Harm chimed in. “Blackbeard’s death. Shot, stabbed, beheaded—and people say he still walks around, looking for his head.”
I love it when school and real life overlap, which is mostly never.
“Let’s finish our study of Rome and start on pirates,” Miss Retzyl said, and we dug out our books. “Who knows why the Roman Empire fell? Dale?”
“Gravity?” he guessed.
I raised my hand. “Rome fell because of a barbarian. Attila the Hun,” I added, and the class laughed.
Attila, who went red, raised her hand. “It also fell because of pointless battles. Like Mo’s search for a mother who doesn’t want her.”
“Take that back, Cadillac brat,” I shouted, and Miss Retzyl snapped her book closed.
“That’s enough, girls. Let’s finish our study of Rome with a pop test.”
* * *
After school, we dropped our bikes at the Littles’ door. “Western civilization?” Dale said. “That’s the best thing Rome did? Are you sure? Because I put pizza.”
Mrs. Little opened the door. “You’re late,” she snapped. “Did you bring the clue?”
“Of course,” I said. “We secured it in our state-of-the-art transport unit.”
Dale gave her his social smile. “Mo stuck it in her math book. You’re old, but you might have a lot of visitors,” he continued, very smooth. “May we put a flyer on your door?”
Harm slipped our Ugly Trim flyer from his backpack. He’d designed it during science, and Skeeter had run copies during lunch.
HELP SOLVE A REAL-LIFE MYSTERY!
RECOGNIZE THIS UGLY TRIM? KNOW WHERE THE BILLBOARD STOOD?
GOOD INFORMATION EARNS A CASH REWARD
(PAYABLE AFTER WE FIND THE TREASURE)
CALL HARM AT 252-555-7338
Mrs. Little snorted and handed the flyer back. “It’s ugly. Don’t put it on my door. Mary’s roofing is in the attic. Damage anything and . . .”
“We know,” Harm said, smiling. “You already told us. We’ll rue the day we met you.”
“What’s wrong with roux?” Dale whispered as we headed down the hall. “Bill Glasgow makes it for me and Mama. We eat it on dirty rice.”
Miss Rose’s boyfriend, Bill, is from Louisiana. He plays his mandolin like he cooks: hopped up and spicy, with a nice in-between of smooth.
“Roux and rue. Homonyms. Same sounds, different words,” Harm said, opening the attic door. “Bill’s roux means Cajun gravy. Mrs. Little’s rue means regret. We’ll regret the day we met her.”
“But we already do,” Dale said, peering up the staircase. “Are those spiderwebs?”
“Scared of spiders, short boy?” Mrs. Little snapped behind us and we jumped. She handed me a battery-powered lantern. “If you open windows, close them. Heat costs money and money doesn’t grow on trees. Get cracking.”
We clattered up the dusty stairway and bumped to a halt. The attic stood rafters-high in three hundred years of hideous castaways, broke-downs, and whatsits. Harm picked up an old ukulele and strummed. “Put that down,” Mrs. Little screeched from below.
“She has dog ears,” Dale whispered.
Harm ditched the ukulele and trotted downstairs. His voice drifted up to us. “Mrs. Little, I noticed a radio on your bookcase. May we borrow it? Music gets us cracking.”
Harm’s polite. Miss Lana says it proves somebody spent time with him. He’s also smart. He came up and turned the radio on just loud enough to hide our voices.
“We need more light,” I said, wiping the grime from a gable window.
“This one won’t come clean,” Dale said, raising the other window. “Found the old shingles,” he called, scrambling over a mountain of dusty quilts to pick a long, thin wedge of wood from a stack against the wall. “What was Mary Ormond’s clue again?”
I slipped the note from my math book. “Look to my roof for clues to lost treasures . . .”
“Lost treasures. Sounds good,” Harm muttered. “Gramps managed to get the truck fixed, but he still hasn’t found our leaks. He’s getting discouraged.” He eyed the stack of shingles, which ran the length of the attic and stood shoulder-high. “We need a process,” he said.
“We’ll stack the rejects over here,” I said, shoving a pile of moth-ravaged taxidermy projects aside. “Search each shingle for a map, a code, a message . . . anything woman-made.”
In a blink we found our process: Grab a shingle, search the face. Flip it, search the back, scan the narrow sides. Restack. Repeat, repeat, repeat.
Two hours later Dale tossed the last shingle into the reject pile. “We got nothing.”
“Grandmother Miss Lacy said Mrs. Little was too literal and lacked imagination on the first search,” I said, studying Mary’s clue again. “Look to my roof . . .”
“Right,” Harm said. “They only looked at the shingles. But if you’re downstairs looking up, you’re looking to the roof. The clue could be anywhere in here—or in the walls, the floorboards.” He pushed a stuffed possum aside. “We’ll start mining the rest of the attic tomorrow.”
“Okay, but we better work fast,” Dale said as we tromped downstairs. “Sal says Gabriel’s setting up his fancy equipment. And we know he has clues. And so far we got silt.”
“Zilch,” Harm said. “But we’ve eliminated the wrong path, which sets us free to find the right path.”
“Very Blackbeard Zen,” I said, and he grinned. He looks happy, I thought as we zoomed toward the café. But he didn’t look happy for long.
* * *
The spicy scents of stroganoff and the boom of cannon fire met us at the café door. Dale ducked. I pulled him to his feet. “It’s Russia Night. Miss Lana’s playing Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture,” I said as Miss Lana swirled over in her red snow dress.
“Thank heavens you’re here,” she said, giving me a quick kiss on each cheek—very European. “We’re standing room only. Grab your order pads, my babushkas.”
I checked out the Specials Board and scouted the lay of the café. Three strangers stood by the Winter Tree, waiting for a table. Attila and Mrs. Simpson sat cheek-to-jowl with the Azalea Women. Mr. Red and Grandmother Miss Lacy sipped waters at a center table.
“Flyers,” I whispered. Harm tugged a handful from his backpack. I went table to table. “Welcome, comrades. Identify this Ugly Trim and receive a free dessert. Thank you.”
“Order up!” the Colonel called, and I zipped over to snag some fries.
I smiled at Grandmother Miss Lacy and placed the fries by her menu. “Please enjoy a Fried Spud-nik appetizer on the house,” I said as Dale trotted over with ketchup.
Dale watched Harm swagger to the big-haired twins. “That’s sad. Lavender says the twins don’t even know Harm’s alive,” he said.
“Welcome to Russia Night,” I told Grandmother Miss Lacy. “Tonight we got our From Russia with Love Special. This starts with a deep red Beet Soup . . .”
“Borsch,” Miss Lana called from across the room.
“Bless you,” I replied. “Plus the Colonel’s Stroganoff. We’re also offering a All-American Melting Pot Special—Mexican Chili and Swiss Cheese Toast.”
“Thank you, but Red and I are Gabriel’s guests tonight,” she said. “We’ll wait for him.”
“Speak of the devil,” I muttered as Gabriel swirled in and took a seat.
“Evening,” he said. “Find a treasure, Mo?” He glanced at the Azalea Women and cranked up his volume: “Sadly, I’ve suffered a setback. My young niece can’t join me. Terrible loss. Good news too. The old fish camp where I’m setting up positively reeks of treasure.”
“That’s vintage fish guts you’re smelling,” I told him.
He plowed on. “The camp’s on the low side of the river—the best place for a pirate to unload a heavy treasure.”
My stomach dropped. Why didn�
�t I think of that?
“I thought of that, and we’ve found an even easier place to unload,” I said.
“Do tell,” Gabriel said as Harm strolled toward the big-haired twins, his tray high above his head. The café door swung open, catching his eye. His face went dishwater gray. His tray wobbled and tipped. The soups slid. A twin screamed.
Time clicked into slow motion.
“Nyet!” Dale cried, hurtling for Harm. The bowls ricocheted against the table. The deep red soup bounced like acrobats across the twins’ identical white blouses and surprised faces.
The café went silent. Dale looked at Harm. “Good news. The twins know you’re alive.”
Life clicked back into real time. “Cleanup on the twins,” I called, but Harm’s gaze stayed riveted on the door.
I turned, following his stare. A dark-haired woman unzipped her purple faux-leather jacket and smoothed her black slacks and blouse. She squared her shoulders and made an entrance Miss Lana would be proud of, red stilettos click-click-clacking.
“Mom,” Harm said, his voice thin as his smile. “What are you doing here?”
* * *
“Baby, you’ve grown a foot since I saw you,” she said, slicing through the crowd. She pushed her hair back exactly the way Harm pushes his, and kissed his cheek.
She’s pretty, I thought. Eyes like Harm’s, one-side dimples like Harm’s, a smile with a quick on-off switch. Like Harm, only Nashville fancy.
I stepped to his side.
“Mom, these are my friends . . .” Harm said, and his face went blank.
He forgot our names?
Dale smiled. “Dale Earnhardt Johnson III,” he said in a move straight out of Manners Girls Like. “I’m Harm’s best friend who is a boy. My dog Queen Elizabeth II would have come too if we’d known you were in town. Harm’s like a brother to her.”
“Hey, Dale.” She gave him a smile to dazzle the sun, and turned to me.
“Mo LoBeau,” I said. “And that’s my family over there—Miss Lana and the Colonel.”
“Call me Kat. Kat Kline. Stage name.”
She rumpled Harm’s hair. “I swear, you’re as good-looking as I am. Look at you! You’ll be tall as your daddy. The girls must be crazy about you.”
A delicate blush spatter-painted Harm’s cheeks.
“Not me,” Attila faux-whispered to the Azalea Women.
I stepped up beside Harm before I could think why. “You’re right,” I said, very loud. “I’m crazy about Harm, and so’s every other smart girl in sixth grade.”
Hannah and Sal nodded from their tables. Harm gave me a gentle elbow.
“I hate to break up a mother-son reunion, Kat,” Gabriel interrupted. “But we have some business to discuss.” He looked at Miss Lana. “You know, Kat could perform here while she’s in town. It would be good for you and great rehearsal time for her.”
“No,” Harm said, very quick. “I mean, Mom’s professional. She doesn’t do cafés.”
“Call me Kat,” she said. “Mom makes me sound so old.” She surveyed the café, her eyes finding the Azalea Women. “Ladies, good to see you. What’s it been . . . ten years?” She smiled at the twins. “Crissy and Missy. You’ve sure grown up good.”
“Thank you. I and Crissy are hair professionals who drive a Mustang,” Missy said as Miss Lana cleaned up the last of the splattered soup. “Welcome home.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Hey Tinks. You’re looking good too.”
Tinks’s stare trailed her to Gabriel’s table.
“May I present the soon-to-be-famous Kat Kline,” Gabriel said. “My partner in our treasure hunt.”
Kat is Gabriel Archer’s partner? She was the woman by the river?
My world stopped spinning for one quick breath. Kat’s the reason Gabriel knows all about Tupelo Landing, and the people in it. She’s the reason Gabriel thought we were ten years old the first time he called: That’s how old Harm was when she left him in Greensboro.
“Fascinating,” Attila’s mom said. “I thought you left Tupelo Landing to start a new life with some good-looking man and then headed off to Nashville to become a star. And now you’re back as a treasure hunter. What will you think of next?”
“Betsy Simpson,” Kat said, making the words sound like a curse. “Since I know you’re dying to ask, I’m a gnat’s hair away from making it huge. This treasure will finance my big break.” She zeroed in on Mr. Red, and took a deep breath. “Hello, Pops.”
Mr. Red rose and walked out the door.
Kat reset her smile. “Hello, Miss Thornton.”
Grandmother Miss Lacy nodded. “Hello . . . Kat. It’s been years. Please do sit down.”
* * *
As dinner clattered on, Kat charmed everybody within charming distance—everybody except Harm. Grandmother Miss Lacy offered her a room at the inn, and Kat said yes. Miss Lana invited her for breakfast, and she said yes again.
“Your mom’s good-looking,” Dale said as we bused tables at the end of the supper rush.
“Runs in the family,” Harm said. He winked at me, but his wink lacked voltage.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as we lugged dishes to the kitchen.
“Kat makes me nervous. She changes things,” he said. “You’ll see.”
Dale heaved a tray of dishes onto the counter. “You never talk about your people.”
“Not much to say,” Harm answered. “Dad’s on an oil platform in Louisiana. She’s a great singer, and he’s a great guy. They just aren’t right together.”
I hesitated. As a friend, I didn’t want to ask. As a Desperado, I had to know. “What about the treasure? Are you on Kat’s side, or . . .” I went tactful. “On Mrs. Little’s?”
Harm eased a stack of dishes into the sink. “I’m with you guys, Mo. I haven’t seen Mom in three years. And I wish I hadn’t seen her today.”
Jealousy sliced through me like a sling blade in the dark.
Harm doesn’t want his mother and here she is, big as life. I been wanting my Upstream Mother all my life, and I can’t even find her.
* * *
Dear Upstream Mother,
Harm’s mother blew into town tonight. I wish it had been you walking through the café door. I think Harm does too.
We’re papering the town with our Ugly Trim flyer and we search the Littles’ attic crud tomorrow.
Wish me luck,
Mo
Chapter Nine
Beyond the Known World
The mayor met us at his door the next morning, which was a Saturday. “Sorry I missed your mom last night, Harm. She was a pistola in her day. I hear she came to town with Gabriel Archer. That must be tough for you—your mom on the opposite side of the treasure fence.”
I went professional. “If you’re asking which side of the fence Harm’s on, he’s Desperado to the bone,” I said, heading for the hall. “We’re searching attic crud today. We need a storage room for non-clue items. I hate to rush you, but dawdle and you lose.”
“Mother,” the mayor called. “I’m giving the Desperados the Dingy Room.”
“I’ll start bringing things down,” Harm said, bounding away.
Mrs. Little bellowed from deep in the house: “Tinks is driving me to Bingo. Tell the Desperados to stay out of my taxidermy supplies.”
The mayor led us to a dusty room of faded yellow wallpaper. “It was a guest room until Mother realized she hates guests,” he said.
Harm rambled in with a basket of yarn.
The mayor staggered back, his hand over his heart. “Mother’s knitting,” he whispered, his eyes going glassy. “Mother’s an expert technically, but her sense of style . . . Those sweaters . . .” He reached over to touch the door.
“Post-traumatic sweater disorder,” Dale said. “He’s grounding himself.”
The may
or shuddered. “You’d never know it to look at me now, but I was an unfashionable child.”
“She’s a knitting expert?” Harm said. “Mo, we can show her your sweater!”
Mrs. Little’s claws on Upstream Mother’s sweater? Unlikely.
The mayor drew a jagged breath and jangled his keys. “I’m sure Mother would be glad to share her expertise. But burn that knitting. Sometimes the past looks best in ashes.”
* * *
As the day spun by, we dug through the Littles’ attic crud century by century. Even with the window up, it was hot work. We shed our jackets and worked in our T-shirts.
By day’s end, we’d dug down to the eighteenth-century clutter. We decided to break.
“Mo, about your case,” Harm said, sitting on an old milking stool and crossing his arms. He’s lifting Lavender’s weights again, I thought. “I mapped out a plan for us last night, when I couldn’t sleep.” He tugged a paper from his pocket and spread it on a mountain of quilts.
FINDING MO’S UPSTREAM MOTHER
CLUE #ONE. The Sign
Develop the photo of the sign (Mo) and show it around (All). CHECK
Plaster the town with it. (All)
Contact area Chambers of Commerce to see if anybody recognizes it. (Harm and Skeeter.)
CLUE #TWO. The Sweater
DNA-check the sweater—Starr (free) or Skeeter ($$$).
He added a note to the bottom of his list.
Ask Mrs. Little to look at the sweater, and follow up on any clues. (All)
“That’s nice,” Dale said. “I mapped my thoughts too,” he added, and tugged a wad of paper from his pocket. He smoothed the wrinkles out and placed it on the quilts, by Harm’s.
The Law of Finders Keepers Page 6
