Текст книги "Mama Rides Shotgun"

Автор книги: Deborah Sharp

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Mama Rides Shotgun: A Mace Bauer Mystery © 2009 by Deborah Sharp.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition ©2010

E-book ISBN: 978-07387-2142-2

Book design and format by Donna Burch

Cover design by Lisa Novak

Cover illustration © Mark Gerber

Editing by Connie Hill

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Midnight Ink

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Manufactured in the United States of America

To my brother Kevin Sharp . . . gone too soon, just like Daddy. With strong hearts in heaven, I hope

they’re knocking those baseballs out of the park.

“Why don’t you move over a little so that setting sun hits your hair, Mace? You look so pretty when it sparkles like that.’’

Mama grabbed my chin, cranking it in a westward direction like I was a baby doll with a pop-off head. I’d been savoring the moment, gazing upon a still pristine stretch of our once vast central Florida prairie.

“Quit,’’ I snapped at her, jerking my chin away. Val, the horse I’d borrowed for the annual Florida Cracker Trail Ride, shifted beneath me and shook her own head. Equine empathy, maybe. Val must have had a mother who drove her crazy, too.

“Well, you don’t need to get snippy.’’ Mama edged her horse a little closer and whispered. “I was just trying to present you in your most flattering light, darlin’.’’ She nodded significantly toward a weekend cowboy astride a big palomino, heading into the evening camp.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Mama!’’ I whispered back. “Can’t we spend any time at all together without you trying to find me a man?’’

I glanced at the cowboy. He was bald, twenty years older than me, and about a hundred pounds overweight. The gelding he was riding was plenty big. Still, the horse looked relieved the ride was stopping for the day so he could get a break.

Turning Val away from the long line of riders, I trotted toward a remote corner of ranch land I’d already chosen for our campsite. Mama spurred her horse to catch up, her mouth hooked downward in a pout.

“I don’t know why you’ve got us way out here in Siberia, Mace. There’s not a soul nearby for me to talk to.’’

“I like the quiet, Mama. And you can socialize up a storm at dinner. Besides, I thought this trip was all about the two of us bonding.’’

With Mama’s impending marriage just a few months away, it had been her idea to saddle up and hit the week-long camping and riding trip along the Cracker Trail. She drove me crazy about it until I finally caved in.

“We need us some bonding time, Mace,’’ she’d said. “We’re the last two single gals in the family.’’ I think there was even a tear in her eye.

I got all nostalgic about Florida’s early cattle-driving days, and how we’d traced the historic trail as a family when Daddy was alive. Insanely, I went along with Mama’s plan. My sisters, Marty and Maddie, couldn’t take a whole week off work. But they were going to drive the hour and a half from Himmarshee to the Atlantic coast. They’d meet us for the big parade in Fort Pierce, the end point for the hundred or so riders who make the cross-state trek.

If I made it that far without killing Mama, that is.

Combine her upcoming nuptials with the fact that my former flame moved back to Miami and out of my life, and Mama’s matchmaking compulsion had hit overdrive. We were only on day two of the six-day ride, and already she’d eyed every male she’d seen as my possible mate: from the pimply clerk at the mega-store, who bagged up our trail provisions, to the ride’s middle-aged cowboy poet, even after two of his girlfriends got into a scuffle near the stage last night. By this point, I was praying for an off-season hurricane that might force us to cancel the rest of the trip.

We’d just pulled up the horses to a tree line that marked our evening camp, when I suddenly felt Val’s muscular body tense beneath me. Her ears went up. A moment later, I heard the sound myself: Something was moving out there through the shadows of a dense oak hammock.

“Well, as I live and breathe.’’ A deep, booming voice. “If it isn’t the prettiest girl ever to grace the halls at Himmarshee High.’’

Mama’s hand flew to her hair, and she batted her lashes becomingly. I didn’t even bother to turn around. I’m not awful to look at: thirty-one; five-foot-ten; slender, well-muscled build. But Mama and I both know which one of us would be described as the prettiest girl ever at Himmarshee High. She’d been homecoming queen and head cheerleader. I’d received special permission to compete with the boys at bulldogging for the high school rodeo.

“Mace, honey, look who’s here. You’ve met Lawton Bramble before, haven’t you? Law and I were an item back in high school, a hundred years ago.’’

Given that the wedding in four months would be Mama’s fifth, I was surprised she could still keep all her “items’’ straight. Then again, you don’t forget a man like Lawton Bramble.

He sauntered out of the trees toward Mama and me. In expensive custom boots and worn Wrangler jeans, he was still gorgeous in his sixties; so tall he barely had to raise his head to look us in the eye on our horses.

“Whoo-eee! Aren’t you something, Mace,’’ Lawton said. “You turned out just as pretty as your mama.’’

I hoped I wasn’t blushing. I didn’t care much for the way Lawton treated his land, or for his politics or business practices. Gossip was he was cruel; but he was all charm today. Magnetism oozed off him like musk. And there was no ignoring the force of those blue eyes. No wonder everyone from the governor on down asked how high when Lawton said jump.

Mama patted the hand he’d placed on the horn of her saddle. “I’ve tried to tell Mace exactly the same thing about how pretty she is, Law. I mean, look at that hair: so thick and black. The girl at Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow says Mace looks just like a silent movie queen. But she doesn’t do a thing with what God gave her. She goes around looking like one of those critters she traps crawled up on her head and built itself a nest. Mace, honey, turn around so Law can see all those snarls in the back of your hair.’’

I shot Mama a murderous look.

“I’m not a heifer at auction!’’

Lawton rocked back a little and hunched his shoulders up to his ears. He might be rich and powerful, but this discourse on my poor grooming was turning him into the Shrinking Man.

“Mama, as much as I’m enjoying your hair-care tips,’’ I said, “I’m hungry. I want to get out of the saddle, get these horses taken care of, and get some grub.’’

Relief passed over Lawton’s face. He took off his hat and brushed a hand through hair that was steel-gray, but still thick. “That’s just what I came to tell y’all. I’ve got a cook site just over in that next clearing, and I’m making a batch of my famous Cow Hunter Chili. I’m gonna serve it at supper, so you better be hungry.’’

Mama’s hand fluttered up to cup the side of her face. It was the left hand, the one with the enormous diamond engagement ring from Sal Provenza.

“Oh, Law, my constitution is much too delicate for that five-alarm recipe of yours.’’

Truth is, Mama has a stomach like an iron-sided battleship. I’ve seen her down jalapeños whole on Mexican Fiesta Night at her church.

“But if your handsome son is going to be at supper,’’ Mama continued, “we’d sure like to stop by and say hello.’’

I noticed the slightest pressure at Lawton’s mouth. “Trey’s here.’’ He didn’t elaborate.

“How is that darlin’ boy?’’ Mama pressed ahead, her matchmaking obsession overriding her observational powers.

“Fine.’’ The set of Lawton’s mouth was grimmer than mine.

“You must be so proud of him. I heard he’s stepping into the family cattle business,’’ Mama plowed on, oblivious.

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Rosalee.’’

Mama finally caught on to Lawton’s cold tone of voice. Even in the dim light of the dying sun, I could see a muscle twitching in his clenched jaw. What had gone on between father and son?

“Oh . . . oh, my,’’ Mama sputtered. “I certainly didn’t mean . . .’’

Lawton cut her off with a smile. “Don’t worry your pretty head, Rosalee. It’s just family stuff. You know how families are.’’

“Don’t I ever,’’ I said.

“Anyway, I’ve gotta get back to my chili and ratchet up the spices. We’ll see y’all in a couple of hours, okay?’’

As Lawton left, Mama swung out of her saddle. I did the same. We worked silently for some time, putting up a temporary paddock; trading the horses’ bridles for halters, tethering them by lead ropes to the trailer. I’d just lifted off Val’s blanket and saddle, when Mama could stand the silence no longer.

“What do you think that was all about, Mace?’’ She whispered, though Lawton was well out of hearing range. “He turned as cold as a mother-in-law’s kiss, didn’t he? All I did was ask about Trey.’’

Lawton Bramble III—Trey—had been three years ahead of me in high school. Quarterback on the football team, straight-A student, the air of privilege that comes from being the son of the richest cattleman in three counties. He was exactly the kind of boy Mama would have loved for me to date. And exactly the kind who wouldn’t have given a second glance to a tomboy like me.

“Don’t ask me, Mama,’’ I shrugged, stowing Val’s saddle in the trailer. Predictably, Mama had made no move to finish with her horse. I lifted off Brandy’s saddle, too. “Just family I guess, like Lawton said.”

Dusk was coming on fast now. Crickets sang. A barred owl called. The air was crisp and chilled. The ride is held every year in February, when it can get cold in the center of Florida. But it rarely freezes. And most riders would rather bundle up with a couple of extra layers than camp along the Cracker Trail in the summer, when it’s so hot the hens are laying hard-boiled eggs.

By the time I watered and fed the horses, my own stomach was grumbling. I had to wait for Mama to decide what outfit to wear, then fix her hair and apply fresh makeup. Who brings mascara and blush-on to a trail ride? I glanced at my watch: More than two hours had passed since we spoke to Lawton. His chili would be spicy enough to peel paint by now.

Finally, we were ready to head over to the Bramble homestead. Several cattle-raising families along the trail generously opened their land each year to the trail riders. The cynic in me always figured that in Lawton’s case, he did it mostly so he could show off.

We started through the hammock, dodging low branches above and clumps of palmetto at our feet. A full moon was just beginning to peek above the clouds on the horizon, adding its glow to the flashlight I carried to find our way. Something small and wild scurried through the dry brush and leaves.

I held back a thorny vine so Mama could pass under. We came out of the oaks and onto a treeless pasture. Light shone from a lantern and campfire in the distance. Just as we started toward it, a woman’s scream stopped both of us short. With barely a glance at each other, we began running toward the sound.

“Oh, my God,’’ the woman screamed again. “It’s Lawton. He’s dead.’’

A young woman stood wringing her hands over Lawton Bramble’s body. He was stretched out on the ground at his cook site, a dark stain spreading around him. Mama grabbed my arm. I drew her close, and we approached the scene together.

“I don’t know what happened.’’ Tears on the woman’s face glistened in the firelight. She stared down at Lawton. “I came to check on him and his crazy chili. This is how I found him. I don’t know what happened,’’ she repeated, her voice getting smaller.

She was pulling so hard at the skin of her hands I thought she might strip it off. The eyes she aimed at Lawton were glassy.

“Mama, check to see if you can find a pulse.’’ I spoke softly, already suspecting by the unnatural body position and the blood that Lawton was dead. “I’m going to tend to this one here. I think she might be going into shock.’’

Mama stretched up to whisper in my ear before she hurried away. “Her name’s Wynonna, Mace. She’s Lawton’s brand-new wife.’’

Guiding Wynonna to a low plank bench, I gently sat her down. I removed the fleece vest I wore over my turtleneck, and zipped it tightly around her. It barely fit across her bust.

“Now, put your head down on your knees.’’ I spoke as distinctly and calmly as I could. “Take some slow, deep breaths. That’s good. In. Out.’’

Basic first aid is a job requirement at Himmarshee Park, where I work. We’ve had some experience at the park with emergencies, medical and otherwise. Wynonna did just as I told her, which was an encouraging sign.

“In and out. You’re doing fine.’’ I rubbed her back, feeling her breathing start to slow.

I glanced toward Mama. Kneeling, her fingers resting lightly at the side of Lawton’s throat, she looked at me and shook her head. No pulse.

She drew a compact from her jacket pocket and whipped it open. Mama couldn’t possibly be checking her lipstick at a time like this. Could she? I was relieved when she held the glass of the mirror down low, close to Lawton’s mouth.

After a moment, she raised the mirror and looked toward us again. She shook her head. No sign of breath.

Mama might be ditsy, but she’s not squeamish about death. She grew up on a farm. She volunteers at the hospital. And, less than a year ago, she discovered the body of a murder victim in the trunk of her turquoise convertible.

Giving Lawton’s cheek a gentle pat, Mama stood and started toward us. The sharp snap of her compact closing seemed to bring Wynonna back into the world. She lifted her face from her knees, two dark streaks of mascara marring her creamy skin.

“Our five-month anniversary is next Thursday.’’ She sniffled. “Lawton was taking me to Paris. I guess I’ll never get to see that Eiffel Tower now.’’

I immediately raised my eyebrows at Mama, now standing beside us at the bench. She leaned down to whisper, “Let it go, Mace. The woman’s just had an awful shock. Folks can’t be held accountable for what they say when a loved one dies so suddenly.’’

She laid a hand on Wynonna’s hair, stroking blond highlights. “Honey, do you want us to take you over to the house? Can we call someone to be with you?’’

Wynonna jumped off the wooden bench, her eyes focused now. “Oh, my Lord! What am I going to tell Trey? And Lawton’s daughter, Belle? They’ve been after him something fierce to listen to his doctors about his cholesterol.’’

“So, you think he had a heart attack,’’ I said.

“His last report from Dr. Perloff was real bad.’’ Her green eyes widened in alarm. “Why? Don’t you think that’s what it was?’’

All three of us looked across the campfire at Lawton’s body. A horse whinnied in the distance, answered by a second horse’s whicker.

“Well, there is the blood,’’ I finally said, hesitant to bring up something so gruesome to so recent a widow. At least I didn’t add how many people feared or hated Lawton Bramble, and might want to see him dead.

“What blood?’’ Confusion played across Wynonna’s pretty features.

“Uhm, Mace, honey?’’ Grabbing at my arm, Mama tugged me off the bench toward the body.

“Quit, Mama,’’ I said, trying to shake her off.

She didn’t say anything, just kept dragging me closer. Finally, she stopped next to him, out of Wynonna’s hearing. “Take a deep breath, honey.’’

I did as I was told. And as I breathed, the aroma of spicy Cow Hunter Chili filled my nose.

“Oh,’’ I said, embarrassed.

The pot of chili Lawton had been tending must have toppled when he collapsed. Examining the scene more closely now, I saw a scattering of beans and ground beef mixed into the dark stain on the sandy ground. He wore a white chef’s apron over his jeans and Western-style shirt. Bright red letters on the apron proclaimed, It Ain’t Hot Enuf Yet! An oversized soup mug, decorated with a tongue in flames, sat sideways on the ground a few feet from his body. It still had about a fourth of a cup of Lawton’s chili inside.

Neither of us noticed that Wynonna had crept up behind us. Then we heard her gasp.

“That big ol’ mug is his special tasting cup,’’ she said, tears choking her voice. “Nobody ever touches that chili cup but Lawton.’’

Sobbing, Wynonna collapsed onto Mama. In high-heeled boots, she towered nearly a foot over Mama’s four-foot-eleven-inch frame. When Mama staggered under the onslaught, I stepped in to provide some ballast.

“We should get a doctor, or at least an ambulance, out here to do what’s right for Lawton,’’ Mama said, craning her neck around Wynonna’s generous bustline to find me. “Mace, honey, why don’t you call somebody on your cell-o-phone?’’

“My cell phone is in the saddlebag, Mama.’’

“There’s . . . no . . . reception . . .’’ Wynonna said between sobs. “We’ll have to walk up to the house . . . to . . . place a . . . to place a . . . call.’’

She seemed to be making an effort to control herself. She stepped away from us and gave her tight blouse a tug to rearrange it at the waist. She ran her hands through her hair, lifting and patting it back into place. Mama offered her a handkerchief from the pocket of her own powder-blue jeans. Taking the lacy blue hanky, Wynonna dabbed daintily at her nose.

“I think I’m ready to go up to the house,’’ she said, squaring her shoulders. “I’d just like to pick up that chili cup and take it with me. I want something to remember him by.’’

Something about the way Wynonna had gotten a hold of herself so quickly rubbed me the wrong way. It seemed brave, yes. But brave like she was playing the role of a distraught but determined widow in a movie. Then again, everybody grieves in different ways. Who am I to say what’s normal and not?

The three of us walked back to Lawton’s body. Now that the initial shock had passed, I immediately noticed that the air was thick with the smell of tomatoes, spiced beef, and beans. Wynonna gave us a shaky smile.

“With Lawton, it was always Cow Hunter Chili this, and Cow Hunter Chili that. ‘Cow hunters’ is what they called the old-time Florida cowboys, you know?’’

I nodded.

“He sure loved making that chili, Lawton did.’’

Mama cleared her throat. “Do you want to say your goodbyes, honey? Mace and I will stand right here with you ’til you’re done.’’

Wynonna’s tears glistened again in the light of the fire. She closed her eyes and started murmuring something that sounded like a prayer. Mama put an arm around her waist. I stood awkwardly on Wynonna’s other side, hands dangling from my wrists. As she went on, I lowered my eyes out of respect.

Gazing down, I noticed something silvery shimmering near Lawton’s right leg. Probably a tasting spoon or a cooking utensil of some sort, I thought. But it looked too bulky for that. I took a couple of steps closer. Wynonna stopped praying.

I squinted in the flashlight beam. The object was nearly hidden under Lawton’s thick leg, but the shape was unmistakable. It was a gun.