Текст книги "Mama Does Time"

Автор книги: Deborah Sharp

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

I was about to start combing the grass alongside the intersection when I noticed an ancient fisherman. Sitting stooped in a folding chair and holding a cane pole, he was nearly hidden by the cattails that grow along the banks of Himmarshee Creek.

I came up quietly, not wanting to scare him or the fish.

He looked up, dark face nearly hidden in the shadow of a huge straw hat. “Hey.’’

“Hey.’’ I returned his greeting and got right to business. “I’m trying to find a light-colored pickup truck that might have come by here about ten minutes ago.’’

With yellowed teeth and sunken cheeks, he looked about a hundred years old. I hoped he still had his wits. “Yes’m,’’ he finally said. “I saw a truck. White, it was. I was just gettin’ here myself to do a little fishin’ when the damn fool driving nearly run me over.’’

“Did you see which way it went?’’

He aimed the tip of his pole to the west. “Straight ahead, along the course of the creek. I remember, ’cause I was walking ’long side of the road, right there.’’ He pointed the pole again. “They flew by me, so close I could see the look on the face of the white lady in the passenger side. Real little lady. She looked scared, like she thought they was gonna hit me.’’

“Did you notice anything else unusual?’’

“I remember wondering why she was only wearing one of them round earbobs.’’

I thanked him and continued on my way. In another mile, a honeydew scarf waved from a fence alongside the road. I was on the right track.

Just before the intersection with State Road 70, a woman stood on the roadside at the back end of an old blue van. Cardboard boxes and a metal contraption that looked like a coat rack sat around her on the grassy swale. She bent into the back to pull out a folding card table and a chair. Coming alongside, I read the sign on the van’s left panel: Wendi’s Whirligigs.

By the time I stopped and backed up, she’d put up her table and started arranging her wares. She sold airplanes and birds fashioned from old beer cans.

“Are you Wendi?’’ I asked, shifting Pam’s car into neutral.

She nodded, but didn’t look at me. She hung her whirligigs from the coat rack, hoping to catch the eye of passing motorists. I asked about the truck.

“Might have seen something.’’ Her head was down, orange spiky hair pointing to a flock of beer-can birds she was arranging on the table. “I’ve been busy. I have a lot of these here crafts to sell. Business is awful slow in the summer.’’ She finally looked at me. “Awful slow.’’

Highway extortion. I searched for my purse on the seat and floorboards. It wasn’t there. But I saw it in my mind—just where I’d left it on a chair at the VFW. My wallet was inside. Even worse, so was my phone.

“Look, I’m in trouble,’’ I told Wendi. “My mama’s been kidnapped. I need to know which way that truck was headed.’’

The hard line of her mouth softened, making her almost pretty. “I thought there was something off about those two gals. Love affair gone bad, right? I been there.’’

“Yes, that was it,’’ I agreed, desperate for her help even if it was under false pretenses.

“Was that your mama in the passenger seat? The one with the platinum hair?’’

I nodded.

“Pretty, for an older gal. They were heading west. Your mama looked right at me as they passed, about ten minutes ago. She was yelling out the window, ‘Park, park, park!’ It didn’t make sense. I already was parked. But that’s all I heard before the truck blew by.’’

“You notice anything else?’’

“There were crushed beer cans in the back.’’ She pulled a cigarette from behind her ear; lit it. “It’s a shame people smash them. A good can is the foundation of my business.’’

“Thanks, Wendi,’’ I shifted into gear and let out the clutch, as a cigarette-smoke cloud drifted my way. “If I get her out of this mess, we’ll be back to buy a six-pack of whirligigs.’’

“Good luck,’’ Wendi called out as I pulled onto the road.

What could Mama have meant? I tried to concentrate, but kept getting a picture in my mind of work boots. I’d seen mine sitting on the floorboard in the back when I was searching for my purse. I glanced over my shoulder at the heavy boots.

Suddenly, I knew exactly where Mama’s captor had taken her.

Himmarshee Park doesn’t open on Saturday morning until ten, giving the kidnapper plenty of time to … I couldn’t bear to finish the thought. I didn’t want to imagine what the murderer had planned in my workplace for my mama.

The slats on the wooden bridge vibrated under the VW’s tires. I spotted a honeydew-colored shoe just beyond the rise of the little span. It was the mate to a heeled pump I’d seen in the middle of the street just before the turn-off to the park.

The woods were eerily still. No birds called. No animals rustled through brush. It was as if the humidity that already hung like a wet veil over the day had sucked out all the sound. Technically, we were closed. But all anyone who wanted in had to do was unhitch the steel cable that stretched across the road. The Do Not Enter sign would fall to the ground, and they could drive right through. Which is just what someone had done.

I turned off the car’s ignition and coasted across the downed cable. When tracking an animal, the quieter the better.

The white truck was pulled off ahead, blocking a nature path. There was no one inside. It was the pickup from Emma Jean’s yard. I stopped right behind it, blocking it in between a tree and the nose of Pam’s VW.

Kicking off my loafers, I quickly changed into the boots, lacing them tight around my ankles. Then, I started out running for the park’s office. I felt for the car keys in my pocket, glad that I’d thought to put my office key on Pam’s key ring where it wouldn’t be lost. The ground and foliage was still damp with morning moisture. Droplets wet my hair and splattered onto my shirt as I passed under the low, bushy fronds of Sabal palms.

It only took minutes to reach the building and unlock the door. But it felt like hours.

“9-1-1. What is your emergency?’’

“This is Mace Bauer.’’ I kept my voice low, in case anyone was lurking nearby. “I’m calling from inside the office at Himmarshee Park.’’

I’d made many 911 calls from the park over the years: Broken bones. Heat exhaustion. Two fatal heart attacks for senior citizen visitors. I heard my own voice, calm and steady. Only I knew the fear I was barely keeping at bay.

I continued, “Please contact Detective Carlos Martinez with the Himmarshee Police. This is an extreme emergency. A woman’s life is at risk.’’

“Are you in danger, Ma’am?’’

“No, not at this moment. But my mother is. She’s been kidnapped, most likely by someone who’s killed before. She’s being held somewhere in the park. Please tell Detective Martinez to get here as soon as he can.’’

“Ma’am, you need to stay right where you are.’’ Urgency edged into her professional tone. “Stay put until we can get an officer out there. It won’t be long.’’

I glanced at my watch. Seven-forty on a weekend morning. The police roster would be sparse at that hour, and the park’s at least fifteen miles from town.

“I can’t do that,’’ I told her. “We’re talking about my mother here. Just tell Martinez to hurry.’’

I hung up before she could speak again. The office phone rang back immediately. The answering machine was picking up as I slipped out the door and struck out into the woods.

I returned to the trail that led to the entrance, back to where the white truck was parked. And then I took off on the path in the opposite direction, going deeper into the woods. It seemed likely that whoever had Mama would choose to stay on the marked trail instead of trying to cover rough terrain.

Here, I was on familiar ground. Some of the ferns along the path were bent back, evidence that someone had recently passed by. I saw a platinum-colored strand of hair caught in a low-hanging branch. And there was a knee-high nylon, balled up and dropped in the center of the trail.

I almost had to smile. Mama never wore shoes when she worked outside, a habit carried over from childhood. It embarrassed my sisters and me no end when we were teenagers. We’d bring home a date, and there Mama would be: standing in the yard with a garden hose, as barefoot as an Amazon tribeswoman.

“Well, I don’t see what’s wrong with it,’’ she’d always say. “My feet are just as God made them.’’

After sixty years of unshod gardening, her soles were as hard as horse hooves. At least she’d be safe from sharp sticks in the mulch covering the path. I held on to that thought. It was the only thing I had to be optimistic about.

The woods were so still, I could hear my own breath. I strained to hear anything else—a voice, or the snap of a branch that might reveal where the killer had gone. I covered perhaps a quarter-mile before a human-sounding murmur floated toward me through the heavy air. I crept closer, following the direction of the sound. Now, the noise became a voice. It was Mama’s, thank God.

“You know you can’t get away with it,’’ she said.

A low answer. I couldn’t make out the words.

“If you turn yourself in now, I’ll put in a good word. I’ll testify and tell the jury you never once hurt me.’’

I stopped, staying hidden in thick trees, just short of a small clearing. Across the open space, Mama stood on top of a concrete wall. Facing her was Emma Jean Valentine, aiming my grand-daddy’s shotgun directly at Mama’s heart. Beyond the wall was a shallow pond, home to Ollie the alligator.

Emma Jean lifted the shotgun’s barrel, motioning with it for Mama to jump. “You have a choice, Rosalee. Either you go in willingly, or I shoot you and your body falls in. Either way, the gator gets his dinner.’’

“Emma Jean, please. Think of how my girls will feel. You know how much you loved your own little boy. I love my daughters like that.’’ Mama wiped tears from her cheeks. “This isn’t you, honey. This is someone else. You aren’t a murderer.’’

Emma Jean lowered her own cheek to her shoulder and rubbed. Could she also be wiping away tears?

“I’m sorry, Rosalee. I didn’t want to hurt anybody, I swear to God.’’

I moved stealthily through the oaks and hickory, trying to find an angle to approach out of Emma Jean’s sight line. Every moment felt like a month. Just before I burst into the clearing, I saw Emma Jean hesitate. She hung her head and dropped the shotgun a few inches. But before I got out a sigh of relief, her shoulders squared. She lifted the weapon and aimed. I was close enough to see the fear in my mother’s eyes, but not close enough to tackle Emma Jean.

“No!’’ Sprinting across the field, I screamed. “Don’t shoot.’’

All in an instant, Emma Jean whipped her tear-streaked face toward me. Whirling back toward Mama, she struggled to fire. The old shotgun jammed. My mother stumbled on the wall and fell backward. Emma Jean turned and started for the woods, still hanging on to the gun.

“You do it,’’ she yelled to the sky. “I never wanted any of this.’’

I had no idea what she was shouting about. But there was no time to ask. I heard splashing from Ollie’s pond. Praying hard, I reached the wall and looked over. Mama was flailing, which looks to a gator just like a fat duck in distress or a drowning baby deer. In other words, dinner.

“Hold on, Mama. I’m coming in.’’

The pond wasn’t more than six feet at its deepest, but even that was too deep for a woman of Mama’s size who never learned to swim. I reached her easily. Calming her was another matter. First a fist, then a flying elbow connected with my face.

“Listen to me.’’ I grabbed her around the neck and stared directly into her terrified eyes. “You’ve got to stop fighting me. It’s not safe. Now, I’m going to float you about three feet toward the side of the pond. The water’s shallow there. You’ll be able to stand.’’

She was listening, her eyes locked onto mine. I felt her relax. That was the good news.

The bad news: Ollie had noticed the commotion in the water. He slid off the bank and was swimming our way.

Mama had her back to the alligator. I thought it best not to let on that Ollie was bearing down. A hysterical woman and a hungry gator make for a bad combination.

“You’re almost safe, Mama.’’ I forced a reassuring tone. “Just walk along the sand to your left until you come to the pathway out. There’s a steel gate at the end. I’ll be right behind you.’’

“It was Emma Jean all along, Mace. How could she? She was my friend.’’

I looked over my shoulder. Ollie had covered three-quarters of the pond’s length. “Not now, Mama,’’ I said quietly. “We need to get out of this water. Immediately.’’

All I could see of the gator was his snout and one eye. I knew that beneath the surface, his powerful tail was moving to and fro, propelling him closer and closer.

“Steady, now.’’ I boosted Mama by the butt onto the steep bank. I was in calf-high water, about to follow, when I felt a hard bump at the back of my knees. Ollie. I swallowed my panic. The pond here was shallow. The slap of the gator’s tail slamming on top of the water sounded like a bomb going off.

“Watch out, Mace!’’ I heard Mama screaming, as if in a dream. “Get out of the water!’’

I didn’t want to take the risk the gator would follow me onto land. He might attack Mama—a weaker, easier prey than me. I whirled around and saw acres of teeth in a mile of jaws. It was all instinct at this point: Ollie’s to eat; mine to survive.

Yelling louder than a legion of warriors, I drew back my foot. The steel-toed boot struck the gator on the top of his snout. I did it again, aiming directly for his one good eye. I kicked at his closest nostril, shouting the whole time. Ollie backed off and began to turn. I sent a parting blow to the less protected skin of his underside, where the organs are close to the surface.

That last kick convinced him to move on to a more docile prey. In his thumb-sized brain, he was probably trying to puzzle out what had happened to his usual meal—the dead, whole chickens that never fight back.

Adrenaline still coursed through my body as I hauled myself onto the bank. Ollie had retreated to the far end of the pond. The damage I’d done was more irritation than lasting injury. A gator’s body is like an armored battleship.

As I sat, leg muscles quivering, lungs gulping in air, I was aware of Mama blubbering beside me. She ran her hands over my arms, then my legs, as if to convince herself I was whole. “My God, Mace! Wait until I tell your sisters. You fought off an alligator!’’

“Well, it was shallow water, Mama,’’ I said. “If he’d have gotten hold of me in the deeper part, it would have been the end. He’d have grabbed me in his jaws and pulled me under in a death roll to drown me. We wouldn’t be talking right now.’’

Mama shuddered. “I’m just glad you were here, Mace. I wouldn’t have had the presence of mind to do what you did.’’

“Not to mention the footwear,’’ I said.

We both looked at Mama’s bare feet, covered in mud. We started laughing. It felt good.

“Before you go bragging around town, turning me into Himmarshee’s Heroic Gator Gal, you should know a couple of things.’’ I held up a finger. “First, Ollie’s not nearly as big as those eleven or twelve-footers that have made the news. Those were some fearsome gators, taking three victims over a week’s span in different parts of the state.’’ I put up another finger. “Second, Ollie’s used to getting regular meals. If he was hungrier, he might have fought a lot harder.’’

Mama took my chin in her hands. “Don’t downplay what you did, Mace.’’ She pulled my face to hers and kissed me under my bangs. “You saved my life.’’

Tears sprang to my eyes. I rested my head on her shoulder as we sat on the bank.

“Now,’’ she patted my arm, signaling the moment was over. “Let’s get the heck out of this death pit.’’

___

Pond water squished in my boots as we made our way across the clearing, back toward the park office. Mama’s polyester pantsuit stuck to her like honeydew-green plastic wrap. It wasn’t even eight-thirty, and already the sunlight was turning white, blinding. It was going to be a scorcher, which isn’t exactly a news flash in middle Florida in September.

Birds sang. Butterflies stirred. We were about halfway across the field when a man’s voice punctured the happy bubble we’d been floating in since surviving an attempted murder and an alligator encounter.

“You two aren’t going anywhere.’’ The accent was flat. Midwestern.

Mama grabbed my hand and slowly we turned.

Bob Dixon stared at us with the deadest eyes I’d ever seen. His hand was steady on his .38.

“I should have known better than to send a woman to do a man’s job. Emma Jean is just like all of you.’’ Pastor Bob sneered at us. “Can’t be trusted.’’

Delilah’s confession about cheating on him ran through my mind.

“Every marriage has its ups and downs,’’ Mama said, echoing my thought. “You’ve committed murder and caused a lot of heartache. Have you done it all because Delilah strayed?’’

The minister blotted sweat from his neck with a white handkerchief. Then he laughed out loud, showing us his teeth. “I don’t care a fig about that fat sow. None of this was about my wife—or even about Emma Jean, though I was banging her.’’

Mama blinked in disbelief at his crude language.

“It was about money, plain and simple.’’ He shrugged and sopped again. “Jim Albert had a lot, and I wanted some. I’m not cut out to be a poor pastor in a Podunk town.’’

“But you’re a man of God,’’ Mama protested.

“Yeah, that was a mistake.’’ He picked his teeth with a pinky nail. “I’d watched some of those big-time TV evangelists get rich. Thought it could be my path, too. I tried making the DVDs; thought they’d sell a million. But they didn’t. And I didn’t want to wait.’’

“I don’t understand,’’ I said. “Who killed Jim Albert? You or Emma Jean?’’

“I don’t suppose it matters now. You’ll both be dead soon.’’ Sweat stains darkened his light blue dress shirt. He tented the wet fabric off his chest, trying to find a nonexistent breeze. “I told Emma Jean all she had to do was set up her boyfriend so the two of us could take his money and run off together. I knew all along we’d have to kill him, though. Jim Albert wasn’t the type to forgive being robbed. I figured Emma Jean was so crazy about me, I could convince her to do it. But when it came right down to it, I had to kill him. She lost her nerve.’’

Mama said, “And she lost it again when it came time to kill me.’’

I wasn’t so sure about that. If Emma Jean could have fired Paw-Paw’s gun, I’d be grieving over Mama’s dead body.

“There’s a reason women are called the weaker sex,’’ he said.

If he wasn’t holding that revolver, I might have quibbled. I probably had five inches and twenty-five pounds of muscle on the pencil-necked reverend.

I tried to reason: “Listen, you’ve got Jim Albert’s money and the hurricane cash. You can lock us in the supply shed and just go. By the time we’re found, you’ll be long gone.’’

“Great plan. And I did intend to go, until I saw that some idiot in a Volkswagen pulled behind the truck and blocked me in.’’

The sun was melting the gel in his hair. He dabbed as a glob slid down his brow.

“I thought that truck was Emma Jean’s,’’ I said.

“It is. I rode over here with her and your mother. I was in the back of the cab the whole time, crouched behind the seat under a blanket.’’ He spoke to Mama. “It was hot and I had to listen to you yammer the whole way. You talk too much.’’

She pulled herself to her full stature—four foot eleven inches. “There’s absolutely no call for you to be insulting.’’

Heaven forbid he’d insult us, I thought. Kill us, maybe—but not insult us first.

“I’ll give you the keys to the Volkswagen,’’ I said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take them. Just like I took your mother’s extra set from her neighbors when I needed to dump Jim’s body. Too bad for you Alice and Ronnie aren’t more suspicious.’’

He wiped at his neck again. He was unused to the Florida heat, which was taking its toll.

“I’ll have to shoot you first, of course. You should have paid attention to those notes and backed off. Curiosity killed the cat, you know.’’

“But we had no idea,’’ Mama said, her hand fluttering to her throat.

“It was only a matter of time until you linked me to Emma Jean, and then both of us to Jim Albert. Emma Jean was this close to confessing the whole plan to you on the phone, Mace.’’ He held his left thumb and forefinger apart a fraction of an inch. “I cajoled and sweet-talked and convinced her to fake her own disappearance in the swamp instead.’’

He examined his hanky, looking for a dry spot. I took the opportunity to scan the ground for anything to get us out of this mess—a big rock, a sharp stick, even a snake sunning itself. I know how people are about snakes. Tossing him a serpent might spook him and let us get away.

When I looked up again, black rivulets ran down the pastor’s forehead from his hairline. He obviously washed away his gray. He closed his eyelids, patting gently at the stinging dye.

Continuing my survey, I finally spotted something in the tall grass: Paw-Paw’s gun. Emma Jean must have tossed it as she ran. It was ten feet away, on my left. I gripped Mama’s hand tighter. Cocking my head ever so slightly over my left shoulder, I whispered. “Bang.’’

She looked and shook her head once, a nearly imperceptible No. I answered with a tiny nod of my own. Yes.

“We all have to do what we have to do, Pastor Bob.’’ I addressed him, but the message was for Mama.

Nodding at me, she squeezed my hand and closed her eyes. Her lips moved in a silent prayer. I joined her, a little rusty, asking God for strength and guidance.

Suddenly, a distant shout shattered the park’s quiet.

“Police! Get down on the ground, Emma Jean.’’ It was Detective Carlos Martinez. “Get down!’’

Bob Dixon spun toward the command coming from the far trees. Mama and I glanced at each other. Now or never. I ran, diving into the grass. Her leather-hard foot delivered a sharp kick to the reverend right where it counted. I bolted up from the ground, aiming the antique gun. Pastor Bob dropped his weapon and doubled over, cupping his crotch with both hands.

I whistled, loud enough to call a cab south from New York City. “Over here,’’ I yelled. “I’ve got Emma Jean’s accomplice at the business end of a shotgun.’’

“I was watching before.’’ The reverend spit out the words between painful breaths. “I saw it jam. It won’t fire.’’

“You don’t want to test that,’’ I said, lowering the barrel from his heart to his groin. “This old gun is just like a woman. You have to know how to handle it right.’’

Martinez came crashing from the woods, pistol raised. His face lit with relief as he took in the scene: Mama and me, still dripping, but safe. Pastor Bob, cradling his family jewels. And my granddaddy’s shotgun, aimed and ready to do more damage if need be.

I heard the distant sound of police sirens. My eyes flickered to Martinez for a moment, just long enough to see the hint of a smile steal across his face.

“Rosie!” A bellow like an escaped bear from the Bronx zoo thundered from the woods. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m here now.’’

The expression on Sal’s face was priceless as he lumbered into the clearing. His weapon was ready. But the bad guys were already in handcuffs, on the ground.

“Looks like your backup is a little late,’’ I said to Martinez.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, chica.’’ His face was a mask.

“C’mon, it’s over now. You can admit it. Sal’s a cop, too, isn’t he?”

“Retired,’’ Sal said, holstering his weapon. His face was as pink as his golf shirt from jogging over to us in the heat. “Thirty years, New York City Police Department.’’

He leaned down to kiss my mother. “How’d you know, Mace?’’

“Well, there was the way you spoke about Detective Martinez and the police. You were awfully admiring, for a mobster. Then you called the rest of us ‘civilians,’ like cops always do. I put it together just now, seeing the way you ran over with your revolver drawn.’’ I nodded toward Martinez. “He wasn’t at all surprised, so he must have been expecting you.’’

“I’m sorry,’’ Sal said. “I couldn’t talk about it. When I was on the job, I was undercover. Jimmy Albrizio, a.k.a. Albert, was a link to one of my last cases.’’ His eyes scanned the tree line, like he was searching for something there. “A good friend, my first partner on the force, died trying to protect that weasel so he could testify in court.’’ His face got hard. Mama reached up on her tiptoes to stroke his cheek.

“When Albrizio moved south, I followed. I hoped he’d lead me to the people who killed my buddy.’’

Martinez said, “Sal’s cover was convincing. Even I thought at first he was linked to the mob and Albrizio’s murder.’’

“When you found out otherwise, y’all became cigar-puffing pals,’’ I said.

“You got that right.’’ Sal clapped Martinez on the back, man-to-man. “And now, we’d better worry about getting these two booked.’’

The two young officers who’d arrived after Martinez seemed uncertain about what to do next. Emma Jean was sobbing softly on the ground. Bob Dixon looked like he’d kill any one of us if given the chance.

“Emma Jean will go in with them,’’ Martinez nodded toward the two cops. “I’ll be taking the good reverend in myself, along with the murder weapon, his .38.’’

Pastor Bob had clammed up as soon as Martinez arrived. Mama and I filled in the blanks, telling him what the minister had revealed to us.

I stole a glance at Emma Jean. Donnie Bailey’s words ran through my head: there’s hardly a woman in jail who doesn’t claim some man put her there. Poor, desperate Emma Jean. She’d wanted Dixon’s love so badly, she went along with his murderous plans to get it. I hoped my cousin Henry could refer her to a really sharp defense lawyer.

Sal handed over a cuffed Emma Jean to the two cops. Martinez hauled Pastor Bob to his feet. As our little group walked toward the entrance, two more squad cars came screaming into the park. A caravan of other vehicles trailed them, bump-bump-bumping over the bridge.

Donnie Bailey was in his brother’s white pickup, with Police Chief Johnson riding shotgun. The chief had apparently dressed quickly. Dabs of shaving cream dotted his face. Maddie drove her Volvo. Marty leaned forward in the front seat, clutching the dashboard so hard her knuckles were white. Mama’s neighbors, Ronnie and Alice, craned their necks from the back of a custom-colored purple Chevy. The driver was Betty Taylor, Mama’s beauty shop boss and fellow Abundant Hope worshipper. Betty’s towering bouffant scraped the plum-colored upholstery of the roof. Behind Betty, nearly all the other cars from the church breakfast were rolling in.

The Himmarshee hotline had been busy. The 911 call I made from the park office about Mama’s kidnapping had sent the country town telegraph into overdrive.

I glanced at my waterproof watch, still running after the dip in Ollie’s pond. It was 9:15, forty-five minutes before opening. I hoped my boss, Rhonda, wouldn’t be mad that Mama’s supporters had gotten in without paying the two-dollar park fee.

Martinez stared at the convoy, shaking his head. “And I thought the crowd was bad that first night at the police station.’’

“Yeah, life with Mama is a circus, and I’m the reluctant ringleader.’’ I leaned down to kiss her on the top of her patchy, platinum hairdo. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.’’

___

Two weeks later, Mama dragged my sisters and me to her church to hear Delilah give her first sermon. She stepped up after her husband’s downfall. She was pretty good, believe it or not.

“I have an announcement,’’ she told the congregation at the start of the service. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to change the name of our little church.’’

There was a low murmur from the metal chairs. I leaned around Mama to raise my eyebrows at Marty and Maddie.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since Bob’s arrest. About all the things that transpired, including my own behavior. I haven’t always been kind. And some of you may know I strayed in my marriage. I lost respect for my vows, which are supposed to be sacred.’’

Several men shifted in their seats. A few women picked that moment to search their purses for one thing or another.

Delilah continued. “A cornerstone of our faith is forgiveness. I need it. Some of you may need it, too. I propose we call our church Abundant Forgiveness, because that’s what I want to offer here. I intend to live my life that way. And I hope you will, too.’’

I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. “What do you say, Mace?’’ A whisper came from behind my right ear. “Do you think there’s enough forgiveness to go around?’’

I turned my head to see Jeb Ennis in the seat behind me, hat in his lap, hair soaked with sweat at his forehead and temples.

“I see that AC’s still broken in your truck,’’ I said softly.

“It is.’’ He flashed a nervous smile, looking like the shy choirboy he’d never been. “Can I talk to you outside for a few minutes?’’

As I slid out of our row, Maddie whipped her head around to see what was going on. Her harrumph followed Jeb and me all the way to the door.

Outside, Jeb put on his hat and hooked his thumbs into the front pockets of a clean pair of blue jeans. They were tight as ever. They still looked pretty darned good.

“I just wanted to make sure we’re okay, Mace.’’ His eyes searched my face. “I’m leaving for a while. I didn’t want to take off with hard feelings between us.’’

The knot in my throat surprised me. I really hoped I wouldn’t cry.

“We’re fine, Jeb. I already told you I’ve forgiven you for lying to me. And I hope you’ve forgiven me for suspecting you in Jim Albert’s murder.’’

He let me stand there and squirm for a moment before he answered. “You know, Mace, you could’ve just called me and asked about the windows in my truck that day at the park. Maybe you can understand how I wouldn’t have thought right off about rolling them down as I was pulling out, even though it was hot.’’

I fiddled with a loose thread on my sleeve. Truth is, I wouldn’t have believed any excuse from Jeb Ennis. I’d already tried and convicted the poor man in my head. When Jeb got no response, he continued.

“Maybe I was a little upset that afternoon, seein’ as how the girl I used to love—was startin’ to love again—had just pointed me out as a suspect to that smart-ass detective from Miamuh.’’