Free The Odds of Getting Even by Sheila Turnage

your friend?”
    â€œYou know Mo.”
    â€œI mean the good-looking one,” he said, winking at Capers. “Coffee, Mo.”
    â€œWe’re out.”
    His gaze lingered on the full coffeepot. “Not my day,” he said. “Came over to join Starr’s search. I’m civic-minded that way. Only he can’t use me.”
    Flick’s civic-minded like the Colonel’s take-out-the-trash-minded—meaning he ain’t. He smirked at us. “Youdon’t know, do you?” he asked. “Some detectives you are. Macon Johnson robbed Creekside Baptist Church.”
    The ice cream scoop clattered from Dale’s hand. “What?”
    â€œCheck your police scanner,” he said—like we had one. “Creekside Baptist is your church, isn’t it, Dale? Doesn’t your mama sing in the choir or something? Bet she won’t after this.”
    â€œGet out of here,” I said, my temper popping.
    Flick’s face went switchblade serious. “Don’t tell me what to do, you little—”
    â€œLeave her alone,” Capers snapped. She tucked her saddlebag against her body, shoved her right hand inside, and pointed the bag at him. “I mean it.”
    â€œGun,” I whispered, “get down.” I turned to Dale.
    â€œDown here,” he whispered from behind the counter.
    Flick glared at Capers, spun, and slammed the door behind him.

    â€œWhat’s in there?” I demanded as Flick fishtailed across the parking lot, headed for town. “We don’t allow firearms unless you’re Joe Starr.”
    She plopped into a chair. “Just my writing gear. Total bluff.” She flipped open the saddlebag. “See for yourself. What’s wrong with that guy?”
    â€œMama says he’s unsavory,” Dale said, grabbing thephone and dialing. “Harm? Meet us at Creekside Baptist,” he said, and hung up.
    I looked at Capers. Smart, good bluffing skills, bold. And she kept her word to me. Maybe she’s café material after all. “You’re in charge,” I said, snagging my camera. “We’ll fill you in when we get back.”
    â€œDeal,” she said, and we flew out the door.
    Dale hopped on my handlebars light as a bug and I pedaled toward town. Flick’s car roared by, headed back toward the café.
    â€œWhere’s
he
going?” I looked back a moment later to see Capers and Flick in the parking lot, her finger in his bantam chest. “Look,” I said, skidding to a halt and pitching Dale to his feet.
    Capers hauled back and slapped Flick hard enough to stagger him sideways.
    â€œWow,” Dale said. “She’s got a temper bad as yours. And a way better right hook.”
    Suddenly I liked Capers Dylan. A lot.

Chapter 9
    He Could Have Just Asked
    At the church steps Dale vaulted off my handlebars. “Hey, Thes,” he said as Harm blasted up on his silver bike. “What happened?”
    â€œWe’ve been robbed,” Thes said, his voice swollen with tears. “All of us. Daddy, me, you, Jesus, everybody.” He sat bundled on the top step, his orange cat, Spitz, winding around his feet. Starr’s Impala lurked in the parking lot.
    â€œDon’t worry, Thes, the Desperados are on it,” I said. “What walked off?”
    â€œSunday’s collection—maybe a hundred dollars,” he said, scooping Spitz into his lap. “Detective Starr’s checking for fingerprints.” He scowled at Dale. “If your daddy needed something, all he had to do was ask.”
    Dale’s face went the color of river sand. Dale loves that church good as he loves his own house. So does Miss Rose.
    Thes knows that.
    â€œI hate it same as you,” Dale said. “And it’s going to break Mama’s heart.”
    Thes and Spitz stared at us, the silence stretching tight. “I’ll do Spitz’s photos first thing tomorrow,” I said, to