Текст книги "Mama Rides Shotgun"

Автор книги: Deborah Sharp

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“Leave that dog be, Mace. We’ve got to get over to the camp.’’

A Florida cur, a cow-working dog, lay with his head on his paws on the hard-pine porch of an outbuilding on the Bramble property. He watched with sad eyes as we walked past.

“I think he was Lawton’s dog, Mama.’’ I bent to check the name on his collar. Tuck. “Look how lost he looks.’’

I’d slipped out of the Brambles’ living room without letting on what I’d seen between Wynonna and Trey. I certainly wasn’t ready to spill the beans to Mama. I didn’t want speculation about the young widow and her stepson spreading all over middle Florida until I had it clearer in my mind what was going on.

Mama and I met as she was coming back from Lawton’s cook site. Doc Abel was still there, with the body. He and Lawton’s daughter, Belle, were waiting for the van from the funeral home.

I kneeled on the pine board and stroked the dog’s head. “Hey, Tuck, old boy. How you doin’?’’

A snort came from Mama’s direction. “Maybe Carlos Martinez wouldn’t have moved back to Miamuh,’’ she said, using the old Florida pronunciation, “if you’d of paid as much attention to him as you’re paying to that hound.’’

Not this again.

“I told you, Mama, Carlos had a lot of history to reconcile with in Miami. The timing wasn’t right. We both knew it.’’

I scratched behind Tuck’s right ear. He rolled to his back so I could rub his belly.

“All I’m saying is Carlos is a good man. I know I wouldn’t have been so quick to let him get away.’’ Mama smoothed at her hair.

“I know all about it, Mama. If you were just twenty-five years younger, you’d be wearing his engagement ring by now.’’

One of her convenient memory lapses had allowed Mama to forget that Detective Carlos Martinez had nearly sent her to the slammer the previous summer for murder. Back then, he’d have been more likely to slip a pair of handcuffs around her wrists than an engagement ring around her finger.

The dog got up and shook itself as we continued across Bramble property. He followed us, tags jangling on his collar. Mama turned sideways and waved a hand in Tuck’s direction. “Go on, shoo!’’ she yelled. “Git, you rascal.’’

He stopped, cocking his head at me.

“Quit it, Mama!’’ I said. “Can’t you see the poor thing is lonely?’’ I slapped my thigh and whistled. “C’mon, Tuck. You can come with us.’’ The dog loped to my side.

Mama rolled her eyes. “Just one ounce, Mace. If you’d use just an ounce of your power to attract animals on men, you’d be married by now. You’re a smart girl, honey. But when it comes to men, you ain’t got the brains God gave a possum.’’

“Who says I want to be married?’’ I snapped at her. “You’ve marched down the aisle enough for the both of us. Enough for half the female population in Himmarshee, in fact.’’

She ignored me, leveling a firm look at Tuck. “That flea-bitten animal is not sleeping in the tent with us.’’

“You’ll be glad to have him if it gets as cold tonight as it’s supposed to get.’’

“Some women might prefer a man to a dog for warmth, Mace.’’ She arched her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “Think about it, honey.’’

The parched Bermuda grass and sharp stobs sticking up from the pasture crackled under our boots. The light of the moon edged white clouds with silver, brightening the sky above us.

“Speaking of men, Mace, you might be curled up alone with Lawton’s cur in the tent tonight. I called Sally from the ranch house earlier. He’s driving over to meet us on the ride.’’

“Sally’’ is Mama’s irritating nickname for her fiancé, Salvatore Provenza—would-be husband No. 5. Somehow, I couldn’t picture the ex-New Yorker with the mysterious past as Cracker Trail material.

“What in the world is a guy from the Bronx going to do on a trail ride where everyone else is on horseback?’’

“Don’t ask me, Mace. He got a burr under his saddle about me being out here in the woods when I told him about Lawton. Why does everyone think I’m gonna get into trouble every time someone I know turns up dead?’’

Yeah, imagine that, I thought.

“Anyhoo, Sally says he wants to come up here and poke around. He says he’ll keep a low profile.’’

I pictured Sal: three-hundred-some pounds; a taste for pastel-colored golfing duds; and a Bronx honk that could stop the D train at Yankee Stadium. Amid a group of slow-talking, jeans-wearing, native Florida Crackers, Big Sal screamed “high-profile.’’

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Mama.’’

“I couldn’t persuade him otherwise, Mace. After all, the man is crazy about me.’’ She fluffed her platinum-hued hairdo. Amazingly, it hadn’t lost much height at all after a full day’s ride. “He wants to be here to protect me if problems arise.’’

Big Sal may have been terrific in his mystery profession up north in New York. But down south, he was out of his element. Suppose someone had killed Lawton? If Sal pushed too hard, too fast, there was no telling what might happen. Desperate people do desperate things.

Mama stopped in the pasture. “Which way, Mace?’’

We’d come to a fork along the unpaved road that wound through the Bramble property. To the right, I could hear the distant sound of traffic on State Road 64. The shell-and-sand surface was also more compressed in that direction, indicating heavier travel.

“Let’s go left,’’ I said. “That’ll probably take us to the back pasture, where the camp is set up.’’

As we set out, Mama picked up where she left off. “Personally, Mace, I think it’s a waste of time for Sally to come all the way up here. Doc Abel was Lawton’s doctor forever, and he seems certain his heart killed him.’’

The image of Wynonna rubbing Trey’s chest on the living room couch popped into my mind. I was just about to open my mouth to tell Mama what I’d seen when the loud crack of a cow whip snapped the sense back into my head. An aspiring cow hunter was brushing up on technique. We’d almost arrived at the camp where the rest of the riders had gathered.

“We’d better get it straight what we’re gonna say about Lawton, Mama.’’ I unwound the chain that secured the gate between the Bramble homestead and the outlying pastures. A hand-lettered sign hung from the barbed wire fence:

Cracker Trail Campers:

Please close gate behind you. Cattle will scatter.

As Mama and I stepped through, Tuck whined and looked back in the direction of the ranch house.

“C’mon, boy. It’s okay,’’ I said.

He sat down in the sandy road and hung his head.

“All right, then. We’ll see you later.’’

I gave him a parting pat, and then swung the gate shut, wrapping the chain around twice.

“Poor thing,’’ Mama said. “He’s waiting for Lawton.’’

Before long, we’d found our way to the center of camp. Wood smoke rose from a big fire. The smell of steaks sizzling wafted from the cook wagon. A Toby Keith CD blasted from the speakers inside somebody’s RV.

“Daddy would roll over in his grave if he saw the fancy rigs people bring on the Cracker Trail these days.’’ I gazed around at gleaming trucks and matching horse trailers, luxury RVs and campers.

“Nonsense, Mace. Your daddy went with the times. You can put all the disapproval you want into your voice. But that doesn’t change the fact that there’s nothing noble about sleeping on the cold, hard ground inside a tent that stinks of mildew.’’ Mama pouted. “And I still don’t see why we couldn’t rent us a nice little pop-up camper to bring.’’

“Because the original Florida cow hunters didn’t have campers, Mama. Or heated horse trailers. Or recreational vehicles. The ride is supposed to honor our Florida pioneer history. It ought to be authentic.’’

“Yeah? Well, I notice you don’t mind doing your business in the portable potties the Cracker Trail Association hauls along.’’

A low chuckle sounded behind us, coming from the food trailer.

“Your Mama’s got you there, darlin’.’’

We turned to see a strapping older man with a full head of wiry grey hair. Stacks of paper plates and napkins in plastic bags nearly hid his face. Mama’s hand flew to smooth her ’do. She tried to get a glance at her reflection in the generator used to power the electric lights around the chuck wagon.

“The first Florida Crackers didn’t have disposable utensils, neither. Nor wet coconut cake nor cold banana pudding for dessert,’’ the man said. “But that hasn’t stopped anyone with a sweet tooth from trying to weasel seconds out of my servers.’’

“Why, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,’’ Mama said, eyelashes fluttering in time to her words. “I’m Rosalee Deveraux, and this is my middle daughter, Mace.’’

He shifted the paper goods away to reveal his face. Strong cheekbones. A cheerful smile, which stopped just short of his dark eyes. “Hell, Rosalee, I’d never forget you! I’m Johnny Adams. Remember, I moved away to Sebring during high school?’’

Mama’s flirtatiousness disappeared, replaced by a mournful tone. “Oh, Johnny! I’m afraid I have some awful news about Lawton Bramble. I know y’all were as close as brothers once.’’

A hard look flitted across his face. “That was a long time ago, Rosalee.’’

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, standing right here by the food trailer.’’ Mama glanced around, like there might be a better spot for breaking bad news. Then she blurted out, “Lawton’s gone, Johnny. He had a heart attack and died.’’

She reached out a comforting hand, but Johnny didn’t seem to need it. When Mama revealed that Lawton was dead, the hard look never left his face.

The big campfire roared, sending sparks into the night. Johnny Adams stared at the white-hot logs as they collapsed in the flames. His face was unreadable. Mama said he’d been as close as a brother once to Lawton. What memories was he calling up out of that fire?

“All right, then. We need to tell the trail boss,’’ Johnny finally said. “He’ll bring everybody together, and we’ll make the announcement about Lawton just before dinner.’’

“I’ll go and tell him,’’ Mama said. “Jack will probably have some questions about how it happened and all.’’

I pictured Jack Hollister, our trail boss, trying to get a straight story from Mama. She might get distracted onto a tangent about Wynonna’s high-heeled boots, and forget to mention that Lawton was dead.

“I’ll come with you,’’ I said to Mama.

___

“Well, I for one am shocked that Lawton and that new wife aren’t nowhere to be seen. You’d think they’d have been out here to greet us by now.’’

The whisper in the dinner chow line came from a middle-aged cowgirl whose bottom was too broad for her jeans.

“Oh, I’m sure he would have been here, strutting, if not for that young wife,’’ sniffed her companion, a woman in a Western-style blouse and tight permanent curls. “She’s probably convinced him to take her out for caviar in Palm Beach instead of coming out to stand around here, serving Cow Hunter chili to a bunch of ol’ Crackers.’’

I was about to set the gossipy pair of them straight, but Mama put her finger to her lips and shook her head. “Wait for the trail boss,’’ she said into my ear. “He’ll tell everybody at once.’’

A few minutes later, Jack Hollister was about to do just that. With his compact, well-muscled build and sun-beaten face, Jack’s age could have been anywhere from forty to fifty. But I guessed closer to forty, based on his physical ease climbing onto an upended length of log. He didn’t seem as comfortable when it came to actually speaking.

He cleared his throat a couple of times, and then spoke too softly. “Can I get everybody’s attention?’’

People shifted and jostled, wanting to see what Jack had to say, but not wanting to lose their place in the supper line. Some of those in position near the front muttered as other riders crowded in around them.

Suddenly, someone gave a loud, long whistle. The shrill sound silenced the crowd. Jack removed his stained cowboy hat.

“I don’t know how else to say this but to get right to it. Lawton Bramble died this afternoon. Looks like a heart attack. All of us are already here, a hundred or more. So, we’re gonna go ahead and camp tonight on his land, just as we planned. Then, we’ll ride out in the morning, so we can make our next scheduled stop.’’

The only sound now was the hum of the generators that powered the cook trailer. I looked over at the big-bottomed woman and her friend. Both of them looked ashamed of themselves, which served them right.

“Lawton was a good friend to the Florida Cracker Trail,’’ Jack continued. “He’ll be missed. Now, I’m sure the Bramble family would appreciate your prayers. Let’s all bow our heads for a few moments, why don’t we?’’

As Jack lowered his head, a ripple of prayer rose over the line. I said my own brief piece, asking for safe passage to heaven for Lawton. I looked up and saw that many others were still praying, Mama included. She always did have more than me to say to the Lord.

I used the time to scan the crowd. The fifty-something cowgirls were whispering to one another. The trail boss snuck a quick look at his watch. And Johnny Adams knuckled away a single tear that rolled down his cheek.

Later, as Mama and I were sitting in our camp chairs with chicken-fried steaks on plastic plates, I asked her about Johnny and Lawton.

“Oh, my stars, Mace. Those boys were tighter than ticks on a skinny dog when all of us were young. Lawton’s daddy used to have a rodeo arena on the ranch they had in Himmarshee back then. When those two would saddle up for team roping, nobody else could touch their times. The steers never had a chance when it came to getting past Lawton and Johnny. It was like the two of them thought with a single mind.’’

I speared a cheesy potato before it slid from my plate. “What happened?’’

“Mostly, it was over a woman—like so many men’s battles. And then, later, there was some business falling-out, too. Johnny got the short end of the stick, of course, like most people did with Lawton. But the love triangle was the real issue. Lawton swept in and stole the girl that Johnny was engaged to marry. And then Lawton married her himself. Poor Johnny never did find another, and he never did get over it.’’

“Surely this wasn’t Wynonna?’’

“My goodness, no.’’ Mama cut her steak into bite-size pieces. “Wynonna hadn’t even got her first Barbie doll lunchbox for kindergarten when all this happened. It was Trey’s mama. Lawton’s first wife.’’ She chewed her meat thoughtfully. “Barbara was her name, if I recall. I sort of lost track of the Bramble family, once they moved their cattle operation to the north of Himmarshee. But from what I heard, the marriage never was a happy one. Rumor was that Lawton had a roving eye. Poor Barb took to drinking hard, so as not to notice it.’’

I thought of Trey, and how I’d watched in awe with all the other peasants as he reigned over the hallways of Himmarshee High. With all the Bramble money and power, I’d always assumed he had the perfect life. Guess it wasn’t so perfect after all.

Mama sipped at her lemonade, then patted her mouth with her napkin. She looked around to see if anyone was listening. Then she lowered her voice to a whisper.

“That wasn’t the worst of it, though. The poor woman ended up dying in some kind of accident at home, when Trey and Belle were still little. Everyone said she was drunk as could be. She probably never even knew the fall she took would turn out to be fatal.’’

Suspicion made the hairs on my arms stand up straight. “Where was Barbara’s not-so-loving husband when she tripped and fell, Mama?’’

“Lawton? He was up at the Capitol in Tallahassee, talking to the state legislature about agricultural exemptions for pasture land. It was an accident, pure and simple, Mace. She stumbled down some steps, is what I think I heard.’’ She clucked her tongue. “That’s not to say Lawton waited all that long before replacing the first Mrs. Bramble with the second.’’

I pushed the rest of my steak around on the plate. Suddenly, I didn’t feel very hungry.

“Did you and Daddy go to the funeral?’’

“We did. It was way over in Polk County. Those poor children looked like they didn’t know what hit them. Lawton held onto them, one for each hand, as they lowered Barbara’s casket into the ground. The flowers were awful pretty, though, I have to say that. Lots of white roses and baby’s breath.’’

A rush of sympathy for Trey and Belle washed over me.

“How’d Lawton seem?’’ I asked.

“Guilty-looking, if you want the truth. He knew what kind of husband he’d been. But his eyes stayed dry the whole way through. I can’t say the same for Johnny.’’

My eyes automatically shifted to where the cook stood, too far away to overhear us.

“Why not?’’ I asked.

“Johnny sobbed like a baby, poor thing. When he walked up to pay his respects, he collapsed onto one knee and pounded his fist on Barbara’s casket. I think he might have thrown himself in there if some of Lawton’s ranch hands hadn’t pulled him away.’’

We both glanced over at Johnny, who seemed to be on automatic pilot as he passed out the last pieces of strawberry pie. The granite was back in his jaw.

I wondered if that tear I’d spotted earlier on his cheek had been shed for his old friend Lawton, or for Barbara, his one true love?

A funeral home van inched toward the gate that led from the Bramble ranch to State Road 64. Cracker Trail campers lined both sides of the narrow, crushed-shell road. Mama and I stood with the others, our flashlights and lanterns marking the route of Lawton’s last ride.

The van stopped at the gate, its headlights shining into a vast blackness beyond the highway. The engine idled, a low rumble. Moths flitted in and out of the beams from our lights. One of Lawton’s ranch hands ran to unlock the gate. The rest of us stood silently, waiting.

Doc Abel climbed from the passenger side of the van. Then he leaned in to talk to the driver, one arm resting on the open window. Finally, he straightened and gave a little pat to the side of the vehicle. The driver pulled on through the gate. We watched until his taillights on the highway turned to tiny red dots.

“It’s a shame. He wasn’t that old of a man,’’ someone said.

“Sixty-three or four, I heard,’’ someone else answered.

As the crowd began to break up, Doc Abel walked with heavy steps toward Mama and me.

“That part of the job never gets any easier.’’ He sounded older and more tired than he had just a few hours before. “There’s nothing like saying goodbye to a friend to make you realize your own mortality.’’

Mama aimed her flashlight into the sky. “Are you a religious man, Doc? Because you know, the Bible promises us a reunion in heaven with those we’ve cared for here on earth.’’

Doc was silent for a moment.

“I’m a man of medicine, Rosalee. A man of science. That’s not the best foundation for a strong religious faith. I believe we should make the most of the time we’re given. After that, there’s no guarantee.’’

Mama swung her light into Doc’s face. “Are you telling me you don’t believe in life everlasting?’’

He waited a beat, squinting into the light.

“I believe in life, Rosalee. Let’s just leave it at that.’’

Her eyes searched his face for evidence he might need converting. From past experience, I knew she usually found such evidence, whether it existed or not. I cut her off at the pulpit.

“Doc probably has business to get to, don’t you, Doc?’’ I looked at him meaningfully. “I’m sure he doesn’t have time for a theological discussion.’’

“It’s not theology, Mace.’’ Mama shook her head. “It’s salvation, pure and simple.’’

“Mama,’’ I warned. “Now’s not the time.’’

“There’s always time for the Lord. He always makes time for us. If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. That’s not just me; that’s the Bible talking. Romans 10:9.’’

Mama’s light was still trained on Doc. He was squirming like a shoplifter in the store security office.

“Mama, haven’t you ever heard the saying ‘To each his own’? Doc has every right to his own views on religion, or anything else.’’

“Even if his views mean he’ll burn in eternal hellfire?’’

Sweat was beginning to bead on Doc’s upper lip, though the night was cool. Maybe he was starting to sizzle in anticipation.

“Mama, if Doc wants spiritual guidance, I’m sure he’ll turn to you.’’ When purple pigs fly, I thought. “Now, that’s enough!’’

Pressing her lips together, she lowered the light. The inquisition appeared to be over, leastwise for now. Doc gave me a grateful look.

“I should be getting back to the ranch house.” He pulled an oversized handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his upper lip. “I need to check on Wynonna and the rest of the family. I’m worried about Belle. She’s fragile. Lawton dying might be enough to break her.’’

I could see twin desires warring on Mama’s face: redeeming a non-believer versus discovering a juicy tidbit about a Bramble family member.

“Is Belle crazy, Doc?’’ she blurted out.

“You know I can’t discuss a patient, Rosalee. On the other hand, it is common knowledge Belle’s had some problems growing up.’’

“Well, we don’t hear much common knowledge from up here way down in Himmarshee,’’ Mama said.

“That’s right,’’ I added. “We’re too busy gossiping about our own to worry about gossiping about folks who live a few counties north.’’

Mama pulled herself to her full height. She still didn’t reach my chin. “I am not a gossip, Mace. I’m merely concerned about Belle. Maybe I could do something to help her—right, Doc?’’

Only if the poor girl needs a ride all the way ’round the crazy bend, I thought.

“I’d say just be as kind to Belle as you can,’’ Doc said. “Now, I hate to change the subject, but do you suppose there’s any food left from dinner? I missed it altogether.’’

By the looks of him, missing a meal was a rare event. Nonetheless, his mention of food sent Mama into Southern hostess mode.

“You’re hungry?’’ She put a hand on his arm. “Well, why didn’t you say something? That’s awful! We’ll get Johnny to scare you up a plate. He served chicken-fried steak and strawberry pie tonight. It’d be a shame to miss it. Mace and I will take you over and keep you company while you eat.’’

That meant Mama would angle for a little something for us, too, since it’s rude to just sit there and watch someone else eat. I was tired. And I still had to check on our loaner horses. But I am my mama’s daughter, sweet tooth and all. We turned our flashlights toward our cow-pasture-turned-campground and the promise of seconds on strawberry pie.

After a few false starts—“I’m positive it’s a right at the sabal palm, Mace. Not the pine tree!’’—we arrived back at the cook trailer.

Some of the other riders sat in small groups around the campfire. The mood was quiet, subdued. Someone picked a guitar. A few people sipped from coffee cups or beer cans. Johnny, the cook, wasn’t around. But Mama persuaded one of his servers to fix a dinner plate for Doc. She also scored three pieces of pie. The girl left off the whipped cream on top, but Mama decided not to push her luck.

We’d just settled into the camp chairs we left earlier by the fire, when I thought I heard the unmistakable singing voice of Frank Sinatra. A moment later, Mama heard it, too, judging by the smile that spread across her face.

An awful, nasal voice arose, chiming in with the recording for Frank’s big finish: “Bam-ba-da-dum, Bump-bump-ba-da-dum . . .’’

“Sally!’’ Mama’s smile broadened and her hand flew to her hair. “How’s my lipstick, honey?’’ She bared her teeth at me in the firelight.

“Eaten off with your first piece of strawberry pie.’’

She fumbled through the pockets of her jeans, pulling out a tube of her favorite shade, Apricot Ice. “Hold still a sec, Mace. I can almost make out my reflection, shining in your eyes.’’ She stuck her nose a few inches from mine and formed an O with her mouth.

“Who’s Sally?’’ Doc Abel asked, before tucking into a tower of au gratin potatoes. Seeing his old friend off to the great unknown hadn’t seemed to diminish his appetite.

Mama finished circling her lips. I dabbed with my napkin where she’d smeared Apricot Ice under her nose.

“Sally’s my fiancé,’’ she said, waving the rock on her left hand in Doc’s direction. “Sal Provenza. He’s from New York City.’’

No kidding, I thought. Sal’s as New York as the subway, and just about as subtle.

The last strains of Sinatra wound down. Then, a heavy car door slammed. The smell of dollar store cologne drifted toward us in the night.

“Rosalee, honey? You dere?’’

I’d know that Bronx accent anywhere.

When Sal shouldered his way into the dinner camp, I couldn’t believe my eyes. He had on a ten-gallon hat and cowboy boots. Both in white. His neon-blue jacket sported decorative lapels. On the left, a mounted cowboy tossed a lariat. On the right, the rope ensnared a white-piping calf. And were those rhinestones along the outside seams of Sal’s pants, winking in the firelight?

Mama’s boyfriend looked like John Wayne up and married Elton John.

She shouted, “We’re over here, Sally.’’

“He can always use the glare off that suit to find his way,’’ I cracked.

“Hush!’’ Mama whispered, and she pinched me. Hard.