Текст книги "Mama Gets Trashed"

Автор книги: Deborah Sharp

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

“That seals it,’’ she said. “His partner had to be Camilla. They were involved in some kind of sexual game. It got out of hand. He accidentally killed her, but he couldn’t report it. Not with him spouting off all during his campaign about family values. So, he dumped her body to get rid of the problem.’’

I knew she could be right. Still, I felt there was more to the story of the mayor and Camilla than we knew.

“Who else had a good reason to want her dead?’’

“You mean besides Kenny?’’ Mama asked.

I cut my eyes at her. “Obviously.’’

“I’m just trying to think like your former fiancé would. And speaking of that, I have some ideas about how you could win Carlos back.’’

“Could we attend to the matter at hand?’’

She slid across the bench seat and placed her finger with the giant wedding ring over my left hand. “This is the matter at hand. Your ring-less hand.’’

“Mama, could you please focus on your other daughter? Her marriage is on life-support. If we let Kenny go to prison, it’s like pulling the plug. They won’t survive that.’’

I thought about Maddie’s unborn child, and his or her absent father. I thought about that child, growing up with a convicted murderer for a daddy. I would not let that happen.

“Suspects,’’ I said. “That’s what we need to concentrate on.”

“Okay, what about the swinging barmaid, Miss Hotsy Totsy what’s-her-name?’’

“Angel.’’

“Never was a name more inappropriate.’’

“You just don’t like her. Admit it.’’

“True. But consider this: Angel was queen bee of the swinger set when Camilla moved in and started taking over. Camilla was younger and prettier. Plus, she had all those moves she learned with her twin sister. Angel was jealous. She killed Camilla so she could get back her power again.’’

I scanned the oncoming lane. Seeing no traffic, I pulled around a pokey tractor. “Hmmm, that scenario has potential. But Angel seems more like a manipulator than a murderer. If she wanted somebody to disappear, she’d design an elaborate plan or trick someone else into doing the dirty work. She’s smart that way.’’

The country station on the radio started playing Hunter Hayes’ song, “Wanted.’’ I was quiet for a couple of moments, thinking. “Let’s go to the other end of the intelligence scale. What about Jason, the golf pro? He invited me to party with the swingers tonight, and then never showed up. Why?’’

Mama punched the radio to find another station. “Who knows? Maybe he fell asleep and slept right through it. We would have too, if I hadn’t set three alarms to wake us. Who starts a party at three o’clock in the morning? I’ve never heard of such a thing.’’

I was about to say she’d never heard of a swingers’ party, either. Then I remembered her comments about spanking and Brazilian waxes, and I kept my mouth shut. If it turned out Mama knew more about swinging than I did, I didn’t want to know why.

“There’s more to Jason than meets the eye,’’ I said. “I got the impression he has some real feelings for the mayor’s wife.’’

“No way!’’

I nodded. “If nothing else, that shows he’s more complicated than some golf course gigolo, out for a good time and a few extra dollars.’’

The sky outside was still dark. I tuned the radio away from talk and back to country music. Mama aimed the rear-view toward her so she could check her lipstick.

“What about Mrs. Mayor?’’ She pursed her apricot lips. “Maybe Jason had a thing with Camilla and Beatrice was jealous. She certainly looks strong enough to strangle a little bitty thing like Camilla.’’

“Yeah, she’s a big’un all right. But she’s out of shape, and flabby in the arms and shoulders. Moving the body by herself would be a challenge. She would have needed help.’’

Mama tapped her cheek, considering. “Didn’t Elaine do all that research and find out Beatrice’s family was in waste hauling up north? She’d know how things work at the dump.’’

“What’s to know? At our dinky dump, you pretty much drive up and dump. It’s not one of those state-of-the-art ‘solid waste landfills.’ ’’

Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I kept time with Carrie Underwood’s “Good Girl.’’ We were all alone on the lonesome road. An image came to mind of me fleeing in my Jeep, pursued and under fire.

I thought of the mayor’s wife, talking about shooting skeet. I remembered the receptionist saying the hunting trophies in His Honor’s office had actually been bagged by Mrs. Graf.

“You know,’’ I said, “Beatrice Graf is an excellent markswoman. It could have been her shooting at me, trying to scare me away from looking into the murder. If the mayor was fooling around with Camilla, Beatrice could have killed her because she was jealous. Or, she might have been afraid he’d compromise his political standing. No political standing for him, no high profile for her as the First Lady of Himmarshee. That’d be a reason for her to want Camilla out of the way.’’

“I don’t see that,’’ Mama said.

“Why not?’’

“First of all, she’s fooling around herself, with that fine-looking Jason. Being jealous about the mayor would be like craving hamburger after you’ve filled up on filet mignon. Second, didn’t she say she’d been out of town when we found the body?’’

“That’s what she said; the mayor acted like he didn’t agree. I didn’t confirm the alibi.’’

“Let’s hope Carlos has. Before you broke up, he might have told you that kind of information.’’

I looked at her sideways. “On what planet? Bizarro world? Carlos never shares any information with me. Besides, we are not broken up.’’

I tried to sound more certain about that than I felt.

We were both quiet for a time. The re-tuned engine of Mama’s vintage car purred. The tires thrummed on the highway. The fresh scent of a sudden rain shower blew in through the open windows. The rain passed so quickly, I didn’t bother to close them.

“What was that crazy thing you said, accusing Prudence of killing her sister? That was rude, Mace. Even for you.’’

“Prudence would be even ruder, if she did murder her sister.’’ In my mind, I saw her sitting in Camilla’s home, waiting for the bank to call. “She stands to inherit her sister’s estate. Money has always been a powerful motivator.’’

I slapped the steering wheel. “Dammit! I just remembered another thing that bothered me about her. Remember dinner at your house, when we were talking about her sister? When Prudence mentioned the collar Camilla was wearing when she was killed, she said ‘complete with O ring.’ The police report never described it so specifically. How’d she know?’’

Mama waved a dismissive hand: “A fetish collar is a fetish collar.’’

I wasn’t so sure about that, but I didn’t want to pursue my mother’s familiarity with fetishes. I summed up instead: “How much do we know about Prudence anyway?’’

“We know she was in Atlanta when Camilla was killed.’’

“Right.’’ I rubbed my eyes. “I’m so tired, I’m not thinking straight about anything.’’

Suddenly, I smelled the dump more than I smelled the damp air of dawn. I knew we were getting close to the county line. My little cottage wasn’t far beyond that. Maybe I’d be able to grab a couple of hours of sleep before I had to be at work at ten o’clock.

I flew past a garbage truck, idling on the shoulder of the road.

“That truck’s out early,’’ I said.

Mama yawned.

“Crap! Did I forget to put out my cans? No, wait. This is Saturday.’’

A bigger yawn.

We passed the next couple of miles in silence. In my periphery, I caught Mama nodding and blinking, trying to stay awake. My own eyeballs felt like somebody had scuffed them with sandpaper. Slowing as I neared the turnoff to my house, I maneuvered the convertible onto my oak-lined drive. That brought her back to life.

“I-I-I wi-wi-wish yo-yo-you’d ge-ge-get th-th-this dr-dr-driveway pa-pa-paved.’’

“Stop being such a baby,’’ I said.

Easing Mama’s car into my front yard, I killed the engine. She immediately pulled her smart phone from her pantsuit pocket. “I’ll just be a minute,’’ she said. “My phone’s almost out of juice, but I want to text Sal. I’m going to tell him I’ll be on my way just as soon as I stop at your house to tinkle.’’

“WTMI, Mama. Waaaaay Too Much Information. Why didn’t you go before we left the truck stop?’’

“Did you see those toilets? I decided to hold it. I don’t have to go too bad now, but I sure will by the time I drive home. You live out in the boonies, Mace.’’

“Yes, by design. I’m exactly thirteen miles from you. My lucky number.’’

She stuck out her tongue. I stood there waiting for her, until I realized she was still typing.

“You know, you could have used the bathroom already and been on your way if you didn’t have to tweet your every movement.’’

“I’m not tweeting. I’m texting.’’

“Whatever. I’m going to bed.’’ I tossed the keys I was holding through the window and onto the floorboard.

She waved me off. “Sal’s up. He’s texting me back. You go ahead. I’ll be right in.’’

As I left, she was still in the car. Head buried in her phone, she was texting like mad.

The sun hid below the horizon, but a pink and yellow glow began to color the sky. An early-rising mockingbird sang a welcoming tune. I whistled a few notes in return, letting Florida’s feathered symbol know I appreciated the cheerful greeting.

I was just about to open my front door when a shot blasted out from the woods. Everything that unfolded next happened really fast.

I heard a hiss, and smelled propane gas.

Mama yelled, “Take cover, Mace!’’

My eyes flicked toward her. An instant later, they took in the sight of an above-ground propane tank in the side yard. I barely registered the sound of a second shot, before I saw a flash of light sparking through the air. Mama hit the ground, next to her car. I screamed her name.

I heard nothing in reply except the boom of the propane tank exploding.

fifty-one

Are there rocks in heaven?

I hoped not, because several sharp stones jabbed into my back and butt. The ground beneath me was hard, and damp with morning dew. Smoke billowed in the air. Fire popped and crackled, burning a small outdoor shed next to the propane tank. The tank itself was gone: Blown to bits.

I raised myself to my elbows, checking to see which body parts hurt. They all did. The joints still moved, though. Familiar images began to form in blurry focus. There was my purse on the ground, twenty feet away. Had I tossed it there, or did the explosion send it flying? I saw Mama’s car, seemingly intact. The passenger door stood ajar.

Mama!

She’d dropped to the ground when the shooting started. Was she hit? Where was she now?

I struggled to my knees and blinked, trying to clear my vision. Something warm and wet coursed down from above my eyebrows. I rubbed my hand across my eyes. Even in the dimness of dawn’s light I could see blood coating my palm. A jagged hunk of white metal, now scorched black, lay near where I landed. It looked like a shard from the propane tank. Was that what hit me?

Pulling a bandana from the pocket of my jeans, I pressed it to my scalp. It came away moist, but not soaked. Gingerly, I worked my fingers from one side of my head to the other. Nothing poked back at me. No obvious fragments were embedded there.

I began crawling on all fours toward Mama’s car. Halfway there, I felt strong enough to try to stand. My legs wobbled. A wave of dizziness washed over me. I stood there swaying, as I squinted to see through the smoke and hazy light. Haltingly, I walked to the convertible, where I hung onto the door for support.

Mama was not where I’d seen her last, flat on the ground beside her car.

Wide tire tracks criss-crossed the yard. Whatever had made them was heavy enough to sink deep into wet grass. Black mud oozed up, filling the tread marks. As the smoke from the shed fire began to disperse, I noticed another smell. Familiar … stinky … garbage. Several small piles and black plastic bags dotted the ground like odoriferous ant mounds. Images started connecting in my brain: The too-early garbage truck, out-of-place as it idled near my home. The dump, where Mama and I had found Camilla’s body. Beatrice Graf’s family business.

Someone had taken Mama, and I thought I knew where. I prayed I wasn’t too late.

_____

The convertible swallowed the road. I was grateful for all eight cylinders. Mama’s keys had been on the floorboard, right where I dropped them. Her cell phone was under the car, near where she’d hit the ground. Had she consciously hidden it? Or, did the phone land there because she’d been shot?

I pressed my boot against the accelerator, urging an ounce more speed from the old Bonneville. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been unconscious, but I didn’t think it was long. The sun was still low on the horizon; the sky only dimly lit.

I grabbed Mama’s phone: The battery indicator was in the red zone, for almost-out-of-juice. I started to call Carlos … when my mind blanked. I’d phoned him by name on my speed dial for so long, I couldn’t recall the digits. My fingers scrabbled across Mama’s key pad to find the names of her favorite contacts. There was Sal, at the top. I felt a tug at my heart when I saw that I was second on the list. If Mama was safe, I vowed never to avoid her calls again.

I pressed to dial Sal, and the call went straight to voice mail. I fought to keep the panic from my voice. “Listen carefully. The phone’s nearly dead. I’m northbound on State Road 98, on my way to the Himmarshee dump. Whoever killed Camilla ambushed us at my house. They’ve got Mama, probably in a garbage truck. Call nine-one-one. Call Carlos, and tell him to meet me there …

and Sal? Please tell Carlos I’m sorry, and that I love him.’’

I rang off before he could hear the lump in my throat squeezing my words.

Barely slowing, I swung a sharp left onto the road that led to the dump. Everything on Mama’s front seat went flying: cell phone; tissue box; bottled water. Some loose golf clubs in the back clattered to the floorboard. Sal had been trying to teach Mama a few basics of the game.

I saw taillights just ahead. Gears ground. Air brakes hissed. The noisy truck was stopping, silhouetted by a mountain of trash beyond. I cut Mama’s engine and pulled off the road, coasting to a stop behind a stand of cypress trees. It immediately occurred to me I had no weapon and no strategy beyond the element of surprise. I jumped from the car, and my eyes lit on the golf clubs. Choosing the one with the widest, heaviest metal head, I sprinted along a line of trees toward the truck.

_____

Creeping up from behind, I could see a heavy tarp thrown across the open hopper at the truck’s rear. It was a gaping metal bin, where the contents of household cans were tossed in by the garbage guy who normally rode on the back. On this morning, I saw just one person with the truck: the driver, who had opened the door and was about to climb from the cab. The reflection in the truck’s side mirror revealed a dark baseball cap, pulled low over the driver’s face. In sunglasses, baggy slacks, and a loose, long-sleeved shirt, it could have been anyone.

Even when the driver stepped to the ground and shut the door, I still couldn’t tell who it was. The clothes were shapeless, and his—

or her—hair was tucked up under the cap.

At the back of the truck, no movement disturbed the tarp. My heart pounded. Was Mama hurt under there? Worse, was she dead?

As the driver crossed in front of the cab, I raced to the truck’s left side. My breath rasped out in gasps. I hoped they didn’t sound as loud as they did in my own ears. Peering under the truck, I watched booted feet moving on the other side, from front to right rear. I situated myself alongside the huge tires, careful to hide my own legs there in case the driver happened to glance underneath.

The boots stopped at the right rear corner of the truck.

In that instant, I knew my mother’s fate. The controls for the compactor were on the right rear. The driver planned to crush Mama like ninety-eight pounds of household garbage. I placed my hand against the truck’s fender and said a silent prayer. “Hang on,’’ I added, hoping Mama would sense my presence. “I will not let you get trashed.’’

I bolted around the back of the truck. The driver’s hand was within inches of the control lever. Raising the club overhead, I swung with all my might. The sweet spot struck solidly. Howling with pain, the driver staggered backward. The hat fell off, revealing a full head of blonde hair, kissed daily by the sun on the golf course.

Jason.

“The cops are right behind me,’’ I said. “You won’t get away. Don’t make it any worse by hurting someone else.’’

He reached with his left hand to pull the lever. I wound up and swung again. The club slammed his wrist with a sickening thud. Jason squealed like a pig caught under a gate. Keeping one eye on him, I pounded the side of the truck. “Can you hear me, Mama? Give me a sign you’re okay.’’

Only silence came from inside. That bastard Jason managed to smirk at me, even through his pain. I aimed the club straight at his head. “Don’t think I won’t knock you into a coma,’’ I said. “Now, get down on the ground and stay down.’’

With Jason seated on the roadway, and my club within reach, I pulled off the tarp. The hopper brimmed with loose garbage and lumpy plastic bags. I poked my hand in, searching for anything that felt human.

A muffled mmmppfff, mmmppfff issued from the trashy depths. I dug frantically, tossing out trash bags as I went. My hand encountered the familiar shape of a kitten-heeled sandal. Empty. Somewhere in there was its matching persimmon mate, hopefully attached to the intact foot of my unharmed mama.

Casting out pizza boxes, clumped kitty litter, and the spoiled, slimy remains of what seemed like an entire salad bar, I unearthed a rolled-up carpet. A hank of platinum hair stuck out of the top. Panting with effort, I hauled it out. I was thankful for Mama’s petite build and my years of lifting hay bales and feed bags. As gently as I could, I lowered the rug to the ground and unrolled it.

“Mmmppfff! Mmmppfff!”

Duct tape covered her mouth, and bound her hands behind her back. Crushed taco shells and wet clumps of something unnaturally orange clung to her hair. A crab claw hung over one ear.

“This will hurt,’’ I warned, as I ripped the tape from her face.

She gulped in a couple of deep breaths and then shouted, “It was Prudence! She and Jason were in on it together. She’s the one who blew up your propane tank!’’

So it was the evil twin. I knew it.

fifty-two

I poked Jason in the leg with the golf club. When he wouldn’t look at me, I poked him harder. “Where’s your girlfriend, Miss Fragile English Rose, now?’’

He shrugged.

“Guess this means you’re not going steady with Beatrice Graf.”

His face was hard, absent of all traces of the flirtatious, good-time guy. “I want a lawyer.’’

With my pocketknife, I sliced the duct tape from Mama’s wrists and ankles. We found the rest of the roll in the garbage truck. I taped Jason’s feet together to make sure he wouldn’t run. His club-pummeled hands were blowing up like balloons, so I didn’t bother taping them.

I detected sirens, wailing faintly in the distance. Thank God, Sal had gotten the message. The cavalry was on its way. Jason heard the sirens, too. He leaned back against the truck’s tire and dropped his head to his knees.

I turned my attention to Mama. “How’d you end up in the truck?’’

“Right after the explosion, I was still under my car. I saw Prudence come running, carrying a rifle in one hand and a bright red flare gun in the other. About the same time, this big ol’ garbage truck rumbled into your yard. She crouched over you, real calm, and checked you out. Then she shouted to the truck, ‘She’s alive.’ My own heart started beating again once I heard those words.’’

Mama’s gaze focused on the rug on the ground. She waited a beat, and then continued.

“I heard Jason’s voice call out, ‘What about the old lady? Where is she?’ Prudence looked surprised. She probably thought you’d dropped me off and were coming home alone.’’

“‘Old lady?’’’ I repeated. “I should have let you hit Jason with the golf club, Mama.’’

She gave me a weak smile. “It didn’t take long for them to find me under my car. In that haughty tone, she told Jason to ‘take care of the witness.’ That was me, Mace!’’

Breathing through my mouth, I pulled her close for a hug. I plucked the crab shell from behind her ear, and finger combed a chunk of what looked like rotten pork from her hair.

“When he rolled me up and tossed me in that truck, I saw my whole life flash by. Buried in trash was not the way I’d planned to meet my maker.’’

“It was your mother’s fault for being there, you know.’’

I glared at the newly verbal Jason.

“We only planned on scaring you by making the propane tank go boom. It was supposed to be a warning to keep away from the murder investigation, just like the note on your sister’s door. But I noticed there were two of you in the car when you passed my truck on the highway. We couldn’t leave your mother behind to tell the cops.’’

The sirens sounded closer.

“It won’t be long before Mama and I both get to do that,’’ I said. “I’ve got it all figured out. You and Prudence conspired together to get rid of her sister. She probably had some kind of serious grudge against Camilla, who was better than her at everything. Plus, Prudence stood to inherit. You like women with money, so the two of you were a match made in heaven.’’

“What about the garbage truck?’’ Mama asked.

“Jason had Beatrice Graf wrapped around his finger,’’ I said. “He must have convinced her to pull some strings and let him use the truck.’’ I could hear the certainty in my own voice.

He smirked at me again. “You think you’re so smart, but you don’t know shit.’’

“Language, son,’’ said Mama, ever the Sunday school teacher.

Tires screeched on the highway. Sirens screamed. The first of several cop cars sailed onto the turnoff to the dump. Carlos’s car was the second one in line. Prudence sat in the back seat, her face impassive. Sal’s gold Cadillac brought up the rear of the police parade.

I pointed with the golf club at Prudence. “Looks like your girlfriend didn’t get far. She was probably trying to run when Carlos caught her. He’s good at getting people to confess. By now, she’s probably given you up, too.’’

Jason’s mouth was set in a grim line. Where were his adorable dimples now?

fifty-three

Carlos slammed on his brakes. Prudence stared out the opposite window, as if bored by the scene in front of her. She seemed to be dressed for a morning hunting pheasants on the English moors, sporting a ladies’ tweed shooting vest over a crisp white blouse.

With a glance at his suspect in the back, Carlos got out and strode toward Mama and me.

“Are you two okay?’’

Worry clouded his eyes. The touch of his hand, stroking my face, was warm. But his voice was colder than I thought it would be. Had Sal delivered the last part of my phone message?

When I didn’t answer immediately, Mama jumped in: “We’re fine. Though I think you should check Mace for injuries, slowly and thoroughly.’’

I felt my face flush. Was Mama really trying to promote some hanky-panky with her would-be murderer waiting to be arrested? I was encouraged, though, to see the hint of a smile cracking through the granite of my ex-fiancé’s jaw.

“I’m okay.’’ I gestured toward Jason, who ducked when he saw me point the club. “He might need some medical attention, though.

I whacked at both his hands to stop him from compacting Mama into a trash cube.’’

Sal had arrived. He hugged Mama tight, and then bent to look at Jason. “That left wrist might be broken. Remind me not to stand too close when you’re swinging your way out of a sand trap, Mace.’’

I must have looked at him blankly, because Mama translated: “This club’s called a sand wedge, honey.’’ She touched the broad head. “You use it to try to get the ball out of a sand trap, a shot that has become unfortunately familiar to me.’’

I’d had enough golf for one day. I jerked a thumb at Carlos’s back seat. “Did the evil twin confess?’’

“No. She says she knows her rights. She asked me for a ‘bar-rister.’’’

“Her boyfriend said the same, except he wants a lawyer,’’ Mama said.

Carlos crossed his arms over his chest and focused on me, unsmiling. “You know this carelessness of yours is almost criminal. It’s a pattern. You had no business putting yourself and your mother into danger.’’

The lid that kept my temper from boiling over began to rattle. After what Mama and I had just been through, I expected him to wrap me in his arms and comfort me. I hadn’t expected to be berated.

“They’re the ones who came after us,’’ I said. “We were minding our own business, returning home after a nice breakfast at the truck stop.’’

“Yes, after you showed up at a sex party to ‘investigate.’ Camilla clearly thought you were getting too close, which set this morning’s events into motion. That much I learned before she quit talking.’’

“Prudence.’’ I corrected him.

“No.’’ He shook his head. “I said it right the first time. The murder victim was Prudence, the out-of-town sister. The killer was Camilla, the librarian.’’

I stared at the woman in his car. She looked back, eyes cold as stones.

“Say what?’’ Mama tilted her head sideways and shook it. “I must have gotten some garbage juice in my ear. I thought I heard you say the murdered sister was Prudence. Wasn’t she still in Atlanta when Mace and I found Camilla dead at the dump?’’

“Not according to data from Prudence’s cell phone.’’ He held up his own phone as a visual aid. “That showed she arrived in Himmarshee two days before you discovered the body. Prudence was likely strangled by Mace’s pal, Jason, aided and abetted by her own sister, Camilla.’’

I thought of the days of anguish we’d been through, when it looked like Maddie’s husband might have killed Camilla. Now, it turned out Camilla wasn’t even dead? Steam started rocking the lid on my temper pot.

“How long have you known this?’’

Carlos shrugged. “Suspecting something and getting the information I need to prove it are two different things.’’

“How long?’’

“A couple of days after you found the body. Neighbors in Atlanta saw Prudence packed and leaving for Florida last week, well before the call went out to her cell phone as Camilla’s emergency contact.’’

His gaze shifted briefly to the back of his car. His suspect stared back coldly.

“I contacted some of the twins’ old friends in England, who revealed how deep their rift really was. Camilla hated Prudence. Prudence was their parents’ favorite, and more accomplished at everything than Camilla was. She’d been jealous of her sister her whole life.’’

“And knowing all this, you allowed Kenny’s name to be dragged through the mud, despite how fragile my sister’s marriage is right now?’’ My voice had gotten louder.

Sal put a hand on my arm. “That’s police work, Mace. Sometimes you have to keep a false impression about guilt and innocence hanging out there to lure in the bad guy. Or girl, in this case.’’

I whirled to confront Sal. “Did you know, too?’’

He shook his head. Mama said, “You can’t expect Carlos to share everything about his investigations with you, Mace. People’s lives could be at stake.’’

“So you’re on his side?’’

Mama gave me the same sad look I’d seen when she had to tell me my childhood dog was dead, fatally kicked by a horse. “Honey, this is Carlos’s job. There shouldn’t be a ‘his side’ and ‘your side’ to this. If you keep seeing things that way, maybe you’re right. Maybe you aren’t ready to be married.’’

Carlos cleared his throat. “Speaking of my job, I need to get these two processed.’’

Mama, Sal, and I watched as he read Jason his rights. He called over two more officers to help load him into the back of a squad car, since he couldn’t properly walk with duct tape around his ankles. When they were done, Carlos returned to his own car. Without a goodbye, he drove away with Camilla.

Did I want to question Sal? Did I want to know? I decided I did, even if it was humiliating or painful.

“Thanks for getting the message to Carlos,’’ I said. “Did you tell him everything I asked you to?’’

Pulling at his collar, Sal aimed his gaze on the ground. “I told him everything, Mace. Including that you were sorry and you loved him.’’

“And what did he say?’’

Sal mumbled something, his eyes avoiding mine. Mama nudged him to repeat it. I was sorry when he did.

“He said he wished he could believe you.’’

fifty-four

A Happy Birthday banner flapped over the entrance to the VFW hall. A cake in the shape of a monster truck dominated the room, minus the words Maddie once planned for the top—To the World’s Best Husband. A disc jockey spun some of the birthday boy’s favorite country tunes: “Bubba Shot the Jukebox”; “Mud on the Tires”; and “Lifestyles of the Not So Rich and Famous.’’

Marty had pulled the DJ aside earlier, asking that his playlist not include “Whose Bed Have Your Boots Been Under?’’ or “Your Cheatin’ Heart.’’

Maddie looked resplendent, yellow dress and all. She sipped a soda as she welcomed the party guests. Her husband had been sprung from his holding cell after the true suspects were arrested. Carlos told the reporter for the Himmarshee Times Kenny had been kept overnight at the jail “for his own protection.’’ The newspaper didn’t publish over the weekend, but word of Kenny’s innocence had already spread over the unofficial hotline.

Some of the same people who’d wanted to hang Kenny for murder showed up to see if my sister would kill him for cheating instead.

He sat in a chair against the wall, accepting birthday wishes and half-truths from friends who claimed they knew all along he didn’t do it. Every few minutes, his eyes shifted toward the wife he’d wronged. Maddie had on her game face, but I knew she’d need time before she’d trust him again, completely. Camilla had manipulated Kenny, pushing all the right buttons for male pride and ego to lure him into her plan. Still, the fact he’d made any progress on the road to forgiveness was probably due to Maddie’s condition.

Before the party started, she revealed to Mama and Marty that she was pregnant.

“I knew it!’’ said Mama, after hugs and congratulations were exchanged. “A mother can always tell.’’