{"product_id":"three-times-lucky-isbn-9780142426050","title":"Three Times Lucky","description":"\u003cb\u003eA Newbery Honor Book\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An irresistible Southern narrator—a literary descendant of Scout Finch of \u003ci\u003eTo Kill a Mockingbird\u003c\/i\u003e.\" —\u003ci\u003eNewsday\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRising sixth grader Miss Moses LoBeau lives in the small town of Tupelo Landing, NC, where everyone's business is fair game and no secret is sacred. She washed ashore in a hurricane eleven years ago, and she's been making waves ever since. Although Mo hopes someday to find her \"upstream mother,\" she's found a home with the Colonel--a café owner with a forgotten past of his own--and Miss Lana, the fabulous café hostess. She will protect those she loves with every bit of her strong will and tough attitude. So when a lawman comes to town asking about a murder, Mo and her best friend, Dale Earnhardt Johnson III, set out to uncover the truth in hopes of saving the only family Mo has ever known. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLook for all the Mo \u0026amp; Dale Mysteries: \u003ci\u003eThe Ghosts of Tupelo Landing\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Odds of Getting Even\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe Law of Finders Keepers\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e* “A wickedly awesome tale…Mo LoBeau is destined to become a standout character in children’s fiction.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e* “Turnage’s lively novel features a distinctive voice and a community of idiosyncratic characters.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* \"Here is a writer who has never met a metaphor or simile she couldn't put to good use.\"—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e | \u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eA Newbery Honor Book\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eAn ALA Notable Book\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eA Best Book of the Year:\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e Newsday\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eWall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, James Patterson's Read Kiddo Read List, \u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBookpage\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eAn Edgar Award Nominee\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eAn E.B. White Read-Aloud Honor book\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eA SIBA young adult award winner\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eA YALSA Teens’ Top Ten Nominee\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eA Booklist Top 10 Crime Fiction for Youth\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eMultiple State Award Lists\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eFour starred reviews\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThree Times Lucky\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e * “A wickedly awesome tale…Mo LoBeau is destined to become a standout character in children’s fiction.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\"An irresistible Southern narrator—a literary descendant of Scout Finch of \u003ci\u003eTo Kill a Mockingbird\u003c\/i\u003e.\"—Top 12 Children's books of 2012, \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eNewsday\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e* “Turnage’s lively novel features a distinctive voice and a community of idiosyncratic characters.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e * \"\u003cb\u003eHere is a writer who has never met a metaphor or simile she couldn't put to good use\u003c\/b\u003e.\"—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003cb\u003eSpunky and hilarious\u003c\/b\u003e, eleven-year-old Mo LoBeau is one of my newest favorite heroines. \u003ci\u003eThree Times Lucky\u003c\/i\u003e will make everyone want to ride his or her own hurricane all the way to Tupelo Landing, just to join the fun.”—Ingrid Law, Newbery Honor-winning author of\u003ci\u003e Savvy\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \"\u003cb\u003eA dandy mystery\u003c\/b\u003e...Humor sweetens the mix, making Tupelo Landing a pleasant place to stay for a spell.\"—\u003ci\u003eHorn Book\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \"Mo's deadpan colloquial narration is robust and often humorous...Mystery lovers and fans of titles like Di Camillo's \u003ci\u003eBecause of Winn-Dixie\u003c\/i\u003e or Klise's \u003ci\u003eGrounded\u003c\/i\u003e will definitely want to set a spell with Mo.\"—\u003ci\u003eBulletin of the Center for Children's Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \"The heroine of Sheila Turnage's \u003ci\u003eThree Times Lucky\u003c\/i\u003e is so plucky that young readers may wish she lived next door.\"—\u003ci\u003eWall Street Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \"This book will leave readers hoping for more books about Mo and her gang.\"—\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e | Sheila Turnage grew up on a farm in eastern North Carolina. A graduate of East Carolina University, she authored two nonfiction books and one picture book before she started writing about Mo LoBeau and Dale. \u003ci\u003eThree Times Lucky\u003c\/i\u003e is a Newbery Honor book, a New York Times bestseller, an Edgar Award Finalist, an E. B. White Read-Aloud Honor book, and was included on seven Best Book of the Year lists. \u003ci\u003eThe Ghosts of Tupelo Landing\u003c\/i\u003e, the follow-up to \u003ci\u003eThree Times Lucky\u003c\/i\u003e, has so far garnered five starred reviews. Today Sheila lives on a farm with her husband, a smart dog, a dozen chickens, and a flock of guineas. | \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Colonel!” I cried. The Colonel opened his long arms and scooped me in.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMiss Lana says hugging the Colonel’s like hugging a turning plow, but I like the scrawny steel of his muscles and the jutting angles of his bones. “I thought you’d still be in bed, resting,” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe tightened the belt of his green plaid robe I gave him for Christmas the year I turned six. “Dale told me you had a stranger,” he said, eyeing Starr.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI pointed. “That’s Joe Starr,” I whispered. “He’s a lawman.” Everyone in the café pivoted to squint at Starr, who stood stock-still, the way you do when a mad dog comes near. “He looks like trouble,” I continued, keeping my voice low, “but he’s nothing I can’t handle.” I smiled at Starr. “No offense,” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“None taken,” Starr said easily.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Except for that, everything’s going great. Well,” I added. “There’s been a murder and we’re out of soup.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOTHER BOOKS YOU MAY ENJOY\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eAl Capone Does My Shirts Gennifer\u003c\/i\u003e Choldenko\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eAlmost Home\u003c\/i\u003e Joan Bauer\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eClose to Famous\u003c\/i\u003e Joan Bauer\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eFlutter\u003c\/i\u003e Erin E. Moulton\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eMatilda\u003c\/i\u003e Roald Dahl\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eOne for the Murphys\u003c\/i\u003e Linda Mullaly Hunt\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Outlaws of Sherwood Street: Stealing from the Rich \u003c\/i\u003ePeter Abrahams\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eRemarkable\u003c\/i\u003e Lizzie K. Foley\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eSavvy\u003c\/i\u003e Ingrid Law\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eSmall Persons with Wings\u003c\/i\u003e Ellen Booraem\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eSparrow Road\u003c\/i\u003e Sheila O’Connor\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eTracing Stars\u003c\/i\u003e Erin E. Moulton\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eA Year Down Yonder\u003c\/i\u003e Richard Peck\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThree Times\u003cbr\u003eLucky\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eby Sheila Turnage\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDial Books for Young Readers\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003ean imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eChapter\u003c\/i\u003e 1\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTrouble in Tupelo Landing\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTrouble cruised into Tupelo Landing at exactly seven minutes past noon on Wednesday, the third of June, flashing a gold badge and driving a Chevy Impala the color of dirt. Almost before the dust had settled, Mr. Jesse turned up dead and life in Tupelo Landing turned upside down.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs far as I know, nobody expected it.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs for me—Miss Moses LoBeau, rising sixth grader—trouble was the \u003ci\u003elast\u003c\/i\u003e thing on my mind as I crept across Dale’s front porch at six o’clock that morning. “Hey Dale,” I whispered, pressing my face against his sagging window screen. “Wake up.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe turned over, tugging at his sheet. “Go ’way,” he mumbled. His mongrel dog, Queen Elizabeth II, stirred beneath a hydrangea at the porch’s edge.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDale sleeps with his window up in summer partly because he likes to hear the tree frogs and crickets, but mostly because his daddy’s too sorry to bring home any air-conditioning. “Dale!” I bellowed. “Wake up! It’s Mo.” Dale sat bolt upright, his blue eyes round and his blond hair spiking in all directions.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Demons!” he gasped, pointing vaguely in my direction.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI sighed. Dale’s family is Baptist. “It ain’t demons, it’s me,” I said. “I stopped by to tell you: The Colonel’s come home and he ain’t up to cooking.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe blinked like a stunned owl. “You woke me up for that?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m sorry, Dale, I got to open the café today.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Oh,” Dale said, his disappointment riding the word to the ground. “But we been planning this fishing trip forever, Mo,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “How about Miss Lana? Can’t she whip up some craps, or—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Crepes,”\u003c\/i\u003e I said. “It’s French. And no, she can’t. Miss Lana slammed out just after the Colonel slipped in. She’s gone.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe swore, his voice soft as a breeze through the reeds. Dale started swearing last year. I haven’t started yet, but the way things are going, I could at any moment.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m sorry, Dale. We’ll have to go fishing another time. I can’t let the Colonel and Miss Lana down.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe Colonel and Miss Lana are the closest thing to family I’ve got. Without them, I wouldn’t have a home. I probably wouldn’t even have a name. I am bereft of kin by fate, as Miss Lana puts it, washed into my current, rather odd life by Forces Unknown.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJust then, Dale’s bedroom door creaked open and his mama leaned into the room, her green eyes soft from sleep. “Dale?” she whispered, clutching a faded pink housecoat to her throat. “You all right? You aren’t having nightmares again, are you, baby?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It’s worse than that, Mama,” he said gravely. “Mo’s here.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMiss Rose used to be a real beauty, back before time and Dale’s daddy got hold of her. That’s what people say: coal-black hair, a tilt to her chin, and a sway that made men stand taller.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Morning, Miss Rose,” I said, pressing my best smile against the window screen.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Lord have mercy,” she said, staggering back. “What time is it, Mo?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“A whisker past six,” I said, smiling. “I sure hope you slept well.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I did,” she said, “for a shockingly brief period of time.” Like Dale, Miss Rose doesn’t necessarily wake up good. Her voice took on a silky, dangerous tone. “And you are on my porch before the sun has wiped the sleep from its eyes because … ?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI took a deep breath. “Because the Colonel’s back but Miss Lana’s gone, so I got to open the café, which means Dale and me can’t go fishing, and I feel like it would be rude not to let him know. I’m just trying to do what’s right,” I concluded.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eA tiny frown creased her forehead.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFortunately, Miss Rose is a person of manners and, as Miss Lana says, manners will tell. “Well,” she finally said, “as long as we’re all awake, won’t you come in?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“She can’t,” Dale said, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. “Me and Mo are opening the café today.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Mo and I,” she murmured as he stood up fully dressed and stepped into a pair of sandals that looked way too big. She blinked. “What happened to your pajamas? And why are you wearing your brother’s old shoes?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Sleeping in my clothes saves time, and my feet are growing,” he replied, shoving his black T-shirt into his shorts and running his fingers through his hair. The men in Dale’s family are vain about their hair, and with good reason.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“He’s growing feet first,” I added. “The rest of him will catch up later.” Dale is the second-smallest kid in our class. Only Sally Amanda Jones is smaller. Dale’s sensitive. “Gotta go!” I shouted, and grabbed my bike and headed across the yard.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDale caught up with me just outside town. We coasted past the mayor’s new sign—WELCOME TO TUPELO LANDING, NC, POPULATION: 148—and skidded to a halt in the café parking lot, kicking up a rooster tail of oyster shells and sand. “Holy moly,” he said, dropping his bike. “Looks like the Colonel’s got a new car.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“A ’58 Underbird,” I said modestly. “Original paint.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You mean a Thunderbird,” he said, strolling around the car.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDale’s family knows cars. In fact, his big brother Lavender, who I will one day marry, races at Carolina Raceway. Dale kicked a tire and squinted at the silvery letters sprawling across the car’s fender. “Used to be a Thunderbird,” he announced. “Looks like the \u003ci\u003eT\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eH\u003c\/i\u003e fell off.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Well, it’s an Underbird now,” I said, waving my key in front of the café’s door.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I don’t see why you do that,” he said, watching me. “Everybody in town knows that door won’t lock.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I don’t do this for everybody in town; I do it in case of strangers. You can’t be too careful about strangers. That’s what the Colonel says.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDale grabbed my arm. “Wait. Don’t open up today, Mo. Please? Let’s go fishing. I was going to surprise you, but … I got us a boat.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI froze, the door half-open. “A boat? Where’d you get a boat?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Mr. Jesse’s,” he said, rocking back on his heels.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI tried not to sound impressed. “You stole Mr. Jesse’s boat?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe studied his fingernails. “I wouldn’t say \u003ci\u003estole,\u003c\/i\u003e” he said. “But I did borrow it pretty strong.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI sighed. “I can’t, Dale. Not today.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Tomorrow, then.” He grinned, grabbing the CLOSED sign and flipping it to OPEN.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDale’s my best friend. By now, you can see why.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe barely had time to rev up the air conditioner and click on the ceiling fans before our first customer stumbled in. I won’t say our patrons are an ugly lot, but at 6:30 a.m., they ain’t pretty. I stepped up on the Pepsi crate behind the counter as Mr. Jesse came sauntering in, thin-shouldered and round-bellied, wearing a faded plaid shirt, khakis, and last night’s whiskers. “Morning, Mr. Jesse,” I said. “What’ll it be?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hey, Mo,” he said, grabbing a menu. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“School ended last week, Mr. Jesse.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Oh? What grade will you … ?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Sixth.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Sixth grade? Good gracious, girl,” he said, looking at me for the first time. “You \u003ci\u003eare\u003c\/i\u003e growing.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI sighed. “I’m standing on a Pepsi crate, Mr. Jesse. I ain’t grown that much since yesterday. You want to order? I got other customers to think about.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe looked around the deserted café as the 7UP clock ticked loud and lonely on the far wall. “Other customers? Where?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“On their way over here.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Oh. Lessee then,” he said. “I don’t know what I’m in a mood for. Some jackass stole my boat last night, took my appetite with it.” Dale dropped a glass. “Big-footed buzzard, too, from his prints,” he added. “I’m guessing he’s at least six foot four and a good two hundred twenty pounds.” Dale kicked his oversize sandals under the counter. Mr. Jesse licked his thin lips. “Miss Lana take her biscuits out of the oven yet?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI made my voice gentle, the way Miss Lana does when I have a fever. “We ain’t having biscuits today, Mr. Jesse,” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Oh,” he said. Then: “Oh!” He sniffed the air like a hound, and a frown flashed across his unshaven face. “Doesn’t smell right in here,” he announced. “No coffee, no bacon, no biscuits …”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Miss Lana’s taking some time off,” I said, keeping my voice low. “It’s probably for the best. Her biscuits are awfully fattening and you could stand to lose that belly, Mr. Jesse. You know you could.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHis eyes darted to the gray double doors leading to the kitchen. “Is the Colonel back there?” he demanded. I couldn’t blame him for being nervous.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Want me to see if he’s in?” I offered, stepping off my Pepsi crate. I won’t say I’m short, but without the crate, I’m not tall.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Disturb the Colonel?” he gasped. “No! Heavens no. I just like to know when he’s in town.” He dropped the menu. “What do you suggest this morning, Mo?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI stood up straight, the way Miss Lana taught me, and draped a paper napkin over my arm. “This morning we’re offering a full line of peanut butter entrées,” I said. “We got peanut butter and jelly, peanut butter and raisins, and a delicate peanut butter\/peanut butter combination. These come crunchy or smooth, on Wonder Bread, hand-squished flat on the plate or not, as you prefer. The special today is our famous peanut butter and banana sandwich. It comes on Wonder Bread, cut diagonal on the plate, with crust or without. What can I start you with?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“The special,” he said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“An excellent choice. Hand-squished or fluffy?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Fluffy,” he said. “No crust. And …” He gazed at the coffeemaker, his pale eyes hopeful. “Coffee?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI shook my head. “Our drink du jour is Mountain Dew,” I said. “I got a two-liter breathing in back.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHis shoulders slumped.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Morning!” Mayor Little sang out, the door slapping shut behind him. He smoothed his ice-blue tie over his pudgy belly and flashed an unnaturally white smile.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hush!” Mr. Jesse barked. “Miss Lana’s gone and the Colonel could be in the kitchen!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMayor Little tiptoed to the counter, his polished loafers \u003ci\u003etick-tick-ticking\u003c\/i\u003e across the tile floor. “Miss Lana gone? The Colonel back? An unfortunate turn of events, but put in an historical context, it’s nothing the town can’t handle,” he murmured. “Morning, Mo. Give me a special and drink du jour. No ice. My gums are giving me fits.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Coming up,” I said, turning away.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe always choose a Little for mayor in case a television crew ever comes to town. Littles like to talk and they’re naturally neat; even their babies dress good. As the mayor sipped his Mountain Dew, the breakfast crowd trickled in.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGrandmother Miss Lacy Thornton parked her Buick by the Underbird and strolled to a table by the window. Grandmother Miss Lacy Thornton always wears a navy-blue suit and shoes. Their color offsets her white-blue hair, which she sweeps up in a halo around her heart-shaped face. She stands just a little taller than me, but somehow looms above everyone in the room.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTinks Williams darted in next to grab a sandwich, leaving his John Deere tractor idling in a patch of shade. Then came slow-talking Sam Quinerly, Lavender’s racing partner and mechanic. He already had grease on his hands. Before Dale could make Sam’s sandwich, in strolled Reverend Thompson and his boy, Thessalonians.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hey, Thes,” I said, sliding him a glass of water. “How’s summer school?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe grinned, his carrot-colored hair glistening. “Wouldn’t know. I ain’t going.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLike me, Thes doesn’t over-study. Unlike me, he’s F-prone. I keep my borderline straight A’s to myself, preferring to spring my brainpower on others when they least expect it. I take after Miss Lana that way. “How’d you wiggle out of that?” I asked.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Makeup tests, and prayer,” Reverend Thompson muttered.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThes beamed. “Hey Mo, we got three potential hurricanes off Africa this morning. I figure we got a thirty percent chance one will make it all the way to us.” Thes is a weather freak. He dreams of being a TV weatherman, and updates for practice. As far as I know, there’s no way to stop him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“A couple of specials, please, Mo,” Reverend Thompson said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Coming up.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBy 7:30 half the town had crowded into the café and rising seventh grader Skeeter McMillan—tall, slender, freckles the color of fresh-sliced baloney—had claimed the counter’s last spot.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Morning, Mo,” Skeeter said, propping her law book open. “I’ll have the alleged special, please.” Skeeter, who hopes to one day be an attorney, loves to say “alleged” and “perp.” Rumor has it she’s already written to Matchbook University for a paralegal course under an assumed name. She won’t say if that’s true or false, only that unsubstantiated rumor won’t hold up in court.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Hey Skeeter, the Colonel’s back,” Dale told her, speeding by.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe swept her law book into her bag. “Make mine to go,” she said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe Colonel hates lawyers. We allow Skeeter to come in, since she’s only in training, but she keeps a low profile out of pride.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBy 8:30, Dale and I were tearing around like our shirttails were on fire. I am permitted to serve meals since the café is a family business, but not to use the stove, which the Colonel says could be dangerous for someone of my height and temperament. The pre-lunch lull found me opening jars of Miss Lana’s Practically Organic Garden Soup—which, fortunately, serves up good cold in the bowl. “Miss Lana better come home soon,” I said, twisting the ring off a quart jar. “This is the last of her soup, and I ain’t no gardener.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You can say that again,” Dale muttered.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDale gets his green thumb from Miss Rose. I, personally, am practically herbicidal. I’ve killed every plant I ever met, starting with my lima bean sprout in kindergarten.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs the lunch crowd drifted in, I plugged in the jukebox. The lunch crowd is the breakfast crowd shaved and combed, plus the Azalea Women, who call themselves the Uptown Garden Club. There’s six of them, all told. Add the Azalea Women to our regulars, and the café was bustling when the stranger parked his dirt-colored Impala out front and pushed open the café door.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Afternoon,” he said, and the place went still as well water. I glanced at the clock. It was exactly seven minutes past noon.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003ci\u003eChapter\u003c\/i\u003e 2\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe Colonel\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe stranger looked slow around the café, his eyes the color of a thin winter sky. “Give me a burger all the way and a sweet tea,” he said, strolling to the counter.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAlready I didn’t like him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDidn’t like the starch in his shirt, or the crease in his pants. Didn’t like the hook of his nose, or the plane of his cheekbones. Didn’t like the skinny of his hips, or the shine of his shoes. Mostly, I didn’t like the way he didn’t smile.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI stepped up on my Pepsi crate. “Sorry, we’re out. You want the special instead?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“What’s the special?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI hooked my thumb toward the blackboard.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe frowned. “That’s all you got?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It’s good enough for us,” Tinks Williams growled from the stool beside him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHis eyes narrowed. “Give me the Carnivore’s Delight, then.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTinks handed me three dollars. “Keep the change,” he muttered, slapping his green John Deere cap on his head. “We tip good around here,” he said, directing his words in the stranger’s direction.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt was a bald-faced lie, but I appreciated it. “Thanks, Mr. Tinks,” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI hadn’t even raked Tinks’s crumbs to the floor when Mayor Little took his spot at the counter. “Mayor Clayburn Little,” he said. “Welcome to Tupelo Landing.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe room relaxed. The Littles are good with strangers.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Starr,” the stranger said, introducing himself as he flipped open a gold badge. “Detective Joe Starr.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe mayor formed his mouth into a perfect O. “A detective!” he said, shaking Starr’s hand. “Isn’t that wonderful? We don’t see many detectives around here.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“My boat got stole last night,” Mr. Jesse said from down the counter. “You come about my boat?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It’ll show up,” Dale shouted, his voice raw and panicked.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMayor Little forced a smile. “Your boat’s a local matter, Jesse. I’ll look into it.” Then to Starr: “Where are you out of, Detective, if you don’t mind me asking?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Winston-Salem,” Starr said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“My, my. You’re a long way from home. Passing through, I imagine. On your way to … a crime scene, of some sort?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Something like that,” Starr said. He gazed at me. “What’s your name?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI swallowed hard. I’m not good with authority figures. “Mo,” I said, a blush walking up my neck. Sometimes I could kill the Colonel for giving me a name like Mo.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Unusual name,” he said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It’s Biblical,” I told him. “Don’t take this wrong, but the last person to make fun of it got swallowed by the Red Sea.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAn Azalea Woman tittered.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDale slid Starr’s paper plate across the counter. “There you go: a Carnivore’s Delight. I gave you a cucumber strip, on the house.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Thanks, son,” he said. Starr’s gaze traveled from the dollar bill over the kitchen door, to the Colonel’s hand-lettered sign over the coffee urn: NO LAWYERS. Starr picked up his sandwich and studied Dale. “What’s \u003ci\u003eyour\u003c\/i\u003e name?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDale blanched. “Me? My name is … Phillip. Sir.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe café gasped, and I gave Dale a sharp kick in the shin. “I mean, it’s Dale,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. Dale’s family is like that. Let the Law come within twenty yards of them, and every male over the age of six—uncles, brother, father, cousins—starts lying his fool head off. Dale says it’s genetic. Miss Lana says that’s poppycock.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“So,” Mayor Little said. “To what do we owe the honor, Detective Starr?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Just passing through, like you said,” Starr said. “Headed for Wilmington. Who’s that?” he asked, glancing at a black-and-white photo on the wall.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Miss Lana,” I said, ringing up Tinks’s bill and dropping the extra into my tip jar. “She doesn’t always look like that,” I added. “She’s dressed up like Mae West.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMayor Little propped his elbow on the counter and beamed at Starr. “Hollywood Night here at the café, don’t you know,” he said, crossing his chubby legs and waggling one loafer. “We’re a wonderfully creative community.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I see that,” Starr said, glancing around the room. “Miss Lana own this place?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Goodness, no,” Mayor Little said. “The Colonel does. He’s not in today. A bit under the weather, I suppose.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe crowd’s attention swiveled to Starr, who sauntered toward the photograph. As he passed the Azalea Women they leaned away from him, like rabbits shying away from a bobcat. “She looks familiar,” he said, squinting at the photo.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Well, that was the idea, Detective,” Mayor Little said in a pained voice. “We had Hollywood Night here at the café, and we all dressed up. The whole town. Miss Lana came as Mae West, I chose Charlie Chaplin. I went silent for once, you see. Sort of an inside joke. We made an evening of it. Skits. Impressions.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDale seemed to have regained his composure, even with a detective within arresting distance. Or so I thought until he opened his mouth. “The boobs aren’t real,” he squawked.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMayor Little frowned. “Dale!”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“In Miss Lana’s photograph, I mean. Those boobs aren’t real,” he babbled. “Neither is the hair.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Dale, go check our Mountain Dew supply,” I said, giving him a shove. The kitchen door swished shut behind him.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Well, sir, what are you investigating?” Mayor Little asked as Starr settled back onto his stool. “Anything exciting?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“A murder,” he said, and the Azalea Women shuddered.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Where?” Mayor Little asked.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Happened in Winston-Salem, a couple weeks ago,” Starr said, picking up his soupspoon and leaning over his bowl. “Good soup,” he muttered.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Miss Lana put it up last summer,” I told him. “It’s practically organic.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMayor Little smoothed his tie. “Who is the, uh, dearly departed?” he asked.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Fellow named Dolph Andrews. Ever hear of him?” Starr pulled a photo out of his shirt pocket and slid it down the counter. The mayor and I leaned over the counter, studying it. Even upside down, Dolph Andrews was a good-looking man.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Looks a little like George Clooney,” Mayor Little said. “No, Dolph Andrews has never been here. I’d remember.” He slid the photo back. “Who killed him?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Don’t know.” Starr nudged the photo toward me. “Go ahead, pass it around. Let everybody take a look.” The photo went from hand to hand, around the café.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Somebody slit his throat?” I guessed, and an Azalea Woman dropped her spoon.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Interesting thought, but no—somebody shot him dead,” Starr said. “Cut his phone line, came into his house, and pulled the trigger.” At the end of the counter, Mr. Jesse studied the photograph for a long moment. His hand shook as he passed it on.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Who would kill a nice young man like that?” the mayor sighed as Starr polished off his sandwich and pushed his plate away.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eStarr shrugged. “Somebody who thought Dolph needed killing, I guess,” he said. “Could have been right too, for all I know. What do I owe you, Biblical Mo?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Two seventy-five, plus tax.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Don’t be silly,” Mayor Little said, reaching for his wallet. “Lunch is on me.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eJoe Starr handed me a five. “Keep the change,” he said, a whisper of a smile in his eyes. “And that spooky kid in the kitchen—”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You mean Phillip?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I mean Dale,” Starr said, slipping the photo into his shirt pocket and buttoning the flap. “Tell him the next time I come in here, I expect to see shoes on his feet.”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe strolled to the door and stopped, looking out over the parking lot. “Nice Thunderbird,” he said. “Whose is it?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI hesitated. The Colonel always says not to lie, but sometimes the truth doesn’t feel like a good fit. “Well,” I said, my voice trailing off.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eFortunately, at that moment, the kitchen doors behind me swung open, slamming against the wall. The dollar bill over the door tilted. The café jumped. “It’s my car, you nosy son of a gun,” the Colonel growled from the doorway. “What’s it to you?”\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Colonel!” I cried. The Colonel opened his long arms and scooped me in.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMiss Lana says hugging the Colonel’s like hugging a turning plow, but I like the scrawny steel of his muscles and the jutting angles of his bones. “I thought you’d still be in bed, resting,” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHe tightened the belt of the green plaid robe I gave him for Christmas the year I turned six. “Dale told me you had a stranger,” he said, eyeing Starr.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI pointed. “That’s\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Dial Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48338554487013,"sku":"NP9780142426050","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780142426050.jpg?v=1769572668","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/three-times-lucky-isbn-9780142426050","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}