Текст книги "Mama Does Time"

Автор книги: Deborah Sharp

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

“I don’t know. But it’s worth checking out.’’

“Are you going inside the house?’’

Donnie brushed off grass, just as I’d done to my own knees that morning. “I’m gonna have a look around.’’ He shifted his heavy belt. “Not you, though, Mace. It’s police business.’’

Those words had a familiar ring.

“Well, I’ll wait then. I want to know what you find.’’

I followed Donnie to the back door. He looked into the window, then pounded on the wood frame with his heavy flashlight. “Emma Jean?’’ No answer. “Himmarshee Police. Anybody in there?’’

The silence was broken only by the crickets, tuning up for their evening serenade.

He tried the door. Locked. There used to be a time when doors were left open. But those days are mostly over, even in a small town like Himmarshee.

Donnie bent and lifted the mat. No key. He ran a hand on the jamb over the door. Nothing but dirt. He picked up a concrete cat statue from the grass. Success.

His flashlight beam led the way inside. I stayed put, like he told me to. But I could still watch through the kitchen window. He turned on the light switch at the wall.

“Everything looks just the same as it did this morning, when Mama and I stopped by,’’ I yelled into the house. “We were worried about Emma Jean. Those are the same dishes we saw in the sink. That’s the same newspaper on the counter.’’

“Stay outside,’’ Donnie yelled back. “Don’t even think of coming in.’’

More light spilled from the windows as Donnie moved through the little house, turning on lamps. I could hear him knocking, and opening and closing doors. I didn’t have long to wait. The whole search only took about five minutes. He retraced his steps, shut off the lights, and rejoined me on the back door stoop.

“No sign of a struggle,’’ he said.

He locked the door and slid the key back under the kitty. The real cat caught up with us at the birdbath, which had a concrete fairy dipping a wand into the waterless bowl.

“I guess I better call county Animal Control about Emma Jean’s cat.’’ Donnie reached out to steady me as the cat twined around my ankles.

“Leave it be.’’ The words out of my mouth surprised me. “I’ll take care of the cat, Donnie.’’

He stopped and stared. “I’d have pegged you as a dog person, Mace. You don’t seem like the kitty-cat type.’’

I bent to stroke the cat’s head. It rose on its hind legs to meet my hand. “This one’s kind of growing on me. I’d always heard Siamese were unfriendly. But this one’s more like a dog than a cat. Maybe there was a Labrador retriever somewhere in its gene pool.’’

The cat had eaten. I decided to leave it, in case Emma Jean came back. If she still hadn’t shown by tomorrow, I’d return to collect it with one of the animal carriers I use for possums.

“I’m going to hit the road, Donnie. I’m beat. We’ve had way too much excitement in our little town in these last few days.’’

“You said it. What do you think happened to Emma Jean?’’

As we walked to my car, I filled him in on her tire iron and threats of violence.

“That’s what seems weird,’’ I said. “If anyone was to go missing or get hurt, I’d have bet on Emma Jean as the culprit, not the victim.’’

Donnie’s brow was furrowed.

“What is it?’’ I asked.

“It seems strange Emma Jean was in a rage about being cheated on.’’

“Yeah, I know. But Mama told me that relationship with Jim Albert was a real whirlwind. How well can you really know anyone after just a few months?’’

Donnie shone the light around the empty yard. “That’s not what I mean, Mace. Word is Emma Jean herself was running around. She was cheating on Jim Albert.’’

My mouth dropped open. I finally shut it, afraid I’d catch a bug drawn by the flashlight.

“You know how my mom moved to the south side of the lake? She works at that fish camp restaurant in Hendry County.’’

“The Gigged Frog?’’

“Affirmative,’’ Donnie answered, with a nod right out of Cops. “Mom says she’s seen Emma Jean in there. She takes a booth in the bar, way in the back. Then a dark-haired, younger guy comes in to join her. He’s not just a friend, either. The two of them end up making out like high-school kids.’’

“Your mom doesn’t know him?’’

Donnie shook his head.

“Maybe it’s an old boyfriend. And they quit going out once she got engaged.’’

“Mom says no. After Emma Jean was flashing her diamond ring last week at work, I mentioned her engagement. You know what my mom said?’’

I shook my head.

“Not two nights earlier, she’d been into the Frog, cuddling up with her lover boy. Mom said she pitied the poor sap who had agreed to marry Emma Jean Valentine.’

“Detective Martinez.’’

His telephone bark was more warning than greeting. I had a fleeting urge to hang up my cell without speaking. Then I remembered: I’m not in junior high.

“It’s Mace Bauer.’’

“Again?”

My resolve to be nice wavered. “You seem busy, Detective. I’m sorry to bother you.’’

“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” He backed down a little, allowing a flicker of warmth into his voice. “I’m just about done out here. So, I do have a few minutes to talk. By the way, you left so fast I never had the chance to thank you for calling about Emma Jean’s car.’’

“You’re welcome.’’ We were setting new personal records for polite discourse.

He cleared his throat. “I also appreciate that you knew enough not to disturb anything.’’

“Thanks.’’

Slapping at a mosquito, I wished I hadn’t given him the bug spray before I re-armored myself. Full darkness had fallen. Squadron members of an insect air force were about to pick up the VW and take me to their private lair. Donnie was gone, running late for work at the jail. Even the cat had deserted me, slipping through a pet door into Emma Jean’s house. I sat in her yard in the car, contemplating how to play Martinez. And, if I’m honest, how interesting it might be to play with Martinez. I banished that thought and got down to business.

“Emma Jean is the reason I called again,’’ I said. “Do you think we could meet somewhere, maybe grab a cup of coffee? I want to run some things by you. There’s a lot that doesn’t make sense.’’

A bullfrog croaked in Taylor Slough on Martinez’s end of the phone.

“Things aren’t supposed to make sense to you. You’re not the investigator in the case.’’

Trying not to be offended, I said nothing.

“I’m hot and muddy and all I want is a cool shower after I leave here,’’ he continued. “If you know something I should know, why don’t you just tell me right now over the phone?’’

Because, I thought, you’ll get pissed off and hang up when I try to pump you for information.

“Well, I could do that.’’ I pretended to mull it over. “But what I really want to do is sound out some theories. Some might be useful; others might be useless. I thought it might be nice to sit somewhere cool and relax while we talk. I can hear the bugs buzzing out there through the phone. Wait … was that a big ol’ drop of sweat I just heard, splashing on the mouthpiece?’’

He laughed. I had him.

“Could be,’’ he said. “Dios mío! How do you stand it up here? Miami’s hot; but at least we get a break when the sun goes down. We almost always have a little breeze from the sea. It’s like a furnace here. And it runs on swelter, 24/7.’’

“I’ve got the perfect place,’’ I said. “How ’bout we meet at the Dairy Queen?’’

There was a long silence. A night heron squawked on Martinez’s end. The bird was probably hunting for bream in Taylor Creek.

“I’d think you might be uncomfortable at the Dairy Queen,’’ he finally said. “Since your mother was carted off in a police car from there less than a week ago.’’

More flies with honey, I reminded myself. “Oh, that’s water under the bridge,’’ I said generously. “Besides, I’d be no more uncomfortable than you might be, considering you falsely arrested one of their most loyal customers for murder.’’

“Accessory to murder.’’ I heard a slap and what sounded like a curse in Spanish. “Coño!’’ I hoped it was directed at the mosquito, and not at me. “I thought you said that spray was strong?’’ Martinez said. “They’re eating me alive out here.’’ Another slap.

“The Queen is nice and cool.’’ I was taunting him. “No bugs, either. Plus, you get ice cream. Who doesn’t like ice cream?’’

“I haven’t had any dinner yet,’’ Martinez grumbled.

“There’s no bad time for ice cream. You can pretend it’s an appetizer. I’m pretty close by. I’ll head over, grab a booth, and wait for you.’’

“It’s going to take me awhile to get there,’’ he said.

“No problem. I’ll grab a Himmarshee Times to read. That should kill six or seven minutes. Then maybe I’ll ask around. See if anyone saw anything strange the night Mama found Jim Albert’s body in her convertible.’’

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.’’

“Why not? I’m good at it. How else would I have found out tonight that Emma Jean was cheating on that fiancé she cried so hard over losing?’’

I interrupted his sputtering on the other end. “Wow. My phone battery’s just about to die. See you at the Queen.’’ I immediately turned off my fully charged phone. Mama always says it’s best to leave men wanting more.

The sound of my voice brought Emma Jean’s cat out of hiding to investigate. It jumped onto the VW’s front trunk, staring at me through the windshield.

“Go on, kitty. Get off.’’ I didn’t want to scare the poor critter by starting the car. I tapped on the glass with the keys. The cat batted at the shiny silver on the other side of the windshield. Hitting nothing but glass, it looked at me accusingly—like I’d dangled fish jerky and snatched it back at the last minute. Sitting back on its haunches, it blinked luminous blue eyes.

“Don’t worry. Emma Jean will be coming home soon.’’ Did I believe the reassuring words? “We’ll take good care of you, one way or another.’’

I wondered how Mama’s Pomeranian would adjust to a feline presence. The confident way this cat acted, it wouldn’t give an inch of ground to Teensy.

“Shoo.’’ I hissed, waving my arm out the window. The cat just stared. I finally got out and lifted it from the car. “I promise, you won’t go hungry.’’ A sweat droplet rolled off the tip of my nose and plopped onto the cat’s neck. “And you definitely won’t go cold.’’

I ruffled the sweat-dampened spot on its fur. A bright red collar with rhinestones encircled the cat’s neck. No surprise, considering Emma Jean’s flashy fashion sense. Looking closer, I saw a name engraved on a silver charm shaped like a heart.

“Wila. Pretty name. Well, I may see you tomorrow.’’

I set her gently on the ground. “Take care of yourself. There are wild creatures in these parts.’’ I flashed on the feeling of being stalked by who knows what near Ollie’s pond. Just thinking about it raised the hair at the back of my neck. I slid back into the car. The cat still sat and stared.

If Wila could speak, what would she say? Would she echo my warning to her?

Be careful out there.

More than a few women turned their heads to follow Martinez’s progress through the Dairy Queen. After a pit stop to wash up in the men’s room, he was wending his way to my table. One girl even put down her plastic spoon and turned around backwards in her booth. She was drooling over the view from the rear, much to her boyfriend’s displeasure.

Martinez might have been a brooding model off the pages of GQ magazine. His filthy loafers and muck-splattered slacks detracted a bit from the effect, though.

“I see that smirk. What’s so funny?’’ He slid across from me onto a seat made of orange molded plastic. Not waiting for an answer, he launched in. “What did you mean about Emma Jean? And why the hell did you turn off your cell phone?’’

“That phone’s been giving me trouble. It died just as we were talking.’’ I was glad the phone was in Pam’s glove box, where he couldn’t check the full battery indicator. “According to Donnie Bailey’s mom, Emma Jean was running around on her fiancé. We don’t know yet who the other man was. Ice cream now; more details after.’’

He waved his hand like he was dismissing the idea of ice cream.

“C’mon, my treat.’’ I stood up. “What can I get you?’’

“I don’t know. I’ve never been to a Dairy Queen.’’

I grabbed hold of the top of the booth for balance, staggering in the face of the incomprehensible. “Never? Not even once?’’

He shook his head, taking a small pad from his top pocket. He extracted a pen, and lined it up on the table, perfectly parallel to the pad’s right side.

“Are you going to take my confession? I’ll admit it: I eat too much ice cream.’’

There was a tiny shift in his frown. It might have been the start of a smile. Hard to tell.

I returned with two small hot fudge sundaes—no sense in spoiling dinner with large ones—and plenty of napkins. He was studying framed posters of frozen treats on the wall above our booth. Meanwhile, his real-life sundae was starting to melt.

“You need to get started on that.’’ I spoke around a mouthful of sundae. “The hot fudge will moosh up the ice cream and make a mess.’’

He looked at the towering creation like he didn’t know where to start. “Did you intentionally ask them to empty the whole can of whipped cream onto the top?’’

“Worried about your figure?’’

He ran a hand over his flat stomach. My fingers tingled as I imagined my own hand resting there. I clutched the sundae spoon tighter.

“Actually, I’ve lost weight since I came here,’’ Martinez said. “I miss Abuela’s cooking.’’

“Was Abuela your girlfriend?’’

He laughed and settled for plucking the cherry off the top of the sundae. “It means ‘Grandmother’ in Spanish. She’s eighty-nine and still going strong; stands at the stove for hours every day.’’ He got a dreamy look on his face as he chewed on the cherry. “Picadillo to die for. Arroz con pollo. Plátanos.’’

“Say what?’’

“Some of my abuela’s specialties: Ground-up beef; rice with chicken; plantains, which look like bananas.’’ He put his fingers to his lips and kissed them. “You’ve never had Cuban food? You’ve really led a sheltered life, haven’t you?’’

“No more so than you. How could you have missed all this?’’ I spread my arms, encompassing the brown tiled floor, the plastic trays, and the tinny voices of customers in the drive-thru microphone as they tried to decide what they wanted.

“Right. I’ve been deprived,’’ he said. “On Calle Ocho, there are a lot more Cuban coffee stands than Dairy Queens. That’s something else I miss: Eighth Street in Little Havana and café Cubano, Cuban coffee.’’

“You mean sweet tea isn’t cutting it?’’

“Caffeine is meant to be consumed hot, in tiny sips of a syrupy sweet, super-concentrated concoction. Watered down in weak tea with a bunch of ice cubes? No, gracias.’’

I used my red plastic spoon to scrape the dregs from my bowl. He’d had only a few bites.

“Cuban coffee is just as sweet and almost as thick as that hot fudge sauce you just scarfed down.’’ Without making a big deal, he leaned over with his napkin and wiped at a dab of chocolate on my lip. He flashed a real smile this time. I returned it, hoping chocolate wasn’t coating my teeth.

“Maybe I’ll make you a cup sometime,’’ he said. “I have to warn you though, café Cubano is addictive. We call it Cuban crack.’’

He was more animated than I’d ever seen him.

“It sounds like there’s a lot you miss about Miami. Why’d you move here?’’

Headlights from a car in the drive-thru flashed through the plate glass window, illuminating his eyes. I saw real pain, and immediately regretted putting it there.

“I didn’t mean to pry,’’ I said quickly. “I never know when to quit with the questions.’’

“So I’ve noticed.’’ A half-smile returned to his lips. “No, it’s all right. I need to be able to talk about it.’’

He pushed his half-eaten sundae to the side, folded his hands, and rested them at the edge of the table. And then he told me about Patricia, the pregnant wife who was murdered.

“I’ve heard a little about it,’’ I said, not wanting to reveal I’d already read the details of his personal tragedy on the Internet, from the archives of the Miami Herald. “Something awful happened in Miami, that’s about as much as people here say.’’

“Do they say I failed to protect my own wife?’’ His voice was raw.

I put my hand over his folded ones. I figured that was what my sister Marty would do. “No, they do not. And I don’t think anyone would ever say such a thing. You lost your wife in a horrible crime. How could you possibly have prevented that?’’

His hands felt warm beneath mine. I was new at this, comforting someone. But it felt right. When he still hadn’t answered, I patted twice and then put my own hands in my lap.

Leaning in, I lowered my voice so only he could hear. “I don’t think your wife would want you to keep punishing yourself. Imagine if the situation were reversed. You were at home; Patricia had to go to work. A sweet-looking old woman comes to your door, needing help. Imagine it had been you who tried to help her, only to be shot and killed for your kindness. Would you want your wife blaming herself; carrying all that guilt on top of such awful grief?’’

He shook his head, staring silently at his hands on the table. I had no idea what I’d do if he lost control and started sobbing. Maybe I’d start crying, too, causing a scene at the Dairy Queen.

I needn’t have worried. He covered his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. When he dropped his hand, he blinked a few times and looked up at me. Grief still clouded his eyes. But they were dry.

Just as I was feeling close enough to him to suggest we move on to dinner at the Speckled Perch, Martinez’s cell phone rang. He growled out his name, which apparently is also the Spanish word for “Why the hell are you bothering me?’’ I was relieved to see he didn’t reserve the snarling tone just for me.

He listened for a moment, then grinned. “Hola, amigo.’’ Even I understood that was the equivalent of Howdy, pal. “Give me just a second, will you?’’ he said to the caller.

He lifted his head to look at me. “Listen, I have to take this. Thanks a lot for the ice cream. I think I’m going to head on home, grab that much-needed shower.’’

I waved my hand at him, shooing him out of the booth. So much for dinner, and for … whatever.

“Go on, we’ll catch up later,’’ I said. “The fact that Emma Jean had another man was the biggest news I had. I’m going to work on finding out who it was.’’

He waggled a no-no finger at me, but started to scoot out of the booth anyway. “Okay, I’m back,’’ he said into the phone.

As he leaned across me to retrieve his pad and pencil off the table, I overheard a few words from the caller. Not enough to understand. But enough to tell the voice on the phone was familiar. It was a loud honk, unmistakable evidence of a boyhood spent in the Bronx.

I had to squeeze Pam’s VW past Sal Provenza’s big Cadillac in Mama’s driveway. So I wasn’t completely surprised when he opened the door at her house at seven thirty in the morning.

We all still had our doubts about Sal. But, for some reason, Mama had warmed up to him again. Obviously, since here he was. At least he was fully dressed, in a pale pink golf shirt and burgundy polyester slacks. They were short enough to show off his ankles, resplendent in beige-and-burgundy checked socks. A braided gold chain nestled in the furry pelt of his chest. A Pomeranian snuggled in the crook of Sal’s left elbow, shedding on his expandable-waist pants.

“Your mother’s in the bedroom, getting ready.’’

I cringed to hear the words “your mudder’’ and “bedroom’’ coming out of Sal’s mouth.

I know Mama had sex at least three times, since there are the three of us girls. But I didn’t want to think about it, and particularly not in the context of Big Sal.

“We’ve got something to tell you, Mace. But I’ll let Rosalee be the one to break the good news.’’ Sal was smiling like the cat that swallowed the canary. I’ve seen the man eat. He might have downed both the bird and the cat before he realized what he’d shoveled into his mouth.

“I made some coffee.’’

I softened a bit. Sal makes great coffee, adding a dash of cinnamon to the pot.

“I got out that mug with the blue flowers that you like. It’s on the kitchen counter.’’

He led the way into the kitchen, engulfing both of us in an aftershave fog. As he tromped across the floor, gingham knick-knacks trembled on their shelves. He filled my mug with coffee and handed it to me.

“I was just going to make myself some bacon and pancakes. Wanna join me?’’

My mouth watered as I looked at the butter softening on the kitchen table next to a bottle of maple syrup. But first things first.

“I was with Detective Martinez last night when you called him on his cell phone.’’ I added a spoonful of sugar and a splash of cream to my coffee. “What’s the story between you two?’’

“Why don’t you ask Martinez?’’

I noticed he didn’t try to deny that he’d called.

“Oh, yeah. Well he did mention that thing about before.’’ I was bluffing, trying to convince Sal I knew something—anything.

He measured pancake mix into a glass bowl. “Which thing?’’ he asked, watching the bowl and not me. “And what happened before?’’ He poured in some milk.

“You know,’’ I said lamely.

He replaced the milk carton in the refrigerator and shut the door. Turning around, he leaned against the sink, folded his arms and plopped them where his belly met his chest. “No, I don’t know, Mace. And, it’s obvious, neither do you.’’

I studied my coffee.

“I’ve told you before.’’ He patted his pompadour. Was it gel, or just naturally stiff? “Certain things I can’t say, no matter how much you might want me to.’’

“Want you to what, Sally?’’ Mama came into the kitchen, tying a silk scarf around her neck. It was the same shade of boysenberry as everything else, from her earrings to her heels.

“Don’t you think you’re a little over-dressed for the livestock auction, Mama?’’

I wanted to see what I could find out from Jeb Ennis’ ranching buddies at the weekly auction. I’d convinced Mama and Marty to join me. I didn’t even ask Maddie. As Martinez’s new best friend, she wouldn’t approve of me ignoring his warning about investigating.

Mama checked her reflection in the glass window of the microwave. “You can never be too well-dressed, Mace.’’ She aimed a pointed look at my own scuffed boots, frayed jeans, and T-shirt. “Besides, I have to go to work after our mission. The girls at Hair Today would fall off their chairs if I showed up in boots and jeans.’’

So, instead, she’d go to the livestock market looking like Queen Elizabeth on a royal visit. Go figure.

Mama lifted the head off a dog-in-a-gingham-baseball-cap cookie jar. Teensy started cutting circles around her legs, nails scrabbling on the tile floor. The dog jumped onto a chair, leaped into midair, and snatched the bone-shaped biscuit from her outstretched hand.

“Lookit Mama’s little baby! Just like in the circus,’’ she cooed. Still smiling at the dog, she lifted onto her tiptoes so Sal could stoop and give her a kiss. Better him than the dog, I guess.

“Your boyfriend and I were just discussing how he’s cooked up something secret with Detective Martinez.’’

“Oh, honey, Sally’s not my boyfriend.’’

Finally! Mama had come to her senses.

“He’s my fiancé,’’ she squealed, shoving her left hand under my nose. The sun coming through the gingham kitchen curtains glinted off the diamond weighing down her ring finger.

___

“Marty, help me out here. Mama can’t marry Sal. What do we really know about him?’’

The three of us were sitting in the air-conditioned interior of Marty’s Saturn in the parking lot at the livestock auction, planning our investigative strategy. Of course, the topic of Mama’s betrothal had been well-covered first:

How Sal had cooked her veal piccata (“I almost swallowed the ring, girls. He hid it in a lemon slice!”). How he’d gotten on one knee (“I had to help him up!”). And how he hoped to make her forget Husbands Two, Three, and Four (“He knows I could never forget your daddy!’’).

Now, my pleas to Marty were falling on uncharacteristically deaf ears.

“Mace, Mama’s a grown woman. Your suspicions aside, Sal has been nothing but loving to her. I’m sorry to say it, but you need to butt out.’’

Mama shot me a triumphant look. “Close your mouth, honey. No telling what might land in there with all this livestock around.’’

She was unswayable with Marty on her side. But I knew my argument would win once I got Maddie involved.

Navigating the rickety wooden stairway to the Himmarshee Livestock Market can be tricky, but Mama was managing—despite the purple footwear. Marty climbed ahead of her; I stayed close behind. That way, one of us could catch her if her heel hooked on a splintery plank.

The market, the largest in Florida, dated to the 1930s. And it looked it: a ramshackle wooden building, white with barn-red trim, perched on top of a sprawling maze of livestock pens. As we made our way up, calves bawled from below. The ammonia stink of urine filled the air. Whistles and shouts came from the “alley rats,’’ the workers who move cattle down the long, dark rows that branch off into holding pens.

Upstairs, cattle buyers were just beginning to make their way to seats that surround the sunken sales pit below. We opened the door to Miss Ruth’s Restaurant, a little nook in the corner above the ring. A sign overhead said, Cows May Come and Go, But the BULL in This Place Goes On Forever.

Ruth Harris favored patriotic colors. Flags decorated the napkin holders. The curtains were stars-and-stripes. A cowgirl hat in cherry red topped Ruth’s towering white beehive. She wore a red-and-white checked shirt, tucked snugly into a blue denim skirt. A white belt with a buckle the size of Texas cinched her still-trim waist. The only thing missing was a six-shooter on a holster around her hips.

“That’s the cutest outfit you’ve got on, Ruth.’’ Mama hugged the café’s well-preserved namesake like a long-lost cousin. “You’ve sure got a theme going here.’’

We did greetings all around.

“You look awful pretty too, Rosalee. That shade is sure becoming to your coloring. It must be nice to dress up again after being in prison.’’

“Oh, honey, that was nothing but a misunderstanding.’’ Mama waved her ring hand airily.

Ruth hadn’t noticed the diamond. I figured her cataracts must be bad, as big as that stone was. Mama picked up a cow-shaped creamer from the table, turning it this way and that. She pretended to be admiring it, but really she was just trying to catch the light with her ring.

Grabbing the dappled cow from Mama, I glared at her to quit showing off. “Miss Ruth, we dropped by because we’ve been looking into who really might have killed Jim Albert,” I said.

“Of course,’’ Marty chimed in, “we knew all along Mama wasn’t the guilty party.’’

Ruth nodded, still looking sideways at Mama. She didn’t seem convinced. Or maybe she was thinking that a woman who’d murdered a man and stuffed his body in her trunk wouldn’t think twice about stealing the cow creamer she’d picked up and was playing with again.

“Did the man who got killed ever come in here?’’

“No, he sure didn’t, Mace. Although …’’

“What?’’ Marty and I both said at once.

“Well, I get my hair done at Hair Today. Rosalee, you know that.’’

Mama nodded, her chin cupped in her left hand with her ring finger splayed across her cheek.

“That sweet girl D’Vora and me were talking about how Jim Albert loaned people money. Some of the ranchers up here have been having a hard go of it. I’ve heard certain people were in the habit of visiting him before he got killed.’’

“Who, Miss Ruth? We need names,’’ I said.

She pursed her lips. The café’s owner for thirty years, her customers were her family.

“Please,’’ Marty said. “It’s important.’’

Still no answer.

“You know Jeb Ennis?’’ I asked.

She shook her head unconvincingly and moved across the restaurant to wipe down an already-spotless table. “I need to get back to work,’’ she said over her shoulder.

Every seat in the place was empty.

“If y’all can find Old Jake, you might ask him.’’ Head lowered, she continued swabbing the table. “He’s been here longer than I have. He used to work downstairs in the pens. Now, he mostly hangs around. He knows everything about everybody. And he don’t have a problem telling what he knows.’’

Mama touched Ruth’s wrist, her fingers stretched all the way up her arm. “Thanks so much, doll.’’

“You’re welcome.’’ Ruth tried to pull away. Mama held tight. Ruth finally looked down. “My, oh my.’’ Her eyes widened. “Would you look at that ring!’’

“Oh, this?’’ Mama lifted the ring to the light. “Well, honey, my boyfriend just proposed. I’m gettin’ married.’’

“Again?’’ Ruth said.

I grabbed Mama’s elbow and steered her out the door.

“Congratulations,’’ Ruth called after us as we started down the stairs.

We found Old Jake under the building, sitting on an upside-down milk crate in the shade of the pens. He looked up as we approached, his grin spreading across his white stubble beard. A few teeth were missing. Those remaining were stained brown from a chaw of tobacco, and thousands more before it, bulging in his jaw.

“Well, lookit you, Ma’am,’’ He took off his hat and beamed. “You’re as purty in that purple as a speckled pup in a red wagon.’’

Mama fluttered her lashes. “It’s boysenberry. And thank you kindly, suh.’’

Had we wandered onto the set of an old cowboy movie?

“You must be Jake,’’ Marty said.

“Old Jake, that’s what they call me.’’ He ran a hand over his head. It was mostly bald, with brown age spots and a fringe of gray. “I’m so old now, some days I’m not sure I even remember my name.’’

“Why, you don’t look a day over …’’ Mama hesitated, trying to find a number that would flatter without sounding ridiculous. “Seventy,’’ she finished.

Jake, who’d probably passed that landmark fifteen years before, smiled so broadly we got a peek of his spit-softened chaw.

“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?’’ I said.

“Depends.’’

He put his hat back on and spit. A brown stream hit the ground, sending up a puff of dust. Mama took a careful step sideways in her boysenberry heels.

“Do them questions have anything to do with unpaid taxes or immoral women?’’

Marty blushed.

“No,’’ I said, laughing. “Nothing like that. You remember hearing about the owner of the Booze ‘n’ Breeze, the man who was murdered?’’