I raised my eyebrows. Mama answered her own question.
“No, it is not. He’s so full of himself, I barely got a word in edgewise about my situation.’’
I sincerely doubted that.
“Mama, if you don’t like him, just tell Donnie you don’t want to see him.’’
Her eyes got wide. “I couldn’t do that, Mace. Pastor Bob is my minister.’’
“How’re you getting along in here otherwise?’’
Mama brightened. “Well, I’ve been helping LaTonya with her colors. We’re pretty sure with her brown eyes and skin tone, she’s an Autumn. It’s kind of hard to tell, what with that interesting shade of lavender in her hair.’’
LaTonya’s eyes flickered up from the floor for a second as she touched her purple stripe. It’s just like Mama to treat jail like a slumber party, all color charts and clothing tips. I’m no expert, but those orange uniforms would flatter no one—not a Winter, Spring, Summer, or Fall.
“I’m glad to see you, Mama.’’
“Me, too, Mace. But what happened to your hair, honey? It looks like a possum crawled in there and dug a nest.’’
I ignored the criticism. A woman who cuts her own hair can’t afford to be too vain. But I ran a hand through it anyway to try and fluff the flat side. “I’ve got good news, Mama. Henry’s working hard on getting you out of here.’’
Alarm registered on her face. “Henry hasn’t told his mama where I am, has he, Mace? That Irene will never let me forget it if he has.’’
By this time, the news that Mama was in jail was all over Himmarshee County, from the fish camps around Lake Okeechobee to the citrus groves that stretch to the north.
“I doubt if Henry’s said a word. Lawyers have to respect confidentiality. It’s a law.’’
I brought Mama up to date on the criminal identity of the man in her trunk.
“Poor Emma Jean,’’ she said.
“Didn’t you suspect anything funny about her boyfriend?’’
“I barely knew the man, Mace. I’d only seen him once, briefly, when he dropped Emma Jean off at bingo. He never even got out of the car.’’
I told her about Police Chief Johnson getting involved.
“He was the sweetest child in Sunday School, Mace. Loved cupcakes.’’
And I said my upcoming meeting with Martinez would give us a better idea of where things stood.
“Now, don’t make him mad, Mace. I know how you are. Just remember what I always say: you can catch a lot more flies with honey than with vinegar.’’
Maybe it was the stress, but that last part set my blood to boil. Mama’s constantly on me to be more charming, to smile more. She knows I’d sooner eat dirt than flutter my eyes and flirt.
I lashed out. “Yeah, we can see where all that ‘honey’ has gotten you, Mama. Right behind bars. By the way, I’m glad you’re having a good time in here, discussing colors and all, but I hope you know you’re in serious trouble. You better start thinking about something that will help Henry and the rest of us get you out of here. You can’t expect us to do all the work.’’
Mama recoiled like I’d slapped her. LaTonya lifted her eyes long enough to shoot me a dirty look.
“Mace, I’m perfectly aware of where I am.’’ Mama said softly, her voice laced with hurt. “I don’t live in a dream world. I know I’m in trouble. But that’s the difference between us. You worry and stew and make things worse. I put on the happiest face I can. I try to make the best out of things, even the worst things. And I trust the Lord to sort things out. It’s the way I’ve always gotten by. It’s the only way I know.’’
I swallowed, hard. I’m an awful daughter. My sister Marty would never be so mean; though Maddie might. I heard squeaky shoes and felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Mace, you need to get going.’’ Donnie couldn’t have come at a better time. “We’re about ready to serve lunch, and believe me, you don’t want to be around here for that.’’
I ducked my head, surreptitiously brushing away tears. “It’s okay, Donnie. I was just fixin’ to leave anyway.’’
I started to walk away, and then turned back to the cell. “I’m sorry I’m so horrible, Mama. I love you. You know that, right?’’
She’d always taught us, never leave mad. You never know which breath is your last.
“Mace, I’m as sure of your love as I am of the sun. Stop fretting.’’
“I promise you, you’re going to be home soon. Teensy’s going to be driving you to distraction again before you know it.’’
LaTonya glanced up, rewarding me with a smile.
“Detective Martinez is going to figure out this whole mess is a misunderstanding,’’ I said. “He’s going to charge in here himself and cut you loose.’’
I know lying is wrong. But Mama always said it’s not a sin if you lie in order to save another person’s feelings.
A uniformed stranger sat at the receptionist’s desk in the police lobby. Emma Jean probably needed time to recover from the shock of finding out that A: her boyfriend had been murdered; and B: he wasn’t who she thought he was.
The woman manning the desk had close-cropped hair and a husky build. A red-and-black tattoo peeked out from under her shirt sleeve. She was reading a copy of Field & Stream magazine. There was not a chance in hell she’d ever wear a kitty-cat pin or pour her bosoms into a pink bustier.
“Excuse me.’’
She looked up from the magazine, staring at me like I was something she’d dragged into the lobby on the bottom of her shoe.
“I’m looking for Detective Martinez. He asked me to stop by to see him.’’
Actually, he’d summoned me, like he was a medieval duke and I was a serf. But I was determined to be on my best behavior, so I didn’t dwell on that.
With a monumental effort, the woman put down the magazine and picked up the phone. She punched in a few numbers, then barked, “It’s Officer Watkins. Tell Martinez there’s a woman up here to see him.’’
She waited, listening. “How am I supposed to know?’’ She sounded irritated.
Some more listening, then, “What’s your name?’’
I stared at the Bait & Tackle shop calendar on the wall.
“Hey,’’ she raised her voice. “I said, what’s your name?’’
When I figured out she was talking to me, I told her.
“Have a seat.’’ She hung up the phone. “He’s busy, but he knows you’re out here. He’ll see you as soon as he gets to it.’’
She picked up Field & Stream again, lifting it in front of her face. I missed Emma Jean.
I was the only customer in the lobby. I didn’t think Miss Police Congeniality would mind me making a call to work while I waited. I’d already phoned in sick, but I owed my supervisor, Rhonda, an explanation. We’re close. I figured she should get the straight news from me, instead of the gossipy version from the Himmarshee Hotline.
“Hey, there. It’s Mace.’’
She’d heard all about Mama’s trouble, of course. Charging Mama as an accessory to murder was bull, I told Rhonda. I said we’re working hard on getting her out.
“I know you’ve got a lot on your plate right now, Mace, and I hate to pile on.’’ That was Rhonda’s warning she was about to do just that. “Remember that lady who called all hysterical over the possum? You remember, from New Jersey. She thought she had a really big rat. She’s got a new problem for you.’’
“What is it this time?’’ I asked. “A king snake in her toilet?’’
“She swears she’s seen a Florida panther prowling her property.’’
“Yeah, that’s likely. What are there, like eighty of them left? And all down in the Everglades, a hundred and fifty miles south of us. It’s probably somebody’s pet cat, hittin’ the Friskie
s too hard. I once had a friend with a house cat weighed thirty-one pounds. She’d toss Tiger a treat every time she walked past. That cat looked like a bowling ball with paws.’’
“Anyway, Mace, the woman’s driving us crazy. What should I tell her?’’
“Tell her the truth. Tell her my mama’s in prison. It’ll reinforce all her stereotypes. Go ahead and add that my man is a-cheatin’ and my blue eyes are cryin’ in the rain.’’
There was a long pause on the other end.
“Why would I want to do that, Mace?’’ she said, confused.
“It’s a joke, Rhonda. Like a country song? Like as long as Mama’s in prison, let’s add on the rest of the redneck clichés?’’
“Oh.’’
Rhonda, who’s black, doesn’t find anything remotely amusing about rednecks.
“All righty, then,’’ I said. “I better get goin’. Tell the New Jersey woman I’ll get out there when I can. If a panther eats her first, that’ll be one fewer fast-talking, know-it-all Yankee we have to deal with.’’
Rhonda, a fellow native Himmarsheean, was still laughing when I hung up.
I left the lobby to visit the Ladies, where I tried without success to repair my smooshed hair. I stopped at a water fountain in the hallway, loitering by a closed door to see if I could overhear anything useful about the murder. The only sound that seeped through was the tap-tap of a computer keyboard.
I returned to the lobby, where I exhausted all the details on the calendar, including counting the dots on the large mouth bass. I took my seat again, and ran through in my mind what I’d learned about Jim Albert, a.k.a. Jimmy the Weasel. I tried to imagine who in Himmarshee might have wanted a fugitive from the underworld dead.
I moved on to wondering how I’d handle the obnoxious Martinez. I wished my sister Marty were here. People fall all over themselves to tell her things. As I weighed the best way to get information, an image of Martinez’s black eyes and sculpted features forced its way into my thoughts. I tried so hard to push it aside that my head started to hurt.
I turned my attention to a dusty stack of magazines. Leafing through Correctional News, I discovered there’s been a downturn in inmate suicides. I thought that was encouraging for Mama.
Then, I opened Police magazine, and read about the problem of sudden deaths in custody. I got depressed all over again. Browsing through the advertisements aimed at prison administrators failed to lift my spirits. There were no-shank shaving razors, so inmates can’t make knives. There was a restraint bed for the crazy or unruly prisoner, complete with floor anchors and slots for straps. The name of the bed, I swear to God, was the Sleep-Tite.
Glancing at my watch, I realized I’d already been waiting for forty minutes. I tried not to get angry. After all, my mother’s fate was in Martinez’s hands. I didn’t want to tick him off. I rehearsed how I’d approach him, concentrating on the flies with honey principle, like Mama advised.
Finally, Martinez walked into the empty lobby, frowning. He had a file folder in one hand and a cell phone to his ear.
Fifty-three minutes had crawled by since I’d given my name at the desk.
I started to rise from the chair. He caught my eye and motioned me to sit down. Then, he held up a warning finger. Don’t speak, it said.
I counted to ten real slow, gripping the arms of my uncomfortable chair. Pretending my hands were around Martinez’s throat, I squeezed until my knuckles turned white. Staring at the wall calendar, I pictured his smug face on the body of the large mouth bass. I imagined a hook grabbing hold of the soft flesh inside his cheek. I’d just formed an image of Martinez as half-man, half-fish, flopping airless in the bottom of a bass boat, when I realized he was speaking.
“I don’t know what you have to look so happy about,’’ he said.
He slipped his phone into the front pocket of his blue dress shirt. I cursed myself for noticing how snugly the shirt fit his broad chest, even as he stood glaring next to my chair.
“I was just thinking about fishing,’’ I said. “But you’re right. I have absolutely nothing to smile about. Not with my elderly mother imprisoned in a hell hole.’’
“Jailed, not imprisoned.’’
“I beg your pardon?’’
“Your mother’s in jail, not prison.’’ He tucked the folder next to his chest and crossed his arms over it, teacher style. “There’s a difference. Jails are locally run, and inmates are generally waiting to be tried. Or, they’ve been tried, and they’re serving a sentence of a year or less. Prisons are run by the state or the feds. Prisoners are usually convicted felons, serving sentences of more than a year.’’
“Thanks, Professor,’’ I said. “I’ll try to keep my references to correctional facilities correct whenever I explain to people how my mother is rotting behind bars.’’
“Actually, the rotting part comes after she’s convicted,’’ Martinez said. “Accessory to murder is a felony. It can buy you a long, long time in prison.’’
I could have throttled the arrogance right out of his voice. But then they’d send me to jail, and probably put me in that Sleep-Tite bed.
“It must strike you as strange that you’re the only one who believes my mother is involved in Jim Albert’s murder.’’ I forced a civil tone. “What evidence do you have that links her to the killing? Did you know my mother doesn’t even own a gun?’’
Ignoring my questions, Martinez looked down at a paper stapled to the file in his hand. “Is your mother acquainted with a man named Salvatore Provenza?’’ He rolled the R’s with Latin flair.
“You know she knows him,’’ I said, shifting my eyes away from the curve of his lips. “Sal was in here last night, raising a ruckus with the rest of us.’’
I didn’t reveal Big Sal was in line to become Husband Number Five. I wasn’t sure where Martinez was going with the question.
“So, he’s her boyfriend.’’ He made a little note on his paper. “Were you aware he had long-standing ties to the murder victim?’’
I knew it! My sisters and I weren’t just over-imaginative busybodies. Sal was involved in something criminal with Jimmy the Weasel.
“So?’’ I tried to sound casual. “That doesn’t prove anything. Sal and the man in Mama’s trunk were both from New York. Maybe they played on the same stickball team as kids.’’
Martinez looked at me like a teacher forced to flunk a once-promising student. “They played together, all right. But their game didn’t have anything to do with stickball.’’
“Well, what did it have to do with?’’
Another condescending look. “I’m not going to discuss that with you.’’
I thought of Henry, and the guessing games I hated. The more I wanted to know, the harder my cousin would withhold. I switched tactics.
“Whether you discuss it or not, I don’t see what any of this has to do with Mama.’’ I faked nonchalance. “Even if Sal is involved, why would you assume my mother is, too?’’
“I’m not going to share the nature of my information with you, Ms. Bauer.’’ He slipped the folder under his arm and touched the knot of his tie, as officious as a bureaucrat cutting off an unemployment check.
Had I really been thinking this smug jerk was attractive? It had been way too long between boyfriends.
“Let’s just say that when your dear mother isn’t teaching Sunday school, she’s consorting with some pretty rough characters,’’ he said. “The question is, ‘What did she know about the relationship between the victim and Salvatore Provenza, and what did she do about it?’ ’’
I remembered what Donnie Bailey had said at the jail. Hardly a woman behind bars doesn’t claim some man put her there. I got a mental picture of Mama sobbing in a cell, trying to convince a skeptical guard she’d been double-crossed by the man she loved.
If Mar
tinez had his way, that sad scene wouldn’t play out in jail. It’d play out in prison—after he’d managed to convict my mama of murder.
The bells on the glass door jangled, announcing my entrance at Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow.
Not that Betty Taylor, shop owner and news conduit, needed that cue. She probably knew the moment I made up my mind to visit, turning left from the police department instead of right.
Inside the beauty parlor, the harsh smell of permanent solution stung my nose. Hair conditioners, as fragrant as ripe fruit, softened the stronger odor. Flickering in the corner was a carnation-infused candle. That was Mama’s influence. In addition to her work with clients’ color charts, she’s also an aromatherapist. I’ll admit, the shop smelled girly, but oddly comforting, even to a tomboy like me.
Betty stood behind a chair, a pink foam roller in one hand and a strand of a customer’s wet hair in the other. Smiling at me in the mirror, she called out to her beautician trainee.
“D’Vora, c’mon out from the supply closet, girl. You won’t believe who’s here!’’
Betty did a quick twist of her customer’s hair with one hand, pulling another roller from her pocket with the other. All without breaking eye contact with my reflection in the mirror.
“Mace, toss the towels off of that chair and have a seat.’’ Another hair twist and roll. “What in the world is going on with our poor Rosalee?’’
I suppose it had been wishful thinking to imagine word hadn’t reached my mother’s co-workers. Gossip spreads at the shop like dark roots on a bottle blonde. It was just as well. I hadn’t relished the idea of breaking the news that Mama’s in the slammer.
D’Vora peeked out at me from behind the supply closet. “Mace, I’m so sorry about your mama. I just don’t know what to say.’’
D’Vora had managed to give her purple uniform some sex appeal. It was a size too small, and the top three buttons were undone. She’d appliquéd pink butterflies along the neckline, drawing even more attention to the suntanned valley between her breasts.
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