Текст книги "Mama Gets Trashed"

Автор книги: Deborah Sharp

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Now, the hymns had been sung. Next to me, the pinching kid was punching his little brother. The Rev. Delilah was preaching her sermon. She’d chosen to focus on the murdered librarian, since that was all anybody in town was talking about.

“I’ve heard, like all of you have, about how that poor girl was dressed. Don’t gossip about her; don’t be quick to judge. Remember what Jesus said: ‘He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone …’ ’’

She counseled the congregation not to fear the evil on the loose in Himmarshee that would drive a person to murder: “ ‘Don’t let your heart be troubled,’ ’’ she said, quoting from the Book of John. “You believe in God …’’

But even if God is watching over us, that’s no reason to be stupid, Delilah warned. “If you see something that doesn’t seem right, something that makes you suspicious, let the police know. We need to pull together as a community and make sure the person who committed this sin is not free to kill again.’’

Amen to that.

When the service ended, the worshippers gathered for food and fellowship in a second storefront the church had taken over next door. The little chapel was growing. After that trouble with Delilah’s ex-husband, who had been the previous minister, she was proving to be a popular attraction. At first, crowds came to the church solely because of the scandal, not to mention the murder. But memories fade. Now the congregation was one-hundred percent behind Delilah, and the female perspective she brought to the pulpit.

The tables nearly sagged with plates of goodies. There was a country ham, with flaky biscuits for mini sandwiches. Cold side dishes, prepared with copious amounts of mayonnaise, included coleslaw, macaroni, and potato salad. Pies and layer cakes competed for space with homemade candy, like pecan divinity and chocolate-marshmallow fudge. The members of Abundant Forgiveness definitely took their abundance seriously. Nobody had a hope of counting calories here.

Loading up my plate, I saw D’Vora, from the beauty parlor, alone against the wall. She’d foregone any food at all, watching the crowd as she sipped a soft drink from a plastic bottle. I grabbed the chair next to hers.

“Fancy meeting you here,’’ I said.

She nodded hello, giving me a forced smile. So, even D’Vora was mad at me?

“Was it something I said?’’

“Sorry, Mace.’’ She balanced the plastic bottle on the seat between her knees. “I’m not myself this morning.’’

“Late night?’’

She shook her head.

“Trouble with Darryl?’’

“No more than usual.’’

Sal wandered up. “Why do gorgeous girls always gather together? Youse two are like pretty bluebirds in a garden.’’

I think I must have preened a little, but D’Vora just stared at her soda bottle.

“She’s not herself this morning,’’ I explained to Sal.

“Probably the murder.’’ He took a cigar from his top pocket, caressed it like a precious jewel, and put it back. “That’s got everybody on edge. It’s a hell of a thing. People are trying to make sense of it, and having trouble doing it. What do you suppose happened to her, Mace?’’

“Beats me. It’s too strange to even contemplate.’’

When Sal began talking about the murder, D’Vora had shifted her focus to the nutritional information on the soft drink’s paper label. She picked at the paper until the glue gave, and then peeled off the label in tiny strips. She was as intent on the task as a heart surgeon performing a bypass.

My eyes met Sal’s over D’Vora’s head, and I nodded slightly toward her. He shrugged a little, perhaps a sign he’d also noticed that the normally gossipy beautician was strangely uninterested.

The big man took a seat on D’Vora’s other side, lowering his body gingerly into one of the flimsy folding chairs. His voice, usually a Bronx blare, was surprisingly soft and gentle. “Sweetheart, is there something you want to talk about?”

He lifted her chin. Was Sal looking for evidence on her face that Darryl might have hit her? We all knew he liked his beer, hated work, and was as immature as a junior high school boy, but I’d never heard the slightest hint he was abusive.

She smiled at Sal, and shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong, y’all. I’m just not feeling great this morning.’’

Uh-oh. Morning sickness? A bawling infant was the last thing D’Vora and the chronically unemployed Darryl needed in that crowded trailer with those three Rottweiler dogs.

“D’Vora, you’re not …” I put my hands over my own belly.

“Lord, no! I’m already taking care of one baby who refuses to grow up.’’

“You’re sure you’re okay?’’ Sal aimed his interrogator eyes at her. She nodded, her gaze drifting back to the label she was shredding.

“I hope you’re feeling better in time for Kenny’s big party. It’s gonna be a blast,’’ he said. “Are you taking Darryl?’’

The plastic bottle tumbled off D’Vora’s lap, bouncing on the tiled floor. The last few swallows of the drink spayed out all over my dressiest flip-flops. My toes would be soda-sticky the rest of the morning.

“Sorry, Mace,’’ she mumbled. She bent to retrieve the dropped bottle, and her church program slid from the chair to the floor. She was trying to pick up that, when her shoulder purse fell off her arm. Sal scooped up the bottle, and I handed her the program and her purse.

“What in the world is wrong with you, D’Vora?’’ I asked.

“I told you I’m fine!’’ Her tone was sharp. “Quit hounding me. If I had anything to say to you, don’t you think I would have said it?’’

Clutching her church program and purse to her chest, she stormed out the door.

twelve

“Mace, honey, close your mouth. You’re gonna catch flies.’’

I was staring slack-jawed out the church-front window. I’d called to D’Vora as she left, but she ignored me, which was becoming a pattern. She was already at the curb, hoisting herself into the passenger seat of Darryl’s big truck. Gunning the engine, he darted into traffic on State Road 70, causing a Hawaiian-shirted tourist in a rental vehicle to screech to a stop. Cars swerved. Horns honked. Darryl flicked a cigarette butt out the window, lifted a beer from the cup holder in the console, and made an illegal U-turn across a double yellow line.

Where was a cop when you needed one?

“Mace!’’

I turned. “I heard you the first time, Mama. Catch Flies. Close Mouth.’’

“See? I told you. No respect!’’ She spoke to one of her fellow church ladies, who tsked-tsked at me in motherly empathy. “We were trying to get your opinion on whether the soprano in the choir and the music minister would make a nice couple.’’

“I suppose so, Mama. Not that it’s any of my business.’’ I glanced out the window again. The truck was gone, and Darryl and D’Vora with it.

“She hasn’t been the same since her husband passed away, poor thing. But it’s been a year. I think it’s time, and Phyllis agrees. Don’t you think so?’’

Both Mama and her pal Phyllis raised their brows, awaiting my answer.

“Everybody’s different, Mama. You can’t put a stopwatch on grief.’’ My focus shifted to the music minister, a middle-aged man with a slight paunch and a quick smile, despite an overbite. Someone standing next to him at the food table said something and his laugh boomed across the room.

“He’s got a heart as big as that laugh,’’ Mama said. “Too bad about those buck teeth, though. He could gnaw an ear of corn through a picket fence, bless his heart.’’

I watched as he scanned the rows of seats until he found the soprano. She studied an open hymn book in her lap. As if she could feel his gaze, she raised her face. Tucking a lock of hair behind an ear, she rewarded him with a radiant smile.

Darned if Mama wasn’t right about the two of them becoming a couple. She might have been unlucky in love, but Mama’s sense about other people’s relationships was uncanny. Of course, I’d rather chew glass than admit that to her.

She jabbed her elbow at her friend Phyllis. “Look at those two. I’m telling you, a musical romance is abloom.’’

She nodded, satisfied, and then turned her attention from the soprano to me. “Now, speaking of couples …”

Before I had a chance to escape, she said to Phyllis, “Have you heard Mace is engaged?’’

I showed her my ring. Her oohs and aahs brought a couple of other church members over to our little group.

“When’s the date?’’ one asked, picking up my hand to turn the ring this way and that.

“There’s no hurry,’’ I answered, extracting myself from her grasp.

“Oh, yes there is,’’ said another woman, as she too grabbed at my hand. “You’re not getting any younger.’’

“That’s certainly true,’’ Mama said.

Et tu?

“The bigger issue, though, is whether my daughter will stop this back-and-forth with her wonderful fiancé, Carlos. Now, y’all know Mace’s rocky history …”

“You do realize, Mama, I’m standing right here? Maybe your friends would like to hear a story about someone who drank too much pink wine and managed to misplace her own fancy ring?’’

She gave me a long look, and then continued. With an eager chorus chiming in, she narrated the highs and lows of my notorious love life. Mainly the lows.

“Remember when Mace spotted an ex-boyfriend on Cops, on TV? What was he in trouble for again, honey?’’

When I didn’t answer, one of the church ladies chimed in. “Wasn’t that the mo-ron who robbed the Booze ’n’ Breeze, only to have his old truck break down when he pulled out of the drive-thru to make his getaway?’’

“Yep,’’ another of the women said. “The sheriff’s deputies caught him when he ran off and jumped in a canal. Mo-ron forgot he couldn’t swim. And all of it caught by the TV camera, too.’’

I tuned out, and began to think about what Mama said about me going back and forth with Carlos. There was more truth in her accusation than I wanted to admit. What was my problem, anyway? With my thumb, I spun the engagement ring on my finger. I still wasn’t used to the heft of it on my hand, or the way the diamond on top poked into my pinky when the ring slipped off-center.

“How ’bout that rodeo cowboy?’’ I vaguely heard one of the women say. “Didn’t he leave Mace way back when for the homecoming queen?”

“He gambled something awful, I heard. Good-looking guy, though,’’ another one of Mama’s friends added.

“Honey, the bad ones always are.’’ Phyllis chuckled.

I was half-listening, half-watching the music minister as he took a seat next to the soprano and handed her a coffee. I’d learned long ago it wasn’t worth interjecting when Mama and her church pals got going on a topic, even if this one happened to center on me.

“Wasn’t there a little something she had going with Lawton Bramble’s boy, too?’’ someone asked.

“That was the awful year we did the horseback ride on the Florida Cracker Trail. Even Carlos had to understand Mace wasn’t in her right mind when she started messing around with Trey Bramble. That’s what happens when somebody’s trying to kill you.’’

“Rosalee, you mean trying to kill you, right?’’ one of the women said.

“Well, both of us, the way it turned out.’’

“Awful sad about what happened to Lawton, though.’’ All the women nodded at the redhead who spoke. “Just proves you can be as rich as Croesus in cattle and still wind up dead, face first in a vat of cow-hunter chili.’’

Their momentary silence was broken when Phyllis gasped, her eyes as wide as collection plates: “Speaking of murder, what if one of Mace’s exes had something to do with that poor girl at the dump?’’

“Don’t be ridiculous!’’ Mama slapped Phyllis’s arm. “None of my daughter’s loser boyfriends ever committed anything more than petty crimes. Plus, now she’s engaged to a police detective, one of the good guys.’’

A newcomer to the conversation turned my hand to peer at my ring. I feared a stress fracture at the wrist from the repetitive motion.

“Murder is a nasty business, y’all.’’ Mama clucked her tongue. “Now, about Mace’s love life …”

Someone interrupted her, drawing talk back to the deadly fate of the unlucky Camilla. A gruesome homicide with sexual overtones would always trump rocky romance. Mama realized she’d lost her audience.

She hooked an elbow through mine and pulled me aside. “Honey,

I just want to make sure you’re not going to jack around that man of yours again. He won’t take it another time.’’

I sighed. “Carlos is the one, Mama. I’m certain.’’ I held up my hand. “I’ve got the ring to prove it. It’s settled.’’

The engagement ring really was lovely. Not so the skin around my wrist, which was starting to redden from all the church ladies tugging at my hand.

Mama looked dubious. She eyed the assembled crowd, stopping when she located a knot of church folk gathered by the coffeepot. “Maybe you should have a backup in case things go wrong. A Plan B Man.’’

My eyes followed hers, which were focused on the choir’s geeky baritone. I snorted. “That man is fifty years old if he’s a day. And he still lives with his mama. Plus, he rides a three-wheeled bicycle to work, bagging groceries at the supermarket.’’

I waved my ring under her nose. “I am a happily engaged woman, Mama. I don’t need a Plan B.’’

She batted away my hand. “There are plenty of rings on fingers out there. Plenty of bad marriages, too. That ring doesn’t mean a thing if you—or your husband—end up with a broken heart.’’

I thought about Mama’s aptitude for understanding romance. Did she sense something about me I myself didn’t know? Maybe having witnessed her series of marital train wrecks spoiled me for commitment. I saw Maddie’s tear-streaked face in my mind. I couldn’t help thinking about Kenny; about their twenty-plus years of marriage, now endangered. Carlos and I weren’t even married yet. Things could go bad. Maybe I did need a backup plan.

For some reason, an image of the gorgeous golf pro flitted behind my eyes. That was immediately followed by a rush of guilt. I don’t know why. It wasn’t like I planned to do anything with the guy. I was just thinking. Harmless daydreaming. It wasn’t like I was considering making Jason—or was it Josh?—my Plan B Man.

Was I?

thirteen

My mouth watered. The aroma of meat on the grill drifted through the dining room at the golf course. They don’t call Himmarshee County the buckle in Florida’s beef belt for nothing. Speaking of which, my own belt might need a new hole if I managed to finish the still-sizzling slab of steak in front of me.

“Hand me that steak sauce, would you Mace?’’ Sal pointed his fork at the house brand bottle on the table.

“Try it before you douse it. You can’t beat the taste of a fine cut of meat, simply prepared.’’ Sawing off a hunk from my own Porterhouse, I held it up for Sal’s inspection. “Nothing but meat, a nice marbling of fat, and some salt and pepper.’’

He plucked it off my steak knife and popped it into his mouth. “Mmm-hmm,’’ he said, chewing.

“What’d I tell you?’’ I grinned. “Carnivore nirvana-vor!’’

My sister Marty, likely the only vegetarian in a twenty-five-mile radius, speared a cucumber from her salad. She chomped on the celery stalk garnishing her virgin Bloody Mary. “You’d both be a lot healthier if you’d cut back on the meat, and bulk up on your greens.’’

Catching the waiter’s eye, Sal tapped the rim of his empty glass to signal he wanted a second martini. “Do olives count as greens, Marty?’’

She shook a finger at him. “Not when they’re soaked in gin.’’

Mama looked at her watch and frowned. “It’s one o’clock. I thought Maddie would be here by now.’’

I’d been so distracted—studying the menu, selecting my steak, lecturing Sal on the virtues of un-sauced meat—I’d forgotten to mention my big sister wouldn’t be joining us.

“I talked to Maddie on my cell on the way here, Mama. She can’t make it.”

“Why not?’’ she asked.

The truth was Maddie was too upset over this mess with Kenny to enjoy the family’s company, not even with the added bonus of dessert. But I wasn’t about to reveal that.

“She’s not feeling well,’’ I said.

“What’s wrong with her?’’ Marty asked.

Mama snatched a French fry from my plate, leaving her own healthy serving of rice untouched. I thrust my steak knife at her in warning.

“She’s just a little under the weather,’’ I answered Marty.

“How so?’’ Mama asked.

Now, even Sal had put down his fork and was awaiting my update. Nothing gets my family interested like evasiveness. I glanced around at the nearby tables and lowered my voice to a whisper.

“She has her period, okay?’’

Reddening, Sal changed the subject. “Hey, I think I see the mayor and his wife coming in. You know them, don’t you Mace?’’

Mama interrupted before I could answer him. “I gave Maddie some special raspberry and chamomile to make Time of the Month tea. That should help her cramps. Isn’t she using it, Mace?’’

“I’m not sure, Mama. I’m not in charge of monitoring Maddie’s herbal tea intake.’’

Mama slipped her cell phone from her purse. “I’m going to call her right now. I have to make sure she remembers to drink that tea.’’

“No, don’t!’’ I said, more sharply than I intended.

All three of them stared at me. “I just meant don’t bother her. She said on the phone she was going to fill a hot water bottle and take a nap. She’s probably asleep right now.’’

“I remember my own periods.’’ Mama happily shifted the focus to herself.

Sal tugged uncomfortably at his collar. She continued.

“Cramps so bad it felt like somebody crushed my uterus in a vise. An unnaturally heavy flow, too. I mean, I’d go through a package of tampons …’’

“Here comes the mayor,’’ Sal blurted, jumping up from our table.

“Oh, joy,’’ Mama muttered as Marty giggled.

Sal, looking relieved, stretched out his big paw for a shake. “How are you today, Mayor Graf? And Mrs. Graf, too, of course. Join us!’’

“Maybe for a minute or two,’’ said the mayor.

Sal pulled out a chair for the mayor’s wife, and all of us shifted around to make room. From the flinch on Sal’s face after he took his seat, I could tell Mama had aimed a swift kick at him under the table.

“Now, Sally, these two probably have all sorts of important people to see.’’ She offered a saccharine-sweet smile to Himmarshee’s power couple. “Don’t let us keep you.’’

Beatrice Graf settled into her chair, tugging at a short skirt of fuchsia satin. Her blouse, in the same shade of bright pink, clashed mightily with the permanent curls of her pomegranate-hued hair. A sprinkling of rhinestones glittered along her plunging neckline, like stars dotting a vast, bosomy galaxy.

“I’m never too busy to chat with my constituents. After all, you put me in office.’’

The mayor flashed a campaign poster grin—all white teeth, dark suit, and insincerity. I knew Mama had voted for his opponent. I admired her restraint, for a couple of seconds anyway.

“Actually,’’ she said, “I supported the other candidate. He’s a native Himmarsheean, and I’ve known him since I taught him in Sunday school, way back when. He’s a good man, and would have made a fine mayor. No offense.’’

The mayor waved a hand, a diamond winking from his pinky ring. “None taken.’’

“Speaking of Sunday school, where do y’all worship?’’ Mama asked.

A look passed between the mayor and his wife. “Actually, we haven’t found a permanent church home,’’ Beatrice Graf said.

Mama cocked her head at Big Bill. “So you got a seat at the Chamber of Commerce, secured a political office, and joined the country club, but you haven’t had time to find a church?’’

“We’re still looking for a good fit,’’ the mayor said.

Beatrice began gathering up her purse. “We really must go, Bill. We’ve been out of town,’’ she explained to us, “and social obligations really pile up.’’

A confused look crossed the mayor’s face. “We haven’t been out of—”

“—Of course we were! Your memory is getting terrible, Bill. Now, I said we have to go.’’

She shot to her feet. Mama put a hand on her arm.

“Just one more thing,’’ she said. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you ‘looking’ at Abundant Forgiveness Love & Charity Chapel. That’s my church.’’

Mama rustled around in her purse, extracting Juicy Fruit gum, a broken blueberry-colored earring, and a crumpled receipt from Fran’s Fancy Frocks and Duds. Finally, she pulled out a program from the morning’s church service. “We’d love to have you stop by.’’

Beatrice snatched the program, folded it without a glance, and stuffed it into her own bag, a rhinestone-studded number in silver leather. I’d lay money that’s where it would stay. In a week or so, she’d toss it out with candy wrappers, hair from her brush, and other garbage she mined from the bottom of that spacious satchel.

Beatrice and Big Bill gave lip service to religion. But between the mayor’s filthy language when he missed a putt, and the way his wife filleted the murder victim’s character without even knowing her, I’d venture a guess they weren’t the worshipful type.

With Mama’s invitation still hanging in the strained silence, a friendly visit to our table by the club’s barmaid came as a welcome interruption. Nodding at me in recognition, Angel dropped her strong hands on Sal’s shoulders. She massaged playfully, like a manager looking after a prizefighter.

“How’s the martini, Sal? Loosening up those tight muscles, I hope. I made it dry as dust, just the way you like them.’’

Mama sat up straighter in her seat; Mayor and Mrs. Graf forgotten. She narrowed her eyes at Angel, whose bright blonde bangs were bouncing adorably onto her forehead. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. I’m Rosalee, Sal’s wife.’’

“Of course! He talks about you all the time. You’re just as pretty as Sal said.’’ She offered her hand. “I tend bar in the 19th Hole. I’m Angel, by the way.’’

Mama, mollified by the compliment, smoothed at her perfectly coiffed hair. She waited just a beat, and then took the barmaid’s hand.

From across the table, Beatrice Graf cleared her throat. “Angel, the mayor and I are absolutely parched. We need some drinks, dear.’’

The tone of her voice was an odd mix of imperiousness and wheedling.

“I don’t do table service,’’ Angel said flatly. “I’ll send over a waiter.’’

Seemingly chastened, Beatrice cast her eyes to the tablecloth, and began examining the silverware.

“Don’t worry about it, Angel.’’ The mayor’s voice was chipper. He stood up to join his wife. “We’ll find a seat in the bar.’’

He dropped a friendly hand on Angel’s shoulder. With a frigid look, she shrugged it off and left our table. The mayor immediately went after her. After an awkward moment, his wife followed him.

“That was weird,’’ Marty said, voice low. “What’s the deal between those three?’’

I shrugged, eager to get back to my steak. Mama speared another French fry from my plate. She made a face when she took a bite.

“It’s colder than a heart on Wall Street,’’ she said, depositing the half-eaten fry back on my plate. “What kind of people sit down and monopolize the dinner table right after your food is served?’’

“You’re the one who kept them around, interrogating them about church,’’ I said.

“Sal was the one who took time away from dinner to flirt with that barmaid,’’ she countered.

“I wasn’t flirting, Rosalee. It’s called being friendly.’’

“You may not think so, but she was definitely flirting with you.’’ Mama dabbed her napkin in my water glass and scrubbed at a spot of ketchup on Sal’s lapel.

“I was drinking that water, Mama.” I slid the glass out of her reach. “Besides, Angel fools around with all her customers like that to boost her tips. She doesn’t care about Sal.’’

“Thanks,’’ he said, looking wounded.

“Are you dissing my husband, Mace?’’

“Who wants dessert?’’ Marty said, employing the one sure-fire suggestion that would make us stop sniping and start eating again.

“I do!’’ all of us answered at once.

Sal signaled for the waiter, and we put in our dessert requests. As I sat, waiting for my Key lime pie and plotting how to keep Mama’s fork out of my plate, I spotted Jason making his way across the dining room. A dozen pair of female eyes followed the golf pro’s progress. I had to admit, he had a confident, sexy stride to match his sexy smile.

When he saw me, he cut a straight line to our table. He shook Sal’s hand, asked him how he was hitting, and then turned his attention my way.

“Hello, gorgeous.’’ He leaned and planted a kiss on my cheek.

Mumbling a greeting, I brushed my finger over the spot he’d kissed. It felt warm.

“I’ve been wondering when I’d see you again.’’ He looked into my eyes. “I’ve thought about you a lot.’’

Mama coughed. Marty bit her lip. Sal tapped the table nervously.

“Jason, this is my mother and my sister.’’ I gave him their names. He nodded hello, but barely seemed to register them. He didn’t even do a double-take when I introduced Marty, whose doll-like beauty captivated most men.

His eyes held mine. “Do you think I could call you? I’ve thought about some of the things we talked about.’’

I felt a shiver of dread. He must know something about Kenny, but this was definitely the wrong time and place for him to bring it up. I fished a business card from the nature park out of my pocket and quickly concocted a cover story. “Give me a call tomorrow. If you’ve got a gator in the pond again, I can definitely help.’’

He looked confused, but palmed the card anyway. I suspected Jason spent a good amount of time not completely understanding what people were saying.

He bent to kiss my cheek again, his lips lingering just a bit longer this time.

“Goodbye, gorgeous.’’