Mama Gets Trashed (A Mace Bauer Mystery)

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Authors: Deborah Sharp

Tags: #Fiction, #mystery, #cozy, #mystery novel, #humorous, #mystery fiction

Mama Gets Trashed
© 2013
Deborah Sharp

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

E-book ISBN: 978-0-73873921-2

Book design by Donna Burch
Cover design by Lisa Novak

Cover illustration by Gail Armstrong/Illustration Ltd.

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dedication

With love to Kathleen Robelen—
my sweet, Southern, second mama

acknowledgments

I owe a huge debt to my readers, especially those who’ve stayed with the Mace Bauer Mysteries from the start. No one can predict where life will lead. You’ve made this part of the journey a total blast. Special thanks to Elaine Naiman, whose charitable donation earned her a character name; and to the Alabama ladies of the Mama Posse: Dab, Muffin, Beth, and Lucie. Y’all know what you did!

As with all my books, I had help from myriad sources. Early readers of
Mama Gets Trashed
included Karen Feldman, Victoria Allman, and my fabulous sister, Charlene Bogolub. My agent, Whitney Lee, also applied her talents to improving the manuscript. I’m grateful for all their suggestions.

Paul Laska, a law enforcement consultant, offered advice on bombs and explosions. Several sources helped me understand the ins and outs of garbage trucks. Vince Ruano, the former city manager of Bushnell, Florida, spent some time with me on the phone. David Peters and Jeff Coleman, of the Stuart, Florida, public works department, gave me an up-close gander. Any errors are mine, and should not reflect on their expertise or knowledge.

I’m grateful to my editor, Terri Bischoff, and the talented staff at Midnight Ink. Lisa Novak designs great covers; Connie Hill edits like
a dream; Bethany Onsgard helps spread the word. Thanks also to Alisha
Bjorklund, for making “Trashed’’ sound enticing.

The world’s greatest husband, Kerry Sanders, and the world’s greatest mama, Marion Sharp, have my eternal gratitude for their love and inspiration. And Okeechobee, Florida, the real-life model for fictional Himmarshee, always holds a special place in my heart.

Finally, I’m indebted to book-sellers and librarians, who do so much for readers and for authors like me. Where would I be without you?

one

I toed aside a
pink take-out bag from the Pork Pit. Barbecue sauce
stained the cuff on my jeans. A soggy onion ring clung like a
barnacle to the leather laces of my work boots. Flies buzzed. Moun
tains of household trash rose around me. Brushing at a sweat
droplet that rolled from my forehead down my nose, I glared
at Mama.

How had I let her drag me along on this search expedition to the Himmarshee dump on the hottest day of the year?

“Tell me again how you tossed out your wedding ring with the garbage?’’

“I already explained all that, Mace. It was an accident.’’

She sounded more annoyed at me than she had a right to, since I was the one doing most of the looking under a scorching sun. She stood in the shade cast by my Jeep, fanning herself with a paper cutout of a largemouth bass, a freebie from Gotcha Bait & Tackle near Lake Okeechobee.

“In other words,’’ I said, “you were careless because you were trashed.’’

“Trashed?’’

“Right. Tipsy. Blotto. Drunk.’’

Mama pulled herself up to her full height of 4 foot 11 inches, smoothed her perfectly coiffed platinum hair, and regarded me regally. Well, as regal as someone standing in a pile of moldy cantaloupe rinds and coffee grounds can be. “I was not drunk. I’d only had a tiny glass of pink wine. Barely a thimble-full, really.’’

I stepped on a squishy disposable diaper. Used, of course. A rat ran over the toe of my boot. I decided to continue our discussion, but keep my eyes on the ground.

“That’s not what Marty said. She said you just about finished the whole fiesta-sized box yourself. You barely left her enough wine for half a glass.’’

“Marty’s wrong.’’

“Right. My trustworthy little sister is a liar.’’

“She’s not lying; exaggerating, maybe. Anyhoo, I’d taken off my ring to scour the stovetop. I must have swept it off the counter into the trashcan with the used paper towels. We’ll never have to worry about the same thing happening with that new ring of yours, since you never scour anything.’’

I took pity on her and didn’t press it, figuring she felt bad enough about losing the enormous diamond wedding ring Husband No. 5 had recently given her. Amazingly, Salvatore “Big Sal’’ Provenza from Da Bronx was turning into a keeper. No such luck, apparently, with his ring. I kept quiet, working my way through another pile of rubbish. The silence stretched out, without Mama saying a word either. That was unusual enough that it made me look up to check on her.

She was tapping away at her smart phone. I heard the whoosh sound, signaling she’d just sent a message.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!’’

“What?’’ She raised her face from the phone, all blue-eyed innocence.

“Is my busting my sweaty butt to help you find your stupid ring keeping you from some more important business on that telephone?’’

“Oh, this?’’ She lifted the small electronic beast in her hand. “I was returning an email from your sister Maddie. She’s in crisis.’’

Mama closed the gap between us, and shoved the phone toward me. “Look at this picture. See the yellow dress? That’s what she’s supposed to wear to Kenny’s party next week. You know I absolutely cannot let Maddie wear that dress, Mace.’’

“Why? Is it against the law to wear yellow for your husband’s forty-fifth birthday?’’

“Don’t sass me, girl. You’re not too old for me to grab a switch.’’ She leveled a look that could still scare me a bit, even though I’m thirty-four years old and tower over her by almost a foot. “Yellow turns Maddie’s skin tone as green as my wrist got after Husband No. 3 bought me that watch from the man with the card table in New York City.’’

I shielded the phone’s screen from the sun and examined the dress. It was smiley-face yellow. I thought it looked cheerful. Mama ran the Color Me Gorgeous franchise at Hair Today Dyed Tomorrow beauty parlor, so she considered herself an expert in what shades of clothing did and did not match which skin tones. I had less fashion sense than the guys at the feed store, so I didn’t really see the problem.

“Maddie and her yellow dress is hardly a crisis, Mama. I’ll give you a crisis. If we don’t recover your ring, and Sal finds out you lost it even before he’s had the chance to pay it off because you got blitzed on too much sweet pink wine—’’

“—Say no more, Mace.’’ She took back the phone, and slipped it into the pocket of her orange-sherbet-colored pantsuit. “I’ll take that corner over there by the fence. I see a bunch of white paper towels and some empty cans of that dog food Teensy likes. Maybe that’ll be the trash from my house.’’

Picking up a broken broom, Mama began using it to delicately poke at garbage piles. I had to smile at the look on her face when she lifted the broom handle to examine what was stuck to the end and a banana peel dropped down her blouse. I was about to say something smart-alecky, when a sparkle of light shining between a bunch of spoiled beets and a flat bike tire caught my eye.

I walked over to get a closer look. A fishy smell about knocked me out. A week’s worth of leftovers from Jimbob’s Seafood Shack moldered. Sure enough, though, I saw the unmistakable glint of a diamond.

“I found it,’’ I yelled, only to hear Mama’s excited shout at the same
moment.

“I’ve got it!’’ she cried from across the dump. “I found my ring.’’

She was waving, and the sun reflected off the big rock returned to her hand. If Mama had found
her
diamond, what exactly had I found? Kicking aside some crab shells and rotten shrimp, I lifted the bike tire. Up came a stained sheet tangled in some snapped-off spokes. Underneath was the body of a scantily clad woman, with one hand flung out. Against the deathly pallor of her wrist, a diamond bracelet glittered.

two

A lace-up bodice of
black leather barely contained the upper half
of the young woman’s body. On the bottom, she wore a short leather skirt, also in black, with fishnet stockings. Dark hair fanned out across a bare shoulder. What looked like a dog collar encircled her neck, black leather with silver spikes and a ring for a leash. On her left foot was a five-inch stiletto heel; the shoe’s mate was missing. Pale pink polish on her toenails gleamed through the wide mesh of the fishnet. The demure color, such a contrast to the revealing leather, made her seem especially vulnerable. Aside from the missing high heel, the rest of her clothing looked intact, if scanty.

“Do you know her?’’ I asked Mama.

She shook her head, eyes riveted on the body. Considering the heat, the girl couldn’t have been dumped too long ago.

“Me neither. I’d say she’s in her twenties, maybe thirty. Younger than me.’’

Mama nodded. To my surprise, tears pooled in her eyes. I put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t cry. You know this isn’t the first time we’ve found a body, unfortunately. We can say a prayer for her, if you want. Either way, this poor gal is past caring.’’

Mama plucked a sherbet-hued handkerchief from her pocket. “I can’t help it, Mace. Seeing her dumped here like household garbage just breaks my heart. I think of how I’d feel if harm like this ever came to you or your sisters. She was somebody’s daughter.’’

Now I felt the sting of tears, too. Mama grabbed my hand. We recited the verses of Psalm 23, Mama filling in where I faltered:
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want …

When we finished, I raised my head and looked around the
dump. I added a silent prayer that God would receive the soul of the dead girl into heaven. If she did get the chance to sit beside Him, I hoped she wouldn’t remember what had brought her to such
an end on earth.

I had the urge to cover her again with the bed sheet. But I’d already called the police, and I knew we should disturb things around
the body as little as possible. We retreated a short distance away to wait. We both pressed close to my Jeep, seeking the small amount of shade the vehicle provided.

The morning was young, but the sun was already demonstrating its hot hold on middle Florida. Even at eight a.m., it was sweltering. Mama had made me promise I’d swing by before work at Himmarshee Park to bring her to the dump. Now, all I could think of was how many places I’d rather be. She consulted her mirrored compact, dabbing with the handkerchief at her mascara. It was melting from the heat and her earlier tears. I squinted past her toward the open gate.

“Here comes a car. That’s got to be Carlos,’’ I said.

Mama licked the tips of two fingers and spit-patted my unruly bangs. “Your hair’s a mess, Mace. It looks like a bunch of raccoons crawled in there and threw a party.’’

I ducked out of her reach. She offered me her mirror, and got a scowl in return.

“Mama, this is a murder scene. I doubt whether a little hair frizz
is going to be the paramount issue on my boyfriend’s mind.’’

“He’s not just your boyfriend anymore; he’s your fiancé. You better get used to saying the word.’’

Out came her Apricot Ice lipstick. While Mama attended to her face, I watched Carlos Martinez climb from the driver’s side of his unmarked car. A homicide detective with the Himmarshee Police Department, he was also my fiancé. I was still having a bit of trouble getting my head around that description. Not the homicide
part. I was used to that, since Mama and I had managed to encounter
him at an unusually high number of crime scenes over the last couple of years. It was that word, “fiancé,’’ that threw me.

It had only been a couple of months since he popped the question. Before that, we’d traveled a rocky road, romantically speaking. We might be officially engaged, but I still kept expecting us to plunge into a relationship pothole or run ourselves off the pavement into a ditch at any moment.

“Yoo-hoo, Carlos!’’ Mama sounded like we were at the malt shop and she was saving him a seat. “We’re over here, honey!’’

“Shhh! I’m the one who called him to come out here, so he knows where we are. He sees us,’’ I whispered. “And don’t forget there’s a body lying over there just a few yards away.’’

“Well, I know that, Mace! I prayed over that gal just like you did. But just because she’s gone to meet her Maker is no reason for me to be rude to my future son-in-law.’’

Carlos walked toward us, the sun casting a golden glow on his
face. Despite the serious circumstances, I felt the same tingle I always
got at the sight of this gorgeous man. With his black hair and eyes, his jaw set in grim determination, he looked like a Spanish conquistador charging into battle. He might be dodging garbage piles instead of galloping over the plains on an Andalusian steed, but he still looked mighty fine doing it.

He waved, and allowed us a fleeting smile. “You two are in the bad place at the bad time again, aren’t you?’’

Born in Cuba, moved up to Himmarshee from Miami, Carlos sometimes got his English vernacular mixed up.

“Absolutely. Wrong place; wrong time.’’ I pointed to where we’d discovered the body. “She’s over there. Earlier, Mama found a broken broom handle. We stuck it in a trash pile to mark where the girl is.’’

“And you’re sure you don’t recognize her?’’

We both shook our heads.

“She’s not from Himmarshee,’’ I said. “She’s wearing some kind of sexy, black-leather getup. I can tell you I’ve never seen anything like it on sale at the Home on the Range Feed Store and Clothing Emporium.’’

He raised his eyebrows. “You should know better than to make snap judgments, Mace. You’d be surprised what people are like behind closed doors; even people in little bitty towns like Himmarshee.’’

“Well,’’ Mama said, “I think it’s safe to say she wasn’t a churchgoer at Abundant Forgiveness Love & Charity Chapel. Not wearing an outfit like that.’’

“One thing’s for sure,’’ I said. “She ran out of Love.’’

Carlos gazed around the dump, his nose wrinkling at the stench
of garbage and worse. “She ran out of Charity, too.’’

Mama said, “When Mace called you, did she mention the girl’s diamond bracelet?’’

He looked at me. I gave him an apologetic shrug. “I forgot,’’ I said. “I work at a nature park and trap nuisance critters on the side. It’s not like I’m a professional detective.’’

“I’ll remind you of that fact when you go stepping your size-ten shoes all over my investigation. Speaking of the case …’’ His sentence trailed off as he started toward the dead girl. He spoke over his shoulder. “The medical examiner and the crime scene van will be here soon. You two should go. Someone will contact you later to give official statements.’’

Mama stopped him, tugging on his arm. “I just wanted to tell you one more thing. That girl might have been short on Love and Charity, but that leather bustier she’s wearing doesn’t leave much to the imagination. Between what she’s showing up top, and that string of jewels on her wrist, your murder victim had Abundance to spare.’’

three

Charlene put a plate
of s
teaming biscuits on the breakfast table at Gladys’ Diner. It was the day after Mama and I found the girl at the dump. I helped myself to two of the flaky morsels as Charlene moved around the table, filling our coffee cups from a glass carafe.

When she got to my big sister, Maddie covered the rim of her cup with her hand. I’d never known her to turn down fresh, hot coffee before. Or little else, for that matter.

“Are you sick?’’

Maddie touched her stomach. “Woke up with a little something.’’

“It’s probably just nerves over the big party next week.’’

Mama had just started in with Maddie about the yellow dress, when the cowbells clanged on the door of the diner. Our little sister, Marty, pushed through, with the
Himmarshee Times
in one hand. Mama stood up and snatched the paper away, even before Marty had a chance to sit down.

“Let me see! Is there anything on that murdered girl?’’

“Don’t know, Mama. I didn’t even have a moment to glance at it before someone ripped it forcibly from me.’’

Marty had been the reliably sweet sister since the three of us were
girls, but she was speaking her mind more and more these days. It was partly because she had more responsibility at her library job, but I thought it was mainly Maddie rubbing off on her. Mama seemed not to notice Marty’s snarky tone. Picking up on subtle criticism wasn’t her strong suit.

She took her seat again, and spread the purloined paper on the table. “Yes! Here it is: ‘Murdered Woman was New Resident.’’’

Maddie an
d I angled closer, each reading over one of Mama’s shoulders. Marty moved behind her, peering over the top of her head. “Ohmigod.’’ She barely breathed the words as she gripped the back of Mama’
s chair.

“What?’’ Maddie and I asked at once. Our sister’s fair skin had paled to alabaster. She clutched a hand to her throat.

“Th … tha … that picture,’’ Marty stammered, pointing at the article’s photo of a serious-looking young woman with long dark hair and intelligent eyes. It appeared to be a reproduction of a picture on a driver’s license or employee badge.

“Did you know her?’’ Mama turned in her chair to look at Marty.

“She works with me at the library. I mean, worked.’’

“Oh, honey!’’ Mama patted gently at Marty’s arm. “Were you close?’’

Marty lowered herself into a seat at the table. “Not really. She’s only been with us for a few months. But we just sat together at lunch last week. It’s so weird to think she’s dead.’’

“What did you have?’’ Maddie asked.

Mama, Marty, and I looked at her like she’d stepped off a spaceship from Planet Clueless.

“Is that relevant?’’ I said.

“Probably not.’’ Maddie shrugged. “I just wondered.’’

“Veggie pizza,’’ Marty said.

“This says her name was Camilla Law. She was originally from
England, but she’s been in the United States for several years,’’ Mama
read from the paper.

“That explains her accent,’’ Marty said. “A lot of people just thought she was snobby.’’

“Maybe she came from money. That would fit with the diamond bracelet,’’ I said.

“What diamond bracelet?’’ Marty asked.

“She was wearing one when we found her,’’ I said. “You’d never seen her wear it at work?’’

Marty shook her head. “I’d have remembered that.’’

Mama tapped the article to get our attention. “It doesn’t mention the bracelet. It goes into a few details about the black leather and fishnets, but nothing about that strange dog collar.’’ She continued scanning the story. “Your fiancé is quoted, Mace.’’

“Let me guess,’’ I said. “He told the reporter the murder is under investigation, and the authorities will pursue all possible leads.’’

Mama grinned. “Very close. He didn’t say the word ‘murder.’ He called it ‘the circumstances of the victim’s death.’”

“Oh, it’s murder,’’ I said, taking a sip of my coffee. “People don’t die of natural causes while they’re out walking in the city dump wearing leather sex clothes.’’

Mama tapped at the paper again. “Oh, y’all
…
listen to what our brand new mayor, Big Bill Graf, had to say. ‘The risqué clothing this young woman was wearing in no way reflects community morals in Himmarshee. We’re all about family values here.’’’

“What a tool.” Maddie stuck a teaspoon into my coffee and stole a swallow. “Needs more sugar, Mace.’’

I moved the cup out of her reach.

“Sounds like he’s blaming the victim,’’ Marty said.

Maddie said, “So a leather … what was it called again?’’

“Bustier,’’ Mama provided.

“Right. A leather bustier is a sin, but murder is okay?’’ Maddie clucked her tongue. “A total tool.’’

“Shh,’’ I said, nodding toward a semi-private alcove at the back
of the room. “Our illustrious mayor happens to be right over there
, holding court.’’

A towering man, hence the nickname, Big Bill Graf had a barrel chest and a bright red face. He seemed to come from nowhere, pumping money unheard of in Himmarshee into radio advertising and yard signs. He’d won the mayoral race just a few months before.

We all quieted down, to see if we could listen in. Big Bill’s booming voice carried across the crowded restaurant.

“Like I told the
Himmarshee Times …
” His voice swelled with im
portance, as if he were recounting a personal conversation with the
Washington Post
. “Sexual deviance isn’t on our civic agenda. And I told that reporter his article better not infer that it is.’’

“I think he means ‘imply,’’’ said Maddie, the school principal.

Marty shushed her.

“We must look at how that young woman’s behavior implicated her murder,’’ the mayor continued.

“Does he mean ‘was implicated in her murder?’’’ Marty whispered.

I shrugged. “Maybe he means ‘precipitated her murder.’’’

“Why do people try to use big words when small ones will do just as well?’’ Mama asked.

“Especially when they use them wrong.’’ Maddie dipped a clean teaspoon into Mama’s coffee for a taste. “Too much cream.’’

“Why don’t you just order a cup?’’ Marty asked.

“My stomach’s upset,’’ Maddie answered.

“Well don’t send your germs my way,’’ Marty said.

I still watched His Honor, even though a loud table in between us had drowned out his words. Several rapt hangers-on crowded around his table, devouring every sentence. A poodle-permed woman who looked familiar gazed at him with adoring eyes.

“Who’s the big gal with the golf course tan and the red poodle pouf?’’ I asked. “She could use an emergency visit to Hair Today Dyed Tomorrow.’’

“My goodness, Mace, you’ve got to get out of the woods and start paying attention to civic news. That’s Mrs. Mayor, Beatrice Graf,’’ Mama whispered behind her hand. “She’s already become a Newcomers’ Club muckety-muck. I know it’s not very Christian of me, but I think she’s as big a blowhard as her husband.’’

“Then she’s a pretty big blowhard,’’ I said. “He’s got a lot of nerve lecturing on how and why that girl came to be tossed in the dump. It’s pure character assassination. Nobody knows anything for sure yet.’’

Just then, Beatrice Graf dropped a hand on her husband’s shoulder. He stopped talking so fast, it was like she’d hit a switch. She smiled at his audience, the ingratiating smile of a political wife. Suddenly, the chatterboxes at the loud table in between us grew quiet as Charlene stopped to take their order. The cultured voice of the mayor’s wife carried across the room.

“I think at the end of the day, we’ll find that young woman was engaged in something sinful, and every one of you knows what the Bible says:
the wages of sin is death
.’’

Our table was hushed as each of us digested Mrs. Mayor’s words.

“My stars and garters,’’ Mama finally said. “That was certainly harsh.’’

four

The cowbells clanged. Henry
Bauer, Esq., paused at the door to Gladys’ Diner. Eyes searching the Saturday morning crowd, he acknowledged Mayor Graf with a tight smile and dutiful wave. Then he made a beeline to our table, probably because he smelled our second plate of biscuits.

“Mornin’, cousin.’’ Maddie gave Henry a cloying smile. “Keep your thieving paws off our food.’’

Henry, belly straining the waistband of his weekend-casual khakis, returned her greeting. “No smart food thief would choose a table where you’re sitting, Maddie. All the food is usually gone.’’

Mama looked up from her smart phone for a moment to pass him the platter of biscuits. “Ignore your cousin, honey. You’re still a growing boy.’’ She went back to typing.

“Growing and growing,’’ Maddie mumbled under her breath.

“Sticks and stones, Maddie.’’ Henry slathered butter and honey on the biscuit, polishing off the first half in one bite. “That’s good enough to make your tongue slap your eyeballs.’’

“Want me to call Charlene over to take your order?’’ I asked.

“Nah. I’ve already eaten. I just like to tick Maddie off.’’ Henry popped the second half in his mouth, chewed, and then opened up to reveal to Maddie the gloppy mess inside.

She leaned over to punch him in the shoulder; he balled up a napkin and tossed it at her.

“Very mature, you two!’’ Marty said. “Henry, is that the way you conduct yourself in the courtroom?’’

“I would if I ever got a judge like Maddie.”

Henry was actually a successful attorney, the best in Himmar
shee. Of course, there were only four lawyers in town, and one of them was in his mid-nineties and lived at the adult-care facility, so our cousin didn’t have a lot of competition.

I heard the whoosh of Mama’s phone sending her message, probably an inspirational story she was forwarding to unsuspecting recipients in cyberspace. She left her virtual world to rejoin real life. “Be nice, sweetheart.’’ She patted Henry’s hand. “Maddie’s not feeling well this morning.’’

He cocked his head, eyes showing authentic concern. Maddie, with a stomach like a steel-hulled freighter, was hardly ever sick. “Everything okay, cousin?’’

She waved away his worry. “It’s that blasted forty-fifth birthday party for Kenny. He’s getting on my last nerve, y’all. I’m going to a lot of trouble, and he’s fighting me every step of the way. He acts like he doesn’t even want a party.’’

“Forty-five?’’ Henry said. “That explains it. I know y’all won’t believe me, but women aren’t the only ones who get sensitive about their age. Maybe Kenny doesn’t want to be reminded he’s getting older.’’

“That’s just plain stupid.’’ Maddie made an X in a spot of water left by her glass. “Getting older is a fact of life. It happens to everybody.’’

Marty’s hand shook a bit as she put down her coffee cup. In a quiet voice, she said, “It won’t happen for Camilla. She was murdered, and dumped like yesterday’s trash. She was only twenty-nine.’’

The table went quiet: no chewing, even. Petty bickering and Kenny’s
party seemed too silly as subjects when a young woman had lost
her life. Mama turned off her phone, sliding it off the table and into her purse.

“What’s the courthouse crowd saying, Henry?’’ My question broke the silence.

“Nobody knows much yet. She’d been strangled. The dump likely wasn’t the murder scene. She was dropped there.’’

Mama tsk-tsked. “What’s happening to little Himmarshee?’’

“We’re all going to have to move to escape our spiraling crime rate. Maybe we should relocate to Miamuh.’’ Henry used the “Old Florida’’ pronunciation for the wicked city four hours south.

Marty traced the picture of Camilla in the newspaper on the table. “I wonder if she knew her killer?’’

“Well, she was all dolled up for something,’’ Henry said.

“Maybe the killer dressed her that way,’’ Maddie said.

“It’d be a challenge to dress someone else in an outfit that tight. I think she dressed herself, like for a special date,’’ Mama said.

We all stared at her. “What kind of dates have you been on?’’ I asked.

A blush reached clear to the dyed roots of her platinum hair. “Oh, not me, y’all! I don’t have any personal knowledge. I do watch
TV, though.’’

I leaned in close and lowered my voice to a whisper. “Mama did seem to know a lot about the details of that leather top Camilla was wearing.’’

“It’s called a bustier. Everybody knows that, Mace.’’

Before we could correct her on that assumption, Mama closed the newspaper, creasing the fold with finality. “I am certain about one thing: I’d prefer it if that poor girl knew her killer.’’

“Why?’’ Marty asked. “It makes the whole thing even sadder if it was someone she thought she could trust.’’

“Well, if it was a stranger, then we’ve got us a big problem here in little Himmarshee,’’ Mama said. “If the killer didn’t even know the librarian, and had no particular reason to murder her, there’s no telling who in town could be next.’’

five

“Son of a beehive!’’
Mama dug her fingers into my Jeep’s dashboard, her Apricot-Iced nails leaving small scrapes. “You nearly ran into the back of that stock trailer, Mace. You came so close, I could see the fear of death in a couple of those heifers’ eyes.’’

I passed the trailer, giving a wave to the cowboy-hatted driver. Once I pulled back in my lane, I eased off a bit on the gas.

“I suppose you’d rather we poked along behind it, enjoying the aroma of two dozen head of cattle and untold pounds of manure. Besides, I missed the trailer by a mile.’’

“You better get your eyes checked, honey. You’re not as young as you used to be.’’

I glanced into the rear-view mirror at my sister Marty. “Are you hearing this abuse? Doesn’t Mama have a lot of nerve criticizing my driving, seeing as how I’m her default chauffeur every time that turquoise bomber of hers is in the shop?’’

Marty lowered her eyes and pressed her lips together. No answer.

“What? Now, you’re piling on, too?’’

“You could slow down a little, Mace.’’ My sister’s tone was measured. “You also made a right without even stopping as we were coming out of the parking lot at the diner.’’

“
Et tu
, Marty? Anyways, that’s a stupid place for a stop sign.’’ I turned on my blinker and pulled toward the shoulder. “I suppose
I could stop and let both of you out here. I mean if my driving is so terrifying, and all. It’s just three or four miles to the library.’’

Mama smoothed her hair. Marty cleared her throat. “We appreciate the ride. We’re not criticizing, Mace.’’

“I am,’’ Mama said. “Even so, Marty and I are not walking anywhere. Have you had a look at my shoes?’’

She propped a foot up on the dash. It was clad in a yellow sling-
back sandal with a three-inch heel. The shoes matched the rest of her outfit, from the chiffon scarf tied jauntily at her neck, to the daffodils embroidered on the lapels and cuffs of her lemon-sherbet-colored pantsuit. Mama won the point. No way was I going to let her out to traipse along the roadside looking like a walking slice of banana cream pie. Everyone knew I was her daughter.

Defeated, I pulled back onto State Road 98. Marty had asked for a ride to the library, where she was going to fill in for the murdered woman’s shift. Mama was tagging along.

She tried to make up with small talk as we passed the various business establishments in Himmarshee. At Juan’s Auto Repair and Taco Shop, she said, “Juan thinks he can have my Bonneville done by the middle of next week.’’

I sat in stony silence.

Undeterred, Mama pointed out the window. “Looks like they’re having a sale at Fran’s Fancy Frocks and Duds. Do you have something to wear for Kenny’s party yet, Mace?’’

I grunted a
yes
.

“In that case, maybe you should start thinking about a wedding dress.’’

I rolled my eyes.

The sign for Pete’s Pawn Shop loomed into view, showing a road-kill armadillo with a word balloon over its head:
Don’t Wait Too Late to Visit Pete’s
.

“D’Vora from Hair Today Dyed Tomorrow said her loser husband went to Pete’s and tried to pawn her mama’s good china. Pete’s wife told him to take a hike.’’

I shrugged an
I don’t care
. Marty chimed in from the back seat, “I like D’Vora. What is it about good women who stay with bad men?’’

Finally, something I
was
interested in talking about: “Mama, you want to tackle that question? Having had five husbands certainly qualifies you as an expert.’’

She waved a hand. “Only a couple of them were bad, and only No. 2 was really bad. I’d say I wasn’t in my right mind after your
daddy died. I should have given myself time to grieve, but I though
t it would be good for you young girls to have a man in the house.’’

Mama was silent a moment, her eyes taking on a faraway look. She gave her head a little shake. “Number 2 was an awful mistake on my part; and an awful time, for all of us.’’

I felt a bit guilty about poking a painful place out of pure spite.

“How were you supposed to know he was a drunk and a con man who’d steal from all the relatives?’’ I said.

“There’s the library.’’ Marty’s voice rescued me just before I said I was sorry.

“Now,’’ Mama said, “be sure you don’t turn in front of that red
truck up ahead and give that poor driver a heart attack. And try not
to kill any pedestrians once you get in the parking lot.’’ Her advice had such a snide ring, I was glad I hadn’t apologized.

_____

We walked through the library doors, air conditioning enfolding us like wintry arms. Marty’s boss, Kresta King, hurried out from a glass-enclosed office behind the circulation desk. The welcoming smile she usually wore was gone. Up close, I could see her face was drawn and tense under her cap of curly brown hair.

“Thanks for coming in. Isn’t it awful about Camilla?’’ She put a hand on Marty’s shoulder, her voice funeral-home quiet. “We found a sister in Atlanta listed as an emergency contact in her personnel file. The police have already contacted her, and she’s on her way south.’’

“Thank goodness you didn’t have to make that call,’’ Marty said.

Kresta’s eyes widened. “Oh, that would have been horrible. I’m not sure I could have done it.’’

As much a community center as library, Marty’s workplace was usually a swirl of activity. Today, it seemed hushed. Staffers moved about slowly, cautiously, as if a thick fog blanketed the banks of computers and shelves of books. The workers, and a few customers, looked shell-shocked. I turned to Kresta. “Was Camilla popular? Did she have lots of friends here?’’

“Not really.’’ She shook her head. “Some of our patrons had even
complained that she was short with them. I just think it’s sinking in how she died, and where she was found. She sat right at that desk.’’ Pointing to the reference section, she gave a little shudder. “It makes the world seem a very dangerous place. I’ve never known anyone who was murdered.’’

“We have.’’ Mama linked elbows with Marty and me, pulling each of us close. “But you still don’t get used to it.’’

An image of Camilla, garbage-strewn, diamond bracelet on her wrist, flashed through my mind. “No,’’ I said. “You don’t get used to it.’’

“That must have been hard, finding the body.’’ Kresta leaned toward
us, perhaps anticipating what Mama and I would say. I didn’t want to go there.

“I was wondering, did you ever notice Camilla wearing a bracelet at work?’’ I asked.

She cocked her head; bit a thumbnail as she thought. “You know, I really couldn’t say.’’

Mama added, “It was a diamond bracelet.’’

Her mouth formed an
O
. “Well, that’s different. I definitely would have noticed a diamond bracelet. Not too many of those in Himmarshee.’’

I heard the doors sweep open behind us, letting in a blast of furnace-like heat from outside. Towering over two women from the Chamber of Commerce, Beatrice Graf marched in. She carried a basket with a black ribbon, and her jaws flapped a mile a minute. “It’s the right thing to do,’’ she said, as the women on each side nodded like bobble-headed dolls. “We want to make sure the family knows Himmarshee is a caring community. Mr. Mayor and I always say you’ll find your heart in Himmarshee.’’

Mama curled her lip. “She didn’t sound so big-hearted when she
was carving up that poor girl’s reputation at Gladys’ Diner.’’

Marty gave Mama a quick pinch as Mrs. Mayor approached. Her face under that red perm was as tanned as a leather saddle bag. She was dressed in a white pencil skirt that would have been too short on a woman two sizes smaller. Her red-and-white polka dot blouse showed an alarming expanse of sun-freckled cleavage.

“Excuse me,’’ she flashed a chemically bleached smile at Kresta, ignoring the rest of us completely. “Aren’t you one of the help here?’’

Kresta’s smile was unenthusiastic. “I’m the branch manager. What
can I do for you, Mrs. Graf?’’

“The mayor and I were out of town when that young librarian was murdered. Such a scandal to return to! I want you to make sure her family receives this token of our sympathy.’’

She held out the basket. I peered inside. There was an offer for a tanning session, some coupons from the Pork Pit, and a discount
booklet for the Dairy Queen. I also saw a bass fishing lure and a
couple
of purple combs from Hair Today Dyed Tomorrow. Stamped
on a coffee mug was Himmarshee’s civic motto, shockingly inappropriate under the circumstances:
Your Journey Ends Here
.

“How, er … nice,’’ Kresta said.

“It’s the least we can do,’’ said Mrs. Mayor.

“It sure is,’’ Mama agreed, side-stepping to escape Marty’s pinch.

As she handed off the basket, the threesome turned as if one, and headed toward the door. Beatrice wiggled her fingers over her shoulder at us. “Toodle-loo, ladies.’’

The doors opened with a whoosh of hot air, and they were gone.

Kresta held up the basket. “What am I supposed to do with this?’’

“Throw it in the trash?’’ Mama suggested.

“I doubt the first thing the grieving sister will want to do is drop a line in Lake Okeechobee or rush to the Queen for a butterscotch-dipped cone,’’ I said.

“Be nice, you two. She’s making an effort.’’ Marty’s gaze followed Beatrice outside. She hiked up her painted-on skirt and climbed into a black SUV. It was in a handicapped spot.

“She just wants to be liked, as do most people,’’ Marty said.

“Most people except you know who.’’ Mama pointed at me with her chin.

“That doesn’t make her a bad person, Mace.’’

We’d see about that, I thought.

six

Frowning, Maddie wrinkled her
nose as soon as she walked in the door. “What is that awful smell?’’

I sniffed. Hair Today Dyed Tomorrow smelled just like it always smelled, like a fruit roll-up dipped in ammonia. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sister. It smells normal. But why don’t you raise your voice a bit? I don’t think the customers under the hair dryers were able to hear you.’’

Maddie waggled her fingers at Betty Taylor, the salon owner. “Sorry. I woke up with the queasies this morning. My stomach’s not right.’’

“Did you tie one on last night, Maddie?’’ Betty grinned.

Everyone in Himmarshee knew my sister was a teetotaler. Mama never poked fun at Maddie’s abstemious nature, figuring it left more sweet pink wine for her.

“Maybe she was worried about coming here today to see what kind of hair torture you have in mind for her for the big birthday party,’’ I said.

Betty shook her purple comb at me. “We should be thinking about how to do
your
hair if you ever commit to a wedding date. When is hell going to freeze over, by the way?’’

“Marriage is a sore subject with Mace,’’ Maddie said. “She feels like everybody’s rushing her. We’ve told her Carlos won’t wait forever, like some old man in the mall holding her purse.’’

“Carlos has never held my purse,’’ I said.

“You know what I mean.’’

“I don’t understand you, Mace.’’ Betty handed Maddie a stack of
hairstyle books. “Most women would jump like a duck on a June bug on a proposal from that good-looking man. Then again, most
women enjoy a trip to the beauty parlor, too.’’ She waved her comb,
taking in the shop’s walls, sinks, and chairs, all in a vivid purple. “You’re a little unusual in hating to have your hair done. Course, anyone with eyes could tell that by that snarl-fest you call hair. God gave you a gift, honey. Why treat it like a curse?’’

She advanced on me, holding her comb like a bayonet. I ducked
out of reach.

“Mace is a little unusual in a lot of ways,’’ Maddie said. “But I have to be nice. I talked her into coming to give me hairdo advice.
I’m sure she’d rather be out communing with the bugs and the trees
in the heat at Himmarshee Park.’’

I looked at my watch. “Speaking of the park, I have to be there in an hour to take care of my animals. Could we lay off me and get started on all those fascinating styles for your hair?’’

Betty took another long look at my hair. Thick and black, it was filled with knots because I was pretty sure I’d forgotten to brush it that morning. Shaking her head, she went to ring up a customer, leaving us with the style books at a small table where Mama does her color-by-season charts. A little sign on the tabletop said
Color Me Gorgeous
.

“She’s right, you know. I’d kill for hair like yours.’’ Maddie lifted a handful of her own locks. With the humidity, her hair hung in tight coils, like a bright-red scouring pad. “You’d only have to make a minimal effort, Mace, and you could have a glossy, sophisticated look.’’

“I’m sure the critters in our wildlife rehab at Himmarshee Park would be wowed.’’

I plopped the first book on the table. “Now,’’ I said, “let’s find you something that’ll knock Kenny’s socks off.’’

Maddie, head bent, stared intently at the book. “That might take
some doing,’’ she said softly.

“What do you mean?’’

She raised her gaze to mine. “It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen. Normally, my husband loves a party. And cake and ice cream? He’s in heaven. But Kenny’s lost weight recently, and he’s distracted all the time. I feel like I barely know him anymore.’’

“Midlife crisis.’’ Betty, returning from the register, leaned in to add her opinion. She had the heard-it-all tone of a woman who’d spent her life in a beauty parlor. “It’s Kenny’s time. He’ll probably be buying a go-fast sports car next.’’

I snorted. “Not Kenny. No way, no how. That man’s had his feet solidly on the ground since he was in short pants. He’s so straight, he sells
insurance
.’’

D’Vora, once Betty’s trainee, now a licensed stylist, pursed her lips as she clipped the bangs of a teenager next to us. Was that look due to her concentrating on the cut? Or, was she making a nonverbal comment on male midlife crises?

“What’s your take, D’Vora?’’

She stopped snipping and started fidgeting. She brushed back a lock of her own hair; fingered the purple appliqué butterflies on her uniform top. Finally, she spoke. “Maybe Kenny is tired of being a grown-up all the time.’’

“D’Vora, honey, look people in the eye when you’re talking to them. You look shifty if you don’t,’’ Betty said.

The young stylist’s eyes darted toward me, but she carefully avoided looking at Maddie. I wondered for a moment if D’Vora had ever been sent to the principal’s office at Himmarshee Middle
School. Maybe Maddie’s scary principal routine had given her post
-traumatic stress.

“Maybe that midlife thing hits especially hard for a man who’s always been mature and responsible,’’ D’Vora said.

Betty fogged her customer’s ’do with hairspray. The woman let out a strangled cough. “Well, then, we won’t have to worry about that no-account skunk you live with having a midlife crisis.’’ She looked into the mirror at D’Vora, who ignored the jab.

“I’m just sayin,’ maybe there’s a reason when men go off the rails.’’ She lifted the scissors again, and resumed cutting the teenager’s hair.

I looked at Maddie. My sister was uncharacteristically quiet, perhaps weighing D’Vora words. “What?’’ I asked. “You cannot possibly doubt Kenny after all these years. He’s the perfect husband.’’

The shop’s front door slammed shut, bells jangling cheerily. “Who’s the perfect husband?’’ Mama asked as she walked in.

“Nobody!’’ D’Vora’s customary shyness was replaced with uncommon authority. “There’s absolutely nobody who’s perfect.’’

As if her boldness surprised even her, the young stylist shifted
her gaze back to the floor. Mama, meanwhile, launched into a story
about the inappropriateness of the mourner’s basket the mayor’s wife delivered to the library.

“We should have offered a complimentary shampoo, Betty. Now, that’s something that would be useful. Nobody needs a bassbug fish
ing fly from Gotcha Bait & Tackle when they’ve just lost a loved one.’’

As Mama went on, describing the rest of the contents, my eyes were on D’Vora. No one else seemed to notice her scissors had gone still. She still focused her eyes on the floor, the teenager in the chair seemingly forgotten. She sneaked a look at Maddie, who by now was leafing through the picture book.

I was just about to ask D’Vora what was the matter, when Mama’s
sharp tone snapped me back to attention. “Did you hear me, Mace?’’

“Yes, you said the basket was extremely tacky and not at all right for the occasion. Who wants a coffee cup that says
Himmarshee: Your Journey Ends Here
when their sister has just been murdered? And, you added, the mayor’s wife needs to do something about those painted-on eyebrows. Plus, her skirt was far too tight for a woman of her age.’’

“I’m not even talking about the mayor’s wife anymore, Mace. I just said Sal texted me.’’

“Sal texts you all the time. You two are worse than a couple of silly teenagers.’’ I nodded to the young girl in D’Vora’s chair. “No offense.’’

“None taken,’’ she said.

D’Vora stood still, wringing her hands.

“You and Maddie need to take a look at what he sent. It’s really cute.’’

As Mama thrust the phone at us, I noticed D’Vora place her scissors on the counter and head for the front of the shop. Mama poked me in the wrist with the phone, trying to get me to take it. I glanced down, noting some LOLs, a heart symbol, and an OMG.

“Like I said, teenagers.’’

By the time I looked up, D’Vora had yanked open the front door
, bells clanging. Then she walked out of the shop, leaving her abandoned customer in the chair, staring after her.

Now what, I wondered, was that all about?

seven

I inhaled the smell
of the swamp. Black muck, tannic water, and the woodsy scent of cypress trees. A gator lolled on the bank of Himmarshee Creek, his body half-hidden in fire flag and duck potato plants. A squirrel sat high on a branch in a laurel oak tree, scolding me as I traversed the path below. With a wild flapping of black-tipped wings, two wood storks rose from a still pool of dark water beside the boardwalk that led to the office of Himmarshee Park.

It felt like home.

Through the office’s large glass windows, I saw my boss, Rhonda,
on the telephone. It was a familiar sight. As park supervisor, she
handled most of the managerial tasks. That suited me fine. I wasn’t cut out to be anybody’s boss. And I’d wither up and die if I had to spend as much time in the office as Rhonda did, even with the nice view from our big windows.

Inside, I caught her eye and waved as I dropped my purse onto my desk, next to the dried-out shell of a gopher tortoise. Rhonda made the yak-yak sign at the phone, and mimed a big yawn. My boss was a stunner, even with her mouth gaping open. A former New York model who returned home to take care of her ailing mother, she looked like she could step back onto the runway at any moment. She was the only parks employee I knew who rocked the ugly, olive drab uniforms we had to wear.

“Right, that sounds like a perfect action plan.’’ She was wrapping up on the phone. “Send me a memo with the talking points. I’ll take it up at the budget meeting.’’

There were any number of phrases in that sentence I hoped never to have to utter. Not for the first time, I gave silent thanks for Rhonda’s efficiency and people skills. She handled schedules, budgets, and meetings with our higher-ups; I did nature discussions and cared for the critters that wound up in our makeshift zoo and rehab center.

The coffee machine in the corner gurgled. The freshly brewed scent of Colombian roast told me Rhonda had just made a pot. I helped myself. Returning with my cup, I cleared a spot on my desk between a stuffed swallow-tailed kite and a package of brochures on Florida’s poisonous snakes.

The moment she hung up, Rhonda turned to me. Compassion warmed her brown eyes. “I heard about the librarian. How horrible!’’

“Yeah, it’s going to be tough for her sister. She’s been notified to come down as Camilla’s next-of-kin.’’

Her eyes searched my face. “How are you?’’

“Me? I’m fine. I’m not the one somebody strangled and left at the dump.’’

“But, Mace, it has to take a toll. This is the fifth body you’ve found.’’

“Fourth. Mama was on her own when she discovered that first murder victim in the trunk of her convertible at the Dairy Queen.’’

“I remember. That was when Carlos tossed your mama in the slammer.’’

“Occasionally I wonder why we worked so hard to get her out.’’

Rhonda tsked me.

“Seriously, though, that seemed like the start of a string of bad things happening in little Himmarshee,’’ I said.

“Well, at least one good thing happened.’’ Rhonda’s face, the color of rich mahogany, glowed with a smile. “How is your hunky detective anyway? Still as steamy hot as a cup of
café Cubano
? You better grab that man while the grabbing is good. He’s asked you to marry him; he’s not going to wait forever, you know.’’

Just as I was about to gripe about how oddly obsessed everyone was with my love life, my desk phone rang. Saved by the bell.

“Speak of the devil,’’ I said, when I heard Carlos on the line.

“Speaking well of me, I hope,’’ he said. “Tell Rhonda hello.’’

When I did, she made a noisy smack-smack sound and blew a big kiss toward the phone. Carlos chuckled. “I love that girl!’’

“Hey!’’

“Not like I love you,
ni
ñ
a
.’’

“Uh-huh,’’ I said, stealing a glance at Rhonda. “Anything new on the murder?’’

“Can’t a guy call his girl without being grilled about work?’’

“Just curious,’’ I said.

“We’re looking into her background. Nothing I’m prepared to talk about.’’ His end of the phone was quiet for a moment. “I do, you know. Love you.’’

Rhonda was busy re-stacking the stacks of paperwork on her desk, but I could see her head cocked my way, her right ear tuned in to my conversation.

“Uh-huh,’’ I finally answered. “Back at ya.’’

He laughed. “I pour out my heart. I get ‘back at ya.’ You can do better than that.’’

I swiveled my desk chair so my back was to my boss, ducked my head into my chest and mumbled into the phone, “Love you, too. I’ll see you tonight.’’

As I put the phone down, I could feel Rhonda’s eyes on the back of my head. I turned, and she didn’t even try to pretend she hadn’t been eavesdropping. A big, silly smile was pasted on her lips. The more she grinned, the more I felt a blush spreading up my neck and onto my cheeks.

“What?’’ I demanded.

“Nothing,’’ she said.

“Have your say, boss. Everyone else has.’’

To my surprise she started humming. Then she started singing. “Mace and Carlos sitting in a tree, K I S S—I N G … ’

I flashed on third-grade and the jungle gym. I’d climbed past all the boys to the top. Danny Blue screwed up his courage to follow me and steal a kiss. The other little girls watched from the ground, chiming in to sing that same song.

“Seriously? How old are you again, boss?’’

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist. You’re so close-mouthed and private about everything. You make an easy target. Didn’t your mama teach you that people who hate to be teased are the people everybody loves to tease?’’

I relented, and returned Rhonda’s grin. If the bulls-eye fits, may as well wear it.

“So, have you lovebirds set a date? When’s the wedding?’’

“That’s a popular question,’’ I said. “There’s no rush.’’

“There is if you want children.’’ Rhonda’s voice lost its teasing tone. “You’re not getting any younger.’’

“Thanks for the reminder.’’

“I’m serious.’’

“We’ve only been engaged a few months. We’ve got plenty of time.’’

“That’s what people always say, until they run out of time.’’

_____

“Who’s hungry?’’

Claws skittered. Wood shavings rustled. Pepé Le Pew put a paw to his food dish, banging it against the floor of his enclosure. “Whoa, Pepé my man! Didn’t anyone ever tell you patience is a virtue?’’

The skunk was a permanent resident. His moronic former owner had him de-scented, and then left him to fend for himself in the wild without his only natural means of defense. I’d been called out to capture him by a newcomer who objected to having her garden parties crashed by a skunk. If you asked me, some of her over-perfumed guests smelled much worse than Pepé.

I would have rather released him into the woods. Without his scent, though, the skunk was safer with the other injured, abused, or unwanted critters we kept at Himmarshee Park.

Once the inside inhabitants were taken care of, I went outside to the pond to feed Ollie.

A cool rush of air hit me in the face, blowing my hair off my neck.
Suddenly, the leaves high in the trees started shaking. The sky had blackened. Big, angry-looking clouds scudded over the park, blowing toward us from Lake Okeechobee to our south. The temperature dropped by at least ten degrees. The sudden chill raised goose bumps on my sweaty flesh.

“Storm’s coming, Ollie.’’

The gator swam toward me, powerful tail propelling him through the water. His jaws gaped, as he regarded me with his one good eye. Lightning flashed, zigzagging across the dark sky. Maybe it was the threatening weather, or the lightning reflecting off those acres of teeth, but something made me think of the close call Mama and I had survived with Ollie, at this very pond.

I stepped back from the wall. Turned to look behind me. Dark
shadows filled the woods. The gnarled branches of old oaks seemed
to reach toward me, like the grasping fingers of malevolent giants. A shiver started at my neck and traced a trail all the way down my spine.

I held out my hand. The barest tremble betrayed an uncommon onset of nerves. “Look at me, Ollie. Spooked by a little foul weather.’’

I went to the wall again; found the gator still awaiting his supper. “I wonder if it’s starting to get to me, how everybody’s always asking me when I’m getting married? I’m not ready right now, but I’ll tell you a secret.’’

I thought I saw an interested look in Ollie’s eye. Maybe he was anticipating the secret. More likely, it was the thawed raw chickens I had in the bucket at my feet. I looked around to see if anyone lurked nearby, close enough to hear me revealing my deepest feelings to a one-eyed, three-legged alligator. He’d come out on the losing end in a fight with another male over territory.

“I really do love this man, Ollie. I’m happy.’’ I dangled the first chicken over the wall. The reptile’s jaws gaped wide. “I can hardly believe it myself. Nothing’s going to happen to screw up this relationship.’’

I tossed the plucked bird. Ollie’s mouth slammed shut with a resounding crack. I thought of the awesome force of a gator’s jaws, more than twice as powerful as the mightiest lion. The water churned, and I shuddered a bit. Silently, I uttered a prayer I’d said more than once before at Ollie’s pond.
Thank you, God, for saving Mama and me from such a gruesome fate
.

eight

The porch light shone
at Maddie’s house. I raced through the rain to her front door. The potted geraniums she always hand-watered and plied with fertilizer to force cheerful red blooms were wilting on the front porch. That was as odd as the phone call I’d gotten from her on my way home from work.

“Could you stop by tonight?’’ Maddie had asked.

It ran through my mind I’d be looking at more pictures of hairstyles. Maybe I’d have to watch my sister try on that yellow dress while she asked if it made her butt look big. “I don’t know, Maddie. I’m awful tired, and it’s raining buckets.’’

As if to emphasize my point, the rain picked up, pounding the
top of my Jeep. I turned the wipers up a notch and rubbed at the foggy
window. It was almost dark, and I could barely see five feet in front of me. The rain fell in sheets. The wind gusts came close to blowing me over the highway’s center line.

“Please?’’ Her voice was pleading, and so soft I could barely hear
her. Very un-Maddie-like. When I hesitated before answering, I heard a strangled sound come over the phone.

“Are you
crying
?’’

“N-n-n-nooo …’’ Maddie took a couple of hiccupping breaths. “Y-y-y-yesss.’’

My tough-as-nails older sister, capable of silencing an entire auditorium of middle-school students with just her scary princi
pal glare, CRYING? I yanked my steering wheel to the left and made
a U-turn.

“I’m on my way, sister. Hold on.’’

Now, Maddie held open her front door. She handed me a bath towel to dry off the rain. I knew things were bad when she failed to
mention like she always did that I should wipe the mud off my boots.
Her red hair was matted. Her eyes were puffy and swollen.

“What’s wrong?’’ I asked.

“Follow me.’’ Maddie led the way down a hallway to her laun
dry room. The top on a bright pink hamper was open. She pointed.
“Look in there.’’

I peeked in. I saw a couple of dish towels, a tablecloth with
barbecue stains, and a man’s silky, long-sleeved shirt in a vivid orange-
and-maroon print. “Do you have a houseguest visiting from Palm Beach?’’

“It’s Kenny’s.’’

I’m sure my face betrayed my shock. Kenny’s style, if you could call it that, was jeans, T-shirts, and NASCAR caps. I’d never seen him in a shirt without a logo promoting farm equipment, his insurance company, or a monster truck show.

Maddie plucked out the shirt, holding it gingerly between a thumb and forefinger. “Smell.’’

“I’d rather not.’’

She waved it under my nose, and raised her brows at me. When I didn’t answer, she made another pass with the shirt. That time, I got it. Despite the damp scent of rain on my uniform, mixed with the dusty grain smell of the animal chow I’d spilled on myself earlier, I detected the cloying, floral scent of a woman’s perfume.

My mind immediately went back to Mama, and Husband No. 2. She’d found a red shirt of his, reeking with My Sin. Mama didn’t say a word. She just doused the whole thing with bleach. Number Two found his fancy shirt neatly folded and put back in the drawer, the red fabric turned into ugly splotches of pink and white.

“There’s got to be an explanation,’’ I said.

Maddie balled up the shirt and tossed it back in the hamper. “There is: He’s cheating.’’

“I mean another explanation.’’

“Before Mama finally wised up to No. 2, how many times did we see her find some evidence, and then overlook it?’’

“Lots of times.’’

“Well, I’m not going to be that blind, Mace.’’ She glared at the shirt. “I should have known even before I smelled the perfume. The man has never in his life managed to hit the dirty clothes hamper.’’

“What are you going to do? Confront him?’’

“Not yet.’’ Maddie shook her head. “I want to get all the facts first, just like I do when the kids act up at school. Before I say a word, I always know exactly what’s been done, who did it, and what punishment they’ll get.’’

I couldn’t help but think that despite Maddie’s bluster, marital betrayal is a lot more complicated than shooting spitballs at Himmarshee Middle School.

_____

Maddie traced at a stray drop of herbal tea on her kitchen table. A steaming cup of chamomile sat untouched in front of her. I sipped at my lemonade. I would have preferred a beer, but my sister refused to have alcohol in her house. Mama’s Husband No. 2 had been a heavy drinker in addition to a con man and serial cheater. As the oldest of us three girls, Maddie was likely more aware of the emotional fallout from that poisonous combination of character flaws.

“What about the party?’’ I asked her.

“We’re going ahead with it. I don’t have a choice. The VFW hall is rented. The invites are out. C’ndee already bought most of the food for Saturday night. Kenny’s birthday cake is already paid for, too. I asked them to inscribe it ‘To the World’s Best Husband.’ ’’

Maddie, seemingly exhausted, went quiet. She stared at her stainless steel refrigerator. Normally as shiny as a silver dollar, it was marred with greasy fingerprints. If Maddie were herself, she’d have been after it with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of spray cleaner. Instead, her eyes got teary again. I felt the sting, too, from sympathy and disbelief.

“Maybe Kenny’s using drugs or something,’’ I said. “There’s got to be a reason.’’ She shook her head. “It’s sex, pure and simple. Not only is that shirt of his a peacock-looking thing, it’s a full size smaller than what he wore a couple months ago. I should have known something was up when he started getting in shape.’’

Maddie sniffled. “Bastard!’’ She plucked a napkin from a holder
on the table and blotted roughly at her eyes. “Don’t mention a wor
d of this to Mama.’’

“Lord, no!’’ I said.

“I want to show you something else.’’

I followed Maddie down the hallway to their bedroom. Pictures of her with Kenny and their daughter, Pam, hung along the walls. She jerked open the closet door and removed a hideous yellow-and-peach-colored golf outfit. The cap was a plaid tam-o’-shanter, complete with a yellow pom-pom.

“That looks like something from the Sal Provenza resort-wear collection,’’ I said.

“I know, except my idiot husband paid for it with our money.’’ Maddie dropped it on the bed in disgust.

“Will you investigate for me, Mace? Find out who he’s running around with?’’

“Oh, Maddie
…
’’

I let my words trail off. I was reluctant to delve into something so personal. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt Maddie with what I was afraid I’d find out about her husband.

She put a hand on my arm. “You know how to get to the bottom of things, sister. Besides, I just don’t think I can face it alone, whatever he’s up to.’’

She wiped a tear from her cheek. “Will you, Mace? Please?’’

“It’s probably just a big misunderstanding.’’

“I don’t think so. It’s not just the perfume-stink and the fancy clothes. He bought a set of golf clubs. Got them second-hand off
Craig’s List
, but still. And, last weekend, when I wanted to go to the Pork Pit, Kenny said we should try that new bar and grill that serves wine by the golf course. He called the Pork Pit a ‘cholesterol nightmare.’’’

“That doesn’t sound like the Kenny I know,’’ I said. “I didn’t think he could pronounce cholesterol.’’

“That’s exactly my point.’’ Maddie blew her nose. “Please?’’

How could I say no?

nine

Lights shone on the
ornate sign for Himmarshee Links Country Club. The mechanical arm at the guardhouse rose, allowing my J
eep to roll right through the entrance. The geniuses who ran the place
milked their members to build the guardhouse, but then cheaped out when it came to hiring someone to actually work the gate as security.

What did they hope to guard against with that gate and little house? With all the alligators that populated the water hazards, it seemed like at least one threat was already inside the perimeter of the golf course community. I kept the skull of one such critter as a key receptacle on my coffee table at home. The gator had been deemed a nuisance after it became a bit too comfortable sharing space with golfers. My cousin, a state-licensed trapper, enlisted me to help him wrestle it from a pond near the eighteenth hole.

Turning into the parking lot, I remembered something else about the golf course. I’d met the pro once, a strapping young guy with sexy blue eyes and a full head of sun-kissed curls. Josh? Jason? He’d com
e on pretty strong. Even though I was an engaged woman, I pondered for
a moment on whether he’d remember me.

Inside, I didn’t have to wait long for the answer to that question. The hunky pro stood next to the hostess stand in the club’s dining room. He put his hand over his heart and spoke to me, even before I could state my business.

“Better call heaven. I think they’re missing an angel.’’ His voice was a deep purr; a smile crinkled the darkly tanned skin near his eyes.

“Really?’’ the hostess raised her eyebrows at him. “You think that’ll work for you?’’

He looked wounded. “Even beautiful women like to hear they’re beautiful.’’

The hostess took me in with a practiced glance: No makeup, rain-dampened work clothes, the grainy scent of animal chow no doubt
still wafting off me. She didn’t appear to agree I was heaven’s missing angel.

“How have you been?’’ I asked the pro.

His face was a blank.

So much for my stunningly memorable beauty. “We met here a couple of years ago. I came in asking questions after a body had been discovered in my Mama’s convertible?’’

A dim light lit in his eyes. Forty-watt smart. “Oh yeah, questions. I remember now. Your mother’s married to Big Sal, right?’’

“She is indeed,’’ I said.

So he remembered Mama, but had only the foggiest memory of meeting me. I shoved aside my bruised ego and re-introduced myself. His name was Jason, not Josh. I asked if he had a few minutes to talk, told him I’d buy the drinks. The hostess shot eye darts at me the whole time. Jason guided me to a table at the far edge of the dining room, near the bar. The 19th Hole. Cute.

“Do you know Kenny Wilson?’ I asked, once we were seated.

He cocked his head, appearing to think about it. “Not by name. What’s his handicap?’’

A cheating heart, I wanted to say, but I knew Jason was probably talking about golf. “I have no idea.’’

“What’s he look like?”

“Forties, overweight, though not as much as he used to be. One of his golf outfits has yellow and peach in it.’’

“That doesn’t narrow it down much.’’

Stroking his chin, Jason turned toward the bar. Behind it, a woman
who looked to be in her mid-thirties reached up to put away wine glasses in the wooden racks over her head. Each time she stretched, the hem of her blouse rose in the back to reveal a tramp stamp. The tattoo snaked its way south from the waistband of her hip-hugger skirt, down past the curve of her butt.

“Hey, Angel,’’ Jason called to her. “Can you come over here for a few minutes? And bring us a couple of
…
” His eyebrow rose in a question.

“Just a Coke,’’ I said. “I’ve got a long drive home.’’

“A couple of Cokes, please.’’

When the barmaid turned to us, I got a better look. Pretty, in a hard way: Heavy makeup, skirt too short, blouse too tight, showing plenty of cleavage. She set up a cocktail tray with two cans of soda and two glasses of ice. Brushing a strand of bright blonde hair from her eyes, she approached the table.

“Angela Fox, this is
…
’’ The blank look flitted onto Jason’s face again.

“Mace Bauer,’’ I completed the introduction for him.

“Sorry,’’ he said. “Your beauty must have shorted out a few of my brain cells.’’

I didn’t doubt Jason was short a few million cells, but I suspected something other than my beauty was to blame.

“Mace is some kind of investigator,’’ he added for Angel’s benefit.

“Not exactly,’’ I said.

Her brow furrowed. “Are you looking into that woman who was found murdered at the dump?’’

“Why? Do you know something about that?’’

“No,’’ Jason butted in quickly. “Angel’s just curious. Everybody’s talking about it.’’

“Actually, I’m looking into something personal,’’ I said.

She placed the sodas on the table, tucked the tray under an arm, and reached out to shake my hand. “Angel’s short for Angela, but nobody calls me that.’’

Her grip was pleasantly firm. I never trusted a woman whose hand plopped into mine like a gutted black crappie. “What can I do for you, Mace? I can’t take much time away from the bar.’’

“Have a seat for a few minutes.’’ Jason poured one of the Cokes; half a can in his glass and half in mine. “It’s really slow before dinner.’’

She glanced around the almost empty room, and then stared pointedly at the empty chair. Jason jumped up to pull it out.

“That’s a good boy,’’ Angel said.

He beamed, like the classroom screw-up who’d just managed to impress the teacher.

When she’d settled herself, she looked me in the eyes. Hers were sharp, assessing. I couldn’t quite place her accent, but it definitely wasn’t local. Up north, somewhere. I got right to the point, asking her about Kenny.

“Sure, I’ve seen him around. Nice guy; sells insurance. He doesn’t seem like much of a golfer, though.’’ She turned to Jason. “You know him. He uses a set of beat-up Callaways. He’s got a big pickup with mud flaps and a No. 3 for Dale Earnhardt on the rear window.’’

Jason looked through some sliding glass doors to the lighted parking lot beyond. The grilles of a couple of Lexuses and a Mini Cooper pointed toward the clubhouse. Kenny’s Ford F-350 would stick out in that lot like a fat man at an organic restaurant.

“Oh, yeah: Ken,’’ he finally said. “He’s got a terrible left hook.’’

Not knowing a hook from a slice, I brought the conversation
back to my purpose. “Do you know who he plays golf with out here?
My sister’s married to him, and she suspects somebody he’s been hanging around with owes him a lot of money he doesn’t want to tell her about.’’

I’d learned most people are more comfortable poking their noses into problems about money than love.

“I really dig the way you talk,’’ Angel blurted out. Under lashes thick with mascara, her eyes were wide and interested. “That little ol’ country gal accent is so adorable.’’

I think I was still in diapers the last time someone called me adorable. It’s not a word usually applied to a woman who stomps around in work boots wrestling nuisance critters.

“Thanks,’’ I said. “But back to Kenny
…
”

She lowered her voice to a seductive purr: “You know, I’ve always wanted to taste something country fresh.’’

“Down, girl!’’ Jason slapped playfully at her wrist.

The glare she gave him did not seem playful. With a contrite
look, he stood and shoved his offending hand into a pocket. “I need
to get back to the pro shop. Watch out for Angel, Mace. She’s a devil.’’

I had no doubt he was right. “Wait a minute,” I said as he walked away. “What about Kenny?’’

“Can’t tell you much.’’ He spoke over his shoulder. “He usually just picks up a game when somebody’s short a player. Sometimes, he fills in for a threesome with our potty-mouthed mayor.’’

The mayor? I was so surprised, I choked on my Coke. An errant swallow started a coughing fit, which didn’t subside until Jason was back at the cash register in the pro shop. Angel handed me a napkin.

“Do you know anything about that?’’ I finally managed to ask.

“The mayor?”

I nodded, the napkin pressed to my lips.

“Tosses his clubs and swears like a sailor whenever he makes a bad shot, which is a lot.’’

“I meant about him and Kenny.”

She shrugged. “Neither of them is a very good player, so they’re evenly matched. It’s just a round of golf. It’s not like they’re best friends. At least I don’t think they are. I barely know your brother-in-law.’’

My mind refused to form an image of Kenny golfing with Himmarshee’s mayor. Then again, I hadn’t been able to picture him cheating on my sister or wearing that plaid tam-o’-shanter cap, either.

“The mayor’s wife comes out here a lot, too,’’ Angel said. “Her
book group meets right over there.’’ She nodded at a round table for
ten in the center of the dining room. Couples were beginning to filter in for dinner.

“She runs the group?’’ I asked.

Angel raised her brows. “Have you met Mrs. In-Charge?’’

“’Nuff said.’’

“She’s always spouting off about some ‘important’ book, tossing around a lot of big words like character arc and narrative tension. I don’t understand half of what she says. Of course, that could be because
…
’’ She cocked back her head and made the hand motion for drinking.

“She’s a boozer?’’ I asked.

“Big time. And the more she drinks, the more she likes to hear herself talk.’’ Angel took a swallow of Coke from the glass Jason left. “I’m not much for reading anyway. My dad always used to say street smarts are better than book smarts.’’

“They aren’t mutually exclusive. Reading’s not just a way to learn about things, it’s a great way to escape reality. Get into an imaginary world.’’

“I don’t need to escape. How about you, Mace? Do you like to try new things? Escape your usual world?’’ Her voice had gone all low again. She reached across the table and stroked my wrist.

I pulled away and held up my hand to display the ring Carlos gave me. “I’m engaged.’’

“That’s all right. Maybe your fiancé would like to come out here and play, too?’’

I suspected she wasn’t talking about golf. Ducking her question, I looked at my watch. Those sharp eyes of hers didn’t miss the gesture. She pushed back her chair and stood.

“My shift’s over. The dinner crew is coming on, and I’m going home. Sorry I couldn’t be more help.’’

Her apology sounded more reflexive than genuine. I dug in my pocket; found a damp ten-dollar bill. I put it on her tray. “Keep the change.’’

Her face lit up. No smirk or seduction now. It was the first truly happy smile I’d seen from her. Money was clearly a strong motivator for Angel Fox.

ten

After I left the
bar, I roamed around a bit, waiting to see if Kenny
would wander in to the country club. I perused some golf-related art: a bronze sculpture of two old-timey looking players, bags slung over their shoulders; framed posters of greens and fairways at legendary courses; portraits of famous golfers from Ben Hogan to Bubba Watson.

I checked out the driving range, and then made a pit stop in the ladies’ locker room. Its plush carpet was Kelly green, patterned with miniature golf balls and clubs. The place was immaculate. I didn’t detect a whiff of sweat. It smelled sweet, like vanilla candles and maraschino cherries. The sink countertop offered an array of folded hand towels, fancy body lotion, and complimentary combs. I popped one into my purse, preparation for the next morning I left the house without remembering to brush my hair.

Outside, I caught up with a few phone calls. I confirmed with Mama that I’d see her for church in the morning; and then checked on Maddie. Kenny still hadn’t come home. According to my wristwatch, I’d been killing time for at least forty-five minutes. If Kenny planned to show later, I’d have to miss him. Carlos and I had dinner plans.

On the way to my car in the parking lot, I glanced in through oversized windows and saw the dinner crowd. The women were tanned and tight, wearing lots of makeup and jewelry. The men slapped backs and downed dark whiskey from rocks glasses. Angel was still behind the bar. When she saw me staring, she ducked her head, and got busy polishing a brandy snifter.

I kept walking. So her shift wasn’t over after all. Big deal. She wasn’t the first worker dependent on tips to tell a customer a convenient lie. I decided to turn and give her a friendly wave, signaling no hard feelings. When I did, I saw she’d lifted her face to watch me leave. Her eyes were slits; her expression was arctic.

For some reason, an image of the gator my cousin and I had wrestled
out of the golf course pond flitted into my mind. I wondered whether another of the big reptiles had moved in to take his place. At least in the wild, you know which animals are predators and which are prey. Unlike people, they don’t have the capacity to conceal their true nature.

_____

Carlos’s phone rang. He answered, listened for a bit, and then eyed me warily.

“I need to take this outside,’’ he said to the caller. Tucking the phone protectively to his chest, he turned from me and walked out the kitchen to the back door. I heard it shut. A few moments later, there came an indistinct murmur from the farthest corner of his apartment’s courtyard.

Jeez. A girl eavesdropped a few times, and he never let her forget it.

Surveying the table, I spooned up the last flecks of a custardy
flan
from a dessert bowl. Those flecks and crumbs from a loaf of Cuban bread were all that remained of the yummy supper he’d had
waiting when I arrived. Bowls of thick garbanzo bean soup, fried plantains, and a cup of
café con leche
. I was so stuffed I felt like a hot water bottle filled to bursting. I trundled off my kitchen chair and into the living room, intent upon collapsing on the couch.

A framed, vintage travel poster of Cuba held a place of honor on the main room’s wall. A hefty cigar rested in an ashtray; a treat Carlos allowed himself a couple of times a week. Photos of family members were displayed on a small table next to the couch: His grandfather, on horseback at the cattle ranch the family owned before Fidel Castro took power. Carlos’s older brother, who died in a tragic accident when the two were just boys. His parents, stand
ing on an airport tarmac facing an uncertain future as Cuban exiles.
His beloved grandmother, cooking
picadillo
in Carlos’s Miami kitchen.

There were photos of Carlos in police uniform in Miami, but no pictures of his late wife. That loss may still have been too painful for him to remember.

The door slammed shut. I heard the hollow thud of his shoes hitting the tiled floor in the hallway. By the time he made it to the living room, I was stretched out on the couch with my feet on a pillow and the button at the waist of my work pants undone.

“Comfortable?’’ he asked with a grin.

“Like a pig in slop.’’ I shifted a bit on the couch and patted the space beside me. “Was that call about the girl we found dead at the dump
?’’

He groaned.

“What? I’m just wondering if you’ve had any breaks in the case.’’

“You mean have I solved it yet? This is only the second day.’’

“I’m not criticizing, Carlos. I’m just wondering if you’ve found
out any more about how she got there. You managed to identify her
pretty quickly.’’

“Her purse with the wallet still in it was under the body. Can we talk about something else?’’

“So between that and the bracelet, we know it wasn’t robbery.’’

“Mace!’’

“Okay, okay.’’ I picked up the remote. “You want to watch TV?’’

He shook his head. “Is there any
flan
left?’’

“Uhmm
…
sorry.’’

“I’ll forgive you for eating my share of the dessert if you get off your butt and help me clean up.’’ He patted my stomach. “Maybe it’ll burn off some of those extra calories you scarfed down.’’

I waggled my eyebrows at him. “I know another way to burn calories. And it’s a lot more fun.’’

I tugged at his belt. He nestled closer and kissed me.

“Well, I guess cleaning the kitchen can wait,’’ he said, his dark eyes smoldering.

_____

Later, Carlos handed me a water glass. I dried it, and put it away in the kitchen cabinet. His glasses were arranged neatly by size, like Little Leaguers in a team picture. The first time I was at his apartment, I was impressed that he had a full set of dinnerware and glasses made of actual glass. The guys I’d been used to dating had nothing in their cabinets but oversized plastic cups from McDonald’s and a motley assortment of foam beer huggies. You don’t show up as a shirtless suspect on
Cops
without drinking a lot of beer.

He handed me a clean plate, the last one. The drain in the sink made a sucking sound as the dishwater disappeared. “Want some more coffee?’’

“Naw, I need to get some sleep. I promised Mama I’d take her to church in the morning, and she gets really upset when I snore in the pew.’’

“Will you see your sisters afterwards?’’

Carlos knew they wouldn’t be in church, since Marty was a practicing Buddhist, and Maddie found Mama’s religion a bit too heart-on-your-sleeve-Christian. She preferred the more restrained worship at the Methodist church. Thinking about Maddie made me worry again about what Kenny was up to.

“Mace?’’

I realized I was still standing there next to the sink, holding the wet plate. It dripped onto the tail of the white dress shirt Carlos had loaned me to wear to bed. After we made love, we’d showered and changed into nightclothes.

I swiped the dish towel across the dinner plate, and placed it in the cabinet on the top of a same-sized stack of china.

“I think I will have a bit more coffee,’’ I said, holding up my thumb and forefinger, an inch or two apart. “
Un poco
café
, with lots of
leche
.’’

Once I had my milky coffee, we sat at the table. The spoon clinked
softly as I stirred, staring at a calendar on the refrigerator. It was only six days until Kenny’s party.

“Is everything okay,
niña
? You seem distracted.’’

Carlos looked across the table, his eyes warm with kindness and concern. I’d seen every kind of emotion in those eyes: dark with
anger; burning with desire; narrowed in suspicion. But for some reason, it was the kindness that really did me in. I’m sure Kenny must have looked at Maddie that way a million times. It made me feel like crying.

Instead, I blew on the
café con leche
to cool it. “I’ve got some bad news about Maddie’s husband, Kenny.’’

“Is he sick?’’

“Yeah, sick of being married. He’s cheating on her.’’

“No way!’’

“Yep. She’s asked me to nose around and see what I can find out about who he’s running around with.’’ I sipped at the coffee. “It’s a secret, Carlos. You can’t tell anyone. And for God’s sake, don’t say anything to Mama.’’

He added another spoonful of sugar to his espresso-sized cup, a
cafecito
. “I’m a detective. I’m used to keeping secrets.’’

I smiled at him. “You can say that again!’’

We drank, sitting comfortably together in the kitchen. The clock ticked on the wall. A drip of water fell from the faucet. I’ve never been one to fill in a silence with chatter. Fortunately, Carlos was the same way. I thought about what he said about keeping secrets.

“What do you suppose was the murder victim’s secret?’’ I finally asked.

He shook his head, lips pressed tightly together above the rim of his cup.

“I mean, a librarian? Dressed up like that? Who’d imagine it?’’

“Who indeed?’’ He sipped his coffee.

“It’s not like I’m interested in the case. I didn’t even know the woman. I’m just curious how she wound up like she did. Dressed like that? Strangled?’’

When Carlos didn’t answer, I lifted the top off the sugar bowl a
nd peered inside. It needed more sugar. No surprise. He was as big
of a sweet freak as I was.

“And now,’’ I continued, “with Kenny cheating? It just makes me wonder the kinds of things people hide; even people you see every day.’’

Carlos put his cup down. “Everybody is hiding something,
niña
.’’

“I’m not. What you see is what you get with me.’’

He gave a short laugh. “Really? You may think of yourself as no-
nonsense and straightforward, but you’re a bundle of hidden motives and contradictions.’’

“I am not!’’ I said, insulted.

“Are too.’’

“For example?’’

He brushed a bit of hair from my face; caressed my cheek. “Just look at how long it took you to admit you wanted to be with me.’’

“Ha! I think I made it pretty clear I wanted to be with you, almost from the first minute I saw you. Well, as soon as you let Mama out of jail, anyway.”

“I’m not talking about sex.’’

“Really? That’s too bad.’’

He smiled—that slow, sultry smile that always knocked me off balance. “Well, we can talk about sex.’’ Holding gently to my wrist, he raised my left hand. The light over the kitchen table caught the diamond on the engagement ring. “But only if you admit first you played games and kept secrets before you accepted this.’’

I was silent, watching the ring as it sparkled and gleamed. The sight, a symbol of our commitment, still gave me a thrill. But now it was tinged with another emotion, some niggling fear that burrowed like a tick into my happiness.

It was Kenny’s fault for hurting my sister. For betraying her love. I’d always looked up to the two of them as a perfect couple, everything a long and happy marriage should be. If he could cheat on Maddie, anything could go wrong with any couple. Even Carlos and me.

“Mace?’’ He released my wrist. “You were going to confess?’’

The question in his voice brought me back to the kitchen table, to the present. To the future, with Carlos.

“Okay, I admit it. I wasn’t entirely upfront about my feelings for you. I’m not even sure I was telling the truth to myself.’’

“Now, that’s what I like to hear, you admitting to having a bundle of secrets!’’

His kiss was slow; sweet. When we drew apart, he traced the line of my lips with his finger. He continued, following a well-traveled trail down my chin, along my neck and down, down, to the buttons of the shirt I’d borrowed. I melted. He moaned.

“And now
…
” His fingers were performing magic beneath the cotton fabric of the shirt. “Now, I think we can talk about sex.’’

Threading my fingers into his thick hair, I pulled his face to my breasts.

“Talk?’’ I said. “That’s all? You know, we wouldn’t want anyone to accuse us of being all talk and no action.’’

With that, we got down to action.

eleven

Morning sunlight streamed through
the window in Carlos’s kitchen. He whistled, scrambling eggs on the stove. I handed him the bowl of cheddar cheese I’d grated. Carefully, he extracted small pinches and sprinkled it over the eggs so that no section got more or less than any other section. I grinned at him.

“It’s not surgery, Carlos. I usually just toss it all in there. It gets scrambled up anyway.’’

“Anything worth doing is worth doing correctly.’’

“Right.’’

“Exactly. That’s what I said.’’

“No, the saying is
…
”

Right
,
correctly
. What difference did it make? Maybe the idiom was off a tad, but the meaning was clear. I lined up little slices of cherry tomatoes across the eggs, as neat as columns of numbers. I was rewarded with a knowing smile from Carlos.

“Now you’re getting the hang of it.’’

I set the table and then took a seat while he popped bread from the toaster and plated our breakfast. When he placed the eggs in front of me with a waiter’s flourish, I got a warm feeling in my stomach. I don’t think it was just hunger, either. I felt taken care of. Content.

“I could get used to this.’’

“Careful, Mace. I might take that to mean you want us to move in together.’’

Suddenly, the warm feeling in my gut tightened into a knot. It was too soon. I wasn’t ready. We’d only been engaged two months. Who knew whether it would last between us? When Maddie and Kenny wed, hadn’t she thought her marriage would last forever?
Until death do us part.

The familiar words from the wedding vows made me think of
the murdered woman, Camilla. No doubt she was not ready for death
to take her. I saw her lifeless body in my mind’s eye, discar
ded and
left to decay in the dump. I stared at my untouched food.

“Is something wrong? Your eggs are getting cold,’’ Carlos said.

“It looks great.’’ I took a couple of bites, pushed the food around my plate. “I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought I was. Maybe I ate too much garbanzo bean soup last night.’’

“Not to mention more than your share of
flan
.’’

Outside the window, a cloud passed over the sun. The kitchen fell into shadow. What was wrong with me? I had a good man, who’d just cooked my Sunday morning breakfast. So why was I obsessing about a murdered woman? Why was I feeling trapped?

“Look at the time,’’ I said, glancing at the kitchen clock. “I’ve got to get home to change into church clothes.’’

“So soon? You’ve barely eaten a thing.’’

I scooped the eggs onto my toast and made a sandwich. “I’ll finish it on the drive home.’’

“We’ve got to talk, Mace.’’

Thankfully, his cell phone rang at that moment, saving me from having to explain my mood change. How could I do that when I didn’t understand it myself? He grabbed his phone from the kitchen counter and checked the caller ID.

“I should take this.’’

I’ll call you
. I mouthed the words, hand-signaling a phone to my ear.

He answered his cell, and then burst into rapid-fire Spanish. I couldn’t
comprendo
a word. Even as he spoke to the caller, he held up a wait-a-minute finger to me. His puzzled frown followed me as I walked toward the door.

_____

The music minister at Mama’s church hit the first chords on his portable piano. “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.’’ I hoped that was true, because I felt a bit short on the friend front that morning. I was playing games with a man who loved me. I’d already insulted both Mama and Sal. And I’d slipped up and called the pastor by the wrong name.

Even the little boy in the pew beside me pinched me on the thigh
when I slid in and gave his head a friendly pat. It wasn’t shaping up as my best Sunday morning ever.

We were still standing outside on the sidewalk before services at Abundant Forgiveness Love & Charity Chapel when Mama started sniping about my fashion missteps.

“Is that the only clean blouse you had in your closet, Mace?’’ S
he picked some lint off my wrinkled collar. “You know what I alway
s say about black fabric: It picks up everything but men and money. Not to mention, it’s more appropriate for a funeral than for Sunday worship.’’

I took in her watermelon-colored pantsuit, accessorized with dangly earrings and bangle bracelets in the same shade of reddish-pink as her scarf. And Mama was calling me out on my wardrobe choices? I lifted her fingers off my collar.

“My blouse is navy blue.’’

“Uh-huh.’’ Mama dug around in her purse, and then held out her tube of Apricot Ice. “Here you go, honey. This won’t make up for that nest of knots in your hair … did you even brush it this morning? But it will perk up your complexion a bit. I wish you’d listen to me when I tell you that those drab shades aren’t your best choice. You should be wearing the vibrant colors from Color Me Gorgeous’s winter palette. ’’

“My complexion is fine.’’ I started to run a hand through my hair. When my fingers snagged in snarls, I realized she was right. “Speaking of color, you’ve got Apricot Ice smeared all over your incisors. I guess your eyes aren’t what they used to be.’’

She whipped out her mirrored compact; rubbed a finger over her teeth. “My eyes are fine, sweetheart. They’re sure good enough to see you got up on the wrong side of the bed today.’’

Sal draped a massive, bear-sized paw over each of our shoulders. I squirmed to get away, but he just drew Mama and me closer. “What’s the problem with my two favorite girls? I want youse two to stop all this fighting. How’s about a kiss to make up?’’

“Jeez, Sal, you smell like a humidor.’’ I waved a hand in front of my nose. “Didn’t you tell Mama you were giving up cigars?’’

His smile faltered, and his grip loosened on my shoulder. He flashed a guilty look at Mama, who was now regarding him through narrowed eyes. Good. Once they got going at each other, I was off
the hook. As the minister approached to bid us hello, I had a momen
tary stab of conscience over stirring up trouble. I think I was breaking that commandment to honor thy father and mother. Or, in my case, thy mother and fourth stepfather. And there we were, right outside God’s house—even if it was a storefront in a strip mall next to the Pork Pit barbecue joint.

“Good morning, Mace.’’ The minister took my hand. “What a pleasure to see you after such a long time.’’

“It hasn’t been all that long, Reverend Idella.’’

Sal smirked. Mama poked me in the side.

“It’s Delilah, dear.’’ She gave my fingers a gentle squeeze before she moved on to greet the next, likely more faithful, member of her flock.

Now, the hymns had been sung. Next to me, the pinching kid was punching his little brother. The Rev.
Delilah
was preaching her sermon. She’d chosen to focus on the murdered librarian, since that was all anybody in town was talking about.

“I’ve heard, like all of you have, about how that poor girl was dressed. Don’t gossip about her; don’t be quick to judge. Remember what Jesus said: ‘
He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone …
’ ’’

She counseled the congregation not to fear the evil on the loose in Himmarshee that would drive a person to murder: “ ‘
Don’t let your heart be troubled
,’ ’’ she said, quoting from the Book of John. “
You believe in God …
’’

But even if God is watching over us, that’s no reason to be stupid, Delilah warned. “If you see something that doesn’t seem right, something that makes you suspicious, let the police know. We need to pull together as a community and make sure the person who committed this sin is not free to kill again.’’

Amen to that.

When the service ended, the worshippers gathered for food and fellowship in a second storefront the church had taken over next door. The little chapel was growing. After that trouble with Delilah’s ex-husband, who had been the previous minister, she was proving to be a popular attraction. At first, crowds came to the church solely because of the scandal, not to mention the murder. But memories fade. Now the congregation was one-hundred percent behind Delilah, and the female perspective she brought to the pulpit.

The tables nearly sagged with plates of goodies. There was a country ham, with flaky biscuits for mini sandwiches. Cold side dishes, prepared with copious amounts of mayonnaise, included coleslaw, macaroni, and potato salad. Pies and layer cakes competed for space with homemade candy, like pecan divinity and chocolate-marshmallow fudge. The members of Abundant Forgiveness definitely took their abundance seriously. Nobody had a hope of counting calories here.

Loading up my plate, I saw D’Vora, from the beauty parlor, alone against the wall. She’d foregone any food at all, watching the crowd as she sipped a soft drink from a plastic bottle. I grabbed the chair next to hers.

“Fancy meeting you here,’’ I said.

She nodded hello, giving me a forced smile. So, even D’Vora was mad at me?

“Was it something I said?’’

“Sorry, Mace.’’ She balanced the plastic bottle on the seat be
tween her knees. “I’m not myself this morning.’’

“Late night?’’

She shook her head.

“Trouble with Darryl?’’

“No more than usual.’’

Sal wandered up. “Why do gorgeous girls always gather together? Youse two are like pretty bluebirds in a garden.’’

I think I must have preened a little, but D’Vora just stared at her soda bottle.

“She’s not herself this morning,’’ I explained to Sal.

“Probably the murder.’’ He took a cigar from his top pocket, caressed it like a precious jewel, and put it back. “That’s got everybody on edge. It’s a hell of a thing. People are trying to make sense of it, and having trouble doing it. What do you suppose happened to her, Mace?’’

“Beats me. It’s too strange to even contemplate.’’

When Sal began talking about the murder, D’Vora had shifted her focus to the nutritional information on the soft drink’s paper label. She picked at the paper until the glue gave, and then peeled off the label in tiny strips. She was as intent on the task as a heart surgeon performing a bypass.

My eyes met Sal’s over D’Vora’s head, and I nodded slightly toward her. He shrugged a little, perhaps a sign he’d also noticed that the normally gossipy beautician was strangely uninterested.

The big man took a seat on D’Vora’s other side, lowering his body gingerly into one of the flimsy folding chairs. His voice, usually a Bronx blare, was surprisingly soft and gentle. “Sweetheart, is there something you want to talk about?”

He lifted her chin. Was Sal looking for evidence on her face that Darryl might have hit her? We all knew he liked his beer, hated work, and was as immature as a junior high school boy, but I’d never heard the slightest hint he was abusive.

She smiled at Sal, and shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong, y’all. I’m just not feeling great this morning.’’

Uh-oh. Morning sickness? A bawling infant was the last thing D’Vora and the chronically unemployed Darryl needed in that crowded trailer with those three Rottweiler dogs.

“D’Vora, you’re not
…
” I put my hands over my own belly.

“Lord, no! I’m already taking care of one baby who refuses to grow up.’’

“You’re sure you’re okay?’’ Sal aimed his interrogator eyes at her.
She nodded, her gaze drifting back to the label she was shredding.

“I hope you’re feeling better in time for Kenny’s big party. It’s gonna be a blast,’’ he said. “Are you taking Darryl?’’

The plastic bottle tumbled off D’Vora’s lap, bouncing on the tiled floor. The last few swallows of the drink spayed out all over my dressiest flip-flops. My toes would be soda-sticky the rest of the morning.

“Sorry, Mace,’’ she mumbled. She bent to retrieve the dropped bottle, and her church program slid from the chair to the floor. She was trying to pick up that, when her shoulder purse fell off her arm. Sal scooped up the bottle, and I handed her the program and her purse.

“What in the world is wrong with you, D’Vora?’’ I asked.

“I told you I’m fine!’’ Her tone was sharp. “Quit hounding me. If I had anything to say to you, don’t you think I would have said it?’’

Clutching her church program and purse to her chest, she stormed out the door.

twelve

“Mace, honey, close your
mouth. You’re gonna catch flies.’’

I was staring slack-jawed out the church-front window. I’d called
to D’Vora as she left, but she ignored me, which was becoming a pattern. She was already at the curb, hoisting herself into the passenger seat of Darryl’s big truck. Gunning the engine, he darted into traffic on State Road 70, causing a Hawaiian-shirted tourist in a rental vehicle to screech to a stop. Cars swerved. Horns honked. Darryl flicked a cigarette butt out the window, lifted a beer from the cup holder in the console, and made an illegal U-turn across a double yellow line.

Where was a cop when you needed one?

“Mace!’’

I turned. “I heard you the first time, Mama. Catch Flies. Close Mouth.’’

“See? I told you. No respect!’’ She spoke to one of her fellow church ladies, who tsked-tsked at me in motherly empathy. “We were trying to get your opinion on whether the soprano in the choir and the music minister would make a nice couple.’’

“I suppose so, Mama. Not that it’s any of my business.’’ I glanced out the window again. The truck was gone, and Darryl and D’Vora with it.

“She hasn’t been the same since her husband passed away, poor thing. But it’s been a year. I think it’s time, and Phyllis agrees. Don’t you think so?’’

Both Mama and her pal Phyllis raised their brows, awaiting my answer.

“Everybody’s different, Mama. You can’t put a stopwatch on grief.’’ My focus shifted to the music minister, a middle-aged man with a slight paunch and a quick smile, despite an overbite. Someone standing next to him at the food table said something and his laugh boomed across the room.

“He’s got a heart as big as that laugh,’’ Mama said. “Too bad about those buck teeth, though. He could gnaw an ear of corn through a picket fence, bless his heart.’’

I watched as he scanned the rows of seats until he found the soprano. She studied an open hymn book in her lap. As if she could feel his gaze, she raised her face. Tucking a lock of hair behind an ear, she rewarded him with a radiant smile.

Darned if Mama wasn’t right about the two of them becoming a couple. She might have been unlucky in love, but Mama’s sense
about other people’s relationships was uncanny. Of course, I’d rathe
r chew glass than admit that to her.

She jabbed her elbow at her friend Phyllis. “Look at those two. I’m telling you, a musical romance is abloom.’’

She nodded, satisfied, and then turned her attention from the soprano to me. “Now, speaking of couples
…
”

Before I had a chance to escape, she said to Phyllis, “Have you heard Mace is engaged?’’

I showed her my ring. Her oohs and aahs brought a couple of other church members over to our little group.

“When’s the date?’’ one asked, picking up my hand to turn the ring this way and that.

“There’s no hurry,’’ I answered, extracting myself from her grasp.

“Oh, yes there is,’’ said another woman, as she too grabbed at my hand. “You’re not getting any younger.’’

“That’s certainly true,’’ Mama said.

Et tu
?

“The bigger issue, though, is whether my daughter will stop this back-and-forth with her wonderful fiancé, Carlos. Now, y’all know Mace’s rocky history
…
”

“You do realize, Mama, I’m standing right here? Maybe your friends would like to hear a story about someone who drank too much pink wine and managed to misplace her own fancy ring?’’

She gave me a long look, and then continued. With an eager chorus chiming in, she narrated the highs and lows of my notorious love life. Mainly the lows.

“Remember when Mace spotted an ex-boyfriend on
Cops
, on TV? What was he in trouble for again, honey?’’

When I didn’t answer, one of the church ladies chimed in. “Wasn’t that the mo-ron who robbed the Booze ’n’ Breeze, only to have his old truck break down when he pulled out of the drive-thru to make his getaway?’’

“Yep,’’ another of the women said. “The sheriff’s deputies caugh
t him when he ran off and jumped in a canal. Mo-ron forgot he couldn’t swim. And all of it caught by the TV camera, too.’’

I tuned out, and began to think about what Mama said about me going back and forth with Carlos. There was more truth in her accusation than I wanted to admit. What was my problem, anyway? With my thumb, I spun the engagement ring on my finger. I still wasn’t used to the heft of it on my hand, or the way the diamond on top poked into my pinky when the ring slipped off-center.

“How ’bout that rodeo cowboy?’’ I vaguely heard one of the women say. “Didn’t he leave Mace way back when for the homecoming queen?”

“He gambled something awful, I heard. Good-looking guy, though,’’ another one of Mama’s friends added.

“Honey, the bad ones always are.’’ Phyllis chuckled.

I was half-listening, half-watching the music minister as he took a seat next to the soprano and handed her a coffee. I’d learned long ago it wasn’t worth interjecting when Mama and her church pals got going on a topic, even if this one happened to center on me.

“Wasn’t there a little something she had going with Lawton Bramble’s boy, too?’’ someone asked.

“That was the awful year we did the horseback ride on the Florida Cracker Trail. Even Carlos had to understand Mace wasn’t in her right mind when she started messing around with Trey Bramble. That’s what happens when somebody’s trying to kill you.’’

“Rosalee, you mean trying to kill
you,
right?’’ one of the women said.

“Well, both of us, the way it turned out.’’

“Awful sad about what happened to Lawton, though.’’ All the women nodded at the redhead who spoke. “Just proves you can be as rich as Croesus in cattle and still wind up dead, face first in a vat of cow-hunter chili.’’

Their momentary silence was broken when Phyllis gasped, her eyes as wide as collection plates: “Speaking of murder, what if one
of Mace’s exes had something to do with that poor girl at the dump?’’

“Don’t be ridiculous!’’ Mama slapped Phyllis’s arm. “None of my daughter’s loser boyfriends ever committed anything more than petty crimes. Plus, now she’s engaged to a police detective, one of the good guys.’’

A newcomer to the conversation turned my hand to peer at my
ring. I feared a stress fracture at the wrist from the repetitive motion
.

“Murder is a nasty business, y’all.’’ Mama clucked her tongue. “Now, about Mace’s love life
…
”

Someone interrupted her, drawing talk back to the deadly fate of the unlucky Camilla. A gruesome homicide with sexual overtones would always trump rocky romance. Mama realized she’d lost her audience.

She hooked an elbow through mine and pulled me aside. “Honey,
I just want to make sure you’re not going to jack around that man of yours again. He won’t take it another time.’’

I sighed. “Carlos is the one, Mama. I’m certain.’’ I held up my hand. “I’ve got the ring to prove it. It’s settled.’’

The engagement ring really was lovely. Not so the skin around my wrist, which was starting to redden from all the church ladies tugging at my hand.

Mama looked dubious. She eyed the assembled crowd, stopping
when she located a knot of church folk gathered by the coffeepot. “Maybe you should have a backup in case things go wrong. A Plan B Man.’’

My eyes followed hers, which were focused on the choir’s geeky baritone. I snorted. “That man is fifty years old if he’s a day. And he still lives with his mama. Plus, he rides a three-wheeled bicycle to work, bagging groceries at the supermarket.’’

I waved my ring under her nose. “I am a happily engaged woman, Mama. I don’t need a Plan B.’’

She batted away my hand. “There are plenty of rings on fingers out there. Plenty of bad marriages, too. That ring doesn’t mean a thing if you—or your husband—end up with a broken heart.’’

I thought about Mama’s aptitude for understanding romance. Did she sense something about me I myself didn’t know? Maybe having witnessed
her
series of marital train wrecks spoiled me for
commitment. I saw Maddie’s tear-streaked face in my mind. I couldn’t
help thinking about Kenny; about their twenty-plus years of marriage, now endangered. Carlos and I weren’t even married yet. Things could go bad. Maybe I did need a backup plan.

For some reason, an image of the gorgeous golf pro flitted behind my eyes. That was immediately followed by a rush of guilt. I don’t know why. It wasn’t like I planned to do anything with the guy. I was just thinking. Harmless daydreaming. It wasn’t like I was considering making Jason—or was it Josh?—my Plan B Man.

Was I?

thirteen

My mouth watered. The
aroma of meat on the grill drifted through the dining room at the golf course. They don’t call Himmarshee County the buckle in Florida’s beef belt for nothing. Speaking of which, my own belt might need a new hole if I managed to finish the still-sizzling slab of steak in front of me.

“Hand me that steak sauce, would you Mace?’’ Sal pointed his fork at the house brand bottle on the table.

“Try it before you douse it. You can’t beat the taste of a fine cut of meat, simply prepared.’’ Sawing off a hunk from my own Porterhouse, I held it up for Sal’s inspection. “Nothing but meat, a nice marbling of fat, and some salt and pepper.’’

He plucked it off my steak knife and popped it into his mouth. “Mmm-hmm,’’ he said, chewing.

“What’d I tell you?’’ I grinned. “Carnivore nirvana-vor!’’

My sister Marty, likely the only vegetarian in a twenty-five-mile radius, speared a cucumber from her salad. She chomped on the celery stalk garnishing her virgin Bloody Mary. “You’d both be a lot healthier if you’d cut back on the meat, and bulk up on your greens.’’

Catching the waiter’s eye, Sal tapped the rim of his empty glass to signal he wanted a second martini. “Do olives count as greens, Marty?’’

She shook a finger at him. “Not when they’re soaked in gin.’’

Mama looked at her watch and frowned. “It’s one o’clock. I thought Maddie would be here by now.’’

I’d been so distracted—studying the menu, selecting my steak, lecturing Sal on the virtues of un-sauced meat—I’d forgotten to mention my big sister wouldn’t be joining us.

“I talked to Maddie on my cell on the way here, Mama. She can’t make it.”

“Why not?’’ she asked.

The truth was Maddie was too upset over this mess with Kenny to enjoy the family’s company, not even with the added bonus of dessert. But I wasn’t about to reveal that.

“She’s not feeling well,’’ I said.

“What’s wrong with her?’’ Marty asked.

Mama snatched a French fry from my plate, leaving her own healthy serving of rice untouched. I thrust my steak knife at her in warning.

“She’s just a little under the weather,’’ I answered Marty.

“How so?’’ Mama asked.

Now, even Sal had put down his fork and was awaiting my update.
Nothing gets my family interested like evasiveness. I glanced around at the nearby tables and lowered my voice to a whisper.

“She has her period, okay?’’

Reddening, Sal changed the subject. “Hey, I think I see the mayor and his wife coming in. You know them, don’t you Mace?’’

Mama interrupted before I could answer him. “I gave Maddie some special raspberry and chamomile to make Time of the Month tea. That should help her cramps. Isn’t she using it, Mace?’’

“I’m not sure, Mama. I’m not in charge of monitoring Maddie’s herbal tea intake.’’

Mama slipped her cell phone from her purse. “I’m going to call her
right now. I have to make sure she remembers to drink that tea.’’

“No, don’t!’’ I said, more sharply than I intended.

All three of them stared at me. “I just meant don’t bother her. She said on the phone she was going to fill a hot water bottle and take a nap. She’s probably asleep right now.’’

“I remember my own periods.’’ Mama happily shifted the focus to herself.

Sal tugged uncomfortably at his collar. She continued.

“Cramps so bad it felt like somebody crushed my uterus in a vise. An unnaturally heavy flow, too. I mean, I’d go through a package of tampons
…
’’

“Here comes the mayor,’’ Sal blurted, jumping up from our table.

“Oh, joy,’’ Mama muttered as Marty giggled.

Sal, looking relieved, stretched out his big paw for a shake. “How are you today, Mayor Graf? And Mrs. Graf, too, of course. Join us!’’

“Maybe for a minute or two,’’ said the mayor.

Sal pulled out a chair for the mayor’s wife, and all of us shifted around to make room. From the flinch on Sal’s face after he took his seat, I could tell Mama had aimed a swift kick at him under the table.

“Now, Sally, these two probably have all sorts of important people to see.’’ She offered a saccharine-sweet smile to Himmarshee’s power couple. “Don’t let us keep you.’’

Beatrice Graf settled into her chair, tugging at a short skirt of fuchsia satin. Her blouse, in the same shade of bright pink, clashed mightily with the permanent curls of her pomegranate-hued hair. A sprinkling of rhinestones glittered along her plunging neckline, like stars dotting a vast, bosomy galaxy.

“I’m never too busy to chat with my constituents. After all, you put me in office.’’

The mayor flashed a campaign poster grin—all white teeth, dark suit, and insincerity. I knew Mama had voted for his opponent. I admired her restraint, for a couple of seconds anyway.

“Actually,’’ she said, “I supported the other candidate. He’s a native Himmarsheean, and I’ve known him since I taught him in Sunday school, way back when. He’s a good man, and would have made a fine mayor. No offense.’’

The mayor waved a hand, a diamond winking from his pinky ring. “None taken.’’

“Speaking of Sunday school, where do y’all worship?’’ Mama asked.

A look passed between the mayor and his wife. “Actually, we haven’t found a permanent church home,’’ Beatrice Graf said.

Mama cocked her head at Big Bill. “So you got a seat at the Chamber of Commerce, secured a political office, and joined the country club, but you haven’t had time to find a church?’’

“We’re still looking for a good fit,’’ the mayor said.

Beatrice began gathering up her purse. “We really must go, Bill. We’ve been out of town,’’ she explained to us, “and social obligations really pile up.’’

A confused look crossed the mayor’s face. “We haven’t been out of—”

“—Of course we were! Your memory is getting terrible, Bill. Now, I said we have to go.’’

She shot to her feet. Mama put a hand on her arm.

“Just one more thing,’’ she said. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you ‘looking’ at Abundant Forgiveness Love & Charity Chapel. That’s my church.’’

Mama rustled around in her purse, extracting Juicy Fruit gum, a broken blueberry-colored earring, and a crumpled receipt from Fran’s Fancy Frocks and Duds. Finally, she pulled out a program from the morning’s church service. “We’d love to have you stop by.’’

Beatrice snatched the program, folded it without a glance, and stuffed it into her own bag, a rhinestone-studded number in silver leather. I’d lay money that’s where it would stay. In a week or so, she’d toss it out with candy wrappers, hair from her brush, and other garbage she mined from the bottom of that spacious satchel.

Beatrice and Big Bill gave lip service to religion. But between the mayor’s filthy language when he missed a putt, and the way his wife filleted the murder victim’s character without even knowing her, I’d venture a guess they weren’t the worshipful type.

With Mama’s invitation still hanging in the strained silence, a friendly visit to our table by the club’s barmaid came as a welcome interruption. Nodding at me in recognition, Angel dropped her strong hands on Sal’s shoulders. She massaged playfully, like a manager looking after a prizefighter.

“How’s the martini, Sal? Loosening up those tight muscles, I hope. I made it dry as dust, just the way you like them.’’

Mama sat up straighter in her seat; Mayor and Mrs. Graf forgotten. She narrowed her eyes at Angel, whose bright blonde bangs were bouncing adorably onto her forehead. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. I’m Rosalee, Sal’s wife.’’

“Of course! He talks about you all the time. You’re just as pretty as Sal said.’’ She offered her hand. “I tend bar in the 19th Hole. I’m Angel, by the way.’’

Mama, mollified by the compliment, smoothed at her perfectly coiffed hair. She waited just a beat, and then took the barmaid’s hand.

From across the table, Beatrice Graf cleared her throat. “Angel, the mayor and I are absolutely parched. We need some drinks, dear.’
’

The tone of her voice was an odd mix of imperiousness and wheedling.

“I don’t do table service,’’ Angel said flatly. “I’ll send over a waiter.’’

Seemingly chastened, Beatrice cast her eyes to the tablecloth, and began examining the silverware.

“Don’t worry about it, Angel.’’ The mayor’s voice was chipper. He stood up to join his wife. “We’ll find a seat in the bar.’’

He dropped a friendly hand on Angel’s shoulder. With a frigid look, she shrugged it off and left our table. The mayor immediately went after her. After an awkward moment, his wife followed him.

“That was weird,’’ Marty said, voice low. “What’s the deal between those three?’’

I shrugged, eager to get back to my steak. Mama speared another French fry from my plate. She made a face when she took a bite.

“It’s colder than a heart on Wall Street,’’ she said, depositing the half-eaten fry back on my plate. “What kind of people sit down and monopolize the dinner table right after your food is served?’’

“You’re the one who kept them around, interrogating them about
church,’’ I said.

“Sal was the one who took time away from dinner to flirt with that barmaid,’’ she countered.

“I wasn’t flirting, Rosalee. It’s called being friendly.’’

“You may not think so, but she was definitely flirting with you.’’ Mama dabbed her napkin in my water glass and scrubbed at a spot of ketchup on Sal’s lapel.

“I was drinking that water, Mama.” I slid the glass out of her reach. “Besides, Angel fools around with all her customers like that to boost her tips. She doesn’t care about Sal.’’

“Thanks,’’ he said, looking wounded.

“Are you dissing my husband, Mace?’’

“Who wants dessert?’’ Marty said, employing the one sure-fire suggestion that would make us stop sniping and start eating again.

“I do!’’ all of us answered at once.

Sal signaled for the waiter, and we put in our dessert requests.
As I sat, waiting for my Key lime pie and plotting how to keep Mama’s fork out of my plate, I spotted Jason making his way across
the dining room. A dozen pair of female eyes followed the golf pro’s progress. I had to admit, he had a confident, sexy stride to match his sexy smile.

When he saw me, he cut a straight line to our table. He shook Sal’s hand, asked him how he was hitting, and then turned his attention my way.

“Hello, gorgeous.’’ He leaned and planted a kiss on my cheek.

Mumbling a greeting, I brushed my finger over the spot he’d kissed. It felt warm.

“I’ve been wondering when I’d see you again.’’ He looked into my eyes. “I’ve thought about you a lot.’’

Mama coughed. Marty bit her lip. Sal tapped the table nervously.

“Jason, this is my mother and my sister.’’ I gave him their names.
He nodded hello, but barely seemed to register them. He didn’t even
do a double-take when I introduced Marty, whose doll-like beauty captivated most men.

His eyes held mine. “Do you think I could call you? I’ve thought about some of the things we talked about.’’

I felt a shiver of dread. He must know something about Kenny, but this was definitely the wrong time and place for him to bring it up. I fished a business card from the nature park out of my pocket and quickly concocted a cover story. “Give me a call tomorrow. If you’ve got a gator in the pond again, I can definitely help.’’

He looked confused, but palmed the card anyway. I suspected Jason spent a good amount of time not completely understanding what people were saying.

He bent to kiss my cheek again, his lips lingering just a bit longer this time.

“Goodbye, gorgeous.’’

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