“Trey?’’ Wynonna’s voice was soft, tentative.
He looked up, lifting blood-shot eyes. A nasty gash left a reddish-brown streak across one cheek. His shirt, minus its top three buttons, gaped open to show a broad chest. Trey looked like he’d been on the losing side of a bar brawl.
His eyes were the same startling shade of blue as his father’s. I remembered how they’d sparkled with fun and mischief when we were in high school. I’d never seen the cruelty in Trey’s eyes that I saw the moment he focused on Wynonna.
“Well, if it ish-n’t the wicked stepmother,’’ he slurred. “Come to shake her moneymaker and bust my balls.’’
The haughty expression from the cook site returned to Wynonna’s face. She looked at Trey like he was something she’d dragged in from the paddock on the bottom of her pointy-toed boot. When she spoke, her voice was as chilly as the air rustling the curtains at the window.
“You’re pathetic, Trey.’’
I suspected the only thing keeping Wynonna from spitting on the floor as she said his name were company manners and a pricey-looking bearskin rug.
“Why don’t you stay right there on the floor, lowdown as you belong, while I make us some coffee? I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you, stepson.’’
“Don’t tell me, Wynonna. Let me guess-sh. You’ve finally managed to figure out a way to get all my Daddy’s money.’’
“So then Lawton told me I’d been the prettiest girl ever at Himmarshee High. I believe that’s the last thing I heard the poor man say.’’
As Mama’s voice floated from the front porch through the open window, I quickly looked at Trey. Not even a twitch. He’d moved from the floor to a couch, where he was sitting straight up, sound asleep. Or passed out, one.
I wasn’t at all surprised that Mama would choose to remember a compliment to her as Lawton Bramble’s final words on this earth.
“The man always did have charm, may he rest in peace,’’ she was saying to Doc Abel, as the door opened.
I put a finger to my lips and glared at her, pointing at Trey. Mama clapped a hand over her mouth, at least having the good grace to look embarrassed. Hurrying over, she perched like a small bird on the fat arm of the leather chair where I sat.
“Sorry, Mace,’’ she whispered in my ear. “My stars! That poor boy looks like something the dog’s dragged out from under the porch. He doesn’t know about his daddy yet?’’
“No thanks to you,’’ I whispered back.
Across the big room, Trey’s legs were stretched out to a low coffee table. His head slumped forward onto his chest.
“He’s been drinking,’’ I said. “I’m not even sure he noticed I was here. Wynonna’s gone to make some coffee. No sign of Belle.’’
Barely glancing at Trey, Doc plodded toward us. “That boy’s gonna have to straighten up now,’’ he said in a purposely loud voice. “It’s time for Mr. Lawton Bramble III to put aside all his foolishness and become a man.’’
That seemed harsh, considering Trey wasn’t even aware yet he’d lost his father. Then again, I didn’t know the family dynamics as well as Doc Abel did. I’d never met Trey’s sister. She was younger, and I’d heard she studied art and languages at boarding schools in Europe.
“I’m gonna head out to my car and get my medical bag,’’ he said, speaking more softly now. “I want to be ready in case I need to administer anything to the family members tonight.’’
“Hang on a sec, Doc. I’ll step out with you,’’ I said.
The night was dark enough now to see stars scattered across the sky. Orange blossoms from surrounding groves scented the air. Sounds from the Cracker Trail riders carried from the campsite, a quarter-mile or so away. Someone strummed a guitar, the melody faint. Someone else showed off with a cow whip, loud as a gunshot.
“Listen to that whip crack,’’ Doc Abel said. “That’s why they called the old-time Florida cow hunters ‘Crackers.’’’
I walked with him across a rutted dirt driveway to his ancient station wagon. Doc Abel had to be the only person in three counties with a Saab. It’s mainly trucks and SUVs in this part of Florida, where cows still outnumber people and all the wild land has yet to be paved. I drive a beat-up Jeep. Mama has a 1967 Bonneville convertible. Her car’s turquoise, which is about as exotic as it gets in our little hometown of Himmarshee. We’re in the middle of the state: three-and-a-half hours north of Miami’s sin and sunshine, south enough of Orlando to stay out of Mickey Mouse’s big shadow.
Doc opened his car door and leaned into the back seat.
“Mama showed you the body, right? What’d you think?’’ I asked him. “Was it a heart attack?’’
“That seems fairly certain, given Lawton’s poor health.’’ He straightened, holding his black bag.
“But he should still be checked out, right?’’
“I checked him out,’’ Doc said, “and the cause of death is clear. Everything I saw is consistent with cardiac arrest.’’
When I didn’t say anything, Doc added, “That means a heart attack.’’
“I know,’’ I said. “That’s how my daddy died.’’
Doc closed the backseat door and leaned against it. “I’m sorry. How old were you when you lost him?’’
“Ten. Maddie was almost fourteen. Marty was just eight.’’
“That’s tough for girls, growing up without a father.’’
“Well, we had a few stepfathers along the way.’’
“It’s not the same, though, is it?’’
I shook my head. As I did, I caught a glimpse of something circular and ceramic on the front passenger seat of Doc’s Saab. He saw me staring at it through the window.
“Your mother told me about the trouble y’all had last summer, and about how you want to make sure there’s nothing suspicious about Lawton’s death. She said you were worried someone might mess with that tasting mug. So I brought it with me, for safekeeping.’’
I started to protest. He held up a hand.
“I’ll hang onto the cup and the crusty stuff inside until the cause of death is absolutely certain. But I can tell you right now, with nearly sixty years of medical experience, the man died of a heart attack. It happens.”
He shrugged, like Lawton’s death was of minor consequence.
I know it happens, I felt like saying. I just got through telling you it happened to my own daddy. I was having trouble getting a read on Doc Abel. One moment, he seemed kindly; the next, almost mean.
Before I had the chance to figure out what I thought about him, Wynonna called out from the porch. “Doc?’’ Her voice trembled. “You better come on in here.’’
We hurried inside to find Mama gently shaking Trey by the shoulders. He was now stretched out on the couch.
“We tried to get him up and get some coffee into him so we could tell him what happened,’’ Wynonna said.
“He’s not responding,’’ Mama added, shaking hard enough now to loosen Trey’s fillings.
Squeezing past Mama, Doc slowly lowered his bulk beside the couch. The floor seemed to shudder when his knees made contact with the bearskin rug. His fingers moved expertly to the pulse point at Trey’s wrist. He leaned toward his mouth and sniffed.
“Stinkin’ drunk, is all he is. Like usual.” Wrinkling his nose, Doc dropped Trey’s wrist like it was something nasty. “Other than a liver well on its way to being pickled, the boy’s fine.’’
After the laborious process of rising from the rug, Doc collapsed into a heavy, cowhide-upholstered chair. As I listened to his ragged breathing, my eyes returned to Trey. Drool dribbled from his open mouth. His head lolled to one side. A brewery’s worth of beer-stench escaped from his pores.
An image formed in my mind of a very different Trey. We were in high school. He’d just led the Himmarshee Brahmans to a state football championship. He strutted the halls with a perky blonde cheerleader on each arm—a king in a cowboy hat.
What in the world had happened t
o Trey Bramble?
Outside, a dog began to bark. A moment later we heard clunks and squeaks as a vehicle jounced over the unpaved drive.
“That’ll be Belle, Lawton’s daughter.’’ Wynonna was pulling at the skin on her hands again. “I called her earlier, and caught her on her cell. She was already on her way here for dinner. I didn’t want to tell her about Lawton on the phone, you know?’’ She looked first at me, then at Mama, for reassurance.
“You did the right thing, honey.’’ Mama covered Wynonna’s nervous hands with her own. “That’s not the kind of news anybody should get while they’re driving.’’
The engine quit. A car door slammed. Keys jangled. Doc Abel huffed to his feet, holding his black bag ready. We all watched, waiting, as the front door opened.
“What’s everybody looking at?’’
The young woman who stepped into the room had coppery red hair, falling in wild curls past her shoulders. Her eyes were light green, the color of cypress needles in spring. The gaze she turned on us was curious, intelligent.
“Well?’’ she said.
Finally, Wynonna spoke. “Belle, why don’t you sit down? Doc Abel has something he needs to tell you.’’
___
The news about her father’s death left Belle’s body rigid, her face pale. She gripped the arms of a cane-back chair like she was afraid it was going to fly away on her. The veins atop her hands bulged out, blue-grey against fair, sun-freckled skin.
“I want to go to Daddy’s cook site right now,’’ she said.
“Honey, I don’t think you should . . .’’
“Right now.’’ Belle interrupted Mama. Her lower lip quivered, but her eyes were dry.
“All right, then. This is Rosalee, Belle.’’ Doc nodded toward Mama. “She and I will take you over to see your father.’’ He glanced at Wynonna. “Are you up to making the call to the funeral home?’’
Pressing her lips together, Wynonna nodded.
“I wrote the number for you on the pad in the kitchen, by the phone,’’ Doc said.
After Doc left with Mama and Belle, the big living room was quiet, except for Trey’s snores. Wynonna’s voice was a low murmur from the kitchen. Here, it was just me and Trey, sleeping off his drunk. I hated to admit it, but he was still a handsome guy—even with a line of drool on his chin. Was it a bar fight, or something else, that had left him scratched and bruised? Where were the buttons off his shirt, which hung open to reveal his smooth chest?
I sat and studied Trey, like he was an animal in the wild. On the side, I make a little extra money trapping nuisance critters for newcomers. These are people who move to Himmarshee imagining they’ll love the country, until the country comes to call. And then they’re desperate to evict it, from the attic or the swimming pool or whatever part of their home the country has crashed.
My business depends on understanding animals well enough to predict their behavior. I like to do the same with the human animal, but that’s usually a lot more complicated.
I understood how Trey grew up: Money. Privilege. God-given talent. But I couldn’t have predicted this behavior: Drunk. Passed out. Failing to achieve his potential. He seemed wounded. I always stop to help injured animals. I just hoped Trey wouldn’t bite.
“Mace?’’ Wynonna’s voice snapped me out of my reverie. She handed me a cup of coffee, and put one for herself on an end table mounted on a wagon wheel. “Thanks for sticking around.’’
“Don’t mention it,’’ I said. “Listen, would you mind if I used your phone? I’ll keep it short. I just want to let my sisters know Mama and I are okay, in case they hear something happened on the Cracker Trail.’’
Waving me toward the kitchen, she sank into a chair next to the couch. Wynonna looked like she could use that cup of coffee.
Fortunately, I reached Maddie’s answering machine. No half-hour back-and-forth about how if Mama and I were more careful, we wouldn’t be in the position of finding another dead body, and by the way, we should watch out for snakes if we’re foolhardy enough to sleep out in the wilderness in a tent. At the sound of the beep, I simply said:
“Maddie, it’s Mace. It looks like Lawton Bramble had a fatal heart attack just as the Cracker Trail riders were arriving on his land. Wanted to let you know Mama and I are fine. I’m not sure if the rest of the ride is off or on, but I’ll be in touch. Be sure and tell Marty everything’s okay. We haven’t seen a single snake.’’
That last part was a lie. But I didn’t want to worry our little sister, Marty.
I used the toilet and washed up, using a bathroom off the kitchen. By the time I was done, my coffee had gone cold on the counter. I nuked it in the microwave, looking for the sugar bowl while I waited. I added two teaspoons to my cup, and then rooted around in the ’fridge for some half-and-half. All I saw was skim milk. I’d sooner drink it black than ruin good coffee with that thin gruel.
Carrying my cup, I tiptoed back into the living room. If Wynonna had managed to catch some sleep, I didn’t want to disturb her. She leaned forward off the chair, angled toward Trey. Her long hair had fallen like a cloak over her face. I couldn’t tell if she was awake or sleeping.
As I got closer, I saw one of Wynonna’s arms stretched out toward the couch, resting on Trey’s chest. She’d slipped her hand beneath his ripped-open shirt. Her big diamond ring glinted as she moved her hand back and forth, back and forth, massaging the bare chest of her dead husband’s son.
“Leave that dog be, Mace. We’ve got to get over to the camp.’’
A Florida cur, a cow-working dog, lay with his head on his paws on the hard-pine porch of an outbuilding on the Bramble property. He watched with sad eyes as we walked past.
“I think he was Lawton’s dog, Mama.’’ I bent to check the name on his collar. Tuck. “Look how lost he looks.’’
I’d slipped out of the Brambles’ living room without letting on what I’d seen between Wynonna and Trey. I certainly wasn’t ready to spill the beans to Mama. I didn’t want speculation about the young widow and her stepson spreading all over middle Florida until I had it clearer in my mind what was going on.
Mama and I met as she was coming back from Lawton’s cook site. Doc Abel was still there, with the body. He and Lawton’s daughter, Belle, were waiting for the van from the funeral home.
I kneeled on the pine board and stroked the dog’s head. “Hey, Tuck, old boy. How you doin’?’’
A snort came from Mama’s direction. “Maybe Carlos Martinez wouldn’t have moved back to Miamuh,’’ she said, using the old Florida pronunciation, “if you’d of paid as much attention to him as you’re paying to that hound.’’
Not this again.
“I told you, Mama, Carlos had a lot of history to reconcile with in Miami. The timing wasn’t right. We both knew it.’’
I scratched behind Tuck’s right ear. He rolled to his back so I could rub his belly.
“All I’m saying is Carlos is a good man. I know I wouldn’t have been so quick to let him get away.’’ Mama smoothed at her hair.
“I know all about it, Mama. If you were just twenty-five years younger, you’d be wearing his engagement ring by now.’’
One of her convenient memory lapses had allowed Mama to forget that Detective Carlos Martinez had nearly sent her to the slammer the previous summer for murder. Back then, he’d have been more likely to slip a pair of handcuffs around her wrists than an engagement ring around her finger.
The dog got up and shook itself as we continued across Bramble property. He followed us, tags jangling on his collar. Mama turned sideways and waved a hand in Tuck’s direction. “Go on, shoo!’’ she yelled. “Git, you rascal.’’
He stopped, cocking his head at me.
“Quit it, Mama!’’ I said. “Can’t you see the poor thing is lonely?’’ I slapped my thigh and whistled. “C’mon, Tuck. You can come with us.’’ The dog loped to my side.
Mama rolled her eyes. “Just one ounce, Mace. If you’d use just an
ounce of your power to attract animals on men, you’d be married by now. You’re a smart girl, honey. But when it comes to men, you ain’t got the brains God gave a possum.’’
“Who says I want to be married?’’ I snapped at her. “You’ve marched down the aisle enough for the both of us. Enough for half the female population in Himmarshee, in fact.’’
She ignored me, leveling a firm look at Tuck. “That flea-bitten animal is not sleeping in the tent with us.’’
“You’ll be glad to have him if it gets as cold tonight as it’s supposed to get.’’
“Some women might prefer a man to a dog for warmth, Mace.’’ She arched her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “Think about it, honey.’’
The parched Bermuda grass and sharp stobs sticking up from the pasture crackled under our boots. The light of the moon edged white clouds with silver, brightening the sky above us.
“Speaking of men, Mace, you might be curled up alone with Lawton’s cur in the tent tonight. I called Sally from the ranch house earlier. He’s driving over to meet us on the ride.’’
“Sally’’ is Mama’s irritating nickname for her fiancé, Salvatore Provenza—would-be husband No. 5. Somehow, I couldn’t picture the ex-New Yorker with the mysterious past as Cracker Trail material.
“What in the world is a guy from the Bronx going to do on a trail ride where everyone else is on horseback?’’
“Don’t ask me, Mace. He got a burr under his saddle about me being out here in the woods when I told him about Lawton. Why does everyone think I’m gonna get into trouble every time someone I know turns up dead?’’
Yeah, imagine that, I thought.
“Anyhoo, Sally says he wants to come up here and poke around. He says he’ll keep a low profile.’’
I pictured Sal: three-hundred-some pounds; a taste for pastel-colored golfing duds; and a Bronx honk that could stop the D train at Yankee Stadium. Amid a group of slow-talking, jeans-wearing, native Florida Crackers, Big Sal screamed “high-profile.’’
Mama Rides Shotgun Page 3
