She nodded. “Back when she was plain old Rhonda Baker.”
“What happened to make her leave? Grandmother Miss Lacy forgave her at her front door last night, but why? Mr. Red dances around the subject like it’s a Maypole. She makes Harm jumpy. In my experience as a café professional, only three things make people act that way. Bad love, bad money, bad-mouthing around town. Which is it?”
“It was a long time ago, Mo, but I’d guess a little of all three. Ask Miss Thornton.” She gave me a time’s-up smile.
“There’s one more thing,” I said, trying to sound casual. “They say jealousy’s a green-eyed monster, but you have green eyes and you seem okay.”
She turned to face me full-on and I felt the tears sting my eyes. “Jealousy? I’ve never known you to be jealous, Mo.”
“Me either. But Kat’s here and Harm barely wants her, and I can’t find Upstream Mother and I’ve been wanting her forever. It’s not fair,” I said, my voice going raw. “I feel like I swallowed a cat and it’s gnawing its way out of me. What can I do? And please don’t say pray, because I’m in a hurry.”
As a Baptist, Miss Rose prays about everything. “I can only tell you what I know. You can pray for Harm to have as much love in his life as you want in yours.”
Crud. “How long before I hit the jackpot?”
“It’s not a slot machine, honey, it’s a prayer. You just keep praying until you can change.” She hesitated. “Is Kat the kind of mother you’d want—if you could choose?”
“Kat? Gosh no,” I said, very quick. “I’d want somebody true and strong and talented and smart. Somebody I could trust. Somebody who wanted me in her life. Every day.”
She smiled. “Close the door on the way out, Mo, and give Lavender my love.”
* * *
I pedaled through town, and waved at Jake and Jimmy Exum, who were digging neat holes in Grandmother Miss Lacy’s new rose garden, with her supervising from her window. I zipped past the school and over the bridge, and laid my bike into a skid at Lavender’s garage.
His work boots stuck out from under an Azalea Woman’s car. I told him about the fix-it yarn, and my need for a road trip. He slid out on his mechanic’s board and looked up at me, his eyes ocean-blue, a perfect smudge of grease on his right cheek.
“Your Upstream Mother spins yarn? Must be hereditary. Nobody’s spins a yarn better than you, Mo LoBeau.”
“You’re the first person I’ve asked about a ride. I’d like you to be there when I find her, and I think this could be it,” I said, a blush sneaking up my neck.
He smiled. “I’m proud to be the first person you asked and the last one you need to ask. Tomorrow’s good for me, Miss LoBeau. Pick you Desperados up at nine?”
“You’re on. And Miss Rose sends her love,” I said as he scooted back under the car.
Lavender never lets me down.
* * *
Dear Upstream Mother,
I ain’t saying it out loud to anybody but Lavender and Miss Lana, in case saying it throws its own curse, but get ready to meet me.
I will arrive tomorrow in Lavender’s vintage pickup truck—a blue 1955 GMC, beautifully restored—around 10 o’clock.
Lavender will be the dashing race car driver behind the wheel. Harm’s the tall passenger and Dale is short with blond hair.
I’ll be the girl wearing your sweater, and your initial over my heart.
Mo
Chapter Nineteen
Bombshell
Saturday morning, Lavender wheeled into the parking lot, tooted the horn, and hopped out. I kissed Miss Lana’s face. “Today is the day. I can feel it in my bones.”
She smoothed her new red dress and patted her Marilyn Monroe wig into place. “I hope she’s there too, sugar, but I don’t want you to get hurt. Try to be realistic.”
The breakfast crowd went quiet. Realistic ain’t a word familiar to Miss Lana’s lips.
“You bought a new dress to meet her in,” I said, and she laughed. “Wish me luck!” I called, and I shot out and dove in next to Dale. Harm sat by the window, reviewing his checklist.
“Where to, Mo?” Lavender asked, settling beside me.
“Governor Brown’s old home,” I told him. “Skeeter set it up. It’s free with guided tours. Miss Effy—who answers the phone—says they got sheep, and spin their own yarn.”
“Do you think Miss Effy’s your Upstream Mother?” Dale asked.
“She could be, but try to be realistic. Don’t get your hopes up,” I said. “Skeeter didn’t ask her direct, but she says Miss Effy will let us ask all the questions we want.”
“Miss Effy has no idea what she’s in for,” Lavender said.
* * *
We wound through the countryside, the distance between me and Upstream Mother melting away: thirty miles, twenty. My stomach launched butterflies. Ten miles, five. My hands went clammy. “How do I look?” I asked, trying to mash my hair flat.
“Beautiful,” Lavender and Harm said together.
“The same as usual,” Dale reported.
“I’m not sure what to say to her,” I admitted. “Everything I practiced sounds lame.”
Lavender tapped my hand, which I keep near the gear shift in case he needs it. “She’s probably not there, Mo, but if she is, just be yourself. I know she’ll love you, because we do.”
As he put his blinker on, Dale leaned forward to study me. “Are you going to throw up? Because that’s not a good first impression. We learned that Halloween of first grade, remember?”
We rumbled into the yard of a grand old farmhouse with grounds full of sprawling barns, paddocks, and outbuildings. A large woman in an old-timey dress strolled out to meet us.
“I’m Miss Effy,” she said as we tumbled out. “You must be Mo.”
I went voiceless—which is rare. Dale whipped out a hand-lettered business card. “She is. I’m Dale Earnhardt Johnson III. This is Harm Crenshaw and my brother, Lavender.” He smiled, very polite. “Did you lose anything important about twelve years ago? During a hurricane?”
She blinked. “No, honey. Well, my porch furniture, maybe. My sister lost her roof and a husband, but I never liked him anyway. Why?”
“Anything else?” Dale asked, very casual. “A baby?”
“I’d remember that,” she said, and winked at Lavender. Every woman alive winks at Lavender. He winked back. “Come on, I’ll show you around,” she said, heading for the house.
I grabbed her hand. “Wait. I’m looking a woman with the initial J. Tell her Mo’s here.”
“The letter J? Nobody comes to mind, honey,” she said. “It’s just me and the fellow that helps with the sheep, and he’s hit-and-miss.”
My heart tumbled like a baby bird falling from its nest.
* * *
An hour later, I had a clue pad of notes on wool—and a soul full of mud. How could I—Mo LoBeau, a top detective—have been so wrong about the mystery of my own life?
“Our sheep are Suffolks,” Miss Effy said, strolling along a pasture fence. “Good wool. Come in and I’ll show you how to spin yarn.”
Within minutes, she sat pumping an old-timey spinning wheel, her fingers teasing the yarn. “Being a re-enactor’s a tough gig,” she said. “You have to learn the skills and get the clothes right. Shoes are the hardest. I had these ugly old things made special, cost a fortune. Spinning’s the easy part. See? Nothing to it.”
“Can I try?” Dale asked.
Dale took to it like a bird to sky. Still, his yarn came out like the mending yarn in my sweater—like stretched-out teardrops, fat and skinny, plump and thin.
Lavender slipped close to me. “Show her your sweater,” he whispered.
I took it off and handed it to her. “You ever seen this sweater before?”
“No. I’d remember it,” she said, looking at the kn
itting.
I turned the mend toward her. “My mother left me this sweater and we’re trying to find her. She might have done this mend. It’s about the only clue I got. Do you know who did it? Her name maybe started with a J. I thought she’d be here, but she’s not.”
“Oh,” she said, her face going soft. “Now I see. There’s maybe eight or nine hundred hand-spinners in North Carolina. Old hippies, artists, try-it-oncers. I don’t know them all, but I know this: Whoever mended this sweater used rug wool. Feel how scratchy it is? You can tell beginners not to do something and they’ll do it anyway. Some people won’t take advice, you know.”
“Is that hereditary?” Dale asked. “Because Mo’s like that.”
“And I’m pretty sure she used natural indigo dye, which costs sky-high. Either she was rich and pig-headed, or she grabbed it on the cheap. She could have worked with an indigo demonstrator, maybe. Now, those are few and far between.”
Dale pulled a photo of Always Man from his pocket. “Do you know him?”
“Wish I did,” she said, and he tried our Ugly Trim flyer. “Now, that sign I do know,” she said, and my heart jumped. “Can’t say from where. Did they have Saturday dances, maybe? I never got to go, but my daddy used to drive us by that sign.”
My hope lit up like the Fourth of July. “Where did he take you?”
“Mostly around home. He didn’t have the gas money to take us very far. I grew up outside Patesville, if that helps.” She walked us to the truck. “Wish I could help more, kiddos.”
She winked at Lavender. “Leave a phone number?”
“You have our business card,” Dale reminded her, and her face fell.
“Good luck, then,” she said.
“We’ll find her,” Lavender said, hopping in the truck. “Mo’s always been lucky.”
Maybe. But I sure didn’t feel lucky as we turned onto the blacktop and headed home.
* * *
“Come on, Mo. That was our first try. And we got a lot of leads,” Harm said. “We know the sign was near Patesville. We know it’s rug wool in the mend. And we’ve narrowed our suspect pool way down. When we drove up, we only knew Upstream Mother was in North Carolina the day you were born—with about ten million other people.”
“And ninety million chickens,” Dale said.
We went quiet except for the hum of tires.
“Thanks for that detail, Dale,” Harm said. “But now we know fewer than a thousand people in North Carolina hand-spin yarn. And out of them, we want someone who’s either rich enough to buy natural indigo dye, or demonstrates making it.”
“A rich woman would buy the right yarn,” Dale said.
“Great point,” Harm said. “So that narrows it down too. Sets and subsets. Right?”
“Math,” Dale said, spitting the word. “Only one person can problem solve on this level: Miss Retzyl.” He looked at Lavender. “Can you go to her house with us? She likes you and it could mean extra credit for me.”
“Sorry, little brother,” Lavender said. “She’s gone to Ocracoke, with Starr.”
Ocracoke? Again? And she didn’t tell me?
“We got the afternoon off, then,” Dale said, settling against the seat. “Good, because I got a surprise. I know where the treasure is. Lunch first,” he said. “Then I’ll show you.”
* * *
Miss Lana’s gaze locked onto mine as I walked through the café door. I shook my head. “Next time, sugar,” she said, giving me a hug. “Sit down, all of you. Lunch is on me.”
“A failure? It must be the curse again.” Attila sighed from the window table as Mrs. Simpson wheeled into the parking lot. “Pity,” she said, heading outside.
“Pity yourself, Attila,” I said as Queen Elizabeth zipped through the door.
As we polished off our burgers, Dale laid out his plan. “Queen Elizabeth and me had a dream last night,” he said. “We were all in the woods, and Liz was chasing a rabbit and Harm had a rope and a shovel.”
“A plan based on a dream, Dale? I don’t know,” Harm said.
“We have two maps,” Dale said. “A pirate drew Gabriel’s, and it has two Xs. Mary drew ours and it has one X. What do they have in common? An X near the old fish camp.”
“So?” Harm said, leaning forward.
“So think like a pirate. X Marks the Spot,” Dale said. “The dream and the maps say it: The treasure’s near the old marl pits and fish camp. Let’s go.”
“Hold on,” Harm said. “Isn’t X marks the spot a little . . . obvious?”
“Okay, we’ll do your idea instead,” Dale said, crossing his arms. Dale can be stubborn.
I sighed. My heart still felt like cement.
Lavender leaned to me and whispered, “Sometimes the best thing for a broken heart is to just keep moving.”
Like I said, I love it when Lavender whispers. “I’m in,” I said.
Harm shrugged. “Me too, I guess.”
“We’ll need a shovel and rope,” Dale told Miss Lana as Liz shot to the door.
“In the toolshed, honey,” she said.
I grabbed three dollars from my tip jar, slapped open the cash register drawer, and switched out my cash for rolls of pennies.
“What’s that for?” Dale asked. “I didn’t dream pennies.”
“You’re not the only Desperado with a plan,” I said, and we walked innocent as lambs into the deadliest afternoon of our lives.
Chapter Twenty
Help! Somebody Help!
Lavender dropped us at the head of Fish Camp Road, and we took the rutted path into the forest, Queen Elizabeth sniffing for squirrels and rabbits.
We stopped at the fork leading to the old fish camp.
“Gabriel’s camp lies to the right,” Dale said, his voice low. He peered at the treetops. “The path to the marl pits goes left . . . Over there,” he said, pointing to a dip in the canopy. “It’s an old path, all growed over, but Daddy showed me once,” he added. “Liz, slow down!”
I tugged a roll of pennies from my pocket and peeled the paper back. I hurled pennies into the trees and listened to them patter down like rain. “If they want to slow us down with a bogus map, we’ll slow Attila’s metal detector down,” I said, and Harm laughed.
“Devious, LoBeau,” he said, settling our rope over his shoulder.
We strolled deeper into the forest, Dale side-arming pennies in bursts, Harm spinning his into honeysuckle vines and up to the treetops.
Lavender was right. The sharp-cold air and crunch of leaves helped balance my teeter-totter heart.
“What’s that?” Harm asked, heading for an odd-shaped oak. He yanked a curtain of pale vines off a crooked old sign nailed into the tree’s trunk.
KEEP OUT! NO SWIMMING!
“Swimming?” he muttered. “Who’d be crazy enough to swim back here?”
“You, I imagine,” Attila said, stepping from behind a privet, her metal detector in tow. “Isn’t that what you people do? Find swimming holes because you can’t afford a pool?”
Even in the cold she looked flushed and sweaty.
“I’m surprised you’re out here,” I replied. “I guess you got over your fear of snakes.”
“Snakes hibernate in winter,” she said, looking at the kaleidoscope of leaves at our feet. She swung the metal detector back and forth. Beep!
“That’s the way we professionals do it,” she said. She stooped and snagged her find. “What’s a new penny doing out here?”
“Rhetorical,” Dale whispered.
She swung the metal detector again, catching it in a screen of briars. “What are you people doing out here?” she demanded, yanking it free.
“You guessed it,” Harm said, very easy. “Scouting swimming holes. If you’re still out here when it warms up, we’ll invite you to go along.”
“In your dr
eams,” she muttered.
I frowned and looked around. “Why are you out here alone? Where’s Gabriel and Kat?”
“At Gabriel’s camp, reviewing his research and making new plans.”
Because his map is totally useless, I thought as she thrashed off into the woods.
“Somehow she’s even less appealing out in nature,” Harm said.
Dale looked sharp right and left. “Where’s Queen Elizabeth? Liz!” Liz yelped. “Come back,” he shouted, heading toward her.
We pressed on, calling Liz and tossing pennies. Finally, the green pines gave way to bare-limbed maples. Ahead of us, a patch of bone-colored reeds stood still and quiet as ghosts along a cement-gray mudflat. The flat stretched to a pond, its water black and glistening, the sky clear and wintry up above.
I pushed through the reeds and started across. “Mo! Stop!” Dale shouted.
My feet dropped through the crust and the wet sand swallowed my shoes. “Help!” I gasped, windmilling my arms.
“Mo!” Harm shouted, his hand snaking out to grab mine. “Back up.”
The muck gobbled me to my knees.
“I can’t!” I said, surprised by the wail in my voice.
“Stay stiff and fall backwards,” Dale said. He reached from behind to grab my other arm. “Fall like a tree,” he instructed. “We got you.”
I fell straight back, too scared to close my eyes, and slammed to the ground, my shoulders in briars. The boys’ feet churned and slid beside me as they dragged me from the earth’s slurping grasp. “Mo,” Harm said, pushing my hair from my face. “Are you okay?”
Okay?
My heart pounded, my legs shook, I’d bit half through my tongue. Blood trickled down my neck from briars. “Fine,” I said, blinking back the tears as I stared at my wet socks.
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