She looked at each of us to make sure we were listening. We were.
“What should I do about it? That’s what she asked her ‘darling man.’ ’’
“How do you know Emma Jean wrote it? I can’t believe anyone would sign their name to a note like that,’’ I said.
“She didn’t sign her full name. The whole thing was printed, on a typewriter or a computer. There were just the initials at the end, EJ. Beside them, there was a red stick-on heart, like the ones little girls put on their notebooks. Get it? The initials stand for Emma Jean, and the heart for Valentine.’’
We were all quiet for a few moments, digesting Delilah’s theory. Betty combed and rolled; rolled and combed.
“Who do you think it was, y’all?’’ D’Vora peeked from the back room, where she’d fled to escape Pastor Bob. “Who was doin’ the dirty thang with Emma Jean?’’
“That’s what we need to find out, honey,’’ Mama said. “Maybe whoever it was loved the ‘dirty thang’ so much he killed poor Jim Albert so he could keep doing it with Emma Jean.’’
With a mountain of meat loaf and mashed potatoes in front of him, my cousin Henry was holding court from a corner table at Gladys’ Restaurant. Making a point, he waved his fork in the air like he was a judge and the fork was his gavel.
I stopped for a minute just inside the front door, feeling the sweat on my neck drying in a blast of cold air. The air conditioner felt so good, I lifted the hair from my collar and let the chill wind blow away the heat that had accumulated from outside.
Charlene, the waitress, ran an obstacle course between chairs and tables. Plates were stacked in a line along her left arm like planes waiting to take off in Atlanta. There was a blizzard of white order slips in the kitchen window, waiting for the cook.
Just about every seat was taken. The courthouse crowd was there, the men in neckties; the women in pantsuits or dresses. Three ranchers in blue jeans tipped back in their chairs, toothpicks in their mouths and pie plates scraped clean on their table. A couple of retirees from the RV park sipped coffee at the counter, their faces sunburned under bass-fishing hats with bands of breathable mesh.
I dropped my hair back onto my neck and started toward Henry’s table. Marty leaned forward, smiling as she listened to whatever our cousin was saying. Maddie’s arms were crossed against her chest, her face scrunched into a disapproving glare. She looked up as I approached.
“You’re just in time, Mace. Henry is entertaining us—and all three adjoining tables, I’m sure—with a story about his neighbor’s pot-bellied pig. Apparently, the poor creature suffers from severe flatulence.’’
“Pfffbt.’’ Henry forced air through his lips. “Pfffbt, pfffbbbttt.’’
“Complete with sound effects.’’ Maddie shook her head in disgust. “Henry, I’ve got middle -school students with better manners and more maturity than you.’’
He poked her gently in the arm with his fork. “Chill out, Maddie. If you wind yourself up any tighter, only dogs will be able to hear you fart.’’
Marty burst out laughing.
“Mace, please sit down and try to get your cousin under control. Marty only eggs him on.’’
While Maddie looked at me, Henry palmed a salt shaker from the table.
“Byuck, buck, buck, buck.’’ Clucking, he lifted his butt off the seat, reached down, and brought up the white shaker in the center of his hand. He offered it to Marty. “I believe this egg is yours, Madam Egger-on.’’
The harder Marty giggled; the madder Maddie got.
“All right, you two. We all know Maddie is fun to tease.’’ I took a seat. “But get serious, now. I’ve got some news you’re not going to believe.’’
I told them about the note Delilah found tucked into a hymn book.
“Maybe Emma Jean was cheating with that choir director,’’ Henry said. “He always looks you in the eye a little too hard. I don’t trust him. It’s like he’s trying to sell you on the notion he’s a better person than you.’’
“That’s not a hard sell in your case,’’ Maddie sniffed. Henry stuck out his tongue in reply. “Besides, I don’t think someone who only shows at church for weddings or funerals is qualified to judge others, Henry.’’
Maddie became a Methodist when she married Kenny. We all agreed it was a better fit for her, as the worship at Mama’s church can get pretty emotional and uninhibited. Those characteristics aren’t in my older sister’s repertoire.
Marty spoke before Henry and Maddie had the chance to start another round. “What about Al Small, from the insurance agency? Doesn’t he go to Mama’s church?’’
Marty dated a vegetarian in college, and both of them embraced Buddhism. The boy’s long gone, but the diet and religion stuck. At first Mama believed Marty would burn in hell for worshipping a false idol. But even she eventually came around. The Buddhist philosophy of never hurting a living thing is a good match for my gentle sister.
“Al and Anna Small do belong to Abundant Hope,’’ I told Marty. “Why do you ask?’’
“Anna’s in the book group I run at the library. She’s been bad-mouthing her husband in between discussion questions. She says she wants a divorce. Al’s been cheating.’’
I couldn’t imagine anyone writing “dearest darling man’’ to portly, balding Alvin Small.
“What about Pastor Bob?’’ I shifted in the chair. “Y’all heard he hit on me. Then, he just about devoured poor D’Vora, even with Delilah sitting right there in the beauty shop chair.’’
Henry shoveled some green beans onto his fork. He stopped it midway to his mouth. “Naw. It doesn’t fit, Mace.’’ He gave his head a firm shake, as confident as a defense attorney who just caught the prosecutor’s key witness in a lie. “First of all, if the pastor went after you and D’Vora, then Emma Jean’s too old for him. He likes ’em younger. Second, she’s not hot enough.’’
Maddie looked like she accidentally ate the lemon slice out of her iced tea. “Eww, Henry. I hope you’re not implying you think Mace is ‘hot.’ First-cousin hanky panky is almost incest.’’
Henry swallowed the fork load of beans. “Calm down, Maddie. I’m not saying I want to jump Mace’s bones. Though any red-blooded male who isn’t her cousin might.’’ He swiped a biscuit through a pool of gravy on his plate. “I’m just speaking objectively, as a man. Mace is a fine-looking woman with a beautiful build.’’
“Ewwww,’’ Marty and Maddie said in chorus, as I blushed.
Henry polished off the biscuit, then eyed the final meat loaf morsel. My sisters had waited on me to order lunch. But Henry claims his blood sugar gets screwy if he doesn’t stick to a strict meal schedule. Charlene was so busy she could barely breathe, let alone get back to take our order. So, as we waited with empty stomachs, we were treated to the spectacle of Henry plowing through lunch.
He speared the meat loaf sliver and pointed his fork at us. “And how do you know the note is from Emma Jean, anyway?’’
He didn’t wait for an answer.
“Find another woman with the initials E.J. at that church … hell, in the whole town, or just about anywhere, really. That’d be enough for a good attorney to establish reasonable doubt. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that note could have been in that hymnal for years. Maybe a church-going woman named Elaine Johnson worked at the music-book company and slipped it in there for safekeeping. Maybe one of the teenagers at Abundant Hope did it as a prank. Anyone with a computer could have produced that note, ladies and gentlemen.’’’
Henry looked at us, pleased with his performance.
“You’ve got a point, Henry.’’ Maddie handed him a napkin. “But you might want to check your chin first for a glop of gravy if you ever do that bit for a real jury.’’
___
Charlene finally delivered the orders we gave h
er: A cheeseburger and extra-crispy fries for me. Chicken-fried steak for Maddie. A vegetable plate with biscuits for Marty. Henry couldn’t decide between the cherry and coconut cream pie, so he got a slice of both. I pitied the unfortunate client whose Friday afternoon appointment coincided with Henry’s crash from his sugar high.
He waited until I had a mouthful of burger to say, “Maddie told us you have some suspicions about Jeb Ennis, is that right, Mace?’’
“Wuuuhh,’’ I said.
“Why am I asking, or why were you suspicious?’’
Maddie slapped his shoulder hard, nearly knocking a clot of coconut pie off his fork. “Hell’s bells, Henry. Can’t you see Mace’s mouth is full of food? Just tell us what you know about that devil, Jeb.’’ She shot a look full of meaning at me. “I can already predict, it’s gonna be something bad.’’
Marty glanced at me with a guilty look on her face. We hadn’t told Maddie about our trip to the livestock market, or about what Old Jake had said about Jeb.
“One of my clients did a little work for Jim Albert,’’ Henry began. “Let’s say his line of work is ‘enforcement,’ and just leave it at that.’’ He spiked a quarter of the cherry pie slice with his fork and gobbled it down. “Anyway, this man says Jeb was into Jim Albert for quite a bit of dough.’’
The hamburger turned to dust in my mouth. “That’s old news, Henry. Jeb himself told me he’d borrowed from Jim Albert.’’
I still felt protective, even as the evidence mounted against Jeb. For some stupid reason, I didn’t want my family, and especially Maddie, thinking badly of him. Did I harbor some fantasy that we’d end up together, riding off into the sunset?
“So he talked about the loan, huh?’’ Henry said. “Did he tell you he owed more than $250,000?’’
Marty’s eyes went wide. Maddie let out a low whistle. I tried to conceal my shock.
“That gives Jeb two powerful reasons for whacking Jim Albert,’’ Henry lectured. “Number one: money. He couldn’t possibly pay that much back, not and keep his ranch. Number two: self-preservation. It’s as strong a drive for us as it is in the animal world. Jim Albert was a dangerous man. Kill or be killed.’’
I stirred my coffee, which had gone cold. I still hadn’t said a word.
“I know you loved the guy, Mace.’’
I started to protest, but Henry held up his fork. “Don’t deny it. I kid around, but you’re like a sister to me. It broke my heart to see how bad Jeb hurt you. You loved him, young or not.’’
“That’s what I told her, Henry. Any man that could do Mace like that might be capable of much worse.’’ Maddie leaned over and patted my arm. It was such a rare gesture, it almost made me cry.
“You want Jeb to be innocent.’’ Henry’s voice was soft, his eyes kind. “But you have to face the facts, Mace. This sordid romance or affair or whatever it is that might have been going on at Abundant Hope? That’s just a distraction. Your ex-boyfriend takes the prize as the likeliest killer in Himmarshee, Florida.’’
Each of my sisters grabbed one of my hands and held on.
Henry pushed his pie plate away, even though there was almost a half a piece left. He looked into my eyes: “Let’s put it this way, cousin. I’m a damned good lawyer. But I wouldn’t want to walk into court right now with Jeb Ennis as my client.’’
“Warm you up again, hon?’’
I put a hand over my ceramic coffee mug. “No thanks, Charlene. I’ve already had enough to be peeing like a racehorse all afternoon.’’
My sisters had to return to work. Henry was back at his law office, probably terrorizing his teen secretary with bad jokes and the sounds of bodily functions. I was alone with the afternoon Himmarshee Times on the table and a third cup of coffee sloshing around in my gut.
Mama called much earlier to ask us to hold off on dessert. But she’d been delayed. It was almost two-thirty now. I stuck around to wait for her, since my new schedule has Fridays off. Rhonda, my supervisor, decided I needed a day before the weekends to recharge my friendliness.
“You need to work on your attitude, Mace,’’ she’d told me.
Rhonda was referring to the credo I have for park visitors: There are no stupid questions; only stupid people.
While I waited, I paged through our newspaper’s slim pickings. The mayor and the bank manager of a First Florida branch squinted in a picture, their feet in dress shoes resting on shiny shovels. In construction hardhats, they looked like big-headed ants in business suits. I checked out the listings for births and deaths, making sure I didn’t owe anyone a card. I read about the chances this season for the Brahmans, Himmarshee High’s football team. Reflecting the town’s cattle-raising roots, the team’s mascot is a two-thousand-pound Brahman bull. His name’s Bubba, and he’s got his own e-mail address on the Internet.
And then I spotted a small item next to the police blotter, usually a repository for vandalism reports and drunken driving incidents. I scanned the story:
Storm Funds Missing
Hurricane Janet took a terrible toll on Jack and Donna Warner of Basinger. Their three-year-old daughter, Ashley, died when the storm destroyed their house in June. The child was struck on the head by a roof beam torn off in the hurricane’s 100-mph winds.
Now, Himmarshee police are looking into whether the Warners and other families struck by the June storm have been victimized again.
Almost $5,000 is missing from a fund designated to help hurricane victims rebuild, according to sources at First Florida Bank. Himmarshee Police Chief Ben Johnson confirmed that money is gone, but would not specify a sum.
“There are some discrepancies in the bank account,’’ Johnson said. “We’re investigating the matter. We’re still hoping there’s a reasonable explanation. I hate to think anyone in Himmarshee would steal from people who’ve already been hurt so much.’’
The fund was begun by members of the Abundant Hope and Charity Chapel. Phone messages left on the church’s answering machine were not returned. The Rev. Bob Dixon, pastor at the church, could not be reached for comment.
Johnson declined to say whether any arrests are imminent.
I was staring at the newspaper, picking my lower jaw off the table, when Mama walked up. “Mace, you won’t believe what happened at Hair Today.’’ She pulled out a chair and collapsed with a dramatic sigh.
I slid the Times onto her map-of-Florida placemat, right over our red star above Lake Okeechobee. “Before you say a word, read that.’’ I tapped the headline with my index finger.
“Well, it’s about Delilah,’’ Mama started in, ignoring me as usual.
“Not another peep.’’ I grabbed her glasses from her purse and slapped them in her hand. “Go ahead. Read.’’
Mama clucked her tongue at the part about the Warners’ little girl. Her eyebrows shot up when she came to the missing money. At the end, her hand flew to her throat.
“Jesus H. Christ on a crutch!”
Charlene, clearing plates off an adjacent table, shot a surprised look over her shoulder.
“Sorry, darlin’.’’ Mama slapped a hand over her mouth. Then she leaned in and whispered through her fingers. “This is bad, Mace.’’
“I know it, Mama.’’
“It’s real, real bad. I was going to tell you that Pastor Bob never did come back for poor Delilah today. That’s why I’m so late. I stayed there with her. First, she was embarrassed. Then she got irritated at him for keeping her waiting. Finally, she got plain worried. The woman was in tears, Mace. She kept calling and calling him on his cell phone.’’
“No answer?’’
“Straight to voice mail. She phoned the church office, thinking he might be there. The beep on the answering machine went on forever. Delilah said that meant there were lots of messages. She couldn’t figure out why.’’
I tapped the paper again. “I’ve got a pretty good idea, after reading that.’’
“Finally, D’Vora offered to run her home. They dropped me off here on the way.’’
We both looked down at the Times.
“What do you think it means, Mace?’’
“I’m not sure. But I aim to find out. A lot of little strands have been unraveling all around Jim Albert’s murder. Money seems like a common thread. Now, here comes another string, leading straight to Pastor Bob Dixon.’’
___
“Delilah?’’ Mama pounded for the fourth time on the Dixons’ front door. “Let us in, honey. We just want to help.’’
We called D’Vora to find out where she’d dropped Delilah. I was proud of Mama. She hadn’t given away a word, just said she had something for Delilah she’d forgotten to give her.
The house was modest, a one-story white stucco on a quiet street, only a couple of miles from the church. There was no car in the driveway. A wooden welcome sign with a clump of silk flowers in yellow and white decorated a front door painted robin’s-egg blue. A plaster cross hung beside the door, with a passage from the book of Joshua engraved in fancy letters: As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.
I doubt the Lord would consider it in His service to rip off hurricane victims.
Mama kept pounding. Finally, heavy steps sounded behind the door. Pale blue curtains rustled at the window.
“Honey, we don’t mean you a bit of harm. We figured you’d need someone to talk to. Now, open up,’’ Mama ordered through the door.
The door cracked. A thick pair of eyeglasses and one red-rimmed eye peeked out. Delilah opened up a fraction wider and looked both ways. Her face was a mess, but her hair looked terrific. Betty had done a remarkable job.
“No reporters?’’
“Not a one,’’ Mama said.
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