Текст книги "Mama Does Time"

Автор книги: Deborah Sharp

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

“I can’t really talk about the investigation.’’ He pressed his lips together like a crooked cop on the witness stand who’d just invoked the Fifth Amendment.

“That’s it?’’ I asked. “You can’t talk about it? That’s all you’re going to say?’’

“I wish I could say more. I really do.’’

I started counting, but only made it to two.

“Maybe Chief Johnson will be more forthcoming when I share with him that I saw you chumming around with a murder suspect,’’ I snapped. “What do you think he’ll say about that?’’

His big brown eyes filled with disappointment. “Do whatever you have to do, Ms. Bauer. I will say this: the situation with Sal Provenza is a very delicate one. You going around spreading tales when you don’t understand what you’re talking about could compromise the investigation into Jimmy Albrizio’s murder. You’re not Agatha Christie, you know. The last thing the police need is some half-cocked civilian, meddling in crucial matters and trying to solve the Big Case.’’

My hands squeezed the steering wheel. My knuckles were white. This man had a way of getting on my last nerve. “I get your point, Detective. You don’t have to insult me while you’re at it.’’ I turned the key. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take my dumb civilian self home and get some rest.’’

The car stalled. So much for a dramatic exit. I pumped the gas again. It finally started on the fourth try.

“Good night.’’ I raised my chin and stared straight ahead, trying to appear as dignified as possible for a woman who was driving the Little Engine That Couldn’t.

I glanced into the rearview mirror as I pulled out of the police lot. Martinez was leaning against his car, puffing away on that stupid cigar and watching me disappear.

___

As the VW rattled down the dirt drive that leads to my cottage, the outline of three masked bandits flashed in the headlights.

I cursed. “Stupid raccoons!’’

The creatures seemed to be struggling to get the tops off my garbage cans. A smart-ass detective from Miami might put me in my place. But, by God, I’d shown those raccoons. I’m not an experienced animal trapper for nothing. My garbage was trussed up tighter than Fort Knox. The lids on top of the cans were snapped down; bungee cords secured the tops to the handles.

I was feeling pretty good, until I got a little closer and saw the ’coons had busted the vault. They were picnicking on leftover chicken and cantaloupe. The biggest one looked as pleased as a fat man at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

I flashed the brights and blew the horn. They just looked up and blinked. Most of my country neighbors would have simply shot the varmints. But I’m soft about animals. I parked the car, headed to my shed, and picked out a rake. Then I turned the hose on them, holding the rake ready in case they ran at me instead of into the woods. As they scampered away, I swear that biggest one aimed a look out of Terminator at me over his shoulder.

I’ll be back.

“Just try it, you little bastard,’’ I yelled.

Hump-backed, they loped toward the line of cypress trees and Sabal palms that mark the edge of my property. “I’m getting out the smelly stuff,’’ I shouted after them. “We’ll see how y’all like it when you come sniffing around for dinner and the stench of laundry bleach knocks you over instead!’’

So this is what I’d descended to: a crazy woman living alone in the woods, warring with raccoons. I grabbed my purse from the car, tossed a tarp over the seats in case of rain, and headed for my cypress-wood cottage.

From the front porch, I took a moment to appreciate what I love about living so far out. The stars lit the black sky. Cattle lowed in a distant pasture. The scent of orange blossoms from a grove hung in the air. There was also a whiff of manure, fortunately faint, from the Big Lake Dairy. It had drifted over Highway 98 and across the marshes of Taylor Slough, traveling west on a slight breeze.

Inside, the gator jaws gaped on my coffee table, waiting for my keys. The answering machine light blinked. I wanted to ignore it and hit the sack instead. But given all the recent crazy events, I figured I’d better not.

You have one message, an electronic voice intoned. First message.

“Mace, honey? It’s your mama.’’

Like I couldn’t tell. I started sorting mail as she carried on her conversation with my machine.

“You will never believe who called me up here after y’all left. None other than Pastor Bob Dixon, from church. Abundant Hope, that is.’’

Like there’s another Pastor Bob.

“I may have been wrong about him, Mace. He seemed awful sweet on the phone. He went on and on about how Delilah told him you’d come to church with me, and how nice that was. Said it sure would be wonderful if you’d come more often.’’

Nice try, Mama.

“Anyway, he said the real reason he called is he wants to talk to me about Emma Jean. I told him we were really more acquaintances than friends. But he told me that didn’t matter; she needs a friend right now. Pastor Bob said I should stop by the church sometime tomorrow to see him and Delilah. They’re hatching a plan to see if we can’t get poor Emma Jean some help.’’

I kicked off my boots, opened the refrigerator, and got a beer. If Mama had a point, I may as well get comfortable while I waited for her to find it.

“After she threw that fit at church, he said it’s obvious she’s hurting. I never would have believed it of Emma Jean, Mace. But with all that’s happened in her life, it seems like she’s gone plumb crazy. First, her little boy disappeared, like I told y’all. Then she finds out Jim was cheating. And now he gets killed.’’

Thirty seconds remaining.

“Well! These machines sure don’t give you much time, do they? Anyway, I was wondering whether you’d run me by church in the mornin’, about 8:30? I’d ask Maddie, but she has a sixth-grade assembly. And Marty will still be feeling poorly. I worry about her so much with those awful headaches, Mace. And now she’s got the responsibilities of that new job. What do you suppose we can do about her migraines, Mace? Anyway, I’d sure appreciate the ride. I wish you’d wear that sweet Kelly green blouse with the bow at the neck. You look so …’’

Beep. End of message.

I look so … so … what? So much like the wife of the Jolly Green Giant in a ruffled collar? So much like a leprechaun on growth hormones?

I knew how poor Teensy must feel, having to suffer the humiliation of Mama dressing him in a yellow slicker when it rains and a reindeer sweater at Christmas. He even has a tiny set of antlers to match the sweater. Fortunately, I get to choose my own clothes. The Kelly green horror would stay at the back of my closet, where it belongs.

Finally, I was able to peel off the jeans I’d been wearing for what seemed like a week. I dropped them on the floor, changed into my PJs and fluffed the pillows on my bed. Suddenly, the phone shrilled, sending my stomach somersaulting around the burger and fries and ice cream.

In a country town like Himmarshee, people turn in early. When the phone rings past midnight, the news is never good.

The caller was a woman, her shaky voice so soft I could hardly hear it.

“Mace? I’m awful sorry to call so late.’’

My heart thrummed. “Is my mama okay? Has anything happened to my sisters?’’

“Oh, honey, I’m sorry I scared you.’’ She took a long breath. “They’re all fine, so far as I know. This isn’t about anybody but me.’’

The acrobats in my gut took a break. The bass drum in my chest slowed to a normal beat. I waited, trying to let her proceed at her own pace. She was clearly in distress. But my compassion extends only so far at 12:44 am.

Then I heard a familiar wail.

“Hey there, Emma Jean.’’ I raised my voice to compete. “Don’t cry now. It’s going to be all right.’’

“I didn’t … sob … know who else … sob … to call, Mace. Your mama always talks about how smart you are. I liked the way you handled yourself at the police department. Not too bossy, like your older sister. And not too much of a scaredy cat, like that younger one.’’ Emma Jean paused to blow her nose. “I need someone with a good head on her shoulders to tell me what to do.’’

I gazed with longing at my fluffy pillows. They looked like two white clouds that had floated down from heaven to carry me off to a blessed sleep. On the other hand, we all wanted to know what the hell was up with Emma Jean.

“How can I help?’’ I sat at the foot of the bed, turning my back on the pillows.

“Mace, I found out who was cheating with Jim.’’

I sat up straight, sleep forgotten. “Who?’’

“I don’t want to say over the phone. You never know who might be listening in.’’ No sobs now; not even a sniffle. “I couldn’t sleep, as you can imagine. I’m out driving around. I know this is a big favor, but I really need to talk this out with someone, Mace. I saw on Oprah that when something is bothering you, you need to get it out in the open. You need to confront it, or it’ll fester.’’

“That’s good advice, Emma Jean, depending on what you mean by confronting.’’ I thought of the ruckus at the church. Her threat of doing harm to the Other Woman. “If you could say who’s involved, it’ll help me know how to handle this.’’

She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Not on the phone, Mace. Please.’’

It seemed pretty paranoid, but I didn’t want to upset her. I remembered that tire iron.

As if she’d read my thoughts, Emma Jean said, “I know I made a fool of myself at Abundant Hope. I need somebody smart like you to tell me how to go about settling things. I’m out on Highway 98 now, only a few minutes away from the old Raulerson cottage. Your mama told me you bought that old ruin, and fixed it up real nice.’’

I looked at the clock. It was 12:51. No, 12:52. What the hell? I’d sleep tomorrow night.

“C’mon over. I’ll put on a pot of herbal tea.’’

Tossing a robe over my pajamas, I went into the kitchen. I lit a couple of Mama’s carnation candles. The water boiled, and I poured it into a pot over three chamomile teabags. After choosing some pretty flowered cups, I set out two spoons and a plastic bear full of honey. By the time I’d washed up a few dishes, read the headlines in the Himmarshee Times, and turned on the TV, I began to wonder what was keeping Emma Jean.

I’m too cheap to pay the phone company an extra monthly fee for caller ID. But I can usually discover the last number that called me by punching in star-69 on my phone’s keypad.

The display panel flashed: Number Unavailable.

I cursed the fact there’d be a charge for the service, even though it failed to retrieve Emma Jean’s cell number. Then I reminded myself to stop being a petty cheapskate. A fellow woman was in crisis, after all. And it was only ninety-five cents.

Clicking channels on the remote, I found an ancient rerun of The Andy Griffith Show. Sheriff Taylor was teaching some kind of life lesson to his boy, Opie. Deputy Barney Fife was wreaking havoc on an otherwise peaceful Mayberry.

And that’s the last thing I remember, until my alarm went off from the next room at 7:30 am.

The sun streamed through the living room window. The glare bounced off one of the gator’s teeth, hitting me dead in the eye. I lifted my head from the couch, which was wet where I drooled in my sleep. The TV blared. One candle flickered, weakly. The other was burned out.

And Emma Jean Valentine was nowhere in sight.

___

I microwaved the leftover chamomile tea. No sense in wasting it. Along with a sliced banana between two pieces of buttered wheat toast, that was my breakfast. After last night’s pig-out, I wanted to get something wholesome down my gullet for a change.

Within fifteen minutes, I showered, dressed, and was out the door. My second cup of honeyed tea was still steaming when I shook the rain puddles off the VW’s tarp, and headed for Mama’s house.

On the way out, I saw the aftermath of the raccoon fiesta. It was worse than I thought. My yard looked like the picnic grounds at Himmarshee Park after the Fourth of July: beer bottles, paper scraps, and chicken bones gnawed clean. I’d clean up after work.

The VW bounced under a canopy of live oaks. The air smelled clean from the rain. The downpour had revived the resurrection ferns that grow on the trees’ branches, turning them from dull brown to deep green.

No sooner had I pulled onto Highway 98 than my cell phone started to ring. It was in my purse, which was on the floor. Of course. Bracing the steering wheel between my knees, I placed the mug of tea on the dashboard’s least perilous spot and reached for the phone with my free hand. Thank God there was no other traffic on the highway.

“Hey, Mace. I’ve got some interesting news for you.’’

At a bump in the road, the tea started to topple. To rescue it, I had to drop the phone. I played it safe and dumped the rest of the hot chamomile out the window.

“I’m sorry,’’ I said, jamming the phone back to my ear. “Who is this?’’

“Donnie Bailey. From the jail?’’

I flashed on a massive chest and manly mustache.

“Of course, Donnie. How are you?’’

“Pretty good. I hope you don’t mind me calling you on your cell. When your mama stayed with us, she listed you as her emergency contact. She gave us both your home and cell numbers.’’

I dabbed with a napkin from my purse at a small puddle of herbal tea on the dashboard. “Did you say something about news, Donnie?’’ I was an advertisement for dangerous distractions behind the wheel.

“I thought you might want to know you were right.’’

“About?’’

“The other night on the road, when you said there was another car there? You were right and I was wrong. I owe you an apology. I just saw the report.’’

Now Donnie had my full attention. Driving was on automatic pilot. The road to Mama’s rolled past, nearly unnoticed.

“They found a second set of tire imprints where your car went off the road, Mace. Both tracks veered off the pavement onto the shoulder. Yours kept going, on into that ditch. But the other vehicle steered back onto the roadway. The investigator took a bunch of black-and-white pictures and made an impression with casting powder.’’

“What’s that?’’

“It’s kind of like pancake batter, except you’d never want to eat it. You pour it into the track, it gets real hard, and then you can lift it out. You can use the impression to compare to the bad guy’s tire. That’s the good news. The bad news is you have to find the bad guy’s car first, so you can compare.’’

“Can they tell what kind of tire it is?’’

“The impression wasn’t the greatest. They know the tread was worn, and it’s a big tire, like for a pickup.’’

“Great. That means it could have been just about anybody in Himmarshee. Trucks are as common here as taxicabs in New York. Everybody’s got one; or knows someone who does.’’

“Guilty as charged, Mace.’’ Donnie laughed. “I’ve got a brother drives a pickup.’’

“See? That’s my point.’’

“That’s not all, Mace. They couldn’t find any usable paint chip evidence, either. The other driver must have just tapped that spare tire that sticks out where it’s mounted on the back of your Jeep. It would have been better if they’d really hit you hard, painted metal to metal. That would have left behind something to analyze.’’

I remembered my terror on that dark road; the black water swirling around my legs. All that from a tap.

“Yeah, well, a harder impact might have made me flip. And we probably wouldn’t be having this talk right now.’’

“Oh, Mace … I’m … I’m … sorry.’’ Donnie was flustered. “I sure didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Of course it’s better that you’re alive.’’

“That’s all right, Donnie.’’ I thought of babysitting him. Teary eyes on the floor, he’d stammered out an apology for breaking his mama’s vase. “I know what you meant.’’

I was approaching Himmarshee. I’d been so intent on talking to Donnie, I could barely remember getting there. Luckily, it wasn’t an auction day, when the traffic on the highway would be busier.

“Listen, I better get off the phone. You being in law enforcement, I’d hate to tell you how little attention I’ve paid to my driving this morning.’’

Donnie chuckled. “You’re not the only one, Mace. Have you seen all the things people do in their cars these days? I saw a girl yesterday with a hamburger in one hand, putting on her mascara with the other.’’

“Did you bust her?’’

“Nah. She poked herself in the eye and dropped the hamburger in her lap when she saw me in my uniform. Nobody pays attention to the road anymore, Mace.’’

Donnie was right about that. And, on this morning at least, that wasn’t a good thing.

Mama stood on the walkway in front of her house, tapping her foot and staring at her watch. The color of the day was yellow, from the chiffon scarf around her neck to the sling-back sandals on her feet. Standing in the bright morning sun, she looked like a four-foot-eleven-inch lemon slush. Her white puff of platinum hair could have been a straw, peeking out over the rim of the slushy cup.

Teensy was barking, spinning like a circus dog, on the other side of her living room window. Mama turned to blow him a final kiss, and rushed to the car. “I thought you’d never get here, Mace.’’

I looked at my watch. “Mama, it’s only twenty-five minutes after eight. I’m early.’’

Settling into the seat, she glanced again at her wrist. “So you are, Mace. I’m sorry. I’m as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I barely know Pastor Bob. I can’t imagine why he’d call me for this meeting about Emma Jean.’’

I told her about my own strange call.

“She never even bothered to show up, Mama, after calling past midnight.’’

“That’s nice, honey.’’ She turned the rearview mirror to apply more lipstick. Fishing a tissue from her purse, she blotted. “Now, what do you suppose Pastor Bob is going to want me to do about Emma Jean?’’

“I have no earthly idea,’’ I said sharply. “And there’s no sense in worrying about it now. Why don’t you wait the five minutes it’ll take us to drive over? Then you can ask him yourself.’’

She aimed a glare at me. “You know, little Missy, you’re not too old to spank. No one likes a girl with a smart mouth.’’

I punched on the radio. They’d just started a news break. We arrived at Abundant Hope before they’d even finished the weather. Temperatures in the nineties. Afternoon thundershowers. Not exactly news in central Florida in September. Still, it was the height of hurricane season, and the northern edge of the county was still recovering from a relatively weak storm in June. So the fact nothing new was gathering strength in the tropics was a hopeful sign.

Someone peered out of the mini-blinds of the storefront church’s window, following our progress into the parking space. All I could see were heavy eyebrows and dark eyes. Within moments, Pastor Bob opened the front door and walked out to greet us. His eyebrows needed a trim, but his smile was as blinding as a Hollywood actor’s. And just about as authentic. The work in his mouth had surely financed a brand-new luxury car for some dentist somewhere.

The pastor raised his hands skyward. “Isn’t this a beautiful morning, ladies? It’s a gift from God.’’

Not to be sacrilegious, but if God had asked me what kind of day to send, I’d have requested a break from the summer swelter. It wasn’t even nine o’clock, and already the sun was baking the VW’s roofless interior. The temperature on the Big Lake Bank sign read 94 degrees. We peeled ourselves off the sticky car seats and joined Pastor Bob on the sidewalk.

He escorted us through the entrance, by the card table of DVDs, and past folding chairs now stacked against scuffed walls. When we came to a small office to the side of the pulpit, he motioned us into two steel-frame chairs, thinly upholstered in a black, scratchy fabric. Then he took his seat behind a tidy desk, his small frame nearly disappearing in a leather chair befitting the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. He leaned toward us, elbows on the desk, and straightened the monogrammed cuffs on his powder blue dress shirt.

“Now,’’ he said, showing us a mouthful of teeth, “what can I do for you this morning?’’

Mama and I looked at each other. Maybe he had us confused with a mother-daughter counseling appointment. Not that we couldn’t use it.

“We’re here about Emma Jean,’’ Mama said. “You called and asked me to come by?’’

“Oh, my goodness gracious! Rosalee! I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting you to bring someone else along.’’

“This is Mace, my middle daughter.’’

I nodded hello as I tried to place his accent. Flat, Midwestern, a bit nasal. Ohio, maybe, or Illinois.

“You’ll have to forgive me, ladies. Last night was such a muddle. And I’m still having a bit of trouble placing everyone in the congregation.’’

Mama smiled sweetly and said, “Perhaps you should ask your lovely wife for help. Delilah seems to know all the lambs in your flock quite well.’’

I pinched her on the leg to stop her from being catty. She pinched me back.

“By the way,’’ Mama continued, “where is Delilah? I was expecting her.’’

Pastor Bob pressed his lips together. He started fidgeting with one of his silver cufflinks. His eyes did a quick scan of his desktop. Then he looked at the ceiling, like maybe his wife was hanging up there behind the fluorescent light. Before he got up and lifted the Persian rug to look, I figured I should say something.

“My mother’s just asking because we spoke to her last night before all the trouble started. And then the two of you seemed to work together as a team, the way y’all got Emma Jean quieted down and hustled out the door. We’re a little surprised Delilah’s not here, too.’’

He leaned back and turned his fingers into a steeple, which he rested against his chest. “Well, it’s always something when you’re a minister’s wife,’’ he said. “She was called away suddenly. A member of the church has taken ill.’’

“Really?’’ Mama asked. “Who?’’

“You’ve got me there, Mrs. Deveraux.’’ He showed his teeth again. I thought of fairy tales and wolves. “I’m just awful with names. But even so, it’s a confidential matter. I’m sure you’d appreciate the same treatment if you came to us about a health issue or for counseling.’’

Mama looped her wrist through the strap of her purse and set it squarely on her lap. “I’m not much for counseling.’’ She held onto the purse with both hands, like she was afraid Pastor Bob might ask her to pony up for psychotherapy.

“Well, people seem to want that kind of thing these days. I’m going to offer another DVD: Ending Emotional Pain with Pastor Bob. What do you think, Mace?’’

I thought he wasn’t setting any sales records with his first DVD. The only time I saw them move was when Emma Jean stumbled into the display table.

“I don’t know much about marketing,’’ I answered.

He flushed. “ ‘Marketing’ sounds so crass. I’m talking about helping people.’’

“In that case, why don’t we see how you can help in this situation?’’ I put my hand on Mama’s shoulder. “You may have heard my mother was briefly detained in connection to the murder of Emma Jean’s boyfriend. We’ve been trying to find out who really killed him. But somebody doesn’t seem to want us to do that. Some strange things have been happening.’’

I filled him in on the stuffed dog and the warning note. I mentioned there’d been another threat, but kept things vague since we still hadn’t told Mama about my narrow escape on the highway. She thought my Jeep was just in the shop—again. I summed up Emma Jean’s behavior.

“You both know her. Do you think Emma Jean could be behind any of this?’’ I asked.

The minister tapped together his fingers. Mama picked at a piece of lint on her pantsuit.

“Is she violent?’’

Pastor Bob said, “She did look awfully comfortable with that tire iron.’’

Mama scowled at him. “Well, I don’t believe it.’’ She shook her head. “I think what Emma Jean needs right now is some proper Christian charity, not condemnation.’’

“I’m perfectly willing to render that charity, if only I could find her, Rosalee.’’ More teeth. “Delilah and I called several times after services last night, and again this morning. We didn’t reach her. I was hoping you had.’’

That’s when I repeated what I’d said in the car about Emma Jean calling, but not showing up. This time, I had Mama’s complete attention.

___

A half hour later, we’d about exhausted the topic of Emma Jean’s troubles. Sitting on that itchy black chair in the pastor’s office, my mind started to wander to work and the day ahead. I needed to stop at the poultry plant and buy a dozen whole chickens for Ollie. That alligator was about to eat up the annual operating budget for Himmarshee Park.

I shifted my wrist to get a look at my watch. Pastor Bob caught me. He must get a lot of practice at that from the pulpit. Clearing his throat, he stretched his toes to the floor and pushed back the leather chair.

“Ladies, it’s been a pleasure speaking to you both. I only wish the circumstances were better. I’m praying for Emma Jean. I hope you are, too.’’

He seemed to stare extra hard at my lapsed self as he said that. It was my turn to look down at his desk.

He walked around and enfolded Mama’s right hand in both of his. “Don’t worry, Rosalee. When we find Emma Jean, we’re going to take care of her. The Bible tells us to help up a companion who falls.’’ He pulled Mama up from her chair, acting out the verse.

“Woe to him who is alone when he falls and doesn’t have another to lift him up. Ecclesiastes 4:10,’’ he recited.

He turned to me. “You’re certainly a good daughter, a companion for your mother.’’

Placing one of his boy-sized hands on my shoulder, he gazed at me. His green eyes were piercing, especially against those white teeth. His hand lay there so long, I started feeling uncomfortable. His clammy fingers wriggled. I shifted my shoulder, trying to get out from under what felt like a flopping catfish. Then, just before he removed his hand, he kneaded the bare skin on my upper arm like it was dough and he was a baker.

Could I have imagined it? I searched his eyes, and saw the slightest flicker. “C’mon, baby. I’m ready if you are,’’ it said.

Ewww.

Grabbing Mama’s elbow, I moved her as a barrier between Pastor Bob and me. I backed out the door of his office and into the church.

“PleaseCallMamaIfYouHearAnythingAboutEmmaJean,’’ I said, the words squirming out like tadpoles in a creek. “We’veGottaGo.INeedToGetToWork.’’

I rushed Mama past plastic lilies and pulpit, across dark blue carpet and out the door.

“My stars and garters …” she protested as I pushed her onto the sidewalk. “What in the world?’’

“Don’t ask questions, Mama. Just get in the car.’’

Pastor Bob stood in the church’s front window. He pulled open the blinds, watching us go. He looked just like Ollie the alligator– right before I toss a raw chicken into his waiting jaws.

Mama’s head swiveled like a one-eyed dog in a butcher shop.

I was telling her all about Pastor Bob’s stroking and come-hither stare. She’d look at me for a second, then snap her head toward Abundant Hope, disappearing in the distance behind us. Me, the church. The church, me. I think she expected the minister to jump in his car and chase me down for some nookie-nookie.

“Well, I never!’’ Mama’s lips formed a disapproving line. “That is just about the awfulest thing I ever heard, Mace. I knew there was something off about that man. He’s a predator in pastor’s clothing, plain and simple.’’

“Oh, c’mon, Mama.’’ I laughed a little at how naïve she seemed. “It’s not the end of the world. He thought he saw the chance for a little somethin’ on the side, and he decided to go for it. He’s not the first man to do it. He won’t be the last.’’

Once I’d put a few blocks between me and the lecherous Pastor Bob, I eased off the gas. Unclenching the grip she’d had on the window crank, Mama snapped her seat belt shut.

“He’s not just a man, Mace.’’ Her face was as serious as a sermon. “He’s a man of God. There’s supposed to be a difference.’’

“Tell that to Jim Bakker and Jimmy Swaggart. I seem to remember they were famous ministers, and they had a little trouble with the ladies, too.’’

She ran a hand through her hair. I imagined stray strands scattering in the wind. “That’s not fair, Mace. Those scandals happened a long time ago. And the majority of religious men are good, righteous leaders. They’re not out to jump the bones of anything that moves.’’

“Thanks for the compliment, Mama. Maybe my knockout looks and sex appeal tempted that poor pastor, just this once. Did you ever think about that?’’

She took a long look at me: sleeveless collared shirt in park-department green; shapeless matching trousers in olive drab. I wore heavy-soled black boots, laced up past my ankles. No lipstick or blush. No perfume, either. The park’s animals don’t like it, and it draws mosquitoes.

“Honey, I love you to death.’’ Mama put her palm on my cheek. “You can be an awful pretty girl, when you try. But let’s face facts. You’re no Marty.’’

Mama had a point. My little sister draws men like flies. Usually, I just draw the flies.

Mama put her hand over mine on the stick shift and patted. “I feel guilty, Mace. If I hadn’t dragged you to church, you wouldn’t have had to put up with that awful man attacking you. Just disgusting, that’s what he is. And how about those DVDs? It’s not right for a pastor to be so intent on selling himself.’’

I turned on the radio. Another weather report. Still hot.

“Maybe he wants to be a celebrity, like everybody else in America,’’ I said. “And he didn’t really attack me, Mama. Honest. It was no big deal. We’ll tell my sisters, and it’ll give us something to laugh about. Lord knows we haven’t had too many laughs these last few days.’’

“I like that idea, Mace.’’ Another pat to my hand. “Now, I’ve already put you out more than enough this morning. Why don’t you let me out of the car, up there at the corner? Right there by the pawn shop and your cousin Henry’s law office. I can walk the rest of the way to the beauty shop.’’

I glanced down at her sandals with their three-inch heels. My feet felt sore just looking at them.

“That’s four blocks, at least. You are not walking to work in those shoes, Mama.’’

“It’s okay. I don’t want to put you out.’’

I rolled my eyes at her. “Mama, asking me to drive a hundred and seventy-four miles, round-trip, to the airport in West Palm Beach to pick up a relative I barely know is ‘putting me out.’ Dropping you off at Hair Today on my way to work is not. Still, I don’t know why you insist on wearing heels. It’s not like people don’t already know you’re short.’’