The Ghosts of Tupelo Landing

by Sheila Turnage

  I grabbed my bike. “Let’s hit the café,” I said. “I’m suffering from an ice cream deficiency.”

  Dale shook his head. “We told Mama we’d help in the garden.” Miss Rose grows the vegetables for the café. That and her Tobacco Culture Tours keep her and Dale afloat. “You want to come?” Dale asked. “We could make notes for our Nellie Blake interview.”

  I nodded as Harm swung a long leg over his bike’s narrow seat. “Hop on,” he told Dale. Dale sprang like a cricket onto Harm’s handlebars, and we took off.

  That evening, Miss Lana cornered me behind the café counter. “Mo, we need to discuss costumes for The Bash,” she said.

  My universe screamed into slow motion, like a bad bicycle crash at the top of a steep hill. Outfits From The Past flashed before my eyes. My Heidi outfit from Oktoberfest two years back: blue dress, flowered apron, white anklets. Dale in his yodel-boy outfit: clunky shirt, knee socks, lederhosen.

  The inside of my arms broke out in hives.

  “Miss Lana, I thought I might go as a regular sixth grader. Maybe Miss Retzyl can point me in the right direction.”

  “Order up!” the Colonel barked.

  “We’ll talk, sugar,” she said, and winked. She stacked three steaming plates along her arm and swayed to Skeeter’s family, at a window table. Skeeter’s little sister, Gray, a proven biter, slouched in a high chair like a sabertooth troll.

  “How’s the inn coming?” Skeeter asked as Miss Lana dealt the plates around.

  “Don’t worry,” Miss Lana said. “We’ll be ready.”

  “Excellent,” Skeeter replied. “Let me know when you’re ready to talk outfits. Skeeter-Bay is at your service.”

  Crud.

  I draped a napkin over my arm and tried to smile at Tinks Williams. “Welcome,” I said, my heart flat as a failed soufflé. “Tonight we’re offering two specials. The Vegan Crunch—a delicate veggie pileup with a side of apple jerky—for seven dollars. Our Omnivore Odyssey features an epic chicken and broccoli stir-fry on a sea of rice for nine. What can I start you with?”

  “Omnivore with sweet tea,” he said, tossing his John Deere cap on the counter. “Anna Celeste tells me you’re ghost hunting on the next full moon,” he said. “You be careful, Mo, things aren’t right in that inn. I’m used to you. I don’t want to break in somebody new.”

  “Thanks,” I said, giving him a smile. “I’m used to you too.”

  “Order up,” the Colonel sang, and I whirled away.

  • •

  That night, I grabbed the interview notes we’d made in Miss Rose’s cabbage row and scanned our assignment. “Outline your history interview. Answer these questions: Who? What? When? Where? Why? Tell me when your interview will take place.”

  I picked up my pencil.

  I walked over to my Elvis calendar and circled the next full moon—a little over two weeks away.

  Chapter 27

  Wrong. Dead Wrong.

  I thought organizing our interview would be easy with Harm and Dale living in the same house. I was wrong. Dead wrong.

  “Dale and Harm hide out after school like outlaws,” I fumed a week later as Sal and I crossed the playground.

  “Boy stuff,” she said, very worldly. Her soft curls glistened in the autumn light. “Mama says they outgrow it in fifty years, give or take a decade.”

  “Fifty years? But our interview’s on . . .”

  “The full moon,” she said. “Next week, Mo. It’s all over school. The Exums are offering ten to one odds that you flake. Poor Dale.”

  Poor Dale? What about me?

  She slipped her red Piggly Wiggly sunglasses to the top of her head. “Maybe you can spend time with Miss Lana while Dale’s doing boy stuff,” she suggested. “Mama says Miss Lana’s worried about you.”

  “She’s worried about outfits.” I shot her a look. “For The Bash.”

  Dale trotted up, his backpack slung over his shoulder like a bandolier. “Hey, Salamander,” he said. “Nice glasses.” He leaned close, examining the tiny white pig faces along the rims. “I never saw them up close. Good art.” Sal dropped her books. Dale scooped them up and handed them back.

  “Dale, have you asked anyone to The Bash?” she asked. “Because I’d hate for you to be lonely.”

  “Lonely?” he said, frowning. “How could I be lonely? The whole town’s going.”

  Sal pulled her sunglasses back over her eyes. “I’ll get back to you,” she said, and hurried away.

  Dale tilted his head, watching her go. “I like Sal,” he said, “but she thinks funny.” He turned toward the school and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Harm, come on,” he shouted. “I got to show Mama my math paper.”

  “Math paper?” I said, my heart diving. “Does Miss Rose have to sign it again? We should have studied. Fractions are tricky, and when you start trying to multiply . . .”

  He grinned rakish as Lavender after a good race. “I got a B. Same as we got on our history outline. I’m doing good.”

  My world tilted. Dale got a B in math? “That’s . . .” Actually, it practically ranked as a miracle, but it didn’t seem right to say it. “Congratulations.”

  “Harm helped me,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “He’s a natural teacher.”

  A natural teacher? And what am I?

  I counted to ten.

  “Dale, the full moon’s next week. We got to get ready.”

  He scuffed his sneakers. “Right.” He looked across the playground, at Harm. “You want to come over after supper? You can see Mama’s new dishwasher and we can talk to Ghost Bait about the interview.”

  What? Miss Rose had a dishwasher installation and didn’t invite me?

  I held my head high as I stalked away.

  • •

  “Mo!” Miss Rose cried, looking up from her desk. “Come in!”

  “Hey Miss Rose,” I said. I crossed her neat living room to give her a hug. “I hear you had a dishwasher installation. I’m sorry I didn’t immortalize you with an Appliance Portrait, but I’ll stage one at no charge on my way out. A major appliance is a milestone.”

  She blinked her eyes, which are emerald. “An appliance portrait?”

  “You may want to comb your hair,” I replied. “Is Dale home?”

  “He’s in his room.” She slid her glasses down her nose and studied me. Miss Rose reads me like yesterday’s news. “I’m sorry I didn’t call about the dishwasher, Mo. I know you like to help Lavender. I’ve been so busy getting next year’s tours lined up, it slipped my mind. We’re starting the tours with planting next spring and heading straight through to harvest. I may even fire up that old barn and go into autumn, if we have enough interest. With any luck, I’ll be able to keep Lana’s inn full half the year.”

  Like me, Miss Rose has a head for business. The Colonel says her tours will make her rich once she picks up steam.

  “I’m glad it’s just business distracting you,” I said, businesswoman to businesswoman. “I’d hate to see you fall into a crippling emotional spiral on account of divorcing Mr. Macon, which I feel like I speak for the entire town when I say you’re better off without him.”

  Her smile went flat as a nailed tire.

  I took a framed photo from her piano—an old one taken on a good day. In it, Mr. Macon looks near handsome as Lavender. Miss Rose leans against him, beaming. Dale, who’s pre-first-grade, looks big-headed and scrawny as a kitten.

  “Nice photo,” I said. “I can burn Mr. Macon out of there if you want me to. I got darkroom skills.”

  Silence fell over us like a cloak of nettles.

  “Or,” I said, putting it back on the piano, “I could leave it alone.”

  “Thank you, Mo. Lavender’s dropping by in a little while to take a look at my dishwasher,” she said, turning back to her desk.
“Something’s squeaking . . . Perhaps you could take a mother-son-appliance portrait?”

  Lavender? Here?

  “You’re on,” I said. I trotted to Dale’s room, pausing with my hand on the doorknob.

  I could hear him through the door: “Take it from the top.” The music leaped from his guitar strong and clear. His voice followed easy as swinging on the porch:

  “Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the morn-ing.”

  A second voice piped up:

  “Nothing could be sweeter than my sweetie when I meet her in the morn-ing.”

  They both chimed in:

  “If I had Aladdin’s lamp for only a day

  I’d make a wish and here’s what I’d say

  Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the morn-ing.”

  I opened the door. Dale and Harm looked around like I’d caught them steeling hubcaps. “Hey. I need that blue T-shirt you borrowed last week,” I said, for cover.

  Queen Elizabeth wagged over and I scratched her head. “Was that you singing?” It was a stupid question, but Miss Lana says even stupid questions start conversations.

  “Guilty,” Harm said.

  “We don’t say that in this house,” Dale told him.

  “You sound good,” I said. “Real good.”

  “See?” Dale said, beaming at Harm. “Told you so.” He grabbed my T-shirt off his chair and tossed it to me. It smelled like Queen Elizabeth’s shampoo. “I’m sorry we’ve been scarce, but we been practicing. We wanted to surprise you.”

  A surprise? For me?

  “Actually, we want to surprise everybody at The Bash,” he said. “If we can get good enough. We’ve been working up to letting you hear us face-to-face. Harm never sang in front of anybody before.”

  “You sang in the inn the other day,” I told Harm. “You sounded good.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “But I had my back to you. That’s different.”

  Interesting. Harm has a shy spot. I sprinkled a bug buffet in Newton’s terrarium.

  “And Mo,” Dale added, “we need a manager.”

  “Somebody used to dealing with the public,” Harm said.

  Dale nodded. “Somebody that can spell and make posters.”

  Manager Mo LoBeau? I smiled at Newton, who blinked. “I don’t know,” I lied. “I’d need to hear your material before I could commit.”

  “Right,” Harm mumbled, and shoved his shaking hands deep in his pockets.

  “Take it from the top,” I said. “And impress me.”

  They did.

  Chapter 28

  Return of the Rat

  “Hey,” Lavender said the next afternoon, opening the inn’s door. “Come on in.”

  Grandmother Miss Lacy and Miss Lana breezed in. Harm, Dale, Queen Elizabeth, and me followed. The late-afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows, casting the floors in red and gold. “The Colonel should be here in a minute,” he said.

  “You’ve worked miracles in here,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said, admiring the dining room’s chandelier.

  “The electricity’s not hooked up yet,” Lavender said, “but she’ll sparkle like diamonds when it is.” He nudged Harm. “I found out how Red made that old light fixture swing,” he added. “Remote control.”

  “Cool,” Dale murmured. Miss Lana frowned. “But bad,” he added. “Very bad.”

  Harm shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. I’m sorry Red—”

  Miss Lana popped his arm with her fan. “Red’s like the weather. There’s no point in apologizing for it.”

  Lavender led us across the room. “Glad you like the dining room,” he said, opening a small door. “Because the kitchen’s a different story.”

  “Oh my,” Miss Lana said, stepping through the door. “I’d forgotten.”

  If the dining room sang, the kitchen cried. The dining room stood high-ceilinged and open; the kitchen fought for breath beneath a ceiling so low, Harm could almost touch it. A rickety counter ran along the front wall, and a sloping, tin-lined sink drained toward the corner of the building.

  “I didn’t remember it being quite this bad,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said.

  I lifted my camera and focused on the grimy windows over the sink. Click. Dingy cupboards lined one wall. An ancient wood stove crouched at the far end of the room, its oven door hanging open, a rack spewing out like a crooked tongue. Click.

  Dale gingerly opened a cabinet door. “Brown paint used to be cheap.”

  “Ugly is always on sale,” Miss Lana said.

  Lavender dusted off a chair for Grandmother Miss Lacy. “My goodness,” she said, sitting. “Can you fix this?”

  Lavender crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. “The building inspector says we have to tear it out and start over.”

  Miss Lana’s face went the color of mashed potatoes. “Start over? How much?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars,” the Colonel said from the door. Even Grandmother Miss Lacy gasped. “We need special ovens, freezers, sinks, plumbing . . .”

  Dale wheeled to me. “Fifty thousand dollars? How many pizzas is that?”

  When it comes to math, Dale thinks in pictures. He needs numbers he can see. “This room full, give or take,” I said.

  “Where will we get fifty thousand dollars?” Miss Lana wailed. “Even with Rose booking her tours here, we can’t . . .” Her eyes filled with tears. “Why did I buy this place?”

  “We,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said, sounding far away. “We bought this place. And . . . I might as well tell you. It seems I’ve made some . . . unfortunate investments.”

  Miss Lana gasped. “How unfortunate?”

  “Very unfortunate, I’m afraid.”

  Dale slipped close to her. “Are you . . . nouveau broke?”

  She bit her lip. “Not quite, dear,” she said. “But I don’t have another fifty thousand to put into this project. In fact, I’ve had to borrow to do what I’ve done. And that’s becoming . . . problematic.”

  Problematic? My Detective’s Instinct told me her problematic drove a silver BMW. “Filch at State Bank,” I guessed.

  Her eyes swelled with tears. “The Colonel’s doing what he can. But I can’t imagine where the money for this kitchen’s coming from. Or how we’ll pay off the inn.”

  Not pay off the inn?

  “You’ll rebound,” the Colonel said. He used the same tone he used to use on me when I’d receive time off from school, for fighting. “You need time to get your bearings in the new economy,” he told her.

  “Time? She’s out of time,” an ugly voice said behind us.

  “Anita Filch,” I said, wheeling to find Rat Face standing in the door.

  She looked over her shoulder at someone behind her, and barked, “For heaven’s sakes, hurry!”

  Flick Crenshaw stepped through the door, and my stomach flopped. “Nice work, Lavender,” he said. “We’ll enjoy owning the place.”

  He smirked at his little brother. “Red told me you were running with a new crowd, Harm,” he said, looking us up and down. “Can’t say much for your taste.”

  Harm flushed dark as a summer storm.

  “This would be a good time to say something nice about us,” Dale whispered.

  Harm nodded and took a breath. “Flick, these are my friends, and—”

  “Meet your future sister-in-law,” Flick interrupted. “Anita Filch.” Harm gulped.

  Miss Lana says love is blind. She never mentioned it being stupid.

  Rat Face simpered and held out a limp hand. “Pleasure,” she said. A shivery silence settled over the room.

  Flick punched Harm’s shoulder. “Say hello to my fiancée.”

  Harm shoved his hair back. “But I thought you were with that blond woman—old what’s-her-name,” he said, his voice l
ow. “What happened?”

  “Say hello, kid. You’re embarrassing me.”

  Harm stuck out his hand. She grazed it like he had poison ivy and stalked across the kitchen, her stiletto heels clicking against the floor. “Lacy, you haven’t returned my calls, so I thought I’d drop by,” she said, running a finger along the old counter. “We’ve been discussing your situation at the bank. Yours too, Lana.”

  Miss Lana watched her the way she watches a garden snake.

  The Colonel cleared his throat. “Miss Filch, I believe Miss Thornton’s accountant and I have put something together that will satisfy your bank and—”

  “Too late,” she snarled. “We’re calling the note. Pay off the inn in full by November first, or my bank takes it. If my bank takes it, the deed will be in my pocket before sundown. Bet on it.” Upstairs, a door slammed.

  Nellie! Dale and Harm looked at me, their eyes wide.

  Rat Face tapped her foot. “Are we clear, neighbors?” She said neighbors like a curse. Which the Colonel says maybe it is.

  “November first?” Miss Lana cried as Nellie padded along the upstairs hall. “That’s just weeks away. We can’t possibly . . .”

  “Pay up or get out,” Rat Face snapped. Stealthy footsteps headed down the stairs. The Colonel looked toward the sound, curiosity playing like flame across his face.

  “Hold it,” Harm said, grabbing his brother’s arm. “You’re talking about my friends, Flick. You’ll ruin them,” he said. “And Red too. Red has—”

  “I know what he has. Keep your mouth shut.”

  Harm looked like Flick had slapped him.

  So that’s it, I thought, remembering Flick and Rat Face chatting at the auction. They want Red Baker’s money. And they’ll take the inn to get it.

  Nellie crept down the stairs and paused at the foot of the staircase. Dale gulped as Queen Elizabeth sneezed.

  “Miss Filch,” the Colonel said, basting his voice with calm the way he bastes a turkey, “Lacy Thornton’s been a customer at your bank all her life. Surely . . .”

  Rat Face put her hands on her hips. “We’re calling the note,” she said. A smile twitched at her lips. “There’s nothing you can do. But I do think it’s nice for an attorney of your caliber to have the skills of a fry cook to fall back on.”