Mama Does Time

by Deborah Sharp

  “Detective Martinez.’’ With that inflection and the look in her eye, she might just as well have said “Detective Dog Poop.’’

  “Happy to see you, too, ma’am.’’ Martinez matched Maddie’s insulting tone, syllable for syllable.

  “Judging from the absence of handcuffs, may I assume you’re not here to arrest our mother again?’’ she asked.

  Mama chimed in, “Now, before you say something you’ll regret, Maddie, we called the detective to come over. We’ve had a little spot of trouble.’’

  “I know. I talked to Marty. She was in bed in migraine pain, with the lights out. I could barely hear her voice when I called. We only spoke a minute, but she told me about the dog.’’

  “It could be simple vandalism,’’ Martinez said. “But we’re not taking any chances.’’

  “Marty didn’t mention he was here.’’ Maddie pointed a long finger at the detective. She looked like the Wizard of Oz’s Wicked Witch, directing the evil monkeys at Dorothy and her pals.

  But unlike the movie’s scarecrow, Martinez had a brain.

  “I don’t want us to be enemies, ma’am.’’ His voice was warm and polite. “I hope your mother isn’t in any danger. But if she is, I really need your help.’’

  Maddie was wearing flip-flops and her post-barbecue fat pants, but she still straightened to her school-principal posture. My sister loves nothing more than being needed.

  “Well, of course, Detective. All of us want to do anything we can to help find out who really killed Jim Albert. For some reason, the murderer has involved Mama in this nasty business. Who knows what kind of message he’s sending with that stuffed dog?’’

  “I’d like you to take a look at it.’’ Martinez was so respectful, he might have been seeking help from Scotland Yard. “Maybe something will strike you that didn’t strike the rest of us, ma’am.’’

  “Lead the way, Detective. And please, call me Maddie.’’

  “I’ll do that.’’ As Martinez turned to escort her to the stuffed dog, he threw me a wink. “And Maddie? Call me Carlos, por favor. Please.’’

  ___

  Martinez left Mama’s a half-hour or so later. By that time, the compliments were flowing between my sister and him like floodwaters into Lake Okeechobee during the rainy season. I thought he was going to pin her with a special deputy’s badge at any minute. I actually saw Maddie bat her eyelashes. My sister being swayed like a schoolgirl was a sight to behold. Martinez must have studied with those Eastern mystics who are able to charm cobra snakes.

  Maddie and I only stayed a little while after he left. We all were tired. And I had a long drive ahead to get home.

  The streets of downtown Himmarshee were just about deserted. The yellow light blinked at Main and First. The sign at Gladys’ Restaurant was dark. A few cars were still parked at the Speckled Perch restaurant, where the bar’s open past midnight. Behind the wheel of Pam’s VW, I replayed in my mind some of the odd events of the evening: Delilah’s cutting remarks before church; my fight with Jeb; the mutilated toy dog.

  As I sped past the courthouse on my way to State Road 98, I caught a glimpse of a familiar car from the corner of my eye. I slowed and peered toward the far end of the government lot, where the light is dim. Sal Provenza’s big Cadillac was parked next to a light-colored sedan. The two vehicles sat driver’s-side-to-driver’s-side, like squad cars sometimes do.

  As I passed, Sal torched a fat cigar. I could clearly see his profile in the flickering glow. But who was in that other car, parked in a deserted spot for a clandestine meeting near midnight?

  When Sal’s lighter flared a second time, I nearly ran Pam’s car into the war memorial on the courthouse square.

  Carlos Martinez leaned from his driver’s window with an equally large cigar between his lips. Sal, smiling, fired him up. The detective puffed, and settled back in his seat with a contented look. As he exhaled, a smoke cloud swirled around the two men.

  Sal relit his own stogie. Martinez said something. They both laughed. From my vantage point, now getting more distant in the rearview mirror of the VW, it looked like the investigator in Jim Albert’s murder and the man we all thought might be the killer were the oldest and best of friends.

  I slammed on my brakes and did a U-turn.

  The putt-putt-putt of the ancient VW made a stealth approach unlikely. By the time I navigated off the road, into the police department lot, and all the way to their corner in the back, Sal had started his car and gunned it. Pedal to the metal, he screeched out the exit like Dale Earnhardt Jr. in the last lap at Daytona.

  As I sputtered up, Martinez got out of his car and leaned against the driver’s door. He looked completely relaxed; casual. Just an average, hard-working cop, enjoying a cigar at the end of a long day. Of course, his smoking pal happened to be the very same man Martinez had said was criminally linked to the dead mobster. And that wasn’t the least of it. He’d all but told me Sal was a suspect in that mobster’s murder.

  I brought Pam’s car shuddering to a stop, and turned off the key in the ignition. Martinez walked over to the VW to greet me. “We meet again so soon, Ms. Bauer.’’

  “Oh, can the act, Detective. It’s been a long day. I’m as tuckered out as a plow horse after forty rows. Why were you just sharing a smoke with the man you implied might have murdered Jimmy the Weasel?’’

  “I like a woman who cuts to the chase.’’ He smiled down into the driver’s seat.

  “I’m thrilled,’’ I said. “And I like a man who isn’t a pathological liar. What the hell is going on?’’

  He looked right then left, like there might be someone lurking in the vast rows of vacant parking spaces. He turned around and peered behind us. Then he took a step around the front of my car and scanned the road I’d just come from. Unless someone was hovering over our heads or hiding underneath one of our cars, there wasn’t a soul to overhear him.

  “I can’t really talk about the investigation.’’ He pressed his lips together like a crooked cop on the witness stand who’d just invoked the Fifth Amendment.

  “That’s it?’’ I asked. “You can’t talk about it? That’s all you’re going to say?’’

  “I wish I could say more. I really do.’’

  I started counting, but only made it to two.

  “Maybe Chief Johnson will be more forthcoming when I share with him that I saw you chumming around with a murder suspect,’’ I snapped. “What do you think he’ll say about that?’’

  His big brown eyes filled with disappointment. “Do whatever you have to do, Ms. Bauer. I will say this: the situation with Sal Provenza is a very delicate one. You going around spreading tales when you don’t understand what you’re talking about could compromise the investigation into Jimmy Albrizio’s murder. You’re not Agatha Christie, you know. The last thing the police need is some half-cocked civilian, meddling in crucial matters and trying to solve the Big Case.’’

  My hands squeezed the steering wheel. My knuckles were white. This man had a way of getting on my last nerve. “I get your point, Detective. You don’t have to insult me while you’re at it.’’ I turned the key. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take my dumb civilian self home and get some rest.’’

  The car stalled. So much for a dramatic exit. I pumped the gas again. It finally started on the fourth try.

  “Good night.’’ I raised my chin and stared straight ahead, trying to appear as dignified as possible for a woman who was driving the Little Engine That Couldn’t.

  I glanced into the rearview mirror as I pulled out of the police lot. Martinez was leaning against his car, puffing away on that stupid cigar and watching me disappear.

  ___

  As the VW rattled down the dirt drive that leads to my cottage, the outline of three masked bandits flashed in the headlights.

/>   I cursed. “Stupid raccoons!’’

  The creatures seemed to be struggling to get the tops off my garbage cans. A smart-ass detective from Miami might put me in my place. But, by God, I’d shown those raccoons. I’m not an experienced animal trapper for nothing. My garbage was trussed up tighter than Fort Knox. The lids on top of the cans were snapped down; bungee cords secured the tops to the handles.

  I was feeling pretty good, until I got a little closer and saw the ’coons had busted the vault. They were picnicking on leftover chicken and cantaloupe. The biggest one looked as pleased as a fat man at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

  I flashed the brights and blew the horn. They just looked up and blinked. Most of my country neighbors would have simply shot the varmints. But I’m soft about animals. I parked the car, headed to my shed, and picked out a rake. Then I turned the hose on them, holding the rake ready in case they ran at me instead of into the woods. As they scampered away, I swear that biggest one aimed a look out of Terminator at me over his shoulder.

  I’ll be back.

  “Just try it, you little bastard,’’ I yelled.

  Hump-backed, they loped toward the line of cypress trees and Sabal palms that mark the edge of my property. “I’m getting out the smelly stuff,’’ I shouted after them. “We’ll see how y’all like it when you come sniffing around for dinner and the stench of laundry bleach knocks you over instead!’’

  So this is what I’d descended to: a crazy woman living alone in the woods, warring with raccoons. I grabbed my purse from the car, tossed a tarp over the seats in case of rain, and headed for my cypress-wood cottage.

  From the front porch, I took a moment to appreciate what I love about living so far out. The stars lit the black sky. Cattle lowed in a distant pasture. The scent of orange blossoms from a grove hung in the air. There was also a whiff of manure, fortunately faint, from the Big Lake Dairy. It had drifted over Highway 98 and across the marshes of Taylor Slough, traveling west on a slight breeze.

  Inside, the gator jaws gaped on my coffee table, waiting for my keys. The answering machine light blinked. I wanted to ignore it and hit the sack instead. But given all the recent crazy events, I figured I’d better not.

  You have one message, an electronic voice intoned. First message.

  “Mace, honey? It’s your mama.’’

  Like I couldn’t tell. I started sorting mail as she carried on her conversation with my machine.

  “You will never believe who called me up here after y’all left. None other than Pastor Bob Dixon, from church. Abundant Hope, that is.’’

  Like there’s another Pastor Bob.

  “I may have been wrong about him, Mace. He seemed awful sweet on the phone. He went on and on about how Delilah told him you’d come to church with me, and how nice that was. Said it sure would be wonderful if you’d come more often.’’

  Nice try, Mama.

  “Anyway, he said the real reason he called is he wants to talk to me about Emma Jean. I told him we were really more acquaintances than friends. But he told me that didn’t matter; she needs a friend right now. Pastor Bob said I should stop by the church sometime tomorrow to see him and Delilah. They’re hatching a plan to see if we can’t get poor Emma Jean some help.’’

  I kicked off my boots, opened the refrigerator, and got a beer. If Mama had a point, I may as well get comfortable while I waited for her to find it.

  “After she threw that fit at church, he said it’s obvious she’s hurting. I never would have believed it of Emma Jean, Mace. But with all that’s happened in her life, it seems like she’s gone plumb crazy. First, her little boy disappeared, like I told y’all. Then she finds out Jim was cheating. And now he gets killed.’’

  Thirty seconds remaining.

  “Well! These machines sure don’t give you much time, do they? Anyway, I was wondering whether you’d run me by church in the mornin’, about 8:30? I’d ask Maddie, but she has a sixth-grade assembly. And Marty will still be feeling poorly. I worry about her so much with those awful headaches, Mace. And now she’s got the responsibilities of that new job. What do you suppose we can do about her migraines, Mace? Anyway, I’d sure appreciate the ride. I wish you’d wear that sweet Kelly green blouse with the bow at the neck. You look so …’’

  Beep. End of message.

  I look so … so … what? So much like the wife of the Jolly Green Giant in a ruffled collar? So much like a leprechaun on growth hormones?

  I knew how poor Teensy must feel, having to suffer the humiliation of Mama dressing him in a yellow slicker when it rains and a reindeer sweater at Christmas. He even has a tiny set of antlers to match the sweater. Fortunately, I get to choose my own clothes. The Kelly green horror would stay at the back of my closet, where it belongs.

  Finally, I was able to peel off the jeans I’d been wearing for what seemed like a week. I dropped them on the floor, changed into my PJs and fluffed the pillows on my bed. Suddenly, the phone shrilled, sending my stomach somersaulting around the burger and fries and ice cream.

  In a country town like Himmarshee, people turn in early. When the phone rings past midnight, the news is never good.

  The caller was a woman, her shaky voice so soft I could hardly hear it.

  “Mace? I’m awful sorry to call so late.’’

  My heart thrummed. “Is my mama okay? Has anything happened to my sisters?’’

  “Oh, honey, I’m sorry I scared you.’’ She took a long breath. “They’re all fine, so far as I know. This isn’t about anybody but me.’’

  The acrobats in my gut took a break. The bass drum in my chest slowed to a normal beat. I waited, trying to let her proceed at her own pace. She was clearly in distress. But my compassion extends only so far at 12:44 am.

  Then I heard a familiar wail.

  “Hey there, Emma Jean.’’ I raised my voice to compete. “Don’t cry now. It’s going to be all right.’’

  “I didn’t … sob … know who else … sob … to call, Mace. Your mama always talks about how smart you are. I liked the way you handled yourself at the police department. Not too bossy, like your older sister. And not too much of a scaredy cat, like that younger one.’’ Emma Jean paused to blow her nose. “I need someone with a good head on her shoulders to tell me what to do.’’

  I gazed with longing at my fluffy pillows. They looked like two white clouds that had floated down from heaven to carry me off to a blessed sleep. On the other hand, we all wanted to know what the hell was up with Emma Jean.

  “How can I help?’’ I sat at the foot of the bed, turning my back on the pillows.

  “Mace, I found out who was cheating with Jim.’’

  I sat up straight, sleep forgotten. “Who?’’

  “I don’t want to say over the phone. You never know who might be listening in.’’ No sobs now; not even a sniffle. “I couldn’t sleep, as you can imagine. I’m out driving around. I know this is a big favor, but I really need to talk this out with someone, Mace. I saw on Oprah that when something is bothering you, you need to get it out in the open. You need to confront it, or it’ll fester.’’

  “That’s good advice, Emma Jean, depending on what you mean by confronting.’’ I thought of the ruckus at the church. Her threat of doing harm to the Other Woman. “If you could say who’s involved, it’ll help me know how to handle this.’’

  She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Not on the phone, Mace. Please.’’

  It seemed pretty paranoid, but I didn’t want to upset her. I remembered that tire iron.

  As if she’d read my thoughts, Emma Jean said, “I know I made a fool of myself at Abundant Hope. I need somebody smart like you to tell me how to go about settling things. I’m out on Highway 98 now, only a few minutes away from the old Raulerson cottage. Your mama told me you bought that old ruin, and fixed it up real ni
ce.’’

  I looked at the clock. It was 12:51. No, 12:52. What the hell? I’d sleep tomorrow night.

  “C’mon over. I’ll put on a pot of herbal tea.’’

  Tossing a robe over my pajamas, I went into the kitchen. I lit a couple of Mama’s carnation candles. The water boiled, and I poured it into a pot over three chamomile teabags. After choosing some pretty flowered cups, I set out two spoons and a plastic bear full of honey. By the time I’d washed up a few dishes, read the headlines in the Himmarshee Times, and turned on the TV, I began to wonder what was keeping Emma Jean.

  I’m too cheap to pay the phone company an extra monthly fee for caller ID. But I can usually discover the last number that called me by punching in star-69 on my phone’s keypad.

  The display panel flashed: Number Unavailable.

  I cursed the fact there’d be a charge for the service, even though it failed to retrieve Emma Jean’s cell number. Then I reminded myself to stop being a petty cheapskate. A fellow woman was in crisis, after all. And it was only ninety-five cents.

  Clicking channels on the remote, I found an ancient rerun of The Andy Griffith Show. Sheriff Taylor was teaching some kind of life lesson to his boy, Opie. Deputy Barney Fife was wreaking havoc on an otherwise peaceful Mayberry.

  And that’s the last thing I remember, until my alarm went off from the next room at 7:30 am.

  The sun streamed through the living room window. The glare bounced off one of the gator’s teeth, hitting me dead in the eye. I lifted my head from the couch, which was wet where I drooled in my sleep. The TV blared. One candle flickered, weakly. The other was burned out.

  And Emma Jean Valentine was nowhere in sight.

  ___

  I microwaved the leftover chamomile tea. No sense in wasting it. Along with a sliced banana between two pieces of buttered wheat toast, that was my breakfast. After last night’s pig-out, I wanted to get something wholesome down my gullet for a change.