Текст книги "Mama Does Time"

Автор книги: Deborah Sharp

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Wila looked at me with betrayal in her eyes. MEOWRRR! She sounded like a cross between a lion and a rusty door hinge.

“You’ll be out soon, I promise,’’ I said to the cat. “It’s only until we get to my house. You’ll like it there, I swear.’’

With the cat safely secured on the passenger seat beside me, I decided to take a quick detour past the backyard on my way out. The car’s lights played across the lawn as I turned. There was the bird bath. The rose bushes. The shed in the back. Then I saw a big, empty rectangle of long-dead grass. What I didn’t see was the battered white pickup that had been parked at Emma Jean’s house the day after she vanished.

With one hand on the steering wheel, I fished around in my purse until I found my cell phone. Detective Martinez answered with the usual welcoming snarl.

“It’s Mace. I figured I’d better tell you. I swung by Emma Jean Valentine’s house tonight. There’s something funny …’’

Martinez interrupted me, his words tumbling out the phone. “Are you all right? What’s that horrible sound?’’

Meeeeeoooowwwrrrr!

“That’s just Emma Jean’s cat,’’ I said. “I don’t think she’s too fond of the carrier I’ve got her in.’’

“Dios mío, it sounds like someone’s being tortured.’’

“She’s a Siamese,’’ I said knowingly. “The Internet says they’re very vocal.’’

“Can’t you make her stop?’’

“The article I read didn’t include anything about a volume button or an on-off switch.’’

Meeeeeooooowrrrrr!

I raised my voice over the racket. “Anyway, I stopped by to see about the cat. I’m on my way home with her right now.’’ The light on Main Street turned green, and I crooked my neck to hold the phone while I shifted gears. “I noticed the white pickup truck that was at Emma Jean’s last night is now gone. Did you have the police haul it off?’’

Martinez answered without the usual stonewalling. “No, I didn’t.’’ He started to think out loud. “Maybe it belonged to a relative or a friend, and they came by to get it.’’

“Maybe,’’ I said. “But why now? From the look of the lawn, that truck has sat there pretty regularly for a long time.’’

“A neighbor might have used it.’’

“The houses around Emma Jean’s are on three-acre lots. Mama told me her two closest neighbors are snowbirds. They leave for the North in June when it starts getting hot, and they don’t come back until the end of November, when hurricane season’s over. She’s not close to anyone else out that way, which is one reason I came to get her cat.’’

I passed the Speckled Perch and thought about food. Two slices of pizza two hours ago wasn’t going to hold me until morning.

“We can check to see if Emma Jean’s the registered owner,’’ Martinez said. “If she is, I’ll have the information I need to put out a BOLO on the truck and tag number.’’

“Bolo? Isn’t that a Western-style string tie?’’

“Be on the lookout. BOLO.’’

“Gotcha,’’ I said, feeling stupid. I don’t watch as much Law and Order as Mama does. “I’d know the truck if I saw it again. It was old and beat-up. There were beer cans in the back of the bed.’’

“Great. That describes half the vehicles up here,’’ Martinez said.

“Watch it, Mr. Miami. I can hear you sneering.’’

I remembered the feel of the worn tread on my fingers as I ran my hands over the tires. “I didn’t think about getting the tag number, but Donnie Bailey might have,’’ I told Martinez. “We both noticed the truck had bald tires, just like the one that ran me off the road. Donnie was awfully interested in that old truck.’’

___

If ever five days felt like fifty, this was it. What a week. I was looking forward to a cool shower, a cold beer, and some hot salsa once I got Wila and her cat-related accessories settled into my house.

I smiled to myself as the VW jounced into my yard, illuminating the battle ring tucked off to one side. Looked like it was Mace 1; Wildlife 0 in this latest round of raccoon smack-down. The garbage cans were upright, lids still securely fastened with a collection of bungee cords. I might have feared the animals were lying in wait, prepared to punish the woman who shut down their nightly buffet. But the way Emma Jean’s cat was caterwauling, any living thing within hearing distance had skedaddled.

I left the cat in the car as I got out. I wanted to prop open my front doors so I could more easily heft the carrier onto the screened porch and on inside. What I saw as I mounted the steps put the brakes on my victory-over-the-wildlife dance.

The resourceful raccoons must have busted through the screen to get onto my front porch. They’d taken their revenge for my garbage-can offensive by overturning a flower pot. Trampled geraniums and big clods of dirt littered the wooden floor. The welcome mat sparkled in the dim moonlight with shards of broken glass.

And then I looked more closely. The screen was intact. The flowerpot had been used with just enough force to break the front window, next to the door. Someone had carefully reached past the broken glass to turn the key in the deadbolt lock on the inside of the front door. The door stood open a crack. The house was a dark cave beyond.

I’ve seen raccoons turn a doorknob; even pull open cabinets in a kitchen. But using a flowerpot to break a window, locating a deadbolt key inside in the lock, and understanding what the key is used for? That’s different. Unless the raccoons had gained a hundred IQ points and opposable thumbs since our last encounter, this burglary was beyond their skill level. The intruder had to be human.

With my heart pounding, I backed slowly off the porch and down the steps. As soon as I felt grass beneath my feet, I spun around and took off at a run.

Martinez made it to Taylor Creek in thirteen minutes. There was hardly any traffic this far from town on a Friday night. Still, he must have beaten Jeff Gordon’s NASCAR time.

He was familiar with the location of the bridge on State Road 98, so when I called him from the safety of Pam’s car, that’s where I told him to meet me. I figured that was easier than trying to explain how to find my cottage way out in the country. And, to be honest, I hadn’t wanted to stick around alone without knowing what was in my house, on the other side of that open door.

I heard his siren a long way off, and then I saw him coming. I flashed my lights. He was going so fast, he flew right past me. By the time he stopped and backed up, I stood waiting for him on the shoulder of the deserted highway. He leaned over to open the passenger-side door.

“Are you okay?’’

I nodded, surprised—and a tiny bit pleased—to see how worried he looked.

But when he spotted Wila in the carrier, the concern on his face changed to annoyance.

“What do you think you’re doing with that?’’

“I’m not leaving her out here alone, with no top on the VW. Who knows what might try to get at her? She’s already had enough trauma for one night.’’

He grimaced, but made room for us on the front seat. “Just try to keep her quiet.’’

“Yeah, right,’’ I said, as Wila let out a long screech. “Turn left about a half-mile up, at the sign that says High Horse Ranch.’’

I directed him the rest of the way in. Left at the last fence post. Right at the big oak tree. In no time at all, we were pulling up in my front yard.

“You’re staying in the car.’’ His tone offered no room to argue, not that I wanted to.

“Don’t worry. I’m not stupid. I’m not going up against the unknown, not when my only weapon is a noisy Siamese cat.’’

As Martinez got out of the driver’s seat, his right hand slid across his chest, under his jacket. I knew he must have a shoulder holster there.

“Be careful, okay?’’ I said.

With a curt nod, he was gone.

He banged on my front wall and yelled Police! then edged the front door open with his foot. The longest five minutes in history elapsed after he disappeared inside. I watched as light replaced the darkened squares of my front windows. A dim glow spilled from the backyard. Martinez must have flicked the switch for the outdoor light at the kitchen door. I imagined him moving down the hallway into the bathroom and then on to my bedroom.

I suddenly flashed on all the housekeeping I hadn’t had time for in the last few days. It was ridiculous under the circumstances, but I hoped he wouldn’t notice the pile of dirty clothes and underwear I’d left on my bedroom floor.

Finally, I saw him walk around the house from out back. He holstered his pistol and patted its location over the outside of his jacket. I got out of the car to join him.

“All clear,’’ Martinez said. “Whoever was here is gone now. Things look fine inside.’’

“Let’s get poor Wila into the house.’’ I leaned into the car and picked up the carrier.

“Let me get that.’’ He grabbed it from me. I almost protested that I was strong enough to carry my own carrier. Then I remembered Mama’s admonition: flies, honey, vinegar.

“Thanks,’’ I said instead.

Stepping over the glass shards and through the front door, I did a quick survey.

“Aside from that broken window, everything looks okay,’’ I told him.

“Except that key in the inside deadbolt,’’ he said. “You know that’s a dumb place to leave it, right?’’

“Didn’t they teach you in police school not to blame the victim?’’ I snapped.

“Sorry. I just wish people wouldn’t invite the bad guys in.’’

I wondered whether he was talking about me or his murdered wife.

“Try not to disturb anything,’’ he said. “I’m going to bag that key. Whoever broke in had to touch it. We may still want to get somebody out here to dust for fingerprints.’’

I led the way into my bedroom. “You can put the carrier down right there.’’ I nodded toward the floor. I laid out Wila’s things—the litter box and food from Emma Jean’s, and a toy mouse I bought. Then I sprung her from her prison. She lit out, fleeing for cover under my bed.

“We won’t see her for a while,’’ I said.

“At least she’s finally quiet,’’ Martinez said.

Wila gave a short meow, just to prove him wrong.

“Why don’t you take a good look, see if anything is missing? All I noticed out of the ordinary is that pile of clothes.’’ He frowned at the floor. “Whoever broke in probably tossed your dresser drawers, looking for money or jewelry.’’

I felt my face flush. “Uhmm, that was me. It’s been a bad week for laundry.’’

In fact, I was wearing my last pair of clean undies, the ones with the droopy elastic waist and the hole in the seam by my butt. I didn’t share that detail with Martinez.

We left the scared cat in the bedroom and went into the kitchen, where I got a plastic sandwich bag from the drawer. Martinez used it to extract the key from the front lock. Then, he sealed it inside the bag.

I did a quick circuit of the rest of my house. A string of pearls from Daddy’s mother, my only jewelry, still nestled in my sock drawer. Change filled a brass spittoon by the front door, including a ten-dollar bill I’d left on the top. My computer was on my desk; my share of Grandma’s silver was still in the kitchen.

“Thank God they didn’t get the gator,’’ Martinez nodded toward my coffee table, a half-smile on his face.

“Yeah. I’d have to trap another one so I’d have a place to keep my car keys.’’

His eyebrows shot up. “Don’t tell me you killed that?’’

“Well, I had a little help. My cousin Dwight’s the one with the license, so he had to be there,’’ I said modestly. “Anyway, looks like nothing’s missing.’’

With Martinez on my heels, I returned to where I’d started. Suddenly, I was aware of being alone in my bedroom with a sexy, attractive man. He was close enough that I could smell his aftershave. Spicy cloves. My bed was just inches away, the same bed that had seen no action since the down in the feather pillows was still on the ducks.

He put a hand on my arm. “Are you really okay?’’ His voice was husky. “It can be traumatic to have your house broken into, even if they didn’t get anything.’’ His dark eyes searched my face.

Just one step, I thought. One step. Hell, I could just tackle him and toss him onto the bed. I’m almost as tall as he is. I wondered once we got down to it, where would he put his gun?

His gun.

“Oh, my God!’’ I crossed my bedroom in four quick steps and yanked open the closet door. “Paw-Paw’s shotgun.’’ I quickly scanned the small, crowded space. “It’s gone.’’

Nothing spoils a sexy mood like the notion that some maniac might be stalking you with your own granddaddy’s shotgun.

Martinez bustled around the house, re-checking everything we’d already checked to see if we missed anything. He found a piece of plywood I’d used as a shutter during the last hurricane, and nailed it over the broken pane on the porch.

I wavered between being grateful for his presence and annoyed that he thought I needed him. Even worse was the thought in my own mind that I did.

“I’m staying the night,’’ he announced, as he hammered the final nail into the plywood.

I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t recall issuing an invitation to share my bed.’’

“Don’t flatter yourself.’’ He smirked. “It’s purely a security measure. I’ll bunk on the couch.’’

Damn!

“Suit yourself,’’ I said. “It’s your backache.’’

“You shouldn’t be out here all alone.’’

I wasn’t about to admit I thought he was right. I’m not accustomed to the damsel-in-distress role. But I was tired. And it was late: one fifteen am by the hands of the clock shaped like a large mouth bass on the living room wall. I had to meet Mama in less than five hours. I’d promised to go with her to the sunrise prayer breakfast to help lend Delilah some moral support.

I went to the linen closet and gathered up some bedding for the sleeper sofa. “Listen, I appreciate this,’’ I told Martinez as he pulled open the couch. “There’s no need. But I do appreciate it.’’

He grabbed an end to the sheet I held and tucked it under the mattress. “You’re probably right, Mace. Still, better safe than sorry.’’ Trapping a pillow with his chin, he started wriggling a floral case over it. I like a man who’s not afraid to indulge his domestic side.

I handed him one end of a comforter from the closet. “I mean, it could have just been kids, right?” We dropped the spread over the sofa bed. “The McPherson boy’s been running with a bad crowd. I wouldn’t put burglary past those little juvenile delinquents. Maybe I scared them off when I pulled in with Wila, yowling in the car. Maybe they didn’t get the chance to steal anything but the shotgun.’’

Martinez sat on the pull-out, testing the mattress with one hand. It was just as comfy as any other sleeper sofa, which is to say he’d feel like he was resting on a sack of rocks.

“Yeah,’’ he said. “It’s not like the closet is an original hiding place. Any burglar worth his rap sheet knows to check high shelves and closet corners for homeowners’ weapons.’’

We each sounded like we were trying to convince the other there was nothing to worry about. It was becoming exhausting.

“Listen, I’ve gotta be up before the rooster crows. I’ll try not to wake you when I leave.’’ I yawned.

“No te preocupes … I mean, don’t worry about it. I’ll probably be awake anyway. I don’t get much sleep as a rule.’’

I wondered whether those sleepless nights began in Miami, after his wife was murdered.

As I started for my bedroom, I spoke over my shoulder, “I’ve got an extra-large cotton T-shirt if you want something besides that dress shirt and blazer to sleep in.’’

“Is it in that pile of filthy clothes you dropped on the floor?’’

I would have blushed, but I was too damned bushed.

“Just for that remark,’’ I said, “I get to wash up first.” I turned into the bathroom and slammed the door.

A half hour later, I was in bed, but nowhere close to sleep. Of course, I was worried about who took the shotgun—and why. But I also kept thinking about the glimpse I got of Martinez in the hallway. He’d come out of the bathroom and was standing still, looking for a wall switch to turn off the hall light. His skin was the color of graham crackers, and I wondered whether it tasted as sweet. Hard muscle rippled along his abdomen. He had a smooth chest with almost no hair. He wore nothing but boxer shorts. Light blue; intact waistband; no rip near the butt.

Would he slip out of those boxers when he climbed between the sheets?

I glanced at the alarm clock beside my bed. It was scheduled to beep me awake in about four hours. I tossed to my right side, even though I normally sleep on the left. I made a quarter turn, plopping onto my stomach to try to get comfortable. Punching the pillow didn’t work. It still felt wrong. Martinez’s shoulder would have felt just right. Stop it!

I grabbed the pillow’s underside to toss it off the bed. That’s when I felt something I knew wasn’t supposed to be there. I shot to my feet, turned on the lamp, and stared down at the pillow. Carefully, I lifted a corner to look underneath.

“Detective?” I called into the living room. “You’d better come in here.’’

He was beside me in a flash, proof that he hadn’t been asleep, either. I pointed at a sheet of folded notebook paper under my pillow. My name, misspelled, was printed in crude block letters between the wide blue lines: Mase. A love note from a demented fifth grader.

“Should I pick it up?’’

Martinez’s jaw was clenched. His eyes were dark, unreadable. “Do you have any tweezers?’’ he asked.

“In the medicine cabinet. Be right back.’’

He used the tweezers to open the note, and then placed it on the nightstand. In the glow of the lamp, we read it together:

You dindt stop. To many questons. See how easy I could kill you? I’m coming for you. Your mama to

The printing looked the same as on the note tossed on Mama’s porch. The misspellings and bad grammar looked familiar, too.

“Get me another plastic bag, would you?’’ Martinez said.

“What are you going to do?’’

“Not much I can do, tonight. Or I guess I should say ‘this morning.’ I’m going to take it in later, when I go to work. We’ll compare it to the other note, and see what, if anything, we can learn from it.’’

He didn’t sound optimistic.

“It looks a lot like the note from the mutilated toy dog,’’ I said.

“That it does. Unfortunately, they’re both written with pencil on common notebook paper. Finding out who wrote it would be easier if they’d used expensive parchment, or an unusual color of ink. Or a fountain pen. The more distinctive, the better.’’

“What about DNA?’’

“It’s possible. But you have to match it to a suspect whose DNA is known. And we don’t have a suspect.’’

We both looked down at the piece of paper. So ordinary. So disturbing.

“This puts my burglary in a different category, doesn’t it?’’

Martinez’s mouth was a grim line. That vein throbbed in his right temple. “Yes,’’ he finally said.

And with that one word, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get back into my bed. I knew that whoever had killed Jim Albert had been in my home, standing right here. And I knew I wouldn’t get much sleep at all until we found the murderer who was now threatening Mama and me.

“Mama? It’s Mace.’’

“Well, hello darlin’. I’m just finishing up my Cheese ’n’ Ham Surprise for the church breakfast. Are you on your mobile phone?’’

Mama still treats each call from a moving car as a miracle, even though cell phones have become as common as cowboy hats in Himmarshee.

I bit back a smart-aleck remark, though sleep deprivation and sheer fear might have given me a pass to make one. “I’m in Pam’s car, on my way into town. I wanted to let you know I’m running a little late.’’

My thoughts drifted back to why I’d been delayed.

I’d finally fallen asleep, for an hour and a half, on the floor of my front porch. The idea of a killer in my house, maybe even in my bed, creeped me out. Martinez wanted to leave the sheets and pillows as they were, to preserve any evidence. Even though I’d rolled around in there, the intruder may have, too. He could have left behind skin, hair, maybe even bodily fluid. That last prospect alone was enough to make me grab a sleeping bag, plug in a fan, and hit the porch.

Martinez pulled all the bedding off the sofa and insisted on bunking on the floor next to me. His presence was solely a comfort. Feeling scared and vulnerable effectively squashed any erotic leanings I had earlier.

“I know how it feels when you don’t want to be inside your own house.’’ His voice was barely a whisper beside me. “After my wife was killed, I couldn’t use the front door. For months, I entered and left from the back. Finally, I sold the house and moved here. Too many memories.’’

I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry,’’ was all I came up with. Marty would have done better.

I must have finally dozed off, because I dreamed of Patricia Martinez’s murder. But everything was confused. She wasn’t in the front hallway of their home in Miami. She was in the woods in Himmarshee. Throughout the dream, the faces of her attackers stayed hidden in the shadows. And then finally, just before she was shot, the two men looked up. In my dream, one of them was Sal Provenza. The other one had my granddaddy’s gun. It was Jeb Ennis.

The sound of the fatal shot in my dream turned into the beep of the alarm clock I’d brought to the porch. I awoke, tangled in my sleeping bag and soaked in sweat.

My porch mate was already up and dressed. He’d folded his bedding, placing it neatly in a corner. After I showered and came out in my bathrobe, he handed me a cup of coffee he’d made.

“Sorry, no café Cubano,’’ I said, sitting at the kitchen table so I could linger a bit longer.

“That’s okay.’’ He took the seat across from me and smiled. “I’ll make you some when you come to my house.’’

I’d been parsing that sentence ever since. Was it an invitation? A promise? Or, was it like, “Let’s have lunch sometime,’’ a casual remark without real meaning? One way or another, I was oddly eager for my first taste of that Cuban coffee.

Now, I was hurrying across the bridge at Taylor Creek—just as I’d done the night Mama called from the police department to tell me there’d been a murder. I passed the site along State Road 98 where I’d spotted Emma Jean’s car, pulled off into the marshy weeds.

I swerved to avoid a dead raccoon in the road. One of my garbage can bandits? I hoped not. I wanted things to be like before, when my sole worry was a gang of marauding critters.

“I’m still about twenty minutes out, Mama,’’ I said into the phone.

“That’s okay, honey,’’ Mama said. “The VFW’s only a couple of blocks away. Alice and Ronnie from next door are already here. We’re gonna walk over together. I’ll meet you.’’

No criticism about my tardiness. Not a single complaint. Mama’s mood was as sunny as the September day would be. I didn’t have the heart to tell her someone might be gunning for both of us with her daddy’s shotgun.

“I wish you wouldn’t walk, Mama. I’ll be right there to pick you up.’’

“Don’t be silly, Mace. We’ll be at the hall in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’’ She lowered her voice. I pictured her cupping her hand around the phone. “Alice begged me to walk with them. She’s doing everything she can think of to get Ronnie to exercise. He’s getting as fat as the only tick on a hound ever since he hurt his shoulder. The doctor says it’ll be another month before he can go back to full-time work at the feed store.’’

Ronnie Hodges’ upper arms are as big as hams. Eight-hour shifts lifting feed sacks will do that. I didn’t think anyone would mess with Mama with the hulking Ronnie right beside her.

“Okay, but just be careful, would you?’’

“Of course, darlin’. If this last week has taught us anything, it’s that there are some crazy people in Himmarshee.’’

You have no idea, I thought.

“That brings up a little something I need to tell you, Mama.’’ I downplayed. “I got another one of those notes, like the one with the stuffed dog on your porch?’’

“How could I forget? That awful thing looked just like Teensy.’’

“This note came to my house. I’ll fill you in on the details later. But Detective Martinez thinks we should be extra watchful for anyone who might mean us harm.’’

“I don’t like the sound of that, Mace. Are you okay? What’d the note say?’’

“I’m fine. And it was just like before.’’ I dismissed the note. “‘Mind your own business.’ ‘I’m going to come after you.’’’

“Who do you think wrote it?’’

“Truly, I don’t know. But let’s ask around at the breakfast. See what we can find out.’’

“Okay, honey. Ronnie’s helping himself to his second biscuit, and Alice is givin’ me the evil eye. I gotta go. See you in a little while.’’

“Remember what I said about being careful. Love you.’’

“Me too, Mace.’’

I had the urge to tell her more, but she’d already hung up. By the time I passed through a bad spot for my cell signal, then hit redial, Mama’s number rang inside an empty house.

___

Guests were still arriving when I parked Pam’s car in the VFW lot. It was only fifteen minutes past the time Mama had planned for us to get there. She wanted to be early so she could see how my sisters and I decorated the place. That way, she’d know what to take credit for.

Inside, I found one of the place cards holding a table for Abundant Hope members and family. I hung my purse on a chair and went off to look for Mama.

Surveying the food table, with its assortment of sweet and savory treats, I didn’t see her distinctive casserole dish. She always brings the same one to every party: white, trimmed in blue asters. It’s got a tiny chip on the top and her name written on masking tape on the bottom.

Mama must have gotten waylaid, talking to someone somewhere while her Cheese ’n’ Ham Surprise was getting cold. I scanned the crowded room.

And didn’t see her.

Maybe she’d stopped to primp. I opened the door to the women’s bathroom. “Mama? It’s Mace. You in there?’’ I called.

And didn’t hear her.

My heart was starting to pound. Ronnie Hodges was across the room, moving his massive frame around the food table, eyeing the offerings.

“Ronnie?’’

“Hey, Mace. It’s a shame they make us wait to eat until after everybody from Abundant Hope is done praying. I’d feel more prayerful with a full stomach.’’

“Ronnie, where’s my mama? I thought y’all walked over together.’’

“We did. But you know Rosalee. She saw someone she knew and ran off to say hello. She told Alice and me to come on inside. Said she’d meet us at the table.’’

“When was this?’’

“Not five minutes ago.’’

“Where?’’

“Outside, in the parking lot.’’

I left him standing there staring. Pushing my way against the faithful and the hungry, I went outside. There were at least a dozen vehicles in the parking lot: pickup trucks, battered sedans, shiny SUVs. I rushed up and down the parked rows, looking for Mama.

And didn’t find her.

Taking a corner around an old Buick, I slid in something slippery. I caught my balance and looked down at fluffy eggs and cubed ham oozing on the asphalt. Shards from a casserole dish poked out from a golden layer of cheese. I stooped and picked up a shard—white, with a perfect blue aster in the center.

“Good Lord, Mace. You’re as white as rice.’’ Ronnie Hodges panted from rushing out after me. “Is everything okay?’’

“Who did Mama run off to talk to, Ronnie?’’

“Well, I don’t know. My distance eyes ain’t what they used to be. The truck was all the way over to the other side of the parking lot.’’

“A truck? What kind?’’

“It was an old pickup. White, I think. Or something light. Why?’’

“One person in the truck, or two?’’

“Just one. The driver. But why, Mace? What’s wrong?’’

“Man or woman?’’

“Well, now …’’ Ronnie looked heavenward, like he had to think on that for a while.

I felt a scream rising in the back of my throat. “Dammit, Ronnie, was it a man or a woman?’’

“Woman,’’ he finally said. “I’m almost sure it was a woman.’’

I grabbed Pam’s car keys from my pants pocket. “Mama’s been kidnapped, Ronnie. Call the police. Then, tell Delilah to make an announcement that anyone who saw anything should stay here to talk to the cops.’’

Ronnie’s jaw hung open. He worked it a couple of times before some words came out. “Where are you going?’’

“To find Mama,’’ I said as I flew toward the car.

“Wait, Mace.’’ Ronnie’s heavy footsteps pounded behind me. “Delilah’s not here.’’

I stopped and turned around.

“She called your mama this morning. She said she couldn’t face the crowd after all, not after Pastor Bob took all the hurricane money. Delilah asked your mama to promise to explain to everybody how sorry she was.’’

Think! Think! Think!

I pounded three times on the steering wheel in Pam’s car, trying to dislodge the fog in my brain with each blow. I needed to focus, like I do when I’m tracking an animal. Get inside the kidnapper’s head.

Any prey, knowing it’s being hunted, will either flee or find a hiding place. I scanned the lot. There was nowhere to hide a pickup with a pint-sized captive. The driver had surely fled.

I eased the VW across the lot, to the side where Ronnie had seen the truck. In the wild, an animal leaves a trail: flattened grass, bent twigs, droppings, or tracks on the ground. I hoped to see something, anything, that would reveal the path taken by the animal in the pickup’s driver seat.

There wasn’t even an oil stain.

Then, just as I reached the exit, I spotted what I prayed was a clue out on the road in front of the VFW. Something small and round shone against the blacktop, about thirty feet to the right. Seeing nothing on the pavement to the left, I made the right. Slowly, slowly I drove, and then stopped. The object on the road was a honeydew-colored earring, gleaming in the rising sun.

Mama had been so excited when she found the set, which included a necklace and a bracelet, too. She had a pantsuit in that exact shade of light green, and the costume jewels were a perfect match.

I hoped she tossed the earring out of the car intentionally, like Hansel and Gretel with their breadcrumb trail. I didn’t want to think of the alternative: that the clip-on was the first casualty as Mama struggled with her kidnapper.

The VFW is at the far western end of Main Street. I drove for two miles without spotting another clue. Then I came to an intersection. Right, left, or straight ahead? I parked on the shoulder and examined the site on foot. There was nothing to suggest choosing one way over another. There was only a quiet Saturday morning and empty road in all directions. Making the wrong decision might mean Mama’s life.