“We fought because I told her off about blackmailing you.” Bad Bubba put his hands around the bars. “When you came in, I weighed what each of us has made of our lives. I figured if one of us had to go down for murder, you had a lot more to lose than I do. So I lied. I said I shot her.”
All of us were silent for a moment. Unfortunately, we couldn’t contradict Bad Bubba about the way he’d been wasting his life.
As usual, Mama was the first to brighten. Reaching through the bars, she rested a hand on her nephew’s cheek. “You’ve got a lot of time in front of you to make a better life, son.”
She turned, beaming. “Get the key, Donnie. There’s still time for these two boys to come back to my house and help eat my butterscotch birthday pie.”
“Not so fast,” Donnie said.
Our smiles died like swamp mallow in a drought.
“You two could have colluded to kill her.”
“Say what?” Bad Bubba asked.
I translated for him again, “Planned it together.”
Donnie opened the cell and motioned Good Bubba inside. “Until we get this figured out, neither of you is going anywhere.”
~*~
The scent of strong coffee perfumed Mama’s kitchen. She fetched her second piece of butterscotch pie from the refrigerator, topping it with a mountain of whipped cream.
My older sister Maddie frowned in disapproval. “That’s not a very nutritious breakfast, Mama.” In a cruel cosmic joke, Maddie’s late-in-life pregnancy had put her off her beloved sweets.
Mama shoveled in a forkful, swallowed, and lectured: “I believe the person whose birthday the pie celebrates is entitled to enjoy it whenever, wherever, and however she desires.”
“Your birthday was yesterday,” Marty, the youngest sister, pointed out.
“Thanks for the reminder, honey, but I don’t think Mace and I will ever forget that one.”
The two Bubbas were still in jail. We’d all met at Mama’s first thing in the morning to try to hash out who might have killed Roxanne. We didn’t want to believe either cousin capable of murder. I couldn’t help remembering, though, what Donnie had said about them working together. Good Bubba was certainly smart enough to plot a murder. And Bad Bubba...well, he wasn’t so dumb he couldn’t aim and pull a trigger.
“What about Cole?” asked Marty, dissecting our information like the research librarian she was. “It seems awfully handy he was able to tell you so much about Roxanne, and what went down between her and Good Bubba. Wasn’t he supposed to be working?”
“Right,” said school principal Maddie, naturally suspicious of all young people. “What if Cole planted that belt? Or, what if it’s his? Maybe he made up that whole story about him wanting a name belt just like Bubba’s.”
The coffee pot gurgled, brewing complete. Marty passed around cups. Maddie’s was filled with hot water from the microwave. As we helped ourselves from the pot, she opened a packet of instant decaf.
“I hope I can forgive this baby for nine months of caffeine deprivation.” Even as Maddie grumbled, the hand she lovingly placed on her belly said she’d forgive her child anything.
“Mama, you taught Cole in Sunday school. Did anyone ever call him Bubba?”
“This is Himmarshee, Mace. We’re more like down-home Georgia than urbanized Florida. Every boy in town has probably been called Bubba at some point.”
“What about Donnie, at the jail?” Marty blew on her coffee. “Didn’t his wife move out because he was cheating? Maybe he was with Roxanne. Plus, he told y’all his belt size was a thirty-four. Maybe it was his belt.”
She sipped her coffee. “Ooh, that’s sooo good.”
“Now, that’s just a cruel thing to say, Marty.” Maddie aimed a sad look at her decaf. “Rubbing it in is more like Mace than you.”
“Sorry. What about Donnie, though? Does he ever go by ‘Bubba?”’
“Asked and answered, Marty,” Mama said. She lifted her Pomeranian, Teensy, from the floor to her lap. A shower of dog hairs drifted into my cup. “I asked Donnie that very question yesterday. He says only his snooty Yankee father-in-law calls him Bubba, and even he doesn’t do it to Donnie’s face. Besides, his wife came back to him. Plus, he had to be on duty at the jail all day, given all the yahoos they expected between the rodeo and July Fourth celebrations.”
Pushing my dog-coat contaminated coffee aside, I stared at Mama.
“What, Mace?” she asked, picking fur from her bathrobe. “You’re not the only one who knows how to ask questions. Donnie and I had a little chat while you went to the Ladies. We also had a bet you’d come back without bothering to brush your hair or put on some lipstick.”
She took another bite of the pie. “I won.”
Teensy jumped off Mama’s lap and ran barking to the front window.
Maddie stuck her fingers in her ears. “Isn’t your husband trying to rest because of his sore back, Mama? I swear, that dog is noisier than a five-year-old with a drum set.”
Pregnancy had also made Maddie more irritable than usual.
Mama said, “Speaking of lipstick...”
“Were we?” I asked.
“Yes.” She rolled her Apricot Ice across the table at me. “Carlos called and said he may come by this morning. It’d be nice if you’d freshen up.”
I deliberately reached past the lipstick for the newspaper Marty had brought. Slowly, I opened it, spreading out the front page. Mama pushed a comb my way, placing it right next to the lipstick. Ignoring both now, I began to read.
“Oh, my Lord,” I gasped.
“What?” Three voices said at once.
“There’s a story about yesterday’s rodeo.” I slid the paper to Marty.
“Yep, says here the top bull rider won more than two-thousand dollars,” Marty said.
Maddie got up and looked over our shoulders. “Another Brazilian,” she shrugged. “I have to hand it to those South Americans. They sure know their way around a bull.”
Teensy began another round of frantic barking. “Quiet,” Mama shouted, to zero effect.
“Look closely at the photo.” I tapped my finger on the page.
Mama snatched the section from me. “Why, it’s as plain as day. That boy’s got no belt on his blue jeans.”
“Read the small print under the picture,” I said.
“Somebody find me my glasses,” Mama demanded.
Snatching back the paper, I read aloud: Bull rider Fabianao “Bubba” Santos earned his nickname from American cowboys on the rodeo circuit.
“Want to bet that missing belt is a size thirty-four?” I said. “I know who killed Roxanne.”
“So do I.”
The voice from the kitchen hallway was nearly drowned out by Teensy’s barking. Yet I’d recognize it anywhere: deep, masculine, accented with a hint of his native Cuba. It still gave me a shiver to hear it.
“You’re back!”
“I am.” Carlos’s lips brushed the top of my head with a kiss.
“Her hair looks like a limpkin swooped in and built a nest,” Mama stage-whispered to my sisters. “I wish Mace had freshened up.”
I stood and threw my arms around Carlos’s neck, giving him a proper welcome-home kiss. Marty giggled. Maddie made smooching sounds. Mama said, “My stars, somebody needs to get a room.”
When we finally stepped apart, I could see my own desire reflected in his eyes.
Soon enough, though, he wagged a finger at me. “I hear you were very busy while I was gone.”
“Guilty as charged,” I said. “But listen to this: I just figured out who killed my cousins’ booty-babe. His name’s Fabiano...”
“...Santos. I know.”
“You know?”
“Yes. Your cousin Bubba and your other cousin Bubba will be released from jail.”
“Bu...bu...but,” I stuttered.
Carlos started to explain, “The victim...”
“Roxanne,” Mama filled in.
“Okay, Roxanne was seen on
security video hanging around the bull chutes at the rodeo. Cameras also caught her leaving with Santos. We tracked him down, and he confessed.”
I handed Carlos a cup of coffee, extra sugar, the way he liked it.
“Gracias.” His smile gave me a warm feeling, but not enough to distract me.
“Go on,” I said.
“Santos said she lured him to the lake with a promise for sex. Then, once his pants were around his ankles, she tried to rob him of his winnings. He’s claiming they struggled for her gun. Says it was self-defense.”
“Was it?” I asked.
Adjusting his tie, he slipped on his unreadable detective disguise. “A jury will decide.”
“If I was on the jury, I’d believe it,” Mama said. “That gal had a killer’s eyes.”
Mama had met more than her share of murderers, so she ought to know.
Suddenly, a series of loud bangs rang out. Carlos reached for his weapon. Mama and my sisters dove under the table. Teensy and I rushed for the front window to look. Outside, my cousins pulled to the curb in a battered pickup. It backfired again as Bad Bubba killed the engine.
“Not to worry,” I called out, before I got a scolding for foolhardiness. “It’s the Bubbas, in our uncle’s jalopy.”
Holstering his gun, Carlos led the others to the living room. “At the jail,” he said, “your cousins asked us not to call them Bubba anymore. They wish to go by their given names.”
Marty shrugged. “I didn’t think they had real names.”
“I’ve heard the pastor at church call Good Bubba, ‘John,”’ Maddie said.
“And Bad Bubba?” I asked. “What’s his given name?”
“John.” Mama grinned. “Same as his cousin.”
“Ay, caramba,” said Carlos. “Here we go again.”
-- The End --
Deborah Sharp was a reporter for USA Today for nearly two decades. Given all the stories she wrote about killer sharks, rampaging alligators, and human evil-doers, it’s a wonder she leaves her home.
She traded the sad stories of the news business for the funny “Mace Bauer Mystery” series, set in a sweet-tea-and-barbecue slice of her native Florida. The series debuted with Mama Does Time (Midnight Ink, 2008). Find out more about Mace and Mama at http://www.DeborahSharp.com.
Kiki Lowenstein and the Shark Bait: A Kiki Lowenstein Short Story
By Joanna Campbell Slan
Editor’s Note: This story occurs before Paper, Scissors, Death (the first book in the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series). It happened to Kiki the summer of her freshman year at college, a few months before she met George Lowenstein.
Chapter 1
I never thought I’d say this—and I’ll deny it to the death if you quote me—but some memories are best forgotten. My name is Kiki Lowenstein. I work in a scrapbook store in St. Louis called Time in a Bottle, so you could say that I make my living helping people deal with their memories. So asking someone to forget them, well, that’s antithetical to who I am.
Even so, we all have times in our lives that are best forgotten.
At the top of my list was a summer fifteen years ago when I visited my college boyfriend, Peter Jepsen, and his family in Hingham, Massachusetts.
It’s one of those memories that comes back to me at odd moments and hits me like a punch in the stomach. I try to be kind to myself. Remembering how young and stupid and overwhelmed I was usually ends up making me depressed for a day or two, and hating myself. I can’t even remember what I found so appealing about Peter.
Again, I was young. I wanted to be loved. I wanted to marry and start a new life.
Boy, do I hate myself.
Chapter 2
15 Years Earlier…
A wreath of smoke encircled Hank Jepsen’s head. Tall, blond and with eyes the color of the ocean, Hank’s good looks were spoiled by a cruelty that radiated from him like body odor. No matter how often I told myself to get over it, to swallow my feelings of revulsion, I shivered when Hank looked at me, especially when his eyes narrowed like they did now.
“Want a toke?” Hank Jepsen offered me a hit on his joint. Behind him a group of his friends sat on the classically styled sofa and continued to roll more marijuana cigarettes. On the arms of the furniture, other partygoers guzzled beer and passed around a bong.
The whole scene creeped me out. I’d only seen marijuana in movies until I went off to college. That’s when I discovered that everyone in the world smoked but me. Or so it seemed.
Here I was in Hingham, Massachusetts, in a private home, surrounded by people drinking and doing dope.
I wanted to be anywhere but here. Unfortunately, I was a guest in the Jepsen house, I didn’t have my own transportation, and I didn’t have any idea where I could run to. To make matters worse, it was getting dark outside. Even if I did take off on foot, I’d be contending with a strange neighborhood and nowhere to go. I certainly couldn’t phone home for help.
Maybe if I just kept cleaning up this would be over soon. I took a rag and wiped up a sticky mess from the glass-topped coffee table in the living room.
“She doesn’t smoke. Doesn’t indulge in tobacco or weed, big brother,” said Peter. He laughed as he came up behind me and slipped his arms around my waist. He rested his chin on my shoulder. I knew without looking that Peter’s eyes were twinkling with mischief. Just as his brother was downright mean, Peter was a scamp. An adorable bad boy who was always pulling practical jokes or teasing. Every bit as handsome as his brother, Peter suffered from a deep sense of insecurity—and he worshipped his older sibling.
Peter hugged me and kissed the back of my neck. “Kiki’s taking clean-up duty.”
“Well, somebody has to.” I stared in horror at the mess that was growing by leaps and bounds. Evidently all of Hank and Peter’s friends were accustomed to maid service, because within a few short hours they had trashed the Jepsen home. That was particularly troubling since Elsa and Bert Jepsen had issued a stern directive— “No parties!”—before leaving for the weekend.
But the minute the Jepsens pulled out of the driveway in their new Mercedes, their sons started calling their friends. Very quickly the house had turned into Party Central, complete with wall-to-wall people, and a nearly intolerable noise level. The smoke was as thick as the London fog in a Sherlock Holmes movie. The stereo had been cranked up to an insane, ear-splitting decibel, causing the walls to shake. Everywhere I turned, there were couples kissing, petting, and laying on soft surfaces in various stages of undress.
That’s why I kept my eyes downcast while mopping up spilled drinks and wet rings on polished wood surfaces. The casual sex, the smell of dope, the loud laughter—it all frightened me. Not to mention the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Jepsen had expressly forbidden all this.
The Jepsen brothers seemed relaxed, but I was stiff with fear. I couldn’t imagine how “The Parents” would react when they returned home. This was going to get ugly.
Peter turned me around and kissed me on the lips. “What’s the matter?”
“Um, I am really, really uncomfortable,” I said, talking into his ear. “Your parents won’t like this.”
“Babe! Everyone is having fun! You need to relax,” and with that he reached for the joint in his brother’s hand and took a long draw on it.
I refused to partake. I’d grown up with alcoholic parents, and I’d seen how ugly people could become when they were under the influence. Yet here I was, in a small town in Massachusetts, where I knew no one but my college boyfriend—my first real boyfriend ever—and I was smack dab in the middle of a situation that was spiraling out of control.
Unlike my parents’ famous indulgences, no one was fighting, but people had definitely lost their inhibitions. In dark corners, couples were in various stages of making out. I looked away as I picked up empty beer cans and dirty glasses, but I couldn’t avoid seeing them. Not completely.
“Don’t tell me you date a narc, little brother.” Hank talked through his teeth as he struggle
d not to exhale.
“A narc?” said Peter. “No way, man. Kiki’s not a narc. She’s a trusting soul.”
“Is she gullible?” Hank regarded me coldly.
“Really gullible. Last spring I got high with a friend,” said Peter. “Kiki smelled the smoke on me so I told her I’d done a good deed for a couple of senior citizens. That I’d raked up all their old leaves and burned them. Helped them get a start on their garden. I went on about how hurt I was by her lack of trust. By the time I finished, she apologized to me!”
My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe that he’d lied to me. And about something so stupid! I knew Peter often played fast and loose with the truth, but this was too much. It was one thing to have my suspicions and another to hear them confirmed.
“As long as she’s not a narc,” said Hank. “Or we’d have to do something about that. Turn her into shark bait.”
All the hairs on the back of my neck stood up in alarm.
“She believes whatever I tell her,” said Peter with a giggle.
That did it. I pulled free and stalked into the kitchen.
Something had snapped inside me. The anger stung like a finger caught in a mousetrap. I had spent all my summer earnings on a plane ticket because Peter wanted me to meet his folks, to see his world, and to talk about our future. He had told me that he loved me. We had talked about getting married.
But now, everything was clear to me. I’d seen the real Peter, relaxed and unguarded as he talked to his brother. I’d also seen a glimpse into my possible future.
I definitely didn’t like what I saw.
This was not going to work.
Chapter 3
In a romance novel, I would have stomped out of the house. I would have found my own way back to the airport.
In real life, not so much. My flight was five days away, and I didn’t have the money to change my ticket. I would have to stick it out.
I’d been so excited about my visit. My mother had teased me. “If he really cares for you, he’ll pay your way,” she’d said.
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 97