Mama Gets Hitched (23 page)

The charming Tony from
before had disappeared. A killer sat across from me, probably intent on making me his next victim.

“You won’t get away. When I said the cops are coming, I meant now,” I lied. “I just heard the first car turn onto my drive.”

At the instant Tony whirled to look out the window, I doubled over and grabbed the shotgun from under the couch. Tony might be fast, but I am, too. The weapon was pumped and ready, almost before he had time to register the fact I was armed. The cops weren’t outside.

He looked from the window to me, holding the gun. “You lied to me.”

“Yeah, and you killed a man. Maybe you killed Ronnie Hodges, too. I wasn’t taking any chances.”

We stared at each other over the expanse of my coffee table; two Old West gunslingers ready to fire if the other so much as flinched. I don’t know about Tony, but my heart was about to explode through my chest. I hoped he wouldn’t notice the barrel of the shotgun shaking.

“I told you I had nothing to do with Ronnie. Why would I admit to one murder and lie about the other?”

“Because Florida has capital punishment. The murder here could get you the needle.”

He shook his head. “I wasn’t lying. I thought we were friends. I thought I could trust you.”

“That was your first mistake.”

He looked toward the yard again. “Did you really call the cops?”

I nodded. “Yeah, but I calculated some extra time because I wanted to talk to you first, see if you could explain. I wanted to find out before Mama’s wedding if you killed Ronnie.”

“Do you think I did?”

I looked into his eyes. I saw no cruelty there. No murderous rage. He seemed sad; wounded. I remembered how he jumped up to help the waitress at Gladys’ Diner. How kind he was to the old couple at the Speckled Perch. How he rescued a turtle from the highway. Then I flashed on the Tony I’d witnessed in my living room, cursing into his cell phone, fully in command. Not to mention the Tony holding me at gunpoint right now.

Finally, I shrugged. “I can’t say whether you killed him. I pray you didn’t.”

A spark of hope died in his eyes. His next move was unexpected. He stooped, slowly placing his handgun on the floor. Rising, he put up his hands in surrender.

“I’m unarmed. I’m going to walk out, get in my car, and go before the cops get here. Shoot me if you want. I’d rather die than go to prison.”

As he turned and trudged to the door, time seemed frozen. My finger rested on the trigger. The stock of the gun weighed heavily against my shoulder. When he stepped through the door, I lowered the barrel.

There was no way I’d shoot an unarmed man in the back, and he knew it. Tony had outmaneuvered me.

I followed, calling to him from the porch. “You won’t get far. The cops are probably speeding down State Road 98 right now. It’ll go better for you if you stay here and let them arrest you. Face what you’ve done.”

Still walking, he spoke over his shoulder. “Tell my aunt I’m sorry.”

As Tony got in his car, I hurried inside to the house phone. I heard the engine start as I hit speed dial for Carlos. Phone to my ear, I crossed to the window. The Lexus sped from my yard, shock absorbers getting a workout over the bumps and ruts of the unpaved drive. As the number rang, I tried to figure out how to spin the morning’s events so Carlos wouldn’t be furious.

_____

“You WHAT?”

I’d already recited the basics: What Tony was driving, when he’d left, and from what location so Carlos could relay the information over the police radio. Now, I was spinning; but he wasn’t buying.

“When Tony got here early, I took the opportunity to talk to him. How was I supposed to know he’d be armed?”

Of course, I must have suspected. Why else would I have hidden the shotgun?

“We had to dot the legal
i’s
and cross our jurisdictional
t’s
, but you should have called immediately, Mace. I would’ve had someone on the scene. Now, we’ve lost the element of surprise. We may never find him. Even worse, you could have been hurt.”

At least Carlos still thought my being hurt would be a negative. Would that still hold true if I confessed I’d built in the extra time so I could interrogate Tony?

“I’m sorry. I made a mistake. But I’m worried about Mama’s wedding. I don’t think Tony murdered Ronnie. That means whoever did is still out there. What if the killer has something awful planned for today?”

“Jane’s pretty sure Tony did it,” Carlos said.

“Who’s Jane?”

“Jane Smith. The detective from New Jersey. She said you two had a nice chat last night.”

“Jane Smith is her real name?”

“Of course. And she’d like to say hello. I’m putting you on speaker.”

I heard a hollow echo, then a flat, toneless voice: “Thanks for screwing up my arrest.”

I tried not to get my back up. I deserved that. “Hello, Detective Smith.”

“Did Tony give you any information about where he might be headed?”

“Just that he was going someplace where they don’t even speak English.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down much.”

“Well, if he’s dumping that rental car to head out by air, Orlando has more international options than the airport at West Palm Beach. So he’d be heading north. And if he wanted to stay off the Florida Turnpike and away from the state troopers who patrol it, then he’d want to take US Highway 441.”

“Well, that’s something to start with, at least,” Jane said.

I could hear Carlos on the radio, relaying the information.

“Any other details you think we should know?” she asked.

I described Tony’s clothing, and even told them about the leather seats in the Lexus and his country music CDs. As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew Carlos would wonder later how I was so familiar with the interior of the car of an alleged murderer, now a fugitive.

“Oh, yeah,” I added. “He left his gun. He’s unarmed.”

“I doubt that.” I heard the sneer in Jane’s voice. “There’s probably an arsenal and a suitcase of knives in that car.”

“I don’t think so. Tony said his father pressured him to kill that restaurant guy. It seems like he’s running more from his family’s expectations than from the law.”

Aside from the whine of the speaker, their end of the phone was silent. Then they both burst out laughing.

“Please, Mace. You can’t be that gullible,” Carlos said.

I heard my peeved sniff, magnified over the damned speaker phone.

“Did he make big, sad, puppy dog eyes when he sold you that story?” Jane asked. “I bet he said he did this Himmarshee murder because his aunt held a gun to his head, too.”

“I’m just telling you the impression I got.” I bit my tongue before I added
bitch
. “Why do you think he’d admit to one murder and deny the other?”

“Oh, gee whiz, I don’t know.” Jane’s voice was mocking, all naïve schoolgirl. “Maybe because he’s a lying sack of crap?”

“All righty, then. As much as I enjoy hearing what an idiot I am, I have to get to town to get my hair and nails done.”

“Oh, that’s priceless.” Jane snorted. “Gullible
and
vain.”

Carlos chuckled, but quickly redeemed himself. “Mace is normally a pretty good judge of character, Jane. And the only reason she’s getting dolled up is because she’s in her mother’s wedding today.”

“
Mazel tov
to your mother,” Jane said. “Maybe the wedding will keep you and the other civilians busy enough not to meddle in any more murder investigations.”

Carlos laughed out loud. Redemption cancelled.

“Okay,” I said, my voice as sweet as Marty’s. “Y’all have a nice day.”

I wasn’t going to sink to their level. On second thought, what the hell?

“By the way, Detective Smith, you might want to ask Carlos about out-of-town cops who think they know everything. Ask him about the time he tossed my sweet little mama in jail when everybody in town tried to tell him there was no way a Sunday-school-teaching, sherbet-pantsuit-wearing senior citizen had committed a murder.”

I slammed down the receiver, hoping for a speaker screech that would rattle their eardrums.

“Ringlets, Mama? Really?” Even
Marty, the first victim, was rebelling at this latest excess.

Maddie and I stood behind her, staring in horror into the mirror at Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow. Marty may have looked as adorable as an antebellum doll in her corkscrew curls. But the two of us knew: We are not cut out for cute. With my shoulders, I’d look like a line-backer channeling his inner Scarlett O’Hara. And Maddie feared a picture of her in ruffles and ringlets would get out on YouTube, compromising her ability to scare her students.

Betty gave one of the curls a final pat with her purple styling comb. The curl jiggled like a coiled spring next to Marty’s smooth cheek.

“Well, I think your hair looks splendid, honey. Betty, you’ve done a wonderful job.” Mama turned to me. “Mace, climb up in that chair. You’re next.”

As one, Maddie and I started backing toward the door.

“Oh, no you don’t!” She grabbed each of us by an arm. “Now, I don’t ask much of you girls …”

Catching Marty’s gaze in the mirror, we all rolled our eyes.

“… I saw that. But this is just one little thing I’m asking you to do on My Special Day. Mace, I promise I’ll never make you dress up again.”

“Can I get that in writing?”

“And Maddie, you’ll hear no more comments from me about your weight. Although there is one last diet I clipped out from
Woman’s World
I’d love you to take a look at …”

Maddie shook off Mama’s hand. “I’m outta here.”

“Sorry, honey.” She mimed zipping her lip. “You are perfect exactly as you are. Beautiful, in fact, just like your sisters.”

Linking elbows with us, Mama pleaded into the mirror. “Please, girls? It’s only for today. You can brush them out the minute Sal and I drive away with our
Just Married
sign.”

Sometimes, it’s easier to go along than to argue with Mama. Besides, with five pounds of ruffles, parasols, and a Pomeranian in a satin top hat leading the bridal procession, how much tackier could the ringlets really make things?

“Whatever.” Sighing, I took my place in the chair Marty vacated.

She leaned over and whispered, “Just close your eyes and think happy thoughts, Mace. It’ll be over before you know it.”

The bells jangled on the salon door, and D’Vora rushed in, late as usual. She quickly got Maddie into a chair, tossed a purple drape over her shoulders, and started brushing out her hair. D’Vora had come a long way since the unfortunate peroxide incident she inflicted upon Mama, back when she was a beautician-trainee. She’d since built a following among younger women and some of Himmarshee’s affluent newcomers. She may even be in line to buy the shop from Betty some day.

But for now, D’Vora’s boss aimed a pointed look at the salon’s wall clock, shaped like a lady wearing a bouffant hairdo.

“You know, the little hand is supposed to be on the ten, not near the eleven, when you report to work.”

“Sorry, Betty.”

D’Vora divided Maddie’s red hair with a clip, and then coated a one-inch section with setting lotion.

My sister wrinkled her nose. “That smells like bananas left in the fruit bowl too long.” Ignoring her, D’Vora wound her hair onto a Marcel curling iron, held it, released, and then sprayed again from a can that said Maximum Hold.

D’Vora said, “Something big was happening at the police department. There were a bunch of cop cars, and they had Main Street completely blocked.”

I swiveled toward her, causing Betty to nearly yank out the hank of hair she was preparing to twirl.

“Ouch!”

“Mace, anyone with a passing familiarity with beauty parlor etiquette knows to keep still in the stylist’s chair,” Betty said.

“I’ll remember that.” I put up a knuckle to rub my temple. “What was happening with the police, D’Vora?”

“No idea. They wouldn’t let me past to see. They just made me detour with all the other traffic. Since I was going that way anyway, I stopped at the drive-thru for some coffee. Linda-Ann asked me about those coveralls you found at Himmarshee Park, Mace.”

My antenna went up. “What’d she say?”

“That she remembered Ronnie always wearing coveralls for work at the feed store. She bought a pair just like them from the store for Trevor. She says he thinks they’re ironic, whatever that means.”

My eyes met my sisters’ in the mirror. “ ‘Ironic’ isn’t the word I’d choose. More like suspicious. Can we take a break so I can make a quick phone call, Betty?”

She glared at me in the mirror. “Would you ask your surgeon to put down his scalpel in the middle of an operation? I’m working here!”

Maddie shook her head at me. “Even if you did call Carlos, he won’t tell you anything.”

Marty nodded, her ringlets bouncing. “What’s that line he uses? ‘This is an
active
investigation.’ ”

“Don’t worry, honey.” Mama patted my hand. “Somebody will come into the shop and tell us all about it before long.”

As Betty worked on my hair, questions flew through my mind: Had the police found Tony, barreling north for the airport in his rented Lexus? Had those coveralls linked Trevor to Ronnie’s murder? Or, had Rabe managed to collect some damning evidence to point the cops to his sleazeball stepfather?

Whatever had happened, I hoped no one else had been hurt. And I hoped none of it spilled over to Mama’s Special Day.

Her voice interrupted my thoughts. Something about those awful dresses.

“Beg your pardon, Mama?”

“I said I stopped by Fran’s and got your beautiful gowns. The back of my car looks like a sherbet-colored rainbow.”

“I’ll bet it does,” Maddie said.

Mama went on, “Betty’s offered to do any touch-ups we might need before we pose for pictures, so we’ll go ahead and dress for the wedding here.”

It was either the hair salon, or the VFW bathrooms, so Mama’s plan made sense to me.

“I’m as busy today as a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest,” Betty said. “Rosalee, you won’t believe who’s coming in to get her hair done for your wedding.”

Mama lit an aromatherapy candle, releasing a lemon grass scent to war with all the other fruit and flower smells in the shop. “C’ndee?”

Betty pulled, spritzed, and rolled “No.”

“Dab Holt? I still can’t get over how she threw herself at that stripper.”

“Could we call him an entertainer, Rosalee?” D’Vora asked. “I didn’t mention anything about a half-naked cowboy to my mama.”

Betty said, “Don’t tell me you invited Dab!”

“Absolutely not! But that wouldn’t stop her from showing up. She’s got more nerve than a planeload of New Yorkers. Is it Charlene from Gladys’ Diner getting her hair done?”

Betty shook her head, the purple comb in her mouth indicating no.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Betty,” Maddie finally interrupted. “Just tell us who has the hair appointment.”

“Alice Hodges.”

We all fell quiet. Marty broke the silence. “Poor thing.”

“I thought Alice decided not to come to your wedding,” I said.

“Me, too. But I’m glad she changed her mind.” Mama tapped her chin the way she does when she’s thinking. “Betty, I want to pay for Alice’s hair today. Give her the works.”

“Great idea, Mama. We’ll all chip in, and get her face done, too.” Maddie raised her eyebrows in the mirror at D’Vora. “Do you have time to do her make-up?”

“Sure. I’ll juggle to fit her in.”

“Good! It’s settled, then.” Mama started to clap her hands, but she frowned instead. “I just hope the wedding doesn’t make Alice dwell on all she’s lost. My happiness shouldn’t make her sad.”

_____

“A purse
and
a parasol, Mama? Really?”

The over-the-top implication was clear, even in Marty’s mild tone. We regarded ourselves in the mirror: Maddie and I were the cotton-candy-pink and lime-green bookends to Marty’s orange-sherbet confection. At the last minute, Mama had asked Fran to stitch up some drawstring purses in fabric to match our dresses. They now dangled from each of our left wrists; the parasols swung from straps on our right. Together, the two accessories upped our ruffle quotient by at least thirty percent.

I was ready to make a smart remark, until I glanced over at Mama, standing off to the side. Her hands were clasped over her heart; her eyes shone with tears. I nudged my sisters to look.

“You girls are like a heavenly vision.” Mama sniffled. “You’re angels, that’s what you are. And I just know the Lord will be smiling down on us today.”

_____

Traffic flowed again on Main Street by the time I gathered up my hoop skirt and climbed into my Jeep. Sitting in the driver’s seat, swathed in fabric, I wondered whether suffocation by ruffles was a common cause of death.

I’d tried Carlos’ number a couple of times, and went straight to voicemail. For a change, not a single one of Betty’s clients was able to report anything on the police goings-on, either. If Tony was involved, Jane Smith had probably scared any officers prone to gossip by threatening to stick her motorcycle helmet where the sun never shines.

I stayed in second gear, cruising slowly past the police department. From the front, nothing looked out of the ordinary. But when I pulled into the lot and circled to the back, I saw a thick knot of uniformed and plainclothes cops. At least a dozen cruisers and unmarked sedans were parked haphazardly, as if their drivers had been in a hurry. Along with Himmarshee’s familiar blue-and-whites, there were a couple of marked cars from the county sheriff’s department, and three dark SUVs. I didn’t recognize the big vehicles, but they bellowed
Police
.

Something was definitely up.

Jane’s blond mane shone from the middle of the crowd. Carlos stood right beside her. Grins and high-fives were exchanged; laughter echoed out across the parking lot. As I got closer, I saw the silhouette of a suspect in the back seat of one of the sheriff’s cars. Even from a distance and in the shadow, I could tell the handsome profile was Tony Ciancio’s. Unbidden, a surge of sympathy washed over me.

I parked, and tried to extricate myself and my billowing skirt from the Jeep without showing off my ruffled pantaloons. By now, all eyes were on me, except for Tony’s. Head bowed, he stared at the floor in the back of the cruiser. I could only imagine what was running through his mind. Whatever it was, it was far more serious than the picture I must have made, mincing across the parking lot in lime-hued ruffles from bonnet to matching high heels.

Somebody began to hum “Dixie.” Snickers rippled through the crowd. One of the sheriff’s deputies doffed his uniform hat and performed a courtly—if smirking—bow. “How ’do, Miz Scarlett?”

“Very funny.” I pointed my parasol at the sheriff’s car. “I see y’all caught your man.”

Himmarshee Police Officer Donnie Bailey, my former babysitting charge, stepped forward. “You wouldn’t believe it, Mace.” His words tumbled out. “One of the county deputies was pulled off along 441, clocking speeders, when the BOLO came over the radio about the Lexus …”

Jane’s eyes burned holes into Donnie. Maybe he smelled the singe coming off his uniform, because he clamped his mouth shut so fast he surely bit his tongue. I looked around at some of the other familiar faces in the crowd. Most of them stole nervous glances at a glowering Jane. Lips were zipped; chins aimed to the ground.

The fact that testosterone apparently provided no vaccine against fear of Detective Smith made me feel a little better about my earlier reactions to her. She looked me up and down, an amused smile tugging at her lips. “Nice parasol. What would you call that color? Minty green?”

I ignored her.

“I’d say it’s more like unripe banana. A little yellow in the green.” Carlos winked.

“But pastel, right?” Jane said.

“Oh, yes.” He winked again. “Definitely pastel.”

“Carlos, you ought to see somebody about that twitch in your eye,” I said. “And the dress is lime sherbet, as any fool can plainly see. Now, if you two are finished with the fashion commentary and the Two Stooges comedy routine, maybe you can tell me: Did Tony confess to killing Ronnie?”

“He hasn’t said jack,” Carlos said.