Текст книги "Mama Does Time"

Автор книги: Deborah Sharp

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DEBORAH SHARP – MAMA DOES TIME

Praise for Mama Does Time

“Who knew that a who-dun-it would not only keep you guessing—but have you laughing! Deborah Sharp is the new Edna Buchanan.”—Hoda Kotb, NBC’s Today Show co-anchor

“With a strong, funny heroine, colorful characters, and a look at a part of Florida the tourists rarely see, Deborah Sharp has an engaging new series. Make sure Mama Does Time does time on your bookshelf.”—Elaine Viets, author of Clubbed to Death: a Dead-End Job Mystery

“Deborah Sharp’s witty way with words makes Mama Does Time as much fun as a down-home visit with your quirky Florida cousins.”—Nancy Martin, author of the Blackbird Sisters Mysteries

“Not since the late Anne George has there been such laugh-out-loud Southern fried fun. Deborah Sharp’s Mama Does Time is a hilarious page turner with crisp and intelligent writing.”—Sue Ann Jaffarian, author of the Odelia Grey Mystery series

“Deborah Sharp is the freshest, funniest voice to come along since, well, since I can’t remember when. She’s wise, she’s wily and, what matters most—she knows the hearts of people. Mama Does Time has it all—murder, mystery and a brand new take on Florida’s particular version of mayhem. Mama, aka Rosalee Deveraux, is an absolute hoot. And Mace Bauer, her middle daughter and the savvy, surefooted heroine of this romp of a book, is a most welcome addition to the ranks of detective fiction.”—Bob Morris, fourth-generation Floridian and

Edgar-nominated author of the Zack Chasteen Mystery series

Mama Does Time: A Mace Bauer Mystery © 2008 by Deborah Sharp

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

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.

First e-book edition © 2010

E-book ISBN: 978-07387-2023-4

Book design by Donna Burch

Cover design by Lisa Novak

Cover illustration © 2008 by Mark Gerber

Editing by Connie Hill

Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

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Midnight Ink

Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

2143 Wooddale Drive

Woodbury, MN 55125

www.midnightink.com

Manufactured in the United States of America

To the original Mama, Marion Sharp,

and to my husband, Kerry Sanders.

I love you both to pieces.

Acknowledgments

The good folks of Okeechobee, Florida, and the state’s cattle belt inspired fictional Himmarshee. You might recognize a few landmarks, but most everything else is made up.

Any mistakes in the book are mine, and not the fault of the experts I consulted. Henry Cabbage, spokesman for the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, and two of the agency’s biologists, Lindsey Hord and Steve Stiegler, guided me on ’gators. Allen Register, owner of Palmdale’s Gatorama, also helped.

Okeechobee County extension agent Pat Hogue answered my cattle questions, and the Clemons family welcomed me to the Okeechobee Livestock Market, in the same spot since 1937. Jack Knight showed me how a cattle buyer bids at auction.

The staff at the SPCA Wildlife Care Center in Fort Lauderdale allowed me to tag along on the care and feeding of critters.

My mom and real-life sisters encouraged me, and loaned their best traits to Mama, Mace, Maddie, and Marty. My husband gave his gorgeousness to Carlos Martinez. Any negative resemblance to these fictional counterparts is pure coincidence. (Y’all believe me, right?)

A long line of newspaper editors, including USA Today’s, taught me to ask questions, listen carefully, and write tight. (Okay, so maybe this could be tighter, but I can’t leave anyone out!)

Several writers’ groups in Fort Lauderdale assisted my transition from journalism to fiction writing. Thanks to leaders Carol Lytle, Jon Frangipane and Wendell Abern, Shelley Lieber, and, especially, to my friends Joyce Sweeney and the super-talented members of the Thursday Night Group. A special nod to Kingsley Guy for the great title.

Former acquisitions editor Barbara Moore saved me from the slush pile, and the creative folks at Midnight Ink shepherded my book to publication.

Agent Whitney Lee held my hand (electronically, anyway), calmed my insecurities, and combed over my contract.

Thanks to those above, to those I’ve missed, and especially to YOU, for reading Mama Does Time.

Mama just wanted to look pretty for high-stakes bingo night at the Seminole casino.

But her beautician left the peroxide on too long, and she’s been shedding like an Angora sweater ever since. Now, it turns out a patchy dye job is the least of my mother’s worries.

It all started with a phone call. I was just about to plop down with my left-over fried chicken in front of the TV, wanting to see if I could spot any of my ex-boyfriends on Cops, when the damned thing rang.

“Mace, honey, you’ve got to come down here and help me. I’m in a lot of trouble.’’

Mama’s voice was shaking. She sounded scared, like the time the raccoon came crashing from the attic through the bathroom ceiling while my little sister, Marty, was in a bubble bath.

“Slow down, Mama,’’ I told her. “Now, take a deep breath.’’

My mother is excitable. I’m used to such calls. Maybe she needed me to solve a romantic crisis, or come pluck a snake out of the engine of her vintage turquoise convertible. I work outdoors in Himmarshee, Florida, in the wild regions north of Lake Okee-chobee. I’m accustomed to snakes.

“Start at the beginning and tell me what’s wrong,’’ I said.

I heard a shuddery sigh, and then silence. She cleared her throat. Finally she spoke.

“They’ve got me down here at the police station, Mace. They think I’ve killed a man.’’

If the kitchen counter hadn’t been there for me to grab a hold of, I’d have fallen out flat on the checkerboard pattern of my linoleum floor. I leaned my back against the wall and slid down slowly until my butt hit the baseboard. There I sat, clutching the receiver and searching for the proper response when your mother announces she’s got one foot behind bars for murder.

“Just sit tight and don’t say another word. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’’

I knew my advice would go untaken. The only time Mama’s mouth is shut is when she’s chewing on something.

“There was a man’s body in my trunk, Mace.’’

A strangled sob came through the phone. Then the story started pouring out.

“There was an accident,’’ she said, running the words together. “Everything started at the Dairy Queen. Or maybe at bingo. I’d ordered me a butterscotch dip. Then, two police cars came. I couldn’t even get a second cone. A pretty young girl hit me. The man had a diamond pinky ring.’’ She stopped for a breath. “You’d better call your sisters, Mace.’’

The ability to make sense deserts Mama under stress. That doesn’t mean she stops trying. I needed to get to her before she conversated herself right into a correctional facility.

“Not another word. Do not say another word to anyone, you hear? You can fill me in when I get there. And Mama? Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.’’

Even as I said it, I didn’t believe it. But I hoped I sounded like I did. My two sisters and I spend a lot of time reassuring our mother that things will turn out fine. The amazing thing is, they usually do. But getting Mama from Point A to Point A-OK requires delicate maneuvering, truckloads of patience, and a fair amount of prayer.

I wasn’t sure this time if all those things together would be enough.

I grabbed my keys from inside the toothy grin of a stuffed alligator head I keep on my coffee table. It’s a trapping souvenir from a ten-foot nuisance gator my cousin and I wrestled from a swimming pool. The pool’s owner, a newcomer, thought he wanted country living until the country came to call.

Within minutes, I was on my way to town to rescue Mama. I live twenty miles out, in a cottage made of native cypress cut from local swamps. But downtown Himmarshee itself isn’t much more than a bug speck on the windshield of a cattle-hauling truck. It seems like every week developers plant a new subdivision sign on former pastureland. But so far, the big cattle trucks still rumble along these narrow old highways north of Lake Okeechobee.

I opened the Jeep’s windows in addition to cranking the AC. We’re fifty miles from the nearest ocean breeze. Even at night, the summer heat in middle Florida is like a prelude to hell.

As I sped south, a full moon spilled light on fields dotted with palmetto scrub. Cows herded together under Sabal palms, dark shadows in the distance. The Monday night traffic was light. I was at the police department in no time at all.

Inside, I rounded a corner into the lobby and spotted my mother—Rosalee Deveraux, sixty-two years old last Fourth of July. She was clad in an orange-sherbet-colored pantsuit and matching pumps, perched on a desk like she owned the place. Someone must have just said something funny, because Mama’s head was reared back in a laugh.

The sound was reassuring. Strange, under the circumstances, but reassuring.

“Well, look who’s here.’’ She grabbed the receptionist’s elbow and turned her in my direction. “Emma Jean, you remember my middle girl, Mace. You know, the one who works at the nature park and traps critters on the side?’’

Mama was grinning at me like I was Santa Claus bringing that baby doll she’d always wanted. “Honey, c’mon over and say hello to my bingo buddy, Emma Jean Valentine.’’

I raised an eyebrow at my mother, who appeared to be in full hostess mode.

“Nice to see you again, Ms. Valentine.’’ I extended my hand across the desk, over a decorative family of Troll dolls, to a plus-sized woman in her mid-fifties.

Emma Jean, whose short skirt was in reverse proportion to her big hair, gave me a girlish grin. It was a marked contrast to her bone-crushing handshake. I offered her the pleasantries that small town manners demand. Then I put my hands on my mother’s shoulders and looked her in the eyes.

“What in the hell’s going on, Mama? When you called, you sounded like you were strapped into Ol’ Sparky, and the warden was ready to throw the switch. Where’s your car? Where’s the body? Are you being arrested?’’

My mother licked a finger and reached over to smooth my bangs. I jerked away, like I’ve been doing since I was six.

“I’m sorry, Mace. I was awful upset, what with that poor dead man and all, God rest his soul. But Emma Jean says this brand-new detective is gonna get everything straightened out. Now, calm down, honey.’’

That was rich. Her telling me to calm down.

She swiveled on the desk back to Emma Jean. “Mace isn’t usually so excitable. My youngest, Marty, is the one who falls to pieces over the littlest things. Mace is usually my rock.’’

Emma Jean had been watching us. For all I knew, she’d concealed a tiny tape recorder somewhere on her person. That might be hard to miss, though, since her pink denim outfit looked spray-painted on. A kitty-cat pin glittered on the jacket she’d tossed over her bustier. Could one of those rhinestone eyes hold a miniature microphone to capture Mama’s confession?

I was staring at the sparkly cat, plotting how to get my mother alone, when Mama spun to Emma Jean. “Would you be a doll and fetch me a dash more of that heavenly coffee?’’ She flashed a smile so luminous it could melt snow. “Extra cream, lots of sugar.’’

Turning, my mother winked at me. She might be flighty and infuriating, but occasionally a sharp mind makes itself known from beneath that badly dyed ’do.

Emma Jean heaved herself from her leather chair. Looming over Mama, she waggled an index finger six inches from her face. The nail was bright red, with a tiny white heart. “You’re not going to run out on us, are you, Rosalee? The detective will be with you shortly. And, don’t forget, we know where you live.’’

Her tone was playful. But it seemed there might be some menace in the message.

Emma Jean punched in a code and passed through a plain white door, her high heels click-clicking down the hall.

My mother sipped from the coffee dregs in her cup, then made a face. “Ice cold. And it never was nothing but lukewarm. Now I know why all my TV shows make a big deal out of bad coffee at the police station.’’

I looked around for eavesdroppers. Himmarshee isn’t exactly a criminal hotbed. We were alone in the reception area. “Should I find you a lawyer, Mama?’’

Her eyes widened. “You can’t be serious, Mace. You don’t really think I’ve murdered a man, do you? You, my own flesh and blood?’’ She shook her head. A few stray hairs floated to the surface of Emma Jean’s desk. “Your daddy’s rollin’ in his grave, girl.’’

Mama always says that Daddy, who died young of a heart attack, was her one true love. Even so, she’s seen no harm in hoping Cupid will aim true again. She’s been married four times.

“Mama, tell me—quickly. What happened?’’

“Well, first I got dressed to go to bingo. What do you think of this orange, Mace?’’ She ran a hand down the pantsuit’s fabric. “Is it too much with the shoes? I was afraid with my white hair, I’d look like a Creamsicle. I did re-think an orange-and-white scarf I’d planned to wear. ’’

“The man you’re accused of killing, Mama? Remember him?’’

“Mercy, Mace. You’re wound tighter than an eight-day clock. Of course I remember. I’m the one who found the man, dead in my trunk. I was just trying to tell you how I came to be at the Dairy Queen. I’d already started out of the parking lot, when I decided at the last minute to go back and buy me a second cone.”

A photo on Emma Jean’s desk caught my mother’s eye. She traced the image with a finger, a far-away look on her face. It showed a young Emma Jean pushing a child on a swing.

“Mama?’’

“Hmmm?’’ She looked up, her eyes unfocused. “Sorry, Mace. So, that was when I felt a tap on my bumper. The cutest young girl in a red sports car had tail-ended me. Do you think I’m too old for a little sports car like that, honey?’’

“Mama,’’ I warned.

“Anyway, the girl noticed my trunk wasn’t shut right. I tried to slam it, but it wouldn’t catch. You should have seen her face when I lifted up that heavy lid to see what was making it stick.’’

I was afraid to ask.

“It was a man’s hand, catching that little metal doohickey that makes the trunk close. His sleeve was bloody. The back of his fingers were hairy. When I close my eyes, I can still see that diamond pinky ring.’’

“How’d you know he was dead?’’

She looked at me like I was slow. “I grew up on a farm, Mace. Don’t you think I’ve seen enough animals, dead and alive, to know when any one of God’s creatures has taken its last breath? Besides, his wrist was right there. I put my fingers on it real careful, and felt for a pulse. He didn’t have one. And his skin was colder than a car seat in January.’’

Mama stared out the window into the night. “There was a blanket tossed over his face.’’ Her voice sounded soft, distant. “I wasn’t about to go messing around. I watch Law and Order. You never contaminate a crime scene. And that’s what my car was, Mace, a murder scene.’’

Mama walked over to the trash and dumped her coffee cup. Then, she tore yesterday’s date—September 13—off a wall calendar. A gift from the Gotcha Bait & Tackle shop, the calendar pictured a large mouth bass leaping over the month. When she started rubbing at a scuff mark on the wall, I knew Mama was more upset than she let on.

Putting my arm around her shoulder, I led her back to the desk. At barely five feet in her sherbet pumps, the top of her head didn’t reach my chin.

“C’mon, let’s sit down.” I lowered her gently to a chair beside the desk. “Everything will be fine.’’

“I know, Mace.’’ She managed a shaky smile. “I’m just thinking of that poor dead soul. He must have had a family. I bet someone is wondering right now where he’s at.’’

I steered her back to the Dairy Queen.

“When we found the body, the girl started screaming,” Mama said. “I believe her name was Donna. Or maybe Lonna. Before I knew it, people were pouring outside. Everyone was staring, their ice creams melting all over the asphalt lot. Policemen in two different cars came, squealing tires.’’

“What’d you tell them?’’

“That I had no idea how that man got into my trunk, of course. That I’m innocent.’’

I didn’t want to picture that conversation.

“They made me wait inside until a detective came. He had a Spanish last name. Awfully good-looking. He seemed real impatient with my answers.’’

Imagine that, I thought.

“He finally got up, all red in the face, and ordered the officers to bring me here to wait some more. He has more questions, he said. He acted like he thinks I’m guilty.”

“Is the detective someone we know, Mama?’’

“He’s brand new. Emma Jean says he used to be a policeman down in Miami, but something bad happened down there. No one talks about exactly what.’’

Just then, the door opened. My mother nudged me in the ribs and bent her head. “That’s him. That’s the detective,’’ she whispered.

The man in the doorway was in his late thirties or early forties. His hair was black and wavy. His dark eyes looked like they hid plenty of secrets. He wore creased jeans and a white dress shirt. His tie, light blue with white stripes, was loosened at the neck. He wasn’t exceedingly tall, maybe an inch more-so than me. But he filled the frame of the door, the way confident men do. And Mama was right: he was good-looking, if you’re partial to dark and glowering. Which I definitely am not.

“Who’s she?’’ the detective asked Mama, crooking a thumb in my direction.

I knew people were rude in Miami, but this was ridiculous. Good looks are no excuse for bad manners.

“ ‘She’ is Mason Bauer, Detective.’’ I used my given name and straightened to my full five-foot-ten inches. “I’m Ms. Deveraux’s daughter.’’

“And I’m Detective Martinez.’’ He gave his last name a little trill. Neither of us offered to shake hands. “You can’t be here while I talk to your mother. She may be involved in a homicide.’’

“I’m aware that a man’s body was discovered in the trunk of her car. I want to assure you my mother had nothing whatsoever to do with the man getting there.’’

“Assure away.’’ He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “I’m still talking to your mother alone, Ms. Bauer.’’

“Excuse me, Detective?’’ Mama held up a finger like she was trying to raise a point on orchids at the Garden Club. “That’s Miss Bauer. My daughter isn’t married. And, please, call her Mace. Everybody does.’’

“Mama!”

“Well, they do, honey.’’ She turned back to the detective. “I gave old family surnames to all three of my girls. The youngest is Marty, which comes from Martin. We call Madison, the oldest, Maddie for short. It’s a Southern thing.”

Mama didn’t mention these fine old English names appear nowhere in our own family background, which is Scotch and German. She didn’t think it sounded as classy to name us “McDougall,’’ “Zumwald,’’ and “Schultz.’’

She raised her finger again. “I just want to add that Mace is smart, too. She graduated top in her college class at Central Florida.’’

A vein started throbbing at Martinez’s temple. I had the oddest impulse to trace it with my thumb.

I felt a flush spreading from my hairline south. “Mama, please. Nobody cares what kind of grade point average I carried ten years ago.’’

Just then, the door behind the counter swung open, rescuing me from Mama’s compulsive matchmaking. Emma Jean pushed through backwards, balancing three coffees. She propped open the door with her ample rear end, sheathed in the same bubble-gum shade as her bustier. Setting the coffees down, she turned to us.

“Well, hey, Detective Martin-ez.’’ Her drawl turned his last name into two English words, Martin and Ez. “I saw you through the window as you drove up. Figured you could use a cup, too. Did y’all get an ID yet on that poor dead man in Rosalee’s trunk?’’

Martinez grabbed a coffee off the counter. He didn’t say thanks.

“Yeah, we did. One of the officers recognized him.’’ He tipped the cup to his lips, keeping his eyes fastened on my mother.

“Well, who was it?’’ Emma Jean picked up both remaining cups. As she handed one to me, I nodded my thanks.

Waiting, Martinez stared holes through Mama. Finally, he said, “His name was Jim Albert.’’

As soon as Emma Jean heard the name, she screamed and stumbled. She caught herself, but the last coffee went flying.

“Oh, Emma Jean!’’ Mama rushed to her friend’s side. “I am so sorry.’’

I was confused. Shouldn’t Emma Jean be apologizing, since she’d just ruined Mama’s pantsuit with lukewarm coffee splotches from top to bottom?

The receptionist threw herself, sobbing, into my mother’s open arms. I was afraid the impact would topple Mama, like she was the last pin on the lane at a bowling tournament. Martinez quickly stepped in as ballast.

“Am I missing something here?’’ He raised his eyebrows at me. I shrugged, as I helped him prop up a weeping Emma Jean.

“Oh, this is just getting more horrible by the minute, Detective.’’ Mama leaned around Emma Jean’s bulk to find Martinez. “Jim Albert was her boyfriend. And just last week, he got down on one knee and asked Emma Jean to marry him.’’

The news that her fiancé was the dead man in Mama’s convertible hit Emma Jean hard.

She was sobbing, rocking back and forth in her receptionist’s chair. I thought each squeak from the wheels might be the last. If Emma Jean was to take a tumble, I feared what might fall out the top of that too-snug bustier.

Martinez leaned against the counter, watching his co-worker. I used the opportunity to scrutinize him: Except for the badge at his belt and the foam coffee cup in his hand, he might have been an ancient Roman, sculpted in marble. I pay attention to little details. That comes in handy for my part-time work, tracking animals. I can usually read people, too. But the expressionless detective offered no clues. He ought to try his luck at poker at the Seminole casino.

Mama pulled a sherbet-colored hanky from the pocket of her pantsuit. The lacy square of linen was no match for the volume of Emma Jean’s tears. Mama was just returning with toilet paper reinforcements from the Ladies, when we all heard voices from the hallway.

“I demand to speak to Mrs. Rosalee Deveraux,’’ the loudest voice said.

My big sister, Maddie, was bearing down on the lobby like a hurricane, her red hair flying like a warning flag. A uniformed officer trailed two paces behind, keeping a wary eye on Maddie and a hand ready near his gun. As soon as Maddie saw our mother sitting there safely, she lit into me.

“Mace, what were you thinking with that message on my answering machine: ‘Mama’s in the Himmarshee Jail. Come quick!’ I nearly had a coronary. Then, I couldn’t reach your cell. You have got to keep that phone turned on. If it’s for emergencies, I’d say this qualifies.’’

Maddie has been bossing me around since she was in kindergarten and I was in diapers. I’m well into big-girl undies now, but she’s seen no sense in stopping yet.

“Now, honey, don’t get mad at your sister,’’ Mama said. “It was me told Mace to call. I’m in a little spot of trouble.’’

“Make that a big spot,’’ I amended. “Mama found a dead man in her convertible trunk.’’

Emma Jean let out a wail, springing loose a fresh flood of tears.

“Sorry, Emma Jean,’’ I said, handing her another wad of toilet paper. “He …’’ I crooked my thumb to point at Martinez, just as he’d done to me, “… he’s the detective who thinks Mama’s mixed up in the poor man’s murder.’’

Peeking out from behind Maddie was our younger sister, Marty. Her face went pale at my announcement. But the news just seemed to make Maddie madder. She pulled herself up to her full height, which I always remind her is two-and-one-half inches shorter than mine. Her whole body swiveled back and forth and back again between Mama and Martinez, causing the eyeglasses on the chain around her neck to spin like an airplane propeller.

“I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous,’’ Maddie finally said.

“Please, Maddie.’’ Marty’s voice was hardly audible. She bunched up the fabric of her flowered dress as she spoke. “Can’t we talk about this like civilized people?’’ She glanced nervously at the cop with the gun.

Maddie steamrollered past, ignoring Marty. She stalked across the room, stopped beside Mama, and put a protective hand on her shoulder. “This woman has taught Sunday school to half of Himmarshee.’’

She turned a gale-force glare on Martinez. Maddie’s a middle school principal. That glare gets a lot of practice.

But Martinez glared right back, adding an intimidating lift of his chin. I had an inappropriate urge to smile at him. I was that pleased to think my big sister had met her match.

“More daughters, I presume?’’ He nodded slightly at the other officer, dismissing him.

“Maddie’s my oldest girl, Detective.’’ My mother’s voice was as sweet as cane syrup. She’d slipped back into that hostess gown. “The little slip of a child by the wall is Marty, the youngest. You’ll always know Marty because she hardly says a word. That’s not a bad thing for a librarian, is it? Anyway, Mace and Maddie never do give her a chance.’’

Marty had inherited Mama’s debutante looks and diminutive size. She’s nervous, too, flitting around like a delicate bird. Maddie is her exact opposite: tall, big-boned, and outsized in everything from voice to personality. I’m somewhere between the two of them. Not as pretty as Marty; not as mean as Maddie.

“Are you charging my mother with murder?’’ Maddie folded her arms over her chest, all business.

Marty went even whiter. “You shouldn’t even mention muh … mur … that word and Mama in the same sentence, Maddie.’’

Emma Jean’s receptionist professionalism resurfaced. She stopped rocking, blew her nose, and chimed in before Martinez could answer.

“No one’s said anything about charging anyone with murder, girls. We’re just trying to find out what your mama knows about what happened. I was recently engaged to Jim Albert, the victim.’’ She balled up a paper towel and dabbed at her nose, struggling for control. Mama leaned over and patted her arm. Emma Jean gave her a brave, if wobbly, smile.

“Detective Martin Ez just wants to ask Rosalee some questions.’’

Martinez flinched a little as Emma Jean mangled his name again. He’d better get used to it. Himmarshee isn’t Miami. People from up north think we have enough trouble speaking English down here, let alone Spanish.

Maddie and I exchanged a look. The unspoken message: We’ll hash it out later, so we won’t upset Mama. Whatever the two of us decided, Marty would go along, like always. Like Mama, Marty hates disharmony more than just about anything.

Just as we all were settling down, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the outside hall. Whoever it was, they were flying to get here. Soon, the familiar odor of aftershave from the dollar store wafted into the lobby. I knew who reeked even before I saw him. Judging from the smile spreading across my mother’s face, she recognized the Eau d’ Excess, too.

“Sally, darlin’, I am so relieved to see you.’’

That would be Salvatore Provenza, “Big Sal’’ to everyone except my mother, who inexplicably calls him Sally. The pet nickname bugs my sisters and me no end. It would have bugged him, too, coming from anyone but my mother. But the man loves her like the young Elvis loved Priscilla.

“Don’t … pant … you worry … pant … about a thing, Rosalee.’’ Hands on his knees, Sal was breathing hard from his sprint to the lobby. “I’m here now.’’

My sisters and I rolled our eyes—even Marty.

Mama was holding her hand to her chest, simpering. She plays the Southern damsel to perfection when it suits her. Of course, before Daddy lost our ranch, I’d seen her string barbed wire for fencing and wrestle a two-hundred-pound calf for branding. But that was a long time ago.

Once he stopped wheezing, Sal zeroed in on Martinez. I wasn’t surprised. Emma Jean might have been the police department person in power, but Big Sal’s a chauvinist with a Big C. Then again, one look at Emma Jean, all tight clothes and teased hair, and I would have pegged Martinez as the alpha cop, too.

“What’s the nature of Mrs. Deveraux’s confinement?’’ He pronounced it “nate-cha,’’ his Bronx upbringing still lurking in his nasal passages.

“There is no confinement at this point,’’ Martinez answered. “I need to determine the nate-cha, I mean nature, of her involvement. That’s been difficult, given the constant interruptions.’’

Sal, all 307 pounds of him, ran a finger under the collar of his pastel yellow golf shirt. Puffing out his chest in a man-to-man fashion, he hooked a thumb into the expandable waistband of his rust-colored slacks.

“Well, my cousin happens to be a lawyer.’’ Lore-yah, is the way Sal said it. “I can have him here in a few hours, if Rosie needs him.’’

I had a quick flash of Joe Pesci as the over-his-head lore-yah in the movie My Cousin Vinny.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Provenza.’’ I said. “We have our own cousin, who’s also a lawyer, if it should come to that.’’

I was trying to be polite. After all, Mama may end up marrying the guy.