Mo?”
“I figured me and Dale would look into Mr. Jesse’s murder today, maybe crack the case,” I said. “If there’s a reward, we’re hoping to share the money with you.”
“Isn’t someone else working on that?” she asked. “An adult, perhaps?”
“Yes ma’am, Detective Joe Starr,” I said as she turned on the tap at the sink and grabbed a bottle of Joy. Dale’s daddy refuses to buy a dishwasher. He says if he bought a dishwasher, he wouldn’t need a wife. “The thing is, Dale and me are privy to information Joe Starr ain’t. Like, Mr. Jesse had a girlfriend. Starr doesn’t know that.”
Miss Rose just stood there.
“And the girlfriend has a husband,” Dale said. “Starr doesn’t know that either.”
Nothing! The gossip of the century, and she didn’t even flinch!
“Dale?” she said, without looking up. “Are you still standing there?”
“No, ma’am,” he sighed, and shuffled toward the door.
Queen Elizabeth II joined us halfway across the backyard. Dale side-armed a stick into a field of deep green, knee-high tobacco plants. “Fetch it, Liz,” he said. Sweat trickled down my back and heat monkeys shimmied like ghosts between the rows as she brought it back and spit it at his feet. “Good dog,” he said, ruffling her ears. “She’s smart, ain’t she, Mo?”
“She’s brilliant,” I lied.
“Practice me,” he said, flipping me a pinecone and setting up to my left as we cleared the stable. But I froze, horrified, staring at the tobacco barn dead ahead.
“Holy moly,” I whispered. “Your mama’s lost her mind.”
The barn stood tall and windowless, its tin sides draped in rust. Beneath its lean-to shelter lay a terrifying jumble of wood and metal. A wooden cart lay on its side, its axle busted, boards sprawling like pick-up sticks over the cart’s tongue. Rusting chains and worn leather corddecorated a heap of broken chairs and old-timey plows.
Dale’s shoulders sagged. “You’re going to have to work the murder scene by yourself, Mo. In fact,” he sighed, “you may have to go to high school by yourself, because that’s how long it’s going to take me to finish these chores.”
“It might,” Miss Rose said cheerily, walking up behind us. “Come on, Mo,” she said. “We’ll give you a ride home.”
I settled into the Pinto, mourning Dale’s cruel fate and thinking of the crime scene just two impossible-to-get-to miles down the road.
Chapter
11
Murder Weapon to Go
Within minutes I was reduced to begging. “But Miss Lana, I
got
to get to the crime scene. Please.”
“Sorry, sugar,” she said, lining up the saltshakers. “It’s not safe for you to go out alone.” She reached beneath the counter and dangled a gold shopping bag from her fingertips. “I forgot this last night,” she said, smiling. “Go ahead, open it.”
If Miss Lana doesn’t take me to Charleston with her, she always brings me something when she comes back. “Is it a T-shirt from Rainbow Row?” I asked. “Because my old one’s down to its last sleeve, thanks to Miss Blalock’s barbed-wire fence.”
“You tore it on Lucy Blalock’s fence?” she asked, opening the salt.
“Last March, remember?” I said, steadying a saltshaker as she poured. “Dale and me picked you some narcissus from under that squeaky old water tower of hers. You know the one:
ScreeEEEEk. ScreeeEEEk
.”
“That’s right,” she said absently. “I remember.” Sheglanced at the bag. “Go ahead, open it. I can’t wait to see your face.” I tugged the bag’s corner and a green scrapbook spun across the counter. “For your autobiography,” she said, flipping it open. “I slapped it together in Charleston. This page is blank, for your Coming Ashore Announcement. You do still have it, don’t you? A girl should keep her publicity.”
I nodded and she turned the page. “This is the story of the Colonel’s crash. And these articles are from the old
Tupelo Times
: the café’s grand opening,
“I figured me and Dale would look into Mr. Jesse’s murder today, maybe crack the case,” I said. “If there’s a reward, we’re hoping to share the money with you.”
“Isn’t someone else working on that?” she asked. “An adult, perhaps?”
“Yes ma’am, Detective Joe Starr,” I said as she turned on the tap at the sink and grabbed a bottle of Joy. Dale’s daddy refuses to buy a dishwasher. He says if he bought a dishwasher, he wouldn’t need a wife. “The thing is, Dale and me are privy to information Joe Starr ain’t. Like, Mr. Jesse had a girlfriend. Starr doesn’t know that.”
Miss Rose just stood there.
“And the girlfriend has a husband,” Dale said. “Starr doesn’t know that either.”
Nothing! The gossip of the century, and she didn’t even flinch!
“Dale?” she said, without looking up. “Are you still standing there?”
“No, ma’am,” he sighed, and shuffled toward the door.
Queen Elizabeth II joined us halfway across the backyard. Dale side-armed a stick into a field of deep green, knee-high tobacco plants. “Fetch it, Liz,” he said. Sweat trickled down my back and heat monkeys shimmied like ghosts between the rows as she brought it back and spit it at his feet. “Good dog,” he said, ruffling her ears. “She’s smart, ain’t she, Mo?”
“She’s brilliant,” I lied.
“Practice me,” he said, flipping me a pinecone and setting up to my left as we cleared the stable. But I froze, horrified, staring at the tobacco barn dead ahead.
“Holy moly,” I whispered. “Your mama’s lost her mind.”
The barn stood tall and windowless, its tin sides draped in rust. Beneath its lean-to shelter lay a terrifying jumble of wood and metal. A wooden cart lay on its side, its axle busted, boards sprawling like pick-up sticks over the cart’s tongue. Rusting chains and worn leather corddecorated a heap of broken chairs and old-timey plows.
Dale’s shoulders sagged. “You’re going to have to work the murder scene by yourself, Mo. In fact,” he sighed, “you may have to go to high school by yourself, because that’s how long it’s going to take me to finish these chores.”
“It might,” Miss Rose said cheerily, walking up behind us. “Come on, Mo,” she said. “We’ll give you a ride home.”
I settled into the Pinto, mourning Dale’s cruel fate and thinking of the crime scene just two impossible-to-get-to miles down the road.
Chapter
11
Murder Weapon to Go
Within minutes I was reduced to begging. “But Miss Lana, I
got
to get to the crime scene. Please.”
“Sorry, sugar,” she said, lining up the saltshakers. “It’s not safe for you to go out alone.” She reached beneath the counter and dangled a gold shopping bag from her fingertips. “I forgot this last night,” she said, smiling. “Go ahead, open it.”
If Miss Lana doesn’t take me to Charleston with her, she always brings me something when she comes back. “Is it a T-shirt from Rainbow Row?” I asked. “Because my old one’s down to its last sleeve, thanks to Miss Blalock’s barbed-wire fence.”
“You tore it on Lucy Blalock’s fence?” she asked, opening the salt.
“Last March, remember?” I said, steadying a saltshaker as she poured. “Dale and me picked you some narcissus from under that squeaky old water tower of hers. You know the one:
ScreeEEEEk. ScreeeEEEk
.”
“That’s right,” she said absently. “I remember.” Sheglanced at the bag. “Go ahead, open it. I can’t wait to see your face.” I tugged the bag’s corner and a green scrapbook spun across the counter. “For your autobiography,” she said, flipping it open. “I slapped it together in Charleston. This page is blank, for your Coming Ashore Announcement. You do still have it, don’t you? A girl should keep her publicity.”
I nodded and she turned the page. “This is the story of the Colonel’s crash. And these articles are from the old
Tupelo Times
: the café’s grand opening,
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