Free The Odds of Getting Even by Sheila Turnage Page B

“Off a hunting jacket?” he guessed. “Mr. Macon’s hunting jacket’s missing. And he’s thin.”
    â€œSo are you,” Dale said, frowning. “And I see a hundred of those jackets every hunting season.” Dale touched Harm’s sleeve. “You got to keep an open mind to be a detective. Settle down. If you weren’t a natural we wouldn’t have drafted you.”
    Being in charge suits Dale when he knows the rules.
    Dale walked down the back of the building, studying the ground. “Weird footprint,” he announced.
    â€œFootprints?” Starr said, rounding the corner. I shoved the thread in my pocket. “What are you kids doing? Because if you destroyed my evidence . . .”
    â€œWe didn’t,” I said.
Destroyed
and
in my pocket
are two different things.
    Starr knelt and measured the footprint Dale had found. “Size nine dress shoe.”
    My heart dove to my sneakers.
    Mr. Macon wears a size nine—I knew it from our first case. Starr pulled a frame from his bag and placed it around the print. “Perfect,” he said, tipping a bottle of green goo over the print. I stepped back, pulled out mycamera, and lined up a long shot.
Click.
Then the footprint.
Click
.
    Dale frowned. “But that’s just
one
print. And it’s in the only clear space back here, and it’s totally flat—no shoe-bend to it. Who would leave a print like that?”
    â€œSomebody standing still, like you are. What size shoe does Macon wear?” Starr asked.
    Dale studied the graveyard, the river. The quiver of his chin put him a heartbeat from crying. He knows his daddy’s shoe size good as I do.
    It’s hard being a good son to a bad man.
    I stepped up beside him. “Dale and me don’t track shoe sizes. We enjoy a reverse-flair for trivia. We’re below average at best.”
    â€œWay below average,” Harm said. “It’s sad, really.”
    â€œWell, Rose will remember,” Starr said.
    A slime-ball move.
    â€œDaddy wears a nine,” Dale blurted. “But that’s circumstantial.”
    Starr made a note in his clue pad.
    â€œCome on, Desperados,” I said. “Let’s ride.”

    Dale went quiet as the bottom of a well as we pedaled back to the café. Queen Elizabeth, who waited by the café jukebox, brought him back to life.
    â€œShe showed up at the door,” Capers said, rearrangingher papers. “I assumed she was looking for you,” she said as Dale gave Liz a hug.
    â€œLiz is psychic,” I explained. “She always knows where Dale is.”
    Dale rubbed Liz’s head. “She’s been craving odd foods lately,” he said. “Mama says it’s normal when you’re expecting. She may need ice cream.”
    Capers laughed. “A psychic pregnant hound. Great detail for my article.”
    As Dale trotted behind the counter and opened the ice cream case, I snuck a peek at Capers’s notebook. She closed it. “Congratulations on your great right hook,” I said.
    A blush crept up her neck. “You saw that? Flick’s a foul-mouthed worm. He had it coming.” She gave Harm a smile. “I’m surprised he’s your brother.”
    â€œMe too,” Harm said. “I’m also surprised you’re still in town with no trial to cover. I know Lavender’s still got your motorcycle, but . . .”
    Smooth. Good way to
not
ask a question when you
do
want an answer. Harm will be a great detective one day.
    â€œI’ll file updates until we see what Macon does,” she said. “Speaking of updates, you promised me a report.”
    I hesitated. Mr. Macon robbed the church, but how could I say it and still be a good friend to Dale?
    â€œI got a quote,” Dale said, setting a bowl of vanilla ice cream by Queen Elizabeth.
    Dale, who hates to speak up in class, will talk to a reporter?
    The hair on the