Read Online The Odds of Getting Even by Sheila Turnage - Free Book Online Page B

straight out of
Manners Girls Like
. “It could grow into a watchdog and keep you from being an old maid.”
    An old maid? Definitely not in
Manners Girls Like
.
    Harm gasped. “Dale,” he said. “I don’t think that came out right.”
    â€œDale means . . .” I said. I stopped, trying to think of an end to the sentence.
    â€œAlone,” she said. “He means I wouldn’t be alone. Thank you, dear, but some things are worse than being alone. Being chewed up, spit on, and covered in dog hair come to mind. Harm, I’ll drop you off first if no one objects.”
    â€œI’m sure Grandpa Red won’t mind,” Harm teased. “He misses you.”
    â€œI’ve been busy at the inn, dear,” she said, pointing the Buick toward the edge of town. “Lavender’s finishing up another room for us. So much dust!”
    Lavender can fix anything. It’s only a matter of time before he gets his new second-hand racecar fixed up, and wins at Daytona. I will cheer from the stands.
    Grandmother Miss Lacy puttered past the old store and turned onto a rutted path leading through the woods, to Mr. Red’s dirt yard. “My word, Harm Crenshaw,” she said, gazing at the small homestead. “You two have been busy.”
    Harm grinned. “Check out the new steps. Gramps built them himself.”
    â€œVery handsome,” she murmured as Mr. Red spotted us. He straightened his barn jacket and wiggled his cap tighter on his head.
    â€œThose plaid ear flaps are a good look for him,” Dale said.
    Mr. Red opened her door. “Lacy,” he said, like a prince opening a carriage door.
    â€œRed,” she replied, smiling up at him. “The place looks nice.”
    â€œCome in and see what I’ve been doing,” he invited.
    She shook her head. “Not today. I want Mo and Dale home before people start worrying. And talking.” She put the Buick in reverse and we bounced down the path.
    â€œAre you going to marry him?” Dale asked as we hit a rut that bounced him almost to the roof.
    â€œMarry Red?” she said. “What on earth are you talking about?”
    â€œI hope not,” he said. “You’re Mo’s honorary grandmother. If you marry Mr. Red and adopt Harm, that would make Harm Mo’s uncle. I don’t think you can go to sixth grade in the same class with an uncle. It sounds illegal to me.”
    Dale’s mind works in mysterious ways.
    â€œI hadn’t thought of it quite like that,” she said.
    Nobody thinks quite like Dale.

    Five minutes later Dale and me blasted through the café door. “Miss Lana,” I called, “guess what! We passed out puppy applications and—” I skidded to a halt.
    â€œHello Detectives,” Capers Dylan said, stuffing her papers into her saddlebag. The café had gone World War II Paris—khaki napkins, Sherman Tank salt and pepper shakers, Maurice Chevalier on the jukebox. “What’s cooking?”
    Dale sniffed. “Mama’s collards?”
    â€œWhere’s Miss Lana?” I asked.
    â€œPiggly Wiggly,” she said. “It’s amazing how much food a café runs through. The Colonel had already taken the phone off the hook and stomped out. Lana asked me to watch the place. I hope you’re not hungry, because I don’t cook.”
    Miss Lana left the café with a rookie?
    â€œYou’re relieved of duty,” I said. “Café Command requires expertise. When you deal with the public, an infinite number of things can go wrong.”
    As if to prove my point, a red sports car wheeled into the parking lot—flashy hubcaps, spoiler, air freshener dangling from the mirror. Flick Crenshaw rolled out, an ugly stick of dynamite begging for a light.
    â€œSpeak of the Devil,” Dale said, heading for the ice cream.
    Flick shoved through the door. “Hey, Dale,” he said. “Who’s