The Law of Finders Keepers

by Sheila Turnage

  We are an Official Family-of-Choice forever, never to be torn apart by People or Fate, always to honor and share. The three of us together, always true to each other, true to our stars.

  Signed,

  Miss Lana

  The Colonel

  Miss Moses LoBeau

  PS: Anybody tries to tear us apart has to deal with me. Mo

  Miss Lana signed. The Colonel signed and underlined his name.

  “Miss Lana, if you want me to stop looking for Upstream Mother, I will.”

  “Don’t you dare stop,” she said. “Always follow your heart.” She glanced at the clock and jumped up. “Mercy, look at the time. We have breakfast and lunch, plus the Extravaganza tonight. Dale and Harm are sold out. This is a big day.”

  It was, too. Miss Lana found the Colonel’s valentine by the cash register; he found his in the coffee can. They’d hid mine in my order pad. At 7:17, Lavender gave me a red rose, and I gave him a panda card with a marriage proposal penciled in.

  But Cupid got the jitters the instant I hit the playground.

  * * *

  Dale paced by the school steps. “Hey Desperado,” I said, heading over. “I’m sorry, about yesterday. I should have—”

  “Not now, Mo,” he interrupted. “Today I kiss Sal. Lavender helped me make a plan. I’ll give Sal her Valentine’s gifts. I’ll walk her home from school. Today I kiss Sal,” he said again, and stumbled over his own feet.

  “Are you okay?” Harm asked, grabbing his arm.

  “Breathe deep,” I said. “You’ll be fine, Desperado. Remember your notes.”

  He bent double and wheezed. “Move slow,” he mumbled. “Hands in pockets. Don’t bump noses.”

  “Here she comes,” Harm whispered. “Try to stand up.”

  Sal sailed over as Dale went upright.

  “Hey, Dale.” She stepped close, tilted her head, and kissed him square on the lips. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” she said, and hurried inside.

  Dale looked at me, his eyes round as hubcaps. “I did it,” he whispered. “I kissed Sal.” And he walked away like a boy dreaming.

  * * *

  As Harm and I trotted up the steps, Attila flounced by. “I hear you’re leaving Tupelo Landing, Harm,” she said. “Don’t let the door hit you on your way out.”

  “We’ll see,” Harm said, very even.

  I hate Attila Celeste Simpson.

  News of Dale and Sal’s kiss shot through the sixth grade like a flaming arrow through rat cheese. “We’re a power couple, Dale,” Sal whispered as we walked into the classroom. She smiled and headed to her seat.

  Dale turned to me. “Did you bring the marriage proposals? We got to move fast. I saw Miss Retzyl in the office, but she won’t be there long,” he said, snagging a handwritten note from Miss Retzyl’s desk and stuffing it in a large manila envelope. I dropped in Miss Lana’s and the Colonel’s proposals. He tossed in Starr’s note evicting us from the treasure pit, and grabbed Jake’s sleeve.

  “Jake, I need a favor,” Dale said, holding out the envelope.

  “No. It’s Valentine’s Day,” Jake said, smiling at Hannah Greene. “Jimmy and me want to fall in love.”

  “It would mean a lot to me,” Dale continued. “I could trade you for it. I could let you and Jimmy tap-dance at the Extravaganza tonight. Hannah will be there. Her sisters too.”

  Jake hesitated. “I would, but I already owe Sal. She might want a favor at the same time.”

  Sal smiled. “Dale’s favor would make us even too.”

  “Done,” Jake said, snatching the envelope and hurrying to his brother.

  As Dale followed Sal to her seat, I looked over to see Harm drop a red envelope on my desk. Despite my lifelong future romance with Lavender, Harm’s valentine set my heart wobbly.

  Was it a cute baby card, or a real one? I’d bought him one of each. But which one to give him?

  Dale handed Sal a box of candy, a daffodil, and a card. She opened the card: “This flower’s not red and the candy’s not blue, but I think I love you so please love me too.”

  “Candy, poem, flower—check,” Dale whispered to himself.

  Harm gave me a wink. I winked back.

  “Dale,” I said. “What kind of valentine did Harm get me?”

  He peeped over at my desk. “Red?”

  Why do I even try? I reached in my messenger bag, my fingers darting between a borderline sophisticated card and my Fallback Panda—both signed and ready to go.

  “Hi, Mo,” Harm said, swaggering over. He gave me a smile—all dimples firing.

  I opened my mouth. My brain threw a fuse.

  “Mo?” Dale said. “It’s your turn to talk. Harm said hi.”

  My face went red. I forked over my Fallback Panda.

  “Thanks,” Harm said, opening it. “This is really . . . cute.”

  Cute. The only thing worse than cute is tacky. I fled to my desk and stuffed Harm’s valentine in my bag as Dale slipped into his seat.

  “That was terrible,” he said.

  “I don’t care,” I snapped. “I’m going out with Lavender in just seven more years. He gave me a rose.”

  “Lavender gives roses to all the women in his life. Queen Elizabeth ate hers,” Dale said.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, Dale,” I said, handing his panda card to him. “And I’m really sorry about yesterday. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  He sighed. “I know. You’re self-centered is all,” he said. “You might grow out of it but Bill says a pup’s personality is set in the first few weeks. With humans it takes longer, but by now we’re pretty much who we are. I love you anyway but not like Sal. With you, it’s futonic.”

  “You mean platonic, Dale. A futon is a couch.”

  “Right. I sleep on your couch sometimes,” he said as he plundered his backpack. He dragged out the valentine I gave him last year, marked out my name, and wrote his. He handed it over as Harm slumped in his seat.

  “Mo,” Dale said as the bell rang, “Kat’s picking her agent up at the airport this afternoon. They’re coming tonight.” My hope circled the drain like dirty dishwater. “We’ve been practicing, only—”

  “Good morning, class,” Miss Retzyl interrupted, sailing in. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” She started down the aisle with a box of cartoon-style valentines. I pulled myself together.

  “The Desperados have a situation,” I told her as she handed me a detective card. “We’ll be in the office.”

  “No,” she said, handing Dale a puppy valentine.

  “Thank you,” Dale said, handing her a card. “Queen Elizabeth sends her love.” She fished out a second puppy valentine and signed it for Liz.

  I grabbed her sleeve. “Harm may be contagious. I need to quarantine him ASAP.”

  She slid her glasses to the tip of her nose and studied Harm. He’d slumped in his desk, his long legs crossed at the ankles, his handsome face pale. “Harm, are you sick?”

  “Sick of my idiot life,” he muttered, and she headed down the aisle.

  Crud.

  Harm’s leaving, I thought. And he still doesn’t know how I feel.

  * * *

  At day’s end, Jake dropped Dale’s big manila envelope on his desk as Harm headed out the door. “The best forgeries in the county,” Jake said, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops. “See you tonight. We’ll bring our tap shoes.”

  They really do dance, I thought. My life is a nightmare.

  Dale reached into the manila envelope, pulled out a red envelope, and dropped it on Miss Retzyl’s desk. Across the front in Joe Starr’s blocky handwriting: MISS PRISCILLA RETZYL.

  “Now all we got to do is find Joe Starr,” Dale said.

  * * *

  “We’re never going to find Joe Starr,” Dale said an hour later as we dropped our bikes at the c
afé door.

  Tinks sat inside, wolfing down chili. “How’s the treasure hunt going?” he asked.

  “It’s not, thanks to you, traitor,” I said.

  His shoulders sagged. “I knew you’d be mad. Is Starr guarding the treasure pit? He should be.”

  “No,” Dale said, dialing the phone. “We just looked.” He snapped to attention. “Hello? 911? This is a stranger at the café. We need Detective Joe Starr. It’s an emergency. . . . No, this isn’t Dale and yes he did kiss.” He hung up and looked at Tinks. “Can we trust you?”

  “Try me,” Tinks said, and Dale slid a red envelope to him. Across the front of the envelope, in Miss Retzyl’s neat handwriting: Detective Joe Starr.

  As me and Dale settled in with the last of the Neapolitan ice cream, Starr skidded into the parking lot, siren blaring. He zipped through the door. For some reason, he zeroed in on me. “Faking a 911 call is illegal,” he said.

  Tinks slid the red envelope his way. “This has your name on it.”

  He smiled. “That’s Priscilla’s handwriting.” He opened the card as Miss Lana cruised in with the glittery red hearts for the Winter Tree.

  Not Miss Lana! Not now.

  Starr read his card out. “Life’s a miracle, dear Detective Joe Starr, and there’s no one I’d rather share it with than you. Marry me. Miss Priscilla Retzyl.”

  Miss Lana gasped. “But that’s my proposal for . . .” I put my finger over my lips.

  “Marry her?” Starr said. “Has she lost her mind?” And he sped away, siren blaring. Weird.

  “Mo, how did my words wind up in Joe’s card?” Miss Lana demanded as the phone rang. She snagged it. “Café. Lana speaking.”

  “Go,” I whispered, and Dale and me tiptoed to the door.

  “Freeze, you two,” Miss Lana snapped. We froze. “Oh, Priscilla,” she said. “No, Joe just left. He what? . . . Read that again,” she said as the Colonel strolled in with new Neapolitan. “Mercy, I didn’t know Joe was such a poet.” She closed her eyes: “Marry me, Miss Priscilla Retzyl. I love you like the ocean loves the taste of salt. Detective Joe Starr.”

  The Colonel whirled to me. I smiled my best smile, the one I’ll use if I’m ever hauled before a firing squad. Because who wants to die unattractive?

  Miss Lana clattered the phone into its cradle. “Priscilla just proposed to Joe Starr, using the words I gave you,” she said, putting her hands on her hips and glaring at me.

  “And that was my love song to Lana,” the Colonel said.

  Miss Lana studied me like I was new. “You used our words to propose to Joe and Priscilla? Why didn’t I think of that?”

  She glanced at the 7 Up clock.

  “Three hours to curtain time. Run home and change,” she told Dale, and he sped out the door.

  I sighed. Three hours before Harm leaves Tupelo Landing—maybe for good.

  * * *

  At 6:25 I hung the last red glittery heart on the Winter Tree and gave the café a final inspection—white tablecloths, candles, microphones. Outside, the parking lot was packed.

  Dale and Sal tapped at the door. “Good news,” Sal said as Jake and Jimmy clacked in behind them. “The school heater’s out again. No school tomorrow.”

  Jake and Jimmy peeled off their jackets and plopped on the floor, stretching their stubby legs and bumping their heads to their knees.

  “Harm’s working off nerves in the kitchen,” Miss Lana told Dale as he set his guitar by the mics.

  “He’s throwing up again, isn’t he?” Dale asked. “He hates doing anything not perfect.”

  Miss Lana ignored his question—which meant yes to throwing up. “Leave him alone—all of you,” she said. She smoothed her tuck-waisted 1950s suit over her hips and patted her Ava Gardner wig into place.

  “Action!” she cried, and flipped our closed sign to open.

  Car doors flew wide and the crowd surged toward us. “Good evening, don’t push,” I said. “I’m Mo, and I’ll be taking care of you. Tonight we’re serving the Colonel’s heart-shaped Meatloaf of Love, which comes individual on the plate and dressed in a delicate ketchup sauce. For sides we got Cupid’s Collard Casserole and Mashed Potatoes of Desire, all for fourteen ninety-nine cash, including tea and entertainment. Don’t push.”

  We filled every table in three minutes flat. Mayor Little and Mrs. Little. Miss Rose and Bill Glasgow. The entire sixth grade. Miss Retzyl and Joe Starr. Mr. Red took his seat and Harm bounded over, his dimples green but determined.

  “Is she here?” he asked. Anxiety rolled off him like heat off August sand.

  “No, and with luck she won’t be,” Mr. Red told him.

  “Listen, I’m not leaving, Gramps,” he said, lowering his voice. “I just hope you won’t be ashamed of the way I’ve found to stay. Where’s Miss Thornton?”

  “Went to get Gabriel. She doesn’t trust him around your treasure,” he said as Lavender strolled in with a twin.

  Supper came and went. At eight, Grandmother Miss Lacy’s seat still sat empty.

  So did Kat’s.

  “Ready?” I whispered as Dale tuned his guitar. I pointed to Sal. She killed the overheads and Skeeter flipped on the spotlight. I stepped up to the microphone. “Good evening, and welcome to our first-ever Valentine’s Extravaganza. Tonight, we present Tupelo Landing’s Duo of Doo-wop and Crooners of Country Tunes. You know them, you love them—Dale and Harm—On the Verge! With Special Guest Dancers Jake and Jimmy Exum!”

  The café roared. Sal whistled.

  As Harm headed for his mic, I gathered my courage and grabbed his arm. “Everybody’s going to love you tonight, Harm. I know they will. Because I do.”

  For one instant, Harm looked like I’d handed him bad wiring and flipped the switch. Then he grinned wide as his face and swaggered for the spotlight.

  Dale stepped up to his mic, easy as coming home. “Hey, everybody, and thanks for clapping. It’s Valentine’s Day, so we’ll open with a love song by Hank Williams, Senior. Let’s sing it pretty, Harm. This one’s for Sal.”

  The door swung open. Harm’s grin collapsed.

  Kat Kline swayed in wearing fringe head-to-toe, a slicked-back catfish of a man on her arm. “Sorry we’re late, everybody,” she said. “You know how Raleigh traffic is.”

  Dale covered his mic as I rushed up. “Harm,” Dale whispered, “we got to use Plan B.”

  “You got a Plan B? What is it?” I asked.

  “Sing it the way we practiced—rough and wrong,” Dale told Harm. “Keep your eyes on Mo. She’s tone deaf. She won’t mind.”

  Dale’s a genius! That’s why they’ve been practicing songs they already know. To learn them wrong.

  I looked at Harm. He’d gone green again. Dale’s right, I thought. Harm loves perfect, even when not perfect’s better.

  Dale uncovered the mic and looked at Harm. “Ready, Harm? You got the lead.” Harm locked eyes with me. “Just like we practiced. And one, two, three, and . . .”

  Harm glanced at Kat and froze. Dale kept strumming, very smooth, waiting.

  The crowd rustled. Mrs. Little booed.

  “Sorry,” Dale said, and stopped strumming. “I messed that up a little. I guess I’m nervous. Ready, Harm?”

  “Stop,” Harm said, bumping his mic and making it squeal. “I’m sorry, Dale. Mom, I’m sorry. I can’t do it. Maybe you can solo, Dale. I feel sick.”

  The crowd rumbled. Attila, in the front row, snickered.

  “Hold it, baby.” Kat swaggered up. She put her hand over his mic and whispered in Harm’s ear. He shot me a look so sharp, it sliced my soul in two. “It’s a good deal, Harm,” she said as I started for him. “Take it.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked. “I’m Harm’s business manager. What deal?”

  She smiled razor-quick. “Good news,” she said, her voice low. “I foun
d the clue of your lifetime, Mo. The clue that will lead you straight into your Upstream Mother’s arms. So, here’s the deal. Harm sings like an angel, my agent loves him, and Harm moves to Nashville with me. And you get the clue.” Attila—eavesdropping from the front row—gasped. “Win, win.”

  “Harm belongs here, with us,” Dale said. “So lose, lose. Right, Mo?”

  My heart wobbled like a kid walking a fence. On one side, the clue I’ve been looking for all my life. On the other side, Harm—here, with Dale and me.

  I looked across the room at Miss Lana and took a deep breath. Miss Lana would go brave, I thought. She’d follow her heart.

  I ain’t Miss Lana’s kid for nothing.

  “Forget it, Kat,” I said. “I’d never trade Harm for a flipping clue, or anything else. That’s not a deal a real mother would even offer.”

  “Oh really? Well, let’s let Harm decide,” Kat said.

  She stepped up to Dale’s mic and shouldered him aside, knocking his hand away from the microphone. “Thanks for that intro,” she said, taking his guitar. She smiled past me, into the crowd. “Lots of things in life you can’t start over, but a song isn’t one of them.” She winked at Harm. “Ready, good-looking?”

  Harm squared his shoulders and looked at me. He’s made up his mind, I thought.

  “Please,” Dale whispered. “Sing it bad.”

  “You got the lead, Harm,” Kat said, and counted it down. “And one, two, three and . . .”

  Harm closed his eyes, and his voice rolled out strong and clear and true. “Hey, good-looking, what you got cooking? How’s about—”

  The café door slammed against the wall, stopping him mid-line as my heart cracked in two. Skeeter jerked the spotlight around. “Help,” Grandmother Miss Lacy gasped, staggering in. “Gabriel’s trapped in the treasure pit, and he’s running out of air. Help!”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Good-byes with a Hello

  Harm, Dale, and me dove into the backseat of Starr’s Impala. Grandmother Miss Lacy sat in front, flushed and rattled.