Mama Gets Trashed (A Mace Bauer Mystery)

by Sharp, Deborah

  “So, have you lovebirds set a date? When’s the wedding?’’

  “That’s a popular question,’’ I said. “There’s no rush.’’

  “There is if you want children.’’ Rhonda’s voice lost its teasing tone. “You’re not getting any younger.’’

  “Thanks for the reminder.’’

  “I’m serious.’’

  “We’ve only been engaged a few months. We’ve got plenty of time.’’

  “That’s what people always say, until they run out of time.’’

  _____

  “Who’s hungry?’’

  Claws skittered. Wood shavings rustled. Pepé Le Pew put a paw to his food dish, banging it against the floor of his enclosure. “Whoa, Pepé my man! Didn’t anyone ever tell you patience is a virtue?’’

  The skunk was a permanent resident. His moronic former owner had him de-scented, and then left him to fend for himself in the wild without his only natural means of defense. I’d been called out to capture him by a newcomer who objected to having her garden parties crashed by a skunk. If you asked me, some of her over-perfumed guests smelled much worse than Pepé.

  I would have rather released him into the woods. Without his scent, though, the skunk was safer with the other injured, abused, or unwanted critters we kept at Himmarshee Park.

  Once the inside inhabitants were taken care of, I went outside to the pond to feed Ollie.

  A cool rush of air hit me in the face, blowing my hair off my neck. Suddenly, the leaves high in the trees started shaking. The sky had blackened. Big, angry-looking clouds scudded over the park, blowing toward us from Lake Okeechobee to our south. The temperature dropped by at least ten degrees. The sudden chill raised goose bumps on my sweaty flesh.

  “Storm’s coming, Ollie.’’

  The gator swam toward me, powerful tail propelling him through the water. His jaws gaped, as he regarded me with his one good eye. Lightning flashed, zigzagging across the dark sky. Maybe it was the threatening weather, or the lightning reflecting off those acres of teeth, but something made me think of the close call Mama and I had survived with Ollie, at this very pond.

  I stepped back from the wall. Turned to look behind me. Dark shadows filled the woods. The gnarled branches of old oaks seemed

  to reach toward me, like the grasping fingers of malevolent giants. A shiver started at my neck and traced a trail all the way down my spine.

  I held out my hand. The barest tremble betrayed an uncommon onset of nerves. “Look at me, Ollie. Spooked by a little foul weather.’’

  I went to the wall again; found the gator still awaiting his supper. “I wonder if it’s starting to get to me, how everybody’s always asking me when I’m getting married? I’m not ready right now, but I’ll tell you a secret.’’

  I thought I saw an interested look in Ollie’s eye. Maybe he was anticipating the secret. More likely, it was the thawed raw chickens I had in the bucket at my feet. I looked around to see if anyone lurked nearby, close enough to hear me revealing my deepest feelings to a one-eyed, three-legged alligator. He’d come out on the losing end in a fight with another male over territory.

  “I really do love this man, Ollie. I’m happy.’’ I dangled the first chicken over the wall. The reptile’s jaws gaped wide. “I can hardly believe it myself. Nothing’s going to happen to screw up this relationship.’’

  I tossed the plucked bird. Ollie’s mouth slammed shut with a resounding crack. I thought of the awesome force of a gator’s jaws, more than twice as powerful as the mightiest lion. The water churned, and I shuddered a bit. Silently, I uttered a prayer I’d said more than once before at Ollie’s pond. Thank you, God, for saving Mama and me from such a gruesome fate.

  eight

  The porch light shone at Maddie’s house. I raced through the rain to her front door. The potted geraniums she always hand-watered and plied with fertilizer to force cheerful red blooms were wilting on the front porch. That was as odd as the phone call I’d gotten from her on my way home from work.

  “Could you stop by tonight?’’ Maddie had asked.

  It ran through my mind I’d be looking at more pictures of hairstyles. Maybe I’d have to watch my sister try on that yellow dress while she asked if it made her butt look big. “I don’t know, Maddie. I’m awful tired, and it’s raining buckets.’’

  As if to emphasize my point, the rain picked up, pounding the top of my Jeep. I turned the wipers up a notch and rubbed at the foggy window. It was almost dark, and I could barely see five feet in front of me. The rain fell in sheets. The wind gusts came close to blowing me over the highway’s center line.

  “Please?’’ Her voice was pleading, and so soft I could barely hear her. Very un-Maddie-like. When I hesitated before answering, I heard a strangled sound come over the phone.

  “Are you crying?’’

  “N-n-n-nooo …’’ Maddie took a couple of hiccupping breaths. “Y-y-y-yesss.’’

  My tough-as-nails older sister, capable of silencing an entire auditorium of middle-school students with just her scary principal glare, CRYING? I yanked my steering wheel to the left and made

  a U-turn.

  “I’m on my way, sister. Hold on.’’

  Now, Maddie held open her front door. She handed me a bath towel to dry off the rain. I knew things were bad when she failed to mention like she always did that I should wipe the mud off my boots. Her red hair was matted. Her eyes were puffy and swollen.

  “What’s wrong?’’ I asked.

  “Follow me.’’ Maddie led the way down a hallway to her laundry room. The top on a bright pink hamper was open. She pointed. “Look in there.’’

  I peeked in. I saw a couple of dish towels, a tablecloth with barbecue stains, and a man’s silky, long-sleeved shirt in a vivid orange-and-maroon print. “Do you have a houseguest visiting from Palm Beach?’’

  “It’s Kenny’s.’’

  I’m sure my face betrayed my shock. Kenny’s style, if you could call it that, was jeans, T-shirts, and NASCAR caps. I’d never seen him in a shirt without a logo promoting farm equipment, his insurance company, or a monster truck show.

  Maddie plucked out the shirt, holding it gingerly between a thumb and forefinger. “Smell.’’

  “I’d rather not.’’

  She waved it under my nose, and raised her brows at me. When I didn’t answer, she made another pass with the shirt. That time, I got it. Despite the damp scent of rain on my uniform, mixed with the dusty grain smell of the animal chow I’d spilled on myself earlier, I detected the cloying, floral scent of a woman’s perfume.

  My mind immediately went back to Mama, and Husband No. 2. She’d found a red shirt of his, reeking with My Sin. Mama didn’t say a word. She just doused the whole thing with bleach. Number Two found his fancy shirt neatly folded and put back in the drawer, the red fabric turned into ugly splotches of pink and white.

  “There’s got to be an explanation,’’ I said.

  Maddie balled up the shirt and tossed it back in the hamper. “There is: He’s cheating.’’

  “I mean another explanation.’’

  “Before Mama finally wised up to No. 2, how many times did we see her find some evidence, and then overlook it?’’

  “Lots of times.’’

  “Well, I’m not going to be that blind, Mace.’’ She glared at the shirt. “I should have known even before I smelled the perfume. The man has never in his life managed to hit the dirty clothes hamper.’’

  “What are you going to do? Confront him?’’

  “Not yet.’’ Maddie shook her head. “I want to get all the facts first, just like I do when the kids act up at school. Before I say a word, I always know exactly what’s been done, who did it, and what punishment they’ll get.’’

  I couldn’t help but think that despite Maddie’s bluster, marital betrayal is a lot more complicated than shooting spitballs at Himmarshee Middle School.

  _____

  Maddie traced at a stray drop of h
erbal tea on her kitchen table. A steaming cup of chamomile sat untouched in front of her. I sipped at my lemonade. I would have preferred a beer, but my sister refused to have alcohol in her house. Mama’s Husband No. 2 had been a heavy drinker in addition to a con man and serial cheater. As the oldest of us three girls, Maddie was likely more aware of the emotional fallout from that poisonous combination of character flaws.

  “What about the party?’’ I asked her.

  “We’re going ahead with it. I don’t have a choice. The VFW hall is rented. The invites are out. C’ndee already bought most of the food for Saturday night. Kenny’s birthday cake is already paid for, too. I asked them to inscribe it ‘To the World’s Best Husband.’ ’’

  Maddie, seemingly exhausted, went quiet. She stared at her stainless steel refrigerator. Normally as shiny as a silver dollar, it was marred with greasy fingerprints. If Maddie were herself, she’d have been after it with a roll of paper towels and a bottle of spray cleaner. Instead, her eyes got teary again. I felt the sting, too, from sympathy and disbelief.

  “Maybe Kenny’s using drugs or something,’’ I said. “There’s got to be a reason.’’ She shook her head. “It’s sex, pure and simple. Not only is that shirt of his a peacock-looking thing, it’s a full size smaller than what he wore a couple months ago. I should have known something was up when he started getting in shape.’’

  Maddie sniffled. “Bastard!’’ She plucked a napkin from a holder on the table and blotted roughly at her eyes. “Don’t mention a word of this to Mama.’’

  “Lord, no!’’ I said.

  “I want to show you something else.’’

  I followed Maddie down the hallway to their bedroom. Pictures of her with Kenny and their daughter, Pam, hung along the walls. She jerked open the closet door and removed a hideous yellow-and-peach-colored golf outfit. The cap was a plaid tam-o’-shanter, complete with a yellow pom-pom.

  “That looks like something from the Sal Provenza resort-wear collection,’’ I said.

  “I know, except my idiot husband paid for it with our money.’’ Maddie dropped it on the bed in disgust.

  “Will you investigate for me, Mace? Find out who he’s running around with?’’

  “Oh, Maddie …’’

  I let my words trail off. I was reluctant to delve into something so personal. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt Maddie with what I was afraid I’d find out about her husband.

  She put a hand on my arm. “You know how to get to the bottom of things, sister. Besides, I just don’t think I can face it alone, whatever he’s up to.’’

  She wiped a tear from her cheek. “Will you, Mace? Please?’’

  “It’s probably just a big misunderstanding.’’

  “I don’t think so. It’s not just the perfume-stink and the fancy clothes. He bought a set of golf clubs. Got them second-hand off Craig’s List, but still. And, last weekend, when I wanted to go to the Pork Pit, Kenny said we should try that new bar and grill that serves wine by the golf course. He called the Pork Pit a ‘cholesterol nightmare.’’’

  “That doesn’t sound like the Kenny I know,’’ I said. “I didn’t think he could pronounce cholesterol.’’

  “That’s exactly my point.’’ Maddie blew her nose. “Please?’’

  How could I say no?

  nine

  Lights shone on the ornate sign for Himmarshee Links Country Club. The mechanical arm at the guardhouse rose, allowing my Jeep to roll right through the entrance. The geniuses who ran the place milked their members to build the guardhouse, but then cheaped out when it came to hiring someone to actually work the gate as security.

  What did they hope to guard against with that gate and little house? With all the alligators that populated the water hazards, it seemed like at least one threat was already inside the perimeter of the golf course community. I kept the skull of one such critter as a key receptacle on my coffee table at home. The gator had been deemed a nuisance after it became a bit too comfortable sharing space with golfers. My cousin, a state-licensed trapper, enlisted me to help him wrestle it from a pond near the eighteenth hole.

  Turning into the parking lot, I remembered something else about the golf course. I’d met the pro once, a strapping young guy with sexy blue eyes and a full head of sun-kissed curls. Josh? Jason? He’d come on pretty strong. Even though I was an engaged woman, I pondered for a moment on whether he’d remember me.

  Inside, I didn’t have to wait long for the answer to that question. The hunky pro stood next to the hostess stand in the club’s dining room. He put his hand over his heart and spoke to me, even before I could state my business.

  “Better call heaven. I think they’re missing an angel.’’ His voice was a deep purr; a smile crinkled the darkly tanned skin near his eyes.

  “Really?’’ the hostess raised her eyebrows at him. “You think that’ll work for you?’’

  He looked wounded. “Even beautiful women like to hear they’re beautiful.’’

  The hostess took me in with a practiced glance: No makeup, rain-dampened work clothes, the grainy scent of animal chow no doubt still wafting off me. She didn’t appear to agree I was heaven’s missing angel.

  “How have you been?’’ I asked the pro.

  His face was a blank.

  So much for my stunningly memorable beauty. “We met here a couple of years ago. I came in asking questions after a body had been discovered in my Mama’s convertible?’’

  A dim light lit in his eyes. Forty-watt smart. “Oh yeah, questions. I remember now. Your mother’s married to Big Sal, right?’’

  “She is indeed,’’ I said.

  So he remembered Mama, but had only the foggiest memory of meeting me. I shoved aside my bruised ego and re-introduced myself. His name was Jason, not Josh. I asked if he had a few minutes to talk, told him I’d buy the drinks. The hostess shot eye darts at me the whole time. Jason guided me to a table at the far edge of the dining room, near the bar. The 19th Hole. Cute.

  “Do you know Kenny Wilson?’ I asked, once we were seated.

  He cocked his head, appearing to think about it. “Not by name. What’s his handicap?’’

  A cheating heart, I wanted to say, but I knew Jason was probably talking about golf. “I have no idea.’’

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Forties, overweight, though not as much as he used to be. One of his golf outfits has yellow and peach in it.’’

  “That doesn’t narrow it down much.’’

  Stroking his chin, Jason turned toward the bar. Behind it, a woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties reached up to put away wine glasses in the wooden racks over her head. Each time she stretched, the hem of her blouse rose in the back to reveal a tramp stamp. The tattoo snaked its way south from the waistband of her hip-hugger skirt, down past the curve of her butt.

  “Hey, Angel,’’ Jason called to her. “Can you come over here for a few minutes? And bring us a couple of …” His eyebrow rose in a question.

  “Just a Coke,’’ I said. “I’ve got a long drive home.’’

  “A couple of Cokes, please.’’

  When the barmaid turned to us, I got a better look. Pretty, in a hard way: Heavy makeup, skirt too short, blouse too tight, showing plenty of cleavage. She set up a cocktail tray with two cans of soda and two glasses of ice. Brushing a strand of bright blonde hair from her eyes, she approached the table.

  “Angela Fox, this is …’’ The blank look flitted onto Jason’s face again.

  “Mace Bauer,’’ I completed the introduction for him.

  “Sorry,’’ he said. “Your beauty must have shorted out a few of my brain cells.’’

  I didn’t doubt Jason was short a few million cells, but I suspected something other than my beauty was to blame.

  “Mace is some kind of investigator,’’ he added for Angel’s benefit.

  “Not exactly,’’ I said.

  Her brow furrowed. “Are you looking into that woman who wa
s found murdered at the dump?’’

  “Why? Do you know something about that?’’

  “No,’’ Jason butted in quickly. “Angel’s just curious. Everybody’s talking about it.’’

  “Actually, I’m looking into something personal,’’ I said.

  She placed the sodas on the table, tucked the tray under an arm, and reached out to shake my hand. “Angel’s short for Angela, but nobody calls me that.’’

  Her grip was pleasantly firm. I never trusted a woman whose hand plopped into mine like a gutted black crappie. “What can I do for you, Mace? I can’t take much time away from the bar.’’

  “Have a seat for a few minutes.’’ Jason poured one of the Cokes; half a can in his glass and half in mine. “It’s really slow before dinner.’’

  She glanced around the almost empty room, and then stared pointedly at the empty chair. Jason jumped up to pull it out.

  “That’s a good boy,’’ Angel said.

  He beamed, like the classroom screw-up who’d just managed to impress the teacher.

  When she’d settled herself, she looked me in the eyes. Hers were sharp, assessing. I couldn’t quite place her accent, but it definitely wasn’t local. Up north, somewhere. I got right to the point, asking her about Kenny.

  “Sure, I’ve seen him around. Nice guy; sells insurance. He doesn’t seem like much of a golfer, though.’’ She turned to Jason. “You know him. He uses a set of beat-up Callaways. He’s got a big pickup with mud flaps and a No. 3 for Dale Earnhardt on the rear window.’’

  Jason looked through some sliding glass doors to the lighted parking lot beyond. The grilles of a couple of Lexuses and a Mini Cooper pointed toward the clubhouse. Kenny’s Ford F-350 would stick out in that lot like a fat man at an organic restaurant.

  “Oh, yeah: Ken,’’ he finally said. “He’s got a terrible left hook.’’

  Not knowing a hook from a slice, I brought the conversation back to my purpose. “Do you know who he plays golf with out here? My sister’s married to him, and she suspects somebody he’s been hanging around with owes him a lot of money he doesn’t want to tell her about.’’