Mama Does Time

by Deborah Sharp

  “You know how he is,’’ I said. “Played it close to the vest, as usual. But he perked right up when I told him Pastor Bob owned a .38.’’

  “Is that the kind of gun that killed Jim Albert?’’ Marty asked.

  “Martinez wouldn’t say. I tried calling Henry, but he left his law office early. He’s taking the kids to Disney, and you know what that means.’’

  “A thousand rides on Space Mountain and no pesky cell phone,’’ Maddie said.

  “Anyway, Martinez was awfully interested in the Dixons’ marital problems and the missing money. He planned to talk to Delilah today. Mama and I offered to be there, but she turned us down. I think it gave her something else to focus on besides worrying how everyone will react to her tomorrow at the prayer breakfast.’’

  “Poor Delilah.’’ Marty nibbled on a sliver of crust. She stared at us, blue eyes immense and serious in her small face. “Have y’all considered how many questions are still unanswered? For example, what happened to Emma Jean?’’

  Maddie chose her third slice from Marty’s meatless side. “Maybe she found out Pastor Bob killed her boyfriend. He had to kill her, too, before she told the police.’’

  I remembered how out-of-control Emma Jean had been at Abundant Hope; how distraught she’d sounded when she called me on the phone.

  “Remember what Mama told us about Emma Jean’s little boy going missing all those years ago?’’ I said. “Maybe she couldn’t take losing another loved one. Maybe she walked into Taylor Creek and just kept walking until she drowned.’’

  “Maybe a moccasin bit her.’’ Marty shuddered.

  “Then why haven’t they found a body?’’ Maddie asked.

  “She could be caught up under a fallen log,’’ I said. “A gator could’ve dragged her off. You know how the swamps are, Maddie. A lot can stay hidden in there.’’

  “You’re the swamp rat, Mace. I stay out of that mess.’’ She took a compact from her purse and swiped at a tomato sauce smear on her chin. “Anyway, there’s another person whose behavior has seemed mighty suspicious. Sal Provenza. Mama’s Yankee fiancé.’’ She snapped shut her compact like an exclamation point.

  Marty, studying a cartoon Italian chef on the pizza box, said nothing.

  “It is strange how he won’t reveal anything about his life in New York before he retired to Himmarshee,’’ I said. “But all of a sudden Mama seems convinced he’s on the up-and-up. Do you think he told her something to put her mind at ease; something she hasn’t told us?’’

  “Ha!’’ Maddie slapped the table, causing the pizza box—and Marty—to jump. “That’s a good one, Mace,’’ she said. “Asking Mama to keep a secret is like asking a sieve to hold water.’’

  Our little sister remained silent, eyes cast down to the napkin she was shredding.

  “Well, Martinez seems to have shifted from thinking Sal is Public Enemy Number One,’’ I said. “Sal may be okay, if we can trust Martinez. And I’m not saying for sure that I do.’’

  Marty lifted her face. “Of course you can trust Carlos, Mace,’’ she said. “He’s a policeman. They protect and serve. It’s an oath.’’

  Maddie snorted. “Get real, Marty. Haven’t you ever heard of police corruption? The man is from Miami, after all. Maybe he and Sal were both involved with Jim Albert in something fishy. And they murdered him to take all the profits.’’

  We sat quietly for a few moments, digesting our pizza and our theories.

  Marty finally cleared her throat, an apologetic sound. “There is one person we haven’t mentioned, Mace.’’ Her voice was a whisper, as if by speaking negatively she might unsettle the universe. I knew right away which conversational planet she was circling.

  “Jeb Ennis,’’ I said. “You can talk about him, Marty.’’

  “That devil again.’’ Maddie looked like she wanted to curse Jeb and spit on the floor. “I’d be the first one to march him straight to jail. But even I have to say the pastor seems to have a better motive for the murder than Jeb Ennis does.’’

  Marty’s shredded napkins were a snow bank in her lap. “He owed Jim Albert an awful lot of money, Maddie.’’

  “Yes, but we don’t know about Bob Dixon, do we? He must have been financially desperate to take that hurricane money—to allegedly take it,’’ she said, with a nod at Marty. “Maybe he also borrowed from Jim Albert.’’

  “Or, maybe the minister killed him so he could steal his money,’’ I said.

  “Either way,’’ Maddie said, “a man as vain as Bob Dixon had to be humiliated that his dowdy old wife took up with someone else for a roll in the hay.’’

  “A roll on a dirty plaid couch,’’ I said. “Delilah said it reeked of cigarettes.’’

  “Whatever.’’ Maddie waved her hand. “The point is men do crazy things when women are involved. That leads me to the reason I don’t believe Jeb did it.’’

  Marty’s eyes went round. “What do you mean?’’

  “No matter what else I think about Jeb, I do believe he loved Mace.’’

  “Loved her and regretted breaking her heart,’’ Marty said.

  “So? What do Jeb’s old feelings for me have to do with anything?’’ I asked.

  “The person who killed Jim Albert ran you off the road when you started asking too many questions,’’ Maddie said. “That wreck could have been a lot more serious, Mace. You could have been killed.’’

  Marty gasped and grabbed at her throat, just the way Mama does.

  “Yes, Maddie, but I wasn’t. I’m okay.’’ I reached over and patted my baby sister’s hand.

  “Thank the Lord for that.’’ Maddie inclined her head to the poster Jesus. “Jeb Ennis wouldn’t do anything to hurt the woman he loved; maybe even still loves. He wouldn’t endanger you that way, Mace.’’

  Maddie sounded so sure. I almost opened my mouth to tell her how I’d felt that afternoon in the park by Ollie’s pond: Stalked. Endangered. Not to mention confused, as I watched Jeb peel out with the windows rolled tight in a truck that was supposed to be stifling.

  But in the end, I didn’t say a word to my sisters. I never told them how frightened I’d been that day.

  The light from the headlamps on Pam’s VW bounced upward, illuminating hawk moths and the low-hanging branches of trees. At the end of the unpaved drive, Emma Jean’s house was dark. Deserted-looking. As I turned left to park the car, the headlights flashed across the front porch. The cat’s dishes and the rubber container of food were still there, just where I’d left them.

  I killed the engine and turned off the lights. A waning moon barely broke through a thick layer of clouds in the sky. I heard night sounds: A dog barked a couple of streets away. Something small skittered through the dry leaves under the hedge lining the driveway. An owl hooted. The call sounded haunting. Lonely. I turned the car lights back on.

  Talking with my sisters about all the people we knew who could have killed Jim Albert had left me feeling nervous.

  “Here, Wila. Here kitty, kitty.’’

  As I called, I lifted an animal carrier out of the car and set it on the rocky driveway. I grabbed a towel I’d put in the back seat. I’d been thinking about Emma Jean’s cat. I didn’t want to leave the pampered creature for too long on her own. I’d feel awful if Emma Jean did come home, only to find something had happened to her pet.

  “C’mon, Wila. I’ve got food.’’

  I tried not to sound too eager. I’m more accustomed to dogs than to cats. But a cat-crazy college roommate once told me that cats are just like men: Show too much interest and they turn tail and run; ignore them and they fall all over themselves for you. I arranged myself into a position of nonchalance on the bottom step of the porch. Plastering a bored expression on my face, I pretended to examine my fingernails.

  “Okay, no big de
al,’’ I announced to the night and to any Siamese that might be listening. “Come if you want. Stay away if you don’t. I’ll just sit here for a while and enjoy the music of the mosquitoes.’’

  I started to hum.

  Within moments, the cat padded out from behind a glider with a periwinkle-blue-and-white striped cushion. She seemed to remember me from before, but who can be sure? I stroked her a few times, murmuring nonsense words to her. I had the feeling Wila wasn’t going to like what was coming. But it was for her own good. Somebody had to take care of the poor critter.

  I wrapped the towel around her, cocoon-like, except for her head. I lifted her into my arms, the towel protecting me from her claws. As quickly as I could, I stooped down, got her into the carrier, and shut the wire door.

  Wila looked at me with betrayal in her eyes. MEOWRRR! She sounded like a cross between a lion and a rusty door hinge.

  “You’ll be out soon, I promise,’’ I said to the cat. “It’s only until we get to my house. You’ll like it there, I swear.’’

  With the cat safely secured on the passenger seat beside me, I decided to take a quick detour past the backyard on my way out. The car’s lights played across the lawn as I turned. There was the bird bath. The rose bushes. The shed in the back. Then I saw a big, empty rectangle of long-dead grass. What I didn’t see was the battered white pickup that had been parked at Emma Jean’s house the day after she vanished.

  With one hand on the steering wheel, I fished around in my purse until I found my cell phone. Detective Martinez answered with the usual welcoming snarl.

  “It’s Mace. I figured I’d better tell you. I swung by Emma Jean Valentine’s house tonight. There’s something funny …’’

  Martinez interrupted me, his words tumbling out the phone. “Are you all right? What’s that horrible sound?’’

  Meeeeeoooowwwrrrr!

  “That’s just Emma Jean’s cat,’’ I said. “I don’t think she’s too fond of the carrier I’ve got her in.’’

  “Dios mío, it sounds like someone’s being tortured.’’

  “She’s a Siamese,’’ I said knowingly. “The Internet says they’re very vocal.’’

  “Can’t you make her stop?’’

  “The article I read didn’t include anything about a volume button or an on-off switch.’’

  Meeeeeooooowrrrrr!

  I raised my voice over the racket. “Anyway, I stopped by to see about the cat. I’m on my way home with her right now.’’ The light on Main Street turned green, and I crooked my neck to hold the phone while I shifted gears. “I noticed the white pickup truck that was at Emma Jean’s last night is now gone. Did you have the police haul it off?’’

  Martinez answered without the usual stonewalling. “No, I didn’t.’’ He started to think out loud. “Maybe it belonged to a relative or a friend, and they came by to get it.’’

  “Maybe,’’ I said. “But why now? From the look of the lawn, that truck has sat there pretty regularly for a long time.’’

  “A neighbor might have used it.’’

  “The houses around Emma Jean’s are on three-acre lots. Mama told me her two closest neighbors are snowbirds. They leave for the North in June when it starts getting hot, and they don’t come back until the end of November, when hurricane season’s over. She’s not close to anyone else out that way, which is one reason I came to get her cat.’’

  I passed the Speckled Perch and thought about food. Two slices of pizza two hours ago wasn’t going to hold me until morning.

  “We can check to see if Emma Jean’s the registered owner,’’ Martinez said. “If she is, I’ll have the information I need to put out a BOLO on the truck and tag number.’’

  “Bolo? Isn’t that a Western-style string tie?’’

  “Be on the lookout. BOLO.’’

  “Gotcha,’’ I said, feeling stupid. I don’t watch as much Law and Order as Mama does. “I’d know the truck if I saw it again. It was old and beat-up. There were beer cans in the back of the bed.’’

  “Great. That describes half the vehicles up here,’’ Martinez said.

  “Watch it, Mr. Miami. I can hear you sneering.’’

  I remembered the feel of the worn tread on my fingers as I ran my hands over the tires. “I didn’t think about getting the tag number, but Donnie Bailey might have,’’ I told Martinez. “We both noticed the truck had bald tires, just like the one that ran me off the road. Donnie was awfully interested in that old truck.’’

  ___

  If ever five days felt like fifty, this was it. What a week. I was looking forward to a cool shower, a cold beer, and some hot salsa once I got Wila and her cat-related accessories settled into my house.

  I smiled to myself as the VW jounced into my yard, illuminating the battle ring tucked off to one side. Looked like it was Mace 1; Wildlife 0 in this latest round of raccoon smack-down. The garbage cans were upright, lids still securely fastened with a collection of bungee cords. I might have feared the animals were lying in wait, prepared to punish the woman who shut down their nightly buffet. But the way Emma Jean’s cat was caterwauling, any living thing within hearing distance had skedaddled.

  I left the cat in the car as I got out. I wanted to prop open my front doors so I could more easily heft the carrier onto the screened porch and on inside. What I saw as I mounted the steps put the brakes on my victory-over-the-wildlife dance.

  The resourceful raccoons must have busted through the screen to get onto my front porch. They’d taken their revenge for my garbage-can offensive by overturning a flower pot. Trampled geraniums and big clods of dirt littered the wooden floor. The welcome mat sparkled in the dim moonlight with shards of broken glass.

  And then I looked more closely. The screen was intact. The flowerpot had been used with just enough force to break the front window, next to the door. Someone had carefully reached past the broken glass to turn the key in the deadbolt lock on the inside of the front door. The door stood open a crack. The house was a dark cave beyond.

  I’ve seen raccoons turn a doorknob; even pull open cabinets in a kitchen. But using a flowerpot to break a window, locating a deadbolt key inside in the lock, and understanding what the key is used for? That’s different. Unless the raccoons had gained a hundred IQ points and opposable thumbs since our last encounter, this burglary was beyond their skill level. The intruder had to be human.

  With my heart pounding, I backed slowly off the porch and down the steps. As soon as I felt grass beneath my feet, I spun around and took off at a run.

  Martinez made it to Taylor Creek in thirteen minutes. There was hardly any traffic this far from town on a Friday night. Still, he must have beaten Jeff Gordon’s NASCAR time.

  He was familiar with the location of the bridge on State Road 98, so when I called him from the safety of Pam’s car, that’s where I told him to meet me. I figured that was easier than trying to explain how to find my cottage way out in the country. And, to be honest, I hadn’t wanted to stick around alone without knowing what was in my house, on the other side of that open door.

  I heard his siren a long way off, and then I saw him coming. I flashed my lights. He was going so fast, he flew right past me. By the time he stopped and backed up, I stood waiting for him on the shoulder of the deserted highway. He leaned over to open the passenger-side door.

  “Are you okay?’’

  I nodded, surprised—and a tiny bit pleased—to see how worried he looked.

  But when he spotted Wila in the carrier, the concern on his face changed to annoyance.

  “What do you think you’re doing with that?’’

  “I’m not leaving her out here alone, with no top on the VW. Who knows what might try to get at her? She’s already had enough trauma for one night.’’

  He grimaced, but made room for us on the
front seat. “Just try to keep her quiet.’’

  “Yeah, right,’’ I said, as Wila let out a long screech. “Turn left about a half-mile up, at the sign that says High Horse Ranch.’’

  I directed him the rest of the way in. Left at the last fence post. Right at the big oak tree. In no time at all, we were pulling up in my front yard.

  “You’re staying in the car.’’ His tone offered no room to argue, not that I wanted to.

  “Don’t worry. I’m not stupid. I’m not going up against the unknown, not when my only weapon is a noisy Siamese cat.’’

  As Martinez got out of the driver’s seat, his right hand slid across his chest, under his jacket. I knew he must have a shoulder holster there.

  “Be careful, okay?’’ I said.

  With a curt nod, he was gone.

  He banged on my front wall and yelled Police! then edged the front door open with his foot. The longest five minutes in history elapsed after he disappeared inside. I watched as light replaced the darkened squares of my front windows. A dim glow spilled from the backyard. Martinez must have flicked the switch for the outdoor light at the kitchen door. I imagined him moving down the hallway into the bathroom and then on to my bedroom.

  I suddenly flashed on all the housekeeping I hadn’t had time for in the last few days. It was ridiculous under the circumstances, but I hoped he wouldn’t notice the pile of dirty clothes and underwear I’d left on my bedroom floor.

  Finally, I saw him walk around the house from out back. He holstered his pistol and patted its location over the outside of his jacket. I got out of the car to join him.

  “All clear,’’ Martinez said. “Whoever was here is gone now. Things look fine inside.’’

  “Let’s get poor Wila into the house.’’ I leaned into the car and picked up the carrier.

  “Let me get that.’’ He grabbed it from me. I almost protested that I was strong enough to carry my own carrier. Then I remembered Mama’s admonition: flies, honey, vinegar.