Dream With Little Angels by Michael Hiebert Page B

somethin’ out. Then we’ll be right back.”
    Mom looked puzzled. “Check what out?”
    I looked to Uncle Henry. “Mom hit a possum on the way home from droppin’ off Carry. Dewey doesn’t believe me.”
    Uncle Henry’s eyebrows went up. “Really?” He looked at my mother. “You really hit a possum?”
    She shook her head, shrugging. “I dunno, I might have. Why? Since when is hitting a possum such a big deal.”
    â€œOh,” Uncle Henry said, nodding, “it’s a big deal to some people right now.” He gave me a wink. “I’ll explain it to her. You go make sure it’s still there and actually dead. Then come home and tell me how this affects the overall theory.”
    My mother looked at him like he’d lost his marbles. I thanked him for the watch and went out the door.
    â€œOne hour!” my mother called after me. “Or less. Less is okay, too.”
    Â 
    We weren’t even halfway to Main Street when we found a dead raccoon lying on the side of the road. By the looks of things, it had probably been there near on a week. We got off our bikes and inspected it thoroughly. Dewey even poked it with a stick. “It’s over.” He sighed.
    I frowned. I hadn’t realized how much more interesting life was with an unsolved roadkill mystery hanging over it. This was like someone had set a giant piece of birthday cake in front of us, then laid down a big ol’ fork, and then, at the last minute, took away the cake. All we had was forks.
    And dead animals on the road.
    Still, we continued on to Main Street to double-check that the possum my mother killed on our way home was actually dead. It was. Pretty much in the same state of deadness as the raccoon, only more fresh.
    â€œWell, this ain’t the way I wanted this to end,” Dewey said. Neither of us did.
    â€œAfter what Uncle Henry said, I really thought it had something to do with Mr. Wyatt Edward Farrow,” I said.
    â€œI still think he’s up to no good,” Dewey said. “Could be he just hasn’t gone collectin’ for a while.”
    â€œDewey, that raccoon has been there at least four or five days.”
    â€œMaybe he’s saved up so much he’s got a stockpile,” Dewey offered, but I could tell he was scrambling.
    â€œCould be,” I said. We wanted to believe it, that’s for sure.
    â€œEven if he isn’t stockpiling roadkill, I still think he’s up to no good,” Dewey said.
    â€œOh, I know he is,” I said. “It’s just some kind of no good that ain’t got nothing to do with disappearing roadkill. At least not no more.”
    â€œSo we still have a mystery.” Dewey smiled.
    â€œHe’s still at the top of my suspect list,” I said.
    â€œMine, too.”
    For what, neither of us knew. I pulled Uncle Henry’s watch from my pocket. It was too big to wear around my wrist. “My mom told me to be home in an hour. We still got twenty-seven minutes, not countin’ the fifteen it’ll take to get back.”
    That was when Tiffany Michelle Yates came out of Igloo’s with an ice cream cone in her hand nearly as big as my head. It was one of those waffle cones and the ice cream was pink.
    â€œWhat kind of ice cream is pink?” Dewey asked.
    â€œBubble gum,” she said with a big grin. Her teeth looked especially white against her dark face.
    â€œLooks girlie to me,” I said.
    â€œI’m a girl,” Tiffany Michelle Yates said. And she was. A black girl two years younger than Carry that Carry used to sometimes play with. That was back before Carry discovered boys and what Mom called cliques . Now Carry wouldn’t be seen as dead as this possum playing with a thirteen-year-old.
    â€œWhat’re y’all doing?” she asked. She wore a pretty pink dress that matched her ice cream and her hair looked freshly washed with a bright