Текст книги "Mama Gets Hitched"

Автор книги: Deborah Sharp

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

The old swing on Mama’s front porch squeaked as Carlos and I pushed with our feet against the wood railing. Leftover pizza crusts sat on a plate on the floor. We each had a cold bottle of beer.

“I really appreciate the food, Mace.” He clinked his Bud bottle against mine. “I missed dinner.”

“No problem.” I added a silent thank-you to my little sister, much wiser than I am in the ways of men. “Crazy day, huh?”

“Yeah. You could say that.” He swigged from the bottle. “I don’t know what’s in the water here, but things aren’t quite as peaceful as I thought they’d be when I moved up from Miami.”

I held my tongue. We’d gone around on this topic before, like other topics. I usually ended up getting mad about Carlos’ notion that Himmarshee was some kind of bizarro-world version of Mayberry. Truth is, bad things happen anywhere. It just so happened in the last year or so our little town had experienced more than its share of bad things. And since Mama had managed to stumble right into a couple of them, my sisters and I had become necessarily familiar with murder investigations, not to mention with Carlos as the investigator.

“Do you think the hog’s head is related to Ronnie’s murder?” I asked him.

This was the first chance I had to ask questions. He’d had no time earlier; and then I let him eat. Maddie, Marty, and I had hung around for more than an hour in front of Alice’s with a few of the other neighbors. We’d watched the authorities come and go, and speculated about what the butchered animal might mean. But talk was all it was. Nobody really knew anything.

Carlos sipped his beer thoughtfully before he answered. “It seems like a pretty strange coincidence if the two things aren’t related. Better safe than sorry, which is why I asked for the scene to be processed as if it’s part of the homicide investigation.”

I would have followed up, but I was a bit distracted. From my angle, I could see into Mama’s front window. My sisters lurked behind the curtain like Mutt and Jeff. I couldn’t see Mama, but I was fairly certain she was eavesdropping right behind them, probably holding that ridiculous dog. I wanted to say something scandalous just to see what they’d do.

Carlos, you look good enough to eat. Why don’t we forget our differences, rip off our clothes, and do the wild thing right here on Mama’s front porch swing?

But, of course, I didn’t say that. I called through the window instead. “Maddie, Marty, why don’t y’all come on out here?”

The curtain moved. I heard quick steps inside, and an annoyed growl from Teensy. Then, Maddie’s voice drifted through the house from the kitchen. “What’s that, Mace? Did you want another beer?”

“We’ve barely started these. But sure, why don’t you bring them out? Put ’em on the ring pillow. Let’s have Mama’s little dog practice toting them on his back.”

More running around inside. Now Mama’s voice came from her bedroom, which opens onto the opposite side of the porch.

“Mace, honey, you’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear you from way inside here. Did you say something about Teensy?”

I got up, opened the front door and hissed into the living room: “I said, it’s a good thing poor Alice took a sleeping pill with the three of you shouting and stomping around. Now, come on out on the porch and Carlos will fill us in on what he can.”

In no time, Maddie, Marty, and Mama squished themselves together on a white wicker love seat across from the swing. Unable to help herself, Mama motioned me to move closer to Carlos. He caught her signal and looked amused, which was fairly humiliating.

Now, hands folded in their laps, they looked at Carlos expectantly. Three teacher’s pets in the classroom’s front row. He cleared his throat.

“You know I can’t talk about much. It’s an ongoing investigation.”

Their faces fell, like the teacher just chose somebody else to help take attendance.

He relented. “I can tell you the medical examiner will check the knife wounds on Ronnie’s body against the hog’s head to see if the same weapon was used.”

“I knew it!” Mama said. “It’s just like on CSI.”

Carlos smiled. “Well, not exactly. There’s a lot of dramatic license on TV and in the movies. And don’t get me started on murder mystery books.”

He spent the next few minutes trying to establish what we heard from Alice’s house and when we heard it. Of course, we couldn’t agree on the answers to those crucial questions.

“Teensy would have barked if he heard anything before Alice screamed,” Mama insisted.

“Are you kidding? A serial killer could have been hiding with a hatchet in the next room and your dog wouldn’t have given a whit,” I said. “Don’t you remember? I’d just come in with the pizza and Teensy’s whole being was focused on getting a bite off somebody’s slice.”

“No, ma’am.” Mama shook her head firmly. “I do not remember that. Teensy knows better than to beg from the table.”

Even Marty snorted at that. “Sure, Mama. And you never steal food off my plate before I’m done either.”

“All right, all right.” Maddie, in the middle, put a hand on each of their knees. “We can all agree that Teensy—and Mama—are easily distracted by food.”

“Ring. Ring.” I held out a pretend phone to Maddie. “The black kettle wants to talk to you, Pot.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “Is that a crack about my weight?”

I was just about to say if the feedbag fits … when I noticed that familiar vein at Carlos’ temple beginning to pulse. He was trying to hold something in, but I knew he wouldn’t be able to.

“Would everybody just shut up?”

Mama gasped. Carlos had used the S-word, a sin in her book. She’d always made us say hush instead. “Only low-class types and Yankees tell people to shut up,” Mama used to lecture us. Since Carlos was originally from Cuba, which is farther south than us, it was clear which of those two camps his shutup-saying self fell into.

To his credit, he took one look at Mama’s frozen face and realized his verbal boo-boo.

“Sorry, Rosalee.” He wore that contrite look he’d been brushing up on since he moved to Himmarshee. “I just wish you four wouldn’t bicker so much. It reminds me of the first night I met you. Sometimes I wish I’d tossed you all into jail and thrown away the key.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I felt a frown coming on.

“Here’s a shovel, Carlos,” Maddie said. “Go ahead and dig yourself in deeper.”

Carlos naming Mama as a murder suspect was still a sore subject with me. Not to mention the fact he was insulting our family dynamics. Anybody with two eyes can see we love each other, even though we pick a little.

“Too bad you had to be content with just violating Mama’s rights,” I said. “Imagine sending a senior citizen, a Sunday school teacher, to the slammer.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me a senior citizen, Mace.”

I ignored Mama’s pout. “You’re lucky any of us forgave you, Carlos.”

“Oh yeah, I’m lucky all right …”

“Stop it!” Marty said, and both Carlos and I were taken aback. “I think Carlos was right earlier when he said there’s something strange in the water up here.”

“So y’all were listening in …” I started.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Mace. Shut up!” Marty’s voice was soft, which made her rude use of the S-word no less shocking.

Mama blinked. Maddie’s mouth opened and closed without her uttering a single word. My face burned. Even Carlos didn’t seem to know how to react.

Marty leaned over and tried to pat my knee, but I jerked my leg away. “Sorry to say it so plainly, honey, but somebody needs to tell you to quit looking at every word anybody says as the start to a fight.”

I felt akin to that hog on Alice’s porch. Decapitated by the sharp, uncharacteristic criticism from my normally sweet sister. I sipped at my beer and stewed. Everyone else was quiet, too.

Finally, Mama could stand the tension no longer. “Let’s all count our blessings, girls. Imagine if any one of us were Ronnie, or his poor widow, Alice.”

I did as she said, adding a silent vow that I’d also try to be less of an argumentative jerk.

Out of the blue, Maddie said, “Maybe that hog’s head is linked to the Mafia.”

Mama tapped her lip with an index finger, thinking. “Wasn’t there something like that in a movie? I remember a pig’s head in a man’s bed.”

“A horse head,” Carlos said. “From the first Godfather.”

“With Marlon Brando as Don Corleone,” Maddie added. She was Himmarshee’s movie expert, on account of her daughter being in college in California, studying film. “The don sent the horse’s head as a message. Maybe this is the same thing.”

Tucking her hair behind her ears, Marty stared at Maddie. “A Mafia don? In Himmarshee? That seems a little far-fetched, Sister.”

“May I remind you of Jim Albert and his murder last summer, Marty? Not that I’m trying to start an argument.” I smiled when I said it, but I was still smarting a little.

Carlos said, “Jim Albert’s criminal enterprise was set in place a long time before he came down here.” His eyes got a far-away, thoughtful look. I had the urge to take my thumb and smooth the wrinkle in his brow, and maybe follow that with a little something with my tongue.

Maybe Carlos was right about the water. I was angry one minute, aroused the next. Either I was getting some kind of weird hormones from the faucet, or the shock of finding Ronnie’s body had upset me more than I let on.

“What are you thinking?” I asked him.

“Just that Maddie might be right.”

My big sister beamed.

“Not about a Mafia godfather,” he said. “But maybe about a message.”

An image of Ronnie’s corpse popped into my brain, all jumbled up with the blood-crusted head of the pig.

“What would the message be?” I asked. “This is what happens when you squeal?”

The neon sign for the Booze ‘n’ Breeze lit up the dark road ahead, a red-and-purple beacon for the thirsty motorist. It reminded me I could use a six-pack for the fridge at home. I put on my blinker, slowed, and turned into the drive-thru lane. As I did, my Jeep’s headlights flashed on an ancient Toyota parked next to the little store’s dumpster.

Two things made the car stick out in Himmarshee: It was a compact, whereas most of the locals drive trucks; and it had some unusual bumper stickers for a town that likes to call itself the buckle in the cattle belt of Florida.

Meat is Murder, the right rear bumper scolded. Fur: Brush It, Don’t Wear It, said the left side.

I was surprised nobody had plastered over those sentiments with a more common sticker seen in these parts: Beef: It’s What’s for Dinner.

I motored up slowly to the cashier. The Booze ‘n’ Breeze is a barn-like, wide-open building with a road right through the middle. Stock is arranged on either side. The whole idea is that drivers can mosey through and tank up without ever getting out of their cars.

I recognized the blond dreadlocks on the head bent over a book propped on top of the cash register. When I got closer, I saw the title on the book’s spine: Animal Liberation.

“Hey, Linda-Ann,” I said. “Doing a little light reading?”

She looked up, eyes sleepy beneath two small silver hoops, one piercing each eyebrow. “Hey, Mace. My boyfriend gave me this.” She lifted the book so I could see it. “Trevor says after I read it, I’ll understand how we exploit and abuse animals every day.”

An impressionable girl and an activist boyfriend. Now there’s an original concept.

“Have you read it?” she asked me.

“Can’t say that I have,” I said. “When you finish it, why don’t you give me a synopsis?”

“Say what?” She stuck the end of a dreadlock in her mouth and sucked on it.

“A summary.”

She nodded, brushing the hair across her lip. “I’ll try, but it’s about ten times harder than anything I’ve ever read. I hope I can get through it, not to mention understand enough of it to give you that …” She paused.

“Synopsis.”

“Right,” she said, smiling. “Now, what can I get for you?”

I told her to hand over a six pack of Heineken, and to make sure they weren’t warm ones.

Watching her return to the register and place the beer on the counter made me think of an old joke. “Hey, what’s a redneck’s idea of a seven-course meal?”

“A possum and a six-pack.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve only heard that one about two hundred times, Mace. I think I was still at Himmarshee Middle School the first time I heard it. How is old Mad Hen Wilson anyway?”

That was how the students at my sister’s school referred to her behind her back. Little did they know that Maddie, Madison Wilson, actually embraced the nickname.

“Doin’ fine,” I said. “Keeping the kids on their toes.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” She put the beer into a plastic bag. “Anything else?”

My eyes roamed over the offerings: chips, candy, milk, eggs, enough liquor for the next three spring breaks in Daytona Beach.

“Still thinking,” I said.

“Take your time. Hardly anybody stops in this late at night. I like the company, to tell you the truth.”

A drive-thru in Okeechobee County had been hit recently by an armed robber. The cashier wasn’t hurt, but it had all the clerks nervous in the neighboring counties.

“You remember that murder from last summer?” she asked me.

Of course I did. The victim had been Linda-Ann’s boss. And Mama was briefly the prime suspect. I nodded.

“Whatever happened to that good-looking cowboy who came in here the day I met you? The one you used to like. Did y’all ever get back together?”

Jeb Ennis. I felt a shiver of desire at the thought of him. I guess with a first love that never really goes away.

“He’s back on the rodeo circuit,” I said. “I don’t think Jeb and I were cut out to be a couple.”

I wondered if the fit was better for Carlos and me.

“I was just asking because I have a serious boyfriend now.” She looked down, studying the tip of one of her dreadlocks. “He’s my first one, if you know what I mean.”

Judging by the blush on her pretty face, I knew exactly what she meant.

“Trevor has changed the way I look at everything,” she gushed. “He’s in graduate school. And he’s incredibly smart. Trevor says I’m intelligent, too. He says I just have to learn to apply myself.”

She gazed at the thick book on the counter. She didn’t seem all that eager to apply herself to it.

“Just be careful, Linda-Ann.” I knew I was about to sound like an old fogey who can’t understand young love, but I couldn’t help myself. “It’s all right if both of you agree to make some compromises. But you should never let a man change you too much. When you try to be somebody else to make a man happy, you lose who you really are.”

She chewed methodically on the end of her hair. I couldn’t tell if she was pondering what I said, or just passing the minutes until closing time. I glanced at the big clock on the wall. Ten minutes to midnight. I was beat. It’d been a long day.

“I guess that’ll do it,” I said.

“So, you’re done thinking? Should I just ring up the beer?”

I was just about to tell her yes when I remembered the display of beef jerky that used to sit right on the counter at driver eye level. The spicy maple flavor was addictive.

“What happened to that jerky y’all used to sell?”

Her hair-chewing speed increased. “I moved them to the back. Trevor says eating animal products is like eating our own brothers and sisters. I promised him I’d only sell them if somebody really, really, really wanted them.”

I thought about it for a moment. Between Maddie, Teensy, and Carlos, I barely got any pizza earlier. My stomach growled. I pictured the sorry state of my fridge at home: A jar of salsa which I was certain had grown mold; an apple so old its skin was wrinkled; and a stale chocolate bunny leftover from Easter with both ears eaten off.

A horn honked behind me. I looked in the rearview, saw a blowsy woman with big hair impatiently waving me on.

“Ohmigod, that’s Dab Holt!” Linda-Ann rolled her eyes. “Must be out of booze for those parties she throws down at the lake. I’m not going to look, but tell me: Does she have one of those young guys she’s always running around with?”

I peeked in the mirror again; gave the woman a friendly wave. “Nope she’s alone.”

“Not for long, I guarantee you.”

My stomach grumbled. “Why don’t you run and grab me a handful of that jerky? I’ll take three of the spicy sweet ones, two with cracked pepper; and one with garlic.”

“Do you really, really …”

“Yes,” I interrupted. “I really, really, REALLY want them.”

The aroma of biscuits and sausage gravy enveloped me like a high-calorie blanket as I opened the door at Gladys’ Diner. I spotted Mama at our favorite breakfast table, the one next to the calendar from Gotcha Bait & Tackle. C’ndee was at the table, too, sitting in Mama’s usual seat. I would have liked to have seen the tug-of-war for that spot, from which Mama could normally see—and be seen by—everyone in the diner.

“Yoo-hoo, Mace! Over here, honey!”

I gave her a wave, mainly to stop her from flapping her arms and shouting loud enough to raise the dead in the cemetery next to the Baptist church off State Road 70.

Mama’s dreaded wedding book lay open between C’ndee and her on the table. The huge tome contained everything from the seating chart for the VFW reception, to the ice-cream colored fabric swatches for our bridesmaid gowns. If we were going to discuss the ruffles yet again on those Gone with the Wind parasols, I knew I’d better get some coffee. Taking a seat, I signaled to Charlene, the waitress, to pour me a cup.

Coffee pot in hand, she leaned over The Book and stared at a picture Mama had clipped from a magazine of a dashing young man modeling Sal’s white wedding suit. “Isn’t it exciting, Mace?” Charlene’s eyes shone. “Not many gals get to be the bridesmaids at their own mama’s marriage.”

With good reason, I thought.

“Mace isn’t like most gals, Charlene. She doesn’t like weddings,” Mama explained. “I guess they remind her of the fact that she’s thirty-two and not even close to getting hitched. She has a boyfriend, in a fashion. But you know what I always say: No man’s gonna buy the cow when he can get the milk for free.”

My cousin Henry picked just that moment to join us. “Mooooove over, would you, Mace? I’d like to sit down. And would you pass that creamer over this way? The one with the free milk?”

“Very funny, Henry.” I punched him in the arm. “You’re a laugh riot, as usual.”

He didn’t hit back because his attention was now riveted on C’ndee. She was bursting from the V-neck of her tight, off-the-shoulder, red paisley top. Matching hair combs, glittering with rhinestones, swept her mass of black curls off her face into waves that cascaded onto her bare shoulders.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” Henry said, fairly licking his chops.

“How’s your wife, Audra, Henry? And those fine young children?” I smiled sweetly.

C’ndee extended a hand across the table as my cousin took a chair. Her scarlet nails gleamed under the wagon-wheel lamp that hung from the ceiling.

After introductions were made and everyone got straight how everybody else was related, Charlene returned to the table. She dropped off a plate of hot biscuits beside Mama, and took our orders. Then Mama and C’ndee got down to business.

“I don’t know, C’ndee. I still think we should just go in there with scissors and trim this last row of ruffles off. See how that would accentuate the graceful curve of the parasol?”

She turned The Book so C’ndee could see the parasol, held by a smiling Southern belle in crinolines. Dress and umbrella matched, a sickening shade of lime-sherbet green. God help me, that one was my costume.

“So, Henry,” I stole a biscuit off the plate Mama hadn’t offered to share, “what do you hear about Ronnie Hodges?”

My cousin’s the best-known attorney in Himmarshee. This isn’t saying much, since we can count the number of attorneys in town on one hand. But he does have a pretty good pipeline to the police department and courthouse. If there had been any kind of development in the investigation into Ronnie’s death, Henry would know. His face turned grave.

“It’s a mystery to me how someone could do that. That was one awful murder,” he said. “Poor Ronnie.”

The scene from the VFW kitchen flickered into my mind. Putting the biscuit down, I glanced at C’ndee and Mama. They’d gotten quiet, too.

C’ndee rose and pushed back her chair. I noticed her hand shaking as she reached for a gigantic silver purse on the chair next to her. “I’m going to visit the little girl’s room.”

Mama and I traded a look as she walked away. Henry was concentrating on the view of her behind in tight white slacks, like two baby possums tussling in a pillowcase.

“Even if you weren’t married, cousin, that’s too much woman for you,” I said.

“A man can dream, can’t he?” He turned to Mama. “Aunt Rosalee, I thought you told me you couldn’t stand That Woman. How come she’s helping you with the wedding?”

Mama sighed. “I really didn’t have much choice, Henry. First off, she’s kin to Sal through his late wife. That’s a family tie I have to honor. Plus, no matter how I feel about her, Sal is fond of C’ndee.”

“What man wouldn’t be?” Henry said.

“Careful, cousin. You’re drooling on the biscuits.”

“And second,” Mama raised two fingers, “Ronnie’s murder left me in a bad spot.”

“Not as bad as the spot it left Ronnie in,” I said.

“Hush, Mace! I know how that sounds to say it. But it’s the truth. I have a hundred and fifty hungry guests coming to the VFW on Saturday, and no one to feed them. C’ndee’s helping me get all that organized, pulling together the food suppliers and serving people Ronnie used for catering. She seems to know all about this kind of thing. She says her family was in the restaurant business back in New Jersey.”

Mama clamped her lips shut. C’ndee was returning. I noticed a customer at another table was getting up to leave just as she approached. She blew by the woman, nearly knocking her down, instead of stepping aside to let her into the narrow aisle. Mama winced at C’ndee’s civility breach.

“Yankees!” she tsked-tsked in my ear.

“My Gawd!” C’ndee exhaled as she sat down. “The floral scent was so thick in that bathroom I nearly choked to death. What is it with you people down here with perfumed rooms and potpourri? I even smelled a big bowl of it on the counter at the gas station the other day. What are you trying to cover up? Don’t Southerners bathe regularly? Is it a lack of running water?”

Her voice carried like the horn of a semitruck on the New Jersey Turnpike. Several diners turned to stare. The woman she’d nearly trampled looked especially offended.

Mama’s smile was like ice. “C’ndee, honey.” Syrup dripped off the word “honey.” “Didn’t your mama ever teach you that if you don’t have something nice to say, you shouldn’t say anything at all?”

“No, Rosalee. Honey.” Something that wasn’t sweet oozed off the word. “We always spoke our minds and worried about the consequences later. Being truthful was more important than faking nice in my family.”

They glared at each other over The Book. I hoped the heat didn’t singe the pages. Or, if it did, it burned up the one with the picture of that lime-colored gown and stupid parasol.

“Now, what’s this I heard about family, Aunt C’ndee?”

A good-looking guy with an Ivy League voice stood beside the table, smiling down at us. His teeth were as white as his polo sport shirt, worn with the collar casually turned up. He looked like he was ready to head to his private club for an afternoon of squash.

C’ndee’s dark mood brightened in an instant. “Anthony!” she called, rising to embrace him in a smothering, two-armed hug.

“This is my nephew, everyone. Tony Ciancio.” She rotated him by degrees so he could face each of us. I was heartened to see he looked embarrassed at being spun like a game show prize.

“It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.” Greeting Mama first, he demonstrated that he, at least, had good manners. “I’ve heard that wedding of yours is going to rival a Broadway show. I don’t doubt it, because you’re as pretty as any leading lady.”

Mama rewarded him with a flutter of her eyelashes.

“And you must be Mace.” He turned to me, green eyes lively in a chiseled, sailboat-tan face. “I’m looking forward to visiting Himmarshee Park. I hear you have a great nature path. People say that the wading birds and those huge cypress trees are something to see.”

He had me at “nature path.”

Tony stuck out a hand to Henry, who stood up as the two men shook. I could see my cousin’s sharp eyes assessing this outsider from the North. With his corny jokes, his football-star-gone-beefy paunch, and his rumpled suits, Henry liked to play the country bumpkin. But he’d graduated top of his class from the University of Pennsylvania Law School. Henry Bauer, Esquire, is no dummy.

Tony met Henry’s gaze head-on; confident, yet not aggressive. “I’m looking forward to seeing the Brahmans play at Himmarshee High,” he said. “I understand they have a pretty good chance at a state title this year.”

A delighted grin spread across my cousin’s face. He pumped Tony’s hand, and then clapped him on the back. “Their chances are excellent, my friend. Excellent!”

Charlene came back just then with our food. She looked around for a place to put down her big tray, crowded with heavy plates. Tony jumped to clear away water glasses and coffee cups from an adjoining table.

“Let me give you some room.” He flashed a blindingly white smile. Charlene, in full swoon, nearly lost her tray.

It was hard to believe C’ndee and Anthony Ciancio ever sat at the same family table. He must have gotten her share when they were passing around charm and courtesy.

Food safely delivered, Charlene’s eyes drank in Tony’s long, lean build. Apparently, she was one thirsty waitress. “Are you that male model in Rosalee’s wedding book? The one in the white suit?”

He shot his aunt a puzzled look. She patted his cheek twice, doubly affectionate, I guess.

“Tony’s not a model. But he’s gorgeous enough, even after driving south all night,” C’ndee said. “He’s here on business, actually. We’re looking at some opportunities to expand in the area.”

Mama and I each raised an eyebrow. In the month since she’d steamrolled into our lives, this was the first we’d heard about C’ndee starting a business in Florida. I’m sure Mama was calculating how geographically distant that definition of “in the area” might be.

“Is that right?” Henry clapped Tony’s back again. “What are y’all planning to do?” Tony hesitated for just a moment, seeming to weigh how much to say. “We want to do a full-service, event-planning business.”

All of us looked at him blankly.

“Like bringing in demolition derby and monster-truck events?” Charlene asked.

C’ndee looked horrified.

“More like special-occasion events,” Tony said. “We’d do everything from décor to food.”

Henry and I looked at each other over the rims of our coffee cups. He zeroed in like the attorney he was: “Is a wedding the kind of special occasion you’ll handle?”

Tony nodded.

“Looks like you arrived in the nick of time, then,” I said, my tone as neutral as a judge.