“What’d you tell them?’’
“That I had no idea how that man got into my trunk, of course. That I’m innocent.’’
I didn’t want to picture that conversation.
“They made me wait inside until a detective came. He had a Spanish last name. Awfully good-looking. He seemed real impatient with my answers.’’
Imagine that, I thought.
“He finally got up, all red in the face, and ordered the officers to bring me here to wait some more. He has more questions, he said. He acted like he thinks I’m guilty.”
“Is the detective someone we know, Mama?’’
“He’s brand new. Emma Jean says he used to be a policeman down in Miami, but something bad happened down there. No one talks about exactly what.’’
Just then, the door opened. My mother nudged me in the ribs and bent her head. “That’s him. That’s the detective,’’ she whispered.
The man in the doorway was in his late thirties or early forties. His hair was black and wavy. His dark eyes looked like they hid plenty of secrets. He wore creased jeans and a white dress shirt. His tie, light blue with white stripes, was loosened at the neck. He wasn’t exceedingly tall, maybe an inch more-so than me. But he filled the frame of the door, the way confident men do. And Mama was right: he was good-looking, if you’re partial to dark and glowering. Which I definitely am not.
“Who’s she?’’ the detective asked Mama, crooking a thumb in my direction.
I knew people were rude in Miami, but this was ridiculous. Good looks are no excuse for bad manners.
“ ‘She’ is Mason Bauer, Detective.’’ I used my given name and straightened to my full five-foot-ten inches. “I’m Ms. Deveraux’s daughter.’’
“And I’m Detective Martinez.’’ He gave his last name a little trill. Neither of us offered to shake hands. “You can’t be here while I talk to your mother. She may be involved in a homicide.’’
“I’m aware that a man’s body was discovered in the trunk of her car. I want to assure you my mother had nothing whatsoever to do with the man getting there.’’
“Assure away.’’ He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. “I’m still talking to your mother alone, Ms. Bauer.’’
“Excuse me, Detective?’’ Mama held up a finger like she was trying to raise a point on orchids at the Garden Club. “That’s Miss Bauer. My daughter isn’t married. And, please, call her Mace. Everybody does.’’
“Mama!”
“Well, they do, honey.’’ She turned back to the detective. “I gave old family surnames to all three of my girls. The youngest is Marty, which comes from Martin. We call Madison, the oldest, Maddie for short. It’s a Southern thing.”
Mama didn’t mention these fine old English names appear nowhere in our own family background, which is Scotch and German. She didn’t think it sounded as classy to name us “McDougall,’’ “Zumwald,’’ and “Schultz.’’
She raised her finger again. “I just want to add that Mace is smart, too. She graduated top in her college class at Central Florida.’’
A vein started throbbing at Martinez’s temple. I had the oddest impulse to trace it with my thumb.
I felt a flush spreading from my hairline south. “Mama, please. Nobody cares what kind of grade point average I carried ten years ago.’’
Just then, the door behind the counter swung open, rescuing me from Mama’s compulsive matchmaking. Emma Jean pushed through backwards, balancing three coffees. She propped open the door with her ample rear end, sheathed in the same bubble-gum shade as her bustier. Setting the coffees down, she turned to us.
“Well, hey, Detective Martin-ez.’’ Her drawl turned his last name into two English words, Martin and Ez. “I saw you through the window as you drove up. Figured you could use a cup, too. Did y’all get an ID yet on that poor dead man in Rosalee’s trunk?’’
Martinez grabbed a coffee off the counter. He didn’t say thanks.
“Yeah, we did. One of the officers recognized him.’’ He tipped the cup to his lips, keeping his eyes fastened on my mother.
“Well, who was it?’’ Emma Jean picked up both remaining cups. As she handed one to me, I nodded my thanks.
Waiting, Martinez stared holes through Mama. Finally, he said, “His name was Jim Albert.’’
As soon as Emma Jean heard the name, she screamed and stumbled. She caught herself, but the last coffee went flying.
“Oh, Emma Jean!’’ Mama rushed to her friend’s side. “I am so sorry.’’
I was confused. Shouldn’t Emma Jean be apologizing, since she’d just ruined Mama’s pantsuit with lukewarm coffee splotches from top to bottom?
The receptionist threw herself, sobbing, into my mother’s open arms. I was afraid the impact would topple Mama, like she was the last pin on the lane at a bowling tournament. Martinez quickly stepped in as ballast.
“Am I missing something here?’’ He raised his eyebrows at me. I shrugged, as I helped him prop up a weeping Emma Jean.
“Oh, this is just getting more horrible by the minute, Detective.’’ Mama leaned around Emma Jean’s bulk to find Martinez. “Jim Albert was her boyfriend. And just last week, he got down on one knee and asked Emma Jean to marry him.’’
The news that her fiancé was the dead man in Mama’s convertible hit Emma Jean hard.
She was sobbing, rocking back and forth in her receptionist’s chair. I thought each squeak from the wheels might be the last. If Emma Jean was to take a tumble, I feared what might fall out the top of that too-snug bustier.
Martinez leaned against the counter, watching his co-worker. I used the opportunity to scrutinize him: Except for the badge at his belt and the foam coffee cup in his hand, he might have been an ancient Roman, sculpted in marble. I pay attention to little details. That comes in handy for my part-time work, tracking animals. I can usually read people, too. But the expressionless detective offered no clues. He ought to try his luck at poker at the Seminole casino.
Mama pulled a sherbet-colored hanky from the pocket of her pantsuit. The lacy square of linen was no match for the volume of Emma Jean’s tears. Mama was just returning with toilet paper reinforcements from the Ladies, when we all heard voices from the hallway.
“I demand to speak to Mrs. Rosalee Deveraux,’’ the loudest voice said.
My big sister, Maddie, was bearing down on the lobby like a hurricane, her red hair flying like a warning flag. A uniformed officer trailed two paces behind, keeping a wary eye on Maddie and a hand ready near his gun. As soon as Maddie saw our mother sitting there safely, she lit into me.
“Mace, what were you thinking with that message on my answering machine: ‘Mama’s in the Himmarshee Jail. Come quick!’ I nearly had a coronary. Then, I couldn’t reach your cell. You have got to keep that phone turned on. If it’s for emergencies, I’d say this qualifies.’’
Maddie has been bossing me around since she was in kindergarten and I was in diapers. I’m well into big-girl undies now, but she’s seen no sense in stopping yet.
“Now, honey, don’t get mad at your sister,’’ Mama said. “It was me told Mace to call. I’m in a little spot of trouble.’’
“Make that a big spot,’’ I amended. “Mama found a dead man in her convertible trunk.’’
Emma Jean let out a wail, springing loose a fresh flood of tears.
“Sorry, Emma Jean,’’ I said, handing her another wad of toilet paper. “He …’’ I crooked my thumb to point at Martinez, just as he’d done to me, “… he’s the detective who thinks Mama’s mixed up in the poor man’s murder.’’
Peeking out from behind Maddie was our younger sister, Marty. Her face went pale at my announcement. But the news just seemed to make Maddie madder. She pulled herself up to her full height, which I always remind her is two-and-one-h
alf inches shorter than mine. Her whole body swiveled back and forth and back again between Mama and Martinez, causing the eyeglasses on the chain around her neck to spin like an airplane propeller.
“I’ve never heard of anything so ridiculous,’’ Maddie finally said.
“Please, Maddie.’’ Marty’s voice was hardly audible. She bunched up the fabric of her flowered dress as she spoke. “Can’t we talk about this like civilized people?’’ She glanced nervously at the cop with the gun.
Maddie steamrollered past, ignoring Marty. She stalked across the room, stopped beside Mama, and put a protective hand on her shoulder. “This woman has taught Sunday school to half of Himmarshee.’’
She turned a gale-force glare on Martinez. Maddie’s a middle school principal. That glare gets a lot of practice.
But Martinez glared right back, adding an intimidating lift of his chin. I had an inappropriate urge to smile at him. I was that pleased to think my big sister had met her match.
“More daughters, I presume?’’ He nodded slightly at the other officer, dismissing him.
“Maddie’s my oldest girl, Detective.’’ My mother’s voice was as sweet as cane syrup. She’d slipped back into that hostess gown. “The little slip of a child by the wall is Marty, the youngest. You’ll always know Marty because she hardly says a word. That’s not a bad thing for a librarian, is it? Anyway, Mace and Maddie never do give her a chance.’’
Marty had inherited Mama’s debutante looks and diminutive size. She’s nervous, too, flitting around like a delicate bird. Maddie is her exact opposite: tall, big-boned, and outsized in everything from voice to personality. I’m somewhere between the two of them. Not as pretty as Marty; not as mean as Maddie.
“Are you charging my mother with murder?’’ Maddie folded her arms over her chest, all business.
Marty went even whiter. “You shouldn’t even mention muh … mur … that word and Mama in the same sentence, Maddie.’’
Emma Jean’s receptionist professionalism resurfaced. She stopped rocking, blew her nose, and chimed in before Martinez could answer.
“No one’s said anything about charging anyone with murder, girls. We’re just trying to find out what your mama knows about what happened. I was recently engaged to Jim Albert, the victim.’’ She balled up a paper towel and dabbed at her nose, struggling for control. Mama leaned over and patted her arm. Emma Jean gave her a brave, if wobbly, smile.
“Detective Martin Ez just wants to ask Rosalee some questions.’’
Martinez flinched a little as Emma Jean mangled his name again. He’d better get used to it. Himmarshee isn’t Miami. People from up north think we have enough trouble speaking English down here, let alone Spanish.
Maddie and I exchanged a look. The unspoken message: We’ll hash it out later, so we won’t upset Mama. Whatever the two of us decided, Marty would go along, like always. Like Mama, Marty hates disharmony more than just about anything.
Just as we all were settling down, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the outside hall. Whoever it was, they were flying to get here. Soon, the familiar odor of aftershave from the dollar store wafted into the lobby. I knew who reeked even before I saw him. Judging from the smile spreading across my mother’s face, she recognized the Eau d’ Excess, too.
“Sally, darlin’, I am so relieved to see you.’’
That would be Salvatore Provenza, “Big Sal’’ to everyone except my mother, who inexplicably calls him Sally. The pet nickname bugs my sisters and me no end. It would have bugged him, too, coming from anyone but my mother. But the man loves her like the young Elvis loved Priscilla.
“Don’t … pant … you worry … pant … about a thing, Rosalee.’’ Hands on his knees, Sal was breathing hard from his sprint to the lobby. “I’m here now.’’
My sisters and I rolled our eyes—even Marty.
Mama was holding her hand to her chest, simpering. She plays the Southern damsel to perfection when it suits her. Of course, before Daddy lost our ranch, I’d seen her string barbed wire for fencing and wrestle a two-hundred-pound calf for branding. But that was a long time ago.
Once he stopped wheezing, Sal zeroed in on Martinez. I wasn’t surprised. Emma Jean might have been the police department person in power, but Big Sal’s a chauvinist with a Big C. Then again, one look at Emma Jean, all tight clothes and teased hair, and I would have pegged Martinez as the alpha cop, too.
“What’s the nature of Mrs. Deveraux’s confinement?’’ He pronounced it “nate-cha,’’ his Bronx upbringing still lurking in his nasal passages.
“There is no confinement at this point,’’ Martinez answered. “I need to determine the nate-cha, I mean nature, of her involvement. That’s been difficult, given the constant interruptions.’’
Sal, all 307 pounds of him, ran a finger under the collar of his pastel yellow golf shirt. Puffing out his chest in a man-to-man fashion, he hooked a thumb into the expandable waistband of his rust-colored slacks.
“Well, my cousin happens to be a lawyer.’’ Lore-yah, is the way Sal said it. “I can have him here in a few hours, if Rosie needs him.’’
I had a quick flash of Joe Pesci as the over-his-head lore-yah in the movie My Cousin Vinny.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Provenza.’’ I said. “We have our own cousin, who’s also a lawyer, if it should come to that.’’
I was trying to be polite. After all, Mama may end up marrying the guy.
Maddie wasn’t as restrained. “We absolutely do not need any help from you, Mr. Provenza. Or from your ‘lore-yah’ cousin.’’
Her voice was so cold, they could have pumped it into the beer cooler down at the Booze ‘n’ Breeze drive-thru. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you and some of your New York associates aren’t responsible for this mess our mother is in.’’ Maddie moved real close to Sal, just about hissing in his face. “We’ve warned her about you, you know.’’
It’s a cliché and an unfair stereotype to assume that just because Sal is of Italian heritage and he’s from New York that he’s connected with the Mafia. But that hasn’t stopped my sisters and me from doing it. He’s been very mysterious about his past, and we watch a lot of movies. “Maddie, you apologize to Sally this instant!’’ Mama said. “I didn’t raise you to insult people.’’
My big sister towered over our mother, but she still ducked her head like a little kid when Mama used that tone.
“That’s okay, Rosie.’’ Sal patted at his impeccable hair. My sisters and I suspect he uses styling mousse. “Maddie’s just proven, once again, that even educated people can be ignorant.’’
That got Maddie’s back up. Pretty soon, we were all talking at once and nobody was listening to anybody else. All except Marty, that is. She’d edged away to the counter, where she was busy mopping up a coffee puddle from Emma Jean’s earlier spill.
Just like Mama, Marty cleans when she’s anxious. She looked like she wanted to stick her fingers in her ears, just like she used to do when our mother fought with Husband Number 2. Marty hates arguments and loud noise.
And our arguing was getting pretty darned loud. Until, suddenly, Martinez jammed his fingers in his mouth and whistled. It was long and ear-splitting, like the CSX train coming onto the crossing at Highway 98. Marty’s fingers plugged her ears. Even Maddie had her face scrunched up, like she was in noise pain.
The room fell silent.
“This. Has. Gone. On. Long. Enough.’’ Martinez emphasized every word, letting a dark glower linger on each of us. “I’ve been patient. I’ve been quiet. Honestly, I was thinking maybe one of you crazy characters might let something important slip out. That has not been the case. And that’s an understatement. I’ve never heard such a load of bullshit in my life.’’
My mother looked shocked at Martinez’s language. She was still in Southern belle mode, and damsels h
ave such delicate ears. In fact, she could cuss a purple streak. But she always asked the Lord for forgiveness afterwards.
“You people can stand here yelling at each other until Christmas for all I care.’’ That vein was throbbing at his temple again. “But Mrs. Deveraux is coming with me.’’ He grabbed Mama by the arm and yanked her none too gently toward the door. “There was a murder victim in her car.’’
Another wail from Emma Jean.
“Your mother’s been unable—or unwilling—to explain how he got there,’’ Martinez pressed on. “I think she’s implicated. And I’m going to find out how.’’
We all started talking again.
“Por favor. Please!’’ Still hanging on to Mama with one hand, Martinez held up the other for silence.
“I’m arresting her,’’ he said when we finally quieted down. “If any of you has a problem with that, I suggest you call somebody’s cousin and get her a lawyer.’’
Martinez made good on his threat. Mama spent the night in jail.
First thing in the morning, I tossed on some clothes and set about getting her out.
Unfortunately, I caught a glimpse of myself in the Jeep’s rear-view mirror on the way to my cousin’s law office. I’m not much for primping, but the sight of my bed-smashed hair and raccoon eyes gave even me a scare. The shadows were so dark that, if I hadn’t also seen some yellow sleep crud caked into the corner of an eyelid, I’d have thought I didn’t catch a single wink over worrying about my mama.
I didn’t feel a whole lot better once I pulled up to the law office of Henry Bauer & Associates. The setting didn’t exactly spell success. First off, there are no Associates. Henry rents space in a strip mall, between a convenience store and a pawn shop. As hot as it’s been, I could smell the garbage cooking in the can on the sidewalk. It stunk like stale beer and microwave burritos.
Next door, the pawn shop’s logo showed a flattened armadillo on a highway with a word balloon over his head: Don’t Wait Too Late to Visit Pete’s Pawn!
Mama Does Time Page 2