Mama Gets Trashed (A Mace Bauer Mystery)

by Sharp, Deborah

  She gave me a suspicious look. “You were not.’’

  “Okay, I thought maybe you could use some company.’’

  “Fine. But leave those nasty boots at the front door. You stink like the livestock market after the Tuesday auction.’’

  Maybe her griping about my crap-covered boots was a good sign. When I scuffed back inside in my socks, the TV was playing an ancient rerun of Matlock. The sound was off, but Andy Griffith was doing his trademark wily Southerner grin. It made me sad to think Andy was dead and gone.

  “Kenny hasn’t come home.’’ Maddie looked over her shoulder at the rumpled, empty bed. “He hasn’t even called.’’

  I gave her a half-hug. “There, there.’’ As I gave her shoulder an awkward pat, I wished again she’d chosen to tell her secret to Marty instead of me.

  As if she could read my mind, Maddie said, “Bet you never thought you’d be comforting me, did you? Haven’t I always been the old, happily married lady who has it all together? Haven’t you always been the one unlucky in love?’’

  I didn’t think she was looking for an answer. Fact was, she had always been happy with Kenny, ever since I could remember. They were junior high school sweethearts. As far as my dismal record in the romance department, everybody was pretty clear on that—thanks to Mama, the Mouth of the South.

  “You have to help me find him, Mace. I just want to know what’s going on. I have to know before this stupid party on Saturday. ’’

  “Have you thought any more about cancelling it? Maybe you should.’’

  She sunk onto the bed, tears in her eyes. “I can’t! It’s paid for. A hundred people are coming. It’s supposed to be Kenny’s big night.’’

  She rooted around on the bedspread for a shredded tissue. When she dabbed at her eyes, a snowstorm of white flecks fluttered onto her robe.

  “There must be some reason Kenny’s cheating. What’s wrong with me, Mace? Have I been a bad wife? Am I a bad person?’’ She blew her nose. “Is it because I’ve put on a few pounds?’’

  I gave her shoulders a gentle shake. “Don’t even think like that, you hear me? You’re a fantastic wife. That mo-ron is lucky to have you.’’ I found a nearly whole tissue and handed it to her. “This is not about you! It’s about Kenny, and whatever is going on in his pea-sized male brain.’’

  I figured I should say no more about Kenny. Maddie would never forgive me for trashing him, once they got back together. And they were getting back together, I was sure of it. Or, at least, I hoped for it.

  Matlock was over. One of the judge shows was starting. Maddie flicked channels on the remote until she landed on a rerun of Two and a Half Men. Charlie Sheen’s philandering character probably wasn’t the best subject for my sister’s viewing tonight. I grabbed the changer and found an animal show. Some kind of antelopes raced across an African plain. It’d be only a matter of time before the camera showed the lion chasing after them, death on their trail.

  On second thought, maybe a comedy would be a better option.

  “Are you hungry?’’ I asked.

  Maddie shook her head.

  “All I saw you eat at Mama’s was a few bites of that plain chicken breast. Have you had anything else?’’

  Another head shake, some tissue shredding. “I can’t eat.’’

  “Well, I’m hungry. I feel like having some mashed potatoes with butter. You’ll have a few bites, okay?’’

  Maddie shrugged. At least she didn’t say no. I headed to the kitchen to prepare our default comfort food.

  When I returned, bearing a pot of whipped potatoes and two big spoons, Maddie had washed her face and combed her hair. She’d tossed handfuls of the used tissues into the wastebasket in the corner. Those were encouraging signs, even if what she’d chosen to watch was some woman-done-wrong movie on Lifetime.

  I plumped a pillow for my back, and sat beside my sister on the bed. Both of us rested against the headboard. The potato pot created a warm spot between us. When she made no move to dig in, I scooped up a buttered spoonful for her. Just as Maddie had done for me through countless of my nasty or humiliating breakups, I raised the spoon toward her. “Mmm, yummy!’’

  Obligingly, she opened up and ate.

  “Better?’’ I asked, after she’d savored several more bites.

  “A bit.’’ Her smile was wobbly, but at least it was a smile.

  “Want to try to get some sleep?’’

  Maddie glanced out the window to the side yard. No truck.

  “I’ll stay up and wait,’’ I said. “I’ll wake you as soon as he gets home.’’

  I didn’t mention that first I planned to have it out with her cheat-

  ing husband, no doubt calling him a few names the church ladies at Abundant Forgiveness would not forgive.

  Despite my best intentions, the Lifetime movie sucked me in. The woman wronged dumped her louse and ended up with a great guy who appreciated her. By the time the credits rolled, and I had the potato pot washed and draining on the sink, Maddie was snoring softly. My own eyelids felt heavy. Maddie’s bright red clock—apple-shaped, stamped with the words World’s Greatest Teacher —read 1:47 a.m.

  The house was so quiet, the sound of the refrigerator humming carried from the kitchen into the living room. I sat myself in Kenny’s recliner. Would it reek of cheater’s musk? All I smelled, though, was Kenny’s usual scent: a not-unpleasant mix of engine grease and drugstore aftershave.

  The chair was cushiony, and I was exhausted. It seemed like I’d just sat down, but next thing I knew, harsh morning light slanted through the living room blinds.

  I’d turned off the alert sound on my sister’s phone so as not to wake her overnight. I picked up the phone from the coffee table, and was about to turn it back on, when I saw there was a text message, from Kenny. I hesitated only a moment before I read it.

  I did something terrible. I don’t think you can forgive me. I’m so sorry.

  Outside, his parking spot was still empty.

  twenty

  “Angel, doll, this drink is delicious, but could I get just a smidge more vodka?”

  Beatrice Graf offered up a pleading tone and what looked like a Bloody Mary to the barmaid at the 19th Hole. I’d just taken my first sip of morning coffee, and the mayor’s wife was already pursuing an alcohol buzz.

  Without a wasted motion, Angel picked up my money from the bar, spun to retrieve a bottle of premium vodka, topped off the glass of Mrs. Mayor, and replaced the bottle on the shelf. Then, she proceeded to the register to ring up my coffee.

  I’d returned to the golf course to take another crack at finding Kenny. I was waiting for an opportune moment to speak with Angel.

  She returned with change from my five. “Keep it,’’ I said.

  Angel’s eyes lit. “Thanks.’’

  “You should at least make it an Irish whiskey.’’ Beatrice chuckled beside me, stirring her drink with its celery stalk. “Who comes to a bar and orders a plain coffee?’’

  “Somebody who has to be at work in an hour.’’ I wrestled with a couple of sugar packets, managing to get most of the contents spilled into my cup.

  Mrs. Mayor fluffed at her poodle perm, then hoisted her Bloody Mary at me for a toast. Her eyebrows had a reddish tint, to match her hair. Her mascara looked like she’d applied it with a paint roller. I clinked her morning cocktail with my mug, and each of us took a swallow of our preferred poisons. Angel performed a quick introduction. I didn’t let on we’d met before.

  “I’m running a ladies’ group meeting for the Newcomer’s Club this morning. I always tell the gals to have a little nip. It makes the time go faster. You should try it.’’

  “Think I’ll stick to coffee, but thanks.’’

  She saluted us, wobbling a bit as she walked away. I suspected that wasn’t the morning’s first Bloody Mary. She didn’t seem to place me from the dining room the day before, or the library before that. Probably the memory-killing effect of too many drinks.


  “Bit early to be hitting the vodka.’’ I nodded toward Beatrice. The purple pom-poms on her golf socks bobbed as she zigzagged across the dining room.

  Angel shrugged. “To each his own. I don’t judge; I just pour.’’

  “A generous shot, too. Doesn’t management get mad if you give people extra booze without getting extra money?’’

  She looked around the empty bar, then leaned in close. “Can you keep a secret?’’

  “I’m a vault.’’

  “I only start her out with half a shot. She ALWAYS asked me for more, even when I poured her a double, so now I pour her less to begin with.’’

  “Smart.’’

  “I’m a clever girl.’’ She gave me one of her strangely seductive grins. “So, you’re not a golfer, right?’’

  “Not even on a dare,’’ I said.

  “So how come you’re back here today?’’ Wiping down a sprinkle of sugar crystals on the bar, she came close enough to brush my wrist with hers. “Did you miss me?’’

  I whisked my hands into my lap, folding them there. “I’m still looking for my brother-in-law, Kenny. Thought I might find him here this morning. My sister said he likes to play on Mondays.’’

  “Haven’t seen him.’’

  “Will you tell me if you do?’’

  “I said I would.’’

  “And you keep your word?’’

  “Always.’’

  She reached out a hand, grazing her fingers across the top of my left breast. I jumped back so fast I nearly fell off the stool.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.’’ That suggestive smile again. She pointed. “You spilled some sugar all over your shirt there.’’

  I wasn’t sure what her game was, but I knew I wasn’t playing. I made a show of consulting my watch. “Look at the time.’’

  “Yeah, you better get to work. You do something with animals at the park, right?’’

  I surely looked stunned, because she said, “You must have mentioned that.’’ She gestured at my shirt again. “Plus, it says ‘Himmarshee Nature Park,’ right there.’’

  I looked down at the logo. “Oh, right. Thanks for the coffee.’’

  “Thanks for the tip. Hope to see you again, soon.’’

  Angel’s gaze now focused on a spot over my shoulder. I turned, to see the mayor coming in the door from the golf course, trailed by a group of four or five younger men. They were loud: laughing, shaking hands, and slapping backs.

  “You owe me another game, you son-of-a-bitch.’’ The mayor wagged an index finger in the tallest man’s face, but his tone was teasing, not angry. “You stole that one like a whore lifting a drunk’s wallet.’’

  An older woman on her way to the ladies’ room gave him a disapproving frown. The mayor, bidding the group goodbye, seemed not to notice. His face was red. He mopped his brow with a big white handkerchief. His canary-colored golf shirt showed rings of sweat at the arms and under his saggy pectoral muscles. His jaunty yellow cap was wilted. It was early, but the September sun was already heating up the course.

  Angel had filled a glass with iced water, and was moving in the mayor’s direction. She nodded toward the door to the outside patio. He opened it, and they both went out.

  She gave him the water, which he drained in one long swig. He held the ice-filled glass to each temple, cooling off. Angel waited, arms crossed over her chest. He put the glass on a table and whispered something in her ear. Angel shook her head, lips pressed into a hard line.

  She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her apron, took out two. He rushed to light hers first, and then his. As they shared a smoke, he put a hand on her arm. She looked at it like it was a palmetto bug crawling across her skin. He immediately dropped it, and lowered his eyes to the table. Everything about his posture suggested he wanted something from Angel.

  Everything about hers said she wasn’t giving it.

  twenty-one

  The sound of sustained applause echoed in the empty dining room of the country club. It seemed to be coming from an open door leading to the room where Beatrice Graf was holding her event.

  I’d already paid my tab and finished my coffee. The mayor and Angel were still outside. With no other customers at the bar, there was no telling how long they’d talk. I’d try to catch up to each of them later to see what I could learn about Kenny.

  In the meantime, I was curious about all the clapping. I peeked from the dining room into the private room, and saw about twenty-five women inside. Mrs. Mayor was right. Almost every guest had a glass of wine or a cocktail at her plate. I ducked into a dining-room booth with an unobstructed view so I could spy in my preferred manner: Unobserved.

  I was surprised to see Prudence Law, wearing a nervous smile and a conservatively cut suit. She walked to the lectern at the front of the room, and waited for the applause to spatter to an end. She stood on tiptoe to reach the microphone.

  “Thanks for that nice introduction. I asked Mrs. Graf if I could say a few words to let you know how awfully grateful I am for the gift basket, as well as the kind expressions of sympathy so many of you have sent.’’

  An acknowledging murmur moved around the tables in the room.

  “As a librarian, Camilla was terribly keen on book groups. Several of you mentioned that she was helpful with suggestions for reading material. She’d be pleased to know she’s remembered in that way.’’

  The mayor’s wife stepped to the lectern, claiming three-quarters of Prudence’s limelight. “All of us are so sorry for your loss. Your sister was a lovely woman.’

  She was singing a different tune today. At Gladys’ diner, I’d heard her skewering the murder victim for her sex clothes and sinful ways.

  A woman in a mint-green sweater set hesitantly raised her hand at the front table. Prudence and the mayor’s wife simultaneously nodded their permission to ask a question. The woman looked momentarily confused as to who was in charge, but she plowed ahead anyway.

  “Have the police told you anything about who might have killed Camilla?’’

  When Beatrice began to speak, the sweater-clad woman raised her hand again, a bit timidly: “I was asking her sister.’’

  Mrs. Mayor aimed a glare at the questioner, but quickly covered it with a fake-looking smile. Prudence edged her aside and reclaimed the lectern. “No, they say they’re still investigating. They haven’t provided any specific information, beyond the fact she wasn’t killed where her body was found. They haven’t let me into her home. That leads me to believe they’re still looking for evidence there.’’

  The mayor’s wife shouldered Prudence out of the spotlight. She spoke directly into the microphone. “I think we have to assume Camilla knew her killer.’’

  Though sidelined, sweet Prudence still managed to put some frost in her voice. “I’m not sure we can ‘assume’ anything at this point. Why do you say that?’’

  “Well, surely that clothing was meant for some kind of special occasion. She dressed that way for a reason.’’

  Prudence’s eyes were cold enough to make the woman at the front table wrap herself more tightly in that sweater.

  “I wasn’t aware my sister was required to check with you regarding what she wore in the privacy of her home. I thought you Americans were all for individual freedom.’’

  The look she aimed at the mayor’s wife was so scornful, I’m surprised it didn’t singe the split ends off her bottle-red hair. But instead of becoming argumentative or blustery, as I expected, Beatrice cast her eyes downward to the floor.

  “I’m so sorry,’’ she mumbled, seemingly submissive. “I certainly don’t want to offend you, or the memory of your dear sister. Especially not at a time like this.’’

  Prudence sniffed, and smoothed at the sides of her dark jacket. The lapels were trimmed in white piping.

  “It’s all right,’’ she finally said, sounding like it definitely was not all right. “You can’t help being ignorant.’’

  I thought that would ge
t a rise from Mrs. Mayor, but instead she started clapping, and the other women followed her lead. Leaning back toward the microphone, she said. “Thank you so much for coming, Prudence. Anything you need, please call any one of us, right gals?’’

  Heads nodded and voices murmured in assent. Prudence marched out into the dining room. Her gait was determined; her jaw set. A flush suffused her fair skin. She didn’t look grief-stricken. She looked furious.

  _____

  Before I left, I checked in at the pro shop. The young woman behind the counter said she hadn’t seen Kenny. I also asked about the club’s pro, but Jason wasn’t in. Just as well. With no makeup, dirty hair, and red eyes after my nearly sleepless night at Maddie’s house, I wasn’t exactly looking my best. Not to mention, I still hadn’t scraped all the cow crap from my boots.

  Not that I felt I had to impress Jason. After all, I had a fiancé.

  Now, thanks to all the coffee I’d downed at the bar, I needed to visit the ladies’ room before I started the drive to work. While I was there, I figured I’d find that stash of moisturizing lotion and hair supplies again. I could use all the beauty help I could get.

  I wended my way from the toilets past the whirlpool tub and back to the changing room. A soft murmur of voices came from a corner, behind a bank of lockers. I paid them no heed. I was on a moisturizing mission, trying to allay the effects of thirty-plus years in the Florida sun with a few free dollops of a silky-smooth cream I was too cheap to buy for myself. I slathered my bare arms and neck. It smelled clean and spicy, like lemons and rosemary.

  I went a little crazy with the pump bottle, and spilled a big glob of moisturizer on the counter. I thought I remembered seeing a stash of towels in a wicker basket behind the lockers. Rounding the corner, I spotted Angel at the far end. I could see she was in deep conversation with someone standing just behind the lockers, out of sight. She held tight to the woman’s hand. The look on Angel’s face was tender, caring. She didn’t appear nearly as hard as she did while working behind the bar.