hopped up. “Don’t forget my dinner, Desperados. Come at seven. Mo, dress . . . dark. I’m making spaghetti. I know how you are.”

  Miss Rose laughed. “Mo knows how to dress,” she said. It was a blind-faith statement, but I appreciated it. She tilted her head. “I remember your mom from high school, Harm,” she said, her voice careful. “Tell her hello for me.”

  “Thanks, I will,” Harm said, and headed down the hall. The front door slammed.

  “And you two be careful around Kat Kline,” she added.

  “Careful about what?” I asked, picking up my fork.

  “That’s the thing about her,” she said. “You never really know until it’s too late.”

  * * *

  The Colonel dropped me at Grandmother Miss Lacy’s at seven, just as Lavender eased up. Dale and Sal hopped out of his truck, Sal carrying a garment bag. Dale slammed the door, opened it, and lifted the tail of Sal’s skirt out. Lavender drove away.

  The old house was lit party perfect. Dale smoothed Lavender’s electric-blue tie over his black shirt, hitched up his black pants, and knocked.

  “You look nice, Mo,” Sal said, shifting the garment bag. “I hope Harm won’t mind, but Mama asked me to drop Kat’s jacket off,” she added.

  Thanks to her seamstress mother, Sal’s a middle school fashion icon. Her red plaid dress fit perfect, and her high-sheen patent leathers gleamed in the porch light.

  I’d selected black spaghetti-proof cords and turtleneck, and my Upstream Mother sweater and locket. The signature plaid sneakers were a no-brainer.

  The door swung open.

  “You remembered,” Harm said, his voice flooding with relief. “Kat called from the inn. She’s running behind. You all look great,” he said, but he was smiling at me.

  I smiled and peeped in the dining room. He’d decked out the long table—tablecloth, real napkins, candles. “You look good too,” I told him. True. He wore his usual black slacks and a white shirt, with the cuffs rolled up—a daring spaghetti choice.

  “Listen,” he whispered, and we stepped nearer. “Keep the conversation friendly, okay? Don’t mention the treasure, or Gramps. Or the past. Or the future. Don’t mention Gramps running out of money. Or the truck breaking down, or the pipes leaking, or . . .”

  “We know how to act, Harm,” Sal said. “We’re your friends.”

  Harm closed his eyes. “Sorry. Hang on, I’ll get us something to drink.”

  By the time Kat knocked twenty minutes later, we’d settled in the parlor, nursing iced teas. Grandmother Miss Lacy, in her navy dress, answered the door. “Kat! Come
in, dear.”

  I peeked around the corner. Kat had dressed Nashville nice—slacks and sparkly black sweater, scarf but no jacket, like Harm. She looked nervous as Harm too. Grandmother Miss Lacy spoke low: “Kat, what’s behind us is behind us. I forgive you. Welcome to my home.”

  “Thank you, Miss Thornton,” Kat said as Grandmother Miss Lacy glanced my way. “Harm doesn’t know and I—”

  “Do come in,” Grandmother Miss Lacy interrupted, frowning at me.

  Harm doesn’t know what?

  Harm jumped up as Kat strolled in and gave her a quick hug. “Thanks for coming, everybody,” he said. “Have a seat and I’ll put the pasta on.” He looked at me, his eyes a glassy shade of polite. “Mo, can you help me?”

  “I’m a café kid,” I said, heading for him. “I can dish up anything you got cooking.”

  * * *

  By the time we sat down to eat, everything was just the way Harm likes it: Perfect.

  Perfect salad, perfect spaghetti, perfect bread. Perfect chitchat, perfect table, perfect candlelight. I draped my sweater over the back of my chair. My relationship with spaghetti is colorful and hard to wash out.

  The conversation went fast and safe—school, Grandmother Miss Lacy’s pansies, our search for Upstream Mother. Harm talked about our Always Man letters and photos: “Three no’s, with forty-seven still out.” The reminder kicked me like a mule.

  Kat gave me a smile. “Three out of fifty? That’s nothing,” she said. “The odds against making it in Nashville are worse. Don’t give up, Mo. We’ll make it.” She helped herself to more sauce. “Harm, this is delicious.

  “You know, Mo, I’d love to sing at the café. Just to keep my voice in tune.” She smiled at me, then turned to Harm. “How about it? We’d be great together. Please?”

  Harm went tense as one of Mrs. Little’s taxidermy projects.

  Kat frowned. “I thought you’d love the idea, but if you don’t want to sing with me . . .”

  “It’s not that,” Harm said. “It’s just that Dale and I have a group. I mean, we’re a duo.”

  “On the Verge,” Sal said. “They’re very impressive.”

  The room went quiet, but the air felt like static. Kat broke the silence with a conversational curveball. “So, how’s your treasure hunt going?”

  Dale didn’t blink. “Good except Gabriel stole our clue.” He looked at Sal and slumped. “I wasn’t supposed to say that,” he whispered, and she reached for his hand.

  Still, true is true. I waited for Kat to deny it. She didn’t.

  “You mean that Cross over resting, blah-blah-blah?” she said. “Gabriel didn’t steal that. Someone gave it to him. That’s what he told me, anyway.” She went stricken as Dale. “I feel terrible. Let me get it back for you.”

  “It’s too late,” I said. “He’s already read it.”

  “You can’t unread something even if you want to,” Dale added. “I’ve tried.”

  “Let me make it up to you, then. Maybe I could update you from time to time,” she said, and Grandmother Miss Lacy’s eyebrows went sky-high. “No,” she said quickly, “that wouldn’t be right.” She shrugged the idea away. “You’re a very talented chef, Harm Crenshaw. I can’t think of a thing that would improve that dinner.”

  “Dessert, maybe?” Harm said, beaming. Miss Lana says everybody looks better in candlelight. True. Harm looked golden. “I’ve made a—”

  “Sorry. When you’re in show business, you have to watch your figure. Besides, I’m expecting a call from my agent.”

  “At nine o’clock at night?” Sal asked, very soft.

  Kat put her napkin on the table. “Let me know what day works for Lana, Mo. For Harm and me to sing, I mean. Harm, can I help you clean up, baby?”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got it,” Harm said. “And I’m not singing.”

  “Don’t forget your jacket,” Sal called as Grandmother Miss Lacy walked Kat out.

  The door closed. I caught a flash of purple at the window, and Kat was gone.

  “That was wonderful, Harm,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said, straightening her dessert fork. “I couldn’t be prouder if you were my own son.”

  “Me either,” Dale said.

  “And I say yes to Kat’s offer,” I added. “We could use a spy.”

  “No,” Sal and Dale said, and Harm shook his head.

  No? “But Harm,” I said, “it would give you more time with Kat.”

  “No thanks, Mo,” he said, very easy. “I’m good.”

  I looked at him, stunned. “How can you pass up time with your mom?”

  He shrugged. “I’m willing to spend time with her, Mo. But Kat thinks whatever’s good for her spins the universe. She’d be a terrible spy—we’d never be able to trust her information and we’d owe her on top of that. I’d rather just cook dinner for her now and then. If we can become friends, great. And if we can’t . . .” He let his voice fall away.

  “You’ll let her go,” I said, and jealousy swung through me so sharp, it sliced my breath in two. “How can you throw her away? She’s your mom,” I said, my volume cranked up higher than expected. I looked into my friends’ shocked faces.

  “Moms are people,” Sal said. “They aren’t perfect. Not when you see them up close.”

  “Mine is,” Dale said. “Mostly.”

  Harm rose, his white shirt still pristine. “I’m not throwing Kat away, Mo, but I’m not playing her game either. Dessert coming up,” he said, and headed for the kitchen. “A new recipe special for tonight. And Mo, I think you’re going to love it.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  A Tip, a Lead, a Mistake

  The next morning—Friday—Kat Kline waltzed into the café like she owned the place. She shrugged out of her jacket, its sapphire lining catching the Winter Tree’s light. “Morning, everybody,” she said, letting the door slap shut. “Our treasure hunt is slow getting started this morning. I’ll take a cup of java, Mo,” she said, grabbing a seat at the counter.

  I slid silverware to her place as Miss Lana poured her coffee. “Lana, I’d love to perform here one night,” she said. “For free, of course. It would be great for your business. Everybody likes a concert.” She winked at me. “And Mo might convince Harm to join me.”

  Remember what Miss Rose said: Be careful, I thought.

  “As a mother you naturally want to bond with Harm,” I said, very casual. “But as his manager I can’t recommend him to play. Him and Dale are cash only, and Tupelo Landing is our primary market. You can’t give it away one day and charge the next.”

  She stirred sugar into her coffee. “We’ll see. The offer’s good even if he can’t make it.”

  As a fellow performance artist, Miss Lana will snap her up, I thought. I was wrong.

  “Thanks for offering,” she said. “We’ll be in touch.”

  Kat drank half her coffee and swaggered to the door. “Make sure you bus my place, Mo,” she whispered. “I know how to tip, and how to even a score.”

  She did too. She’d left a ten-dollar bill. I grabbed the neat sheet of paper under it.

  I unfolded it.

  A photocopy of a map. She’d written across the top: Gabriel’s Treasure Map, sketched by a Pirate—hope we’re even. Kat. I turned just in time to see the flash of her purple jacket as she jumped into Gabriel’s car and purred away.

  * * *

  “If that map’s from Kat, it’s a trap,” Harm said at lunch. “She doesn’t care about making things even. This deal’s as phony as her promising to keep us together and then her going to Nashville without me.” He breathed in like he could inhale calm. “Keep your eye on the ball, Mo. We’re meeting with Bill Glasgow after school, to see what he learned about old-timey spinners. And we have to solve that cross over resting riddle. I even dreamt about it.”

  As I opened my lunch, Sal picked up th
e map. “It looks old. Did you find this in the archives?”

  “In Mo’s sock drawer?” Dale asked, frowning.

  “No, Kat left it for me this morning,” I said. “As a tip.”

  “Oh. Kat,” she said like she’d found a dead bug, and looked at Harm.

  He shrugged. “Okay, let’s see it,” he said, and we bent over the map.

  “It’s dated 1719,” Sal said. “And signed: JRA. Who’s that?”

  “Beats me. It looks like one X is at the old marl pits, and one on Mr. Red’s farm,” Dale said. He frowned. “Is that why Kat came by Mr. Red’s? Because of this X?”

  “Come on, guys,” Harm said. “If Kat gave us this, it helps her—not us. Either she’s leading us in the wrong direction, or wants us to feel like we owe her. Forget the map. It’s bogus,” he said, and stalked away.

  * * *

  Harm was still grumpy that afternoon, when we found Bill Glasgow.

  “Hey,” Bill said as we blasted into Dale’s room. “Didn’t think you’d mind if I fed the newts.” He closed the bug jar. “Several places use old-timey yarn-spinners, Mo. I made a list. Governor Brown’s old home is closest—thirty miles or so up 264. I’d start there if it was me.”

  “Lavender loves a road trip,” I said. “I’ll ask him to take us.”

  “Good plan.” Bill grabbed Dale’s guitar and strummed it wrong. He’s a mandolin player, not a guitar man. Dale moved Bill’s pinkie and nodded. Bill strummed again.

  I hopped up. “I better go see Lavender,” I said, but I slipped down the hall to Miss Rose’s office—the old oak desk in the corner of her bedroom. I knocked and peeked in. “Hey,” I said, and she looked away from her work, her hair swept up and a pencil behind her ear. “I’d love to sit and chat, but Lavender’s practically expecting me.”

  “He’s at the garage, Mo,” she said.

  “Yes ma’am.” I stepped in and closed the door. “Miss Rose, I was hoping we could talk woman to woman even if I am pre-puberty,” I said. Her green eyes went wary. I settled on the edge of her bed. “You knew Kat Kline when she was a girl.”