Mama Does Time

by Deborah Sharp

  “That’s okay, D’Vora,’’ I said. “We’re getting the whole misunderstanding straightened out. That’s what I came by to tell y’all.’’

  Her troubled frown faded. “See, Betty? Didn’t I say that? When I put that peroxide mixture on Rosalee’s hair, I didn’t understand how strong it was. And then the phone rang. I didn’t know leaving it on for just a tiny bit longer than the directions say would cause such a mess. It was just a misunderstanding, like Mace said.’’

  Betty left her customer in the chair, click-clacked across the lilac-and-white floor, and snapped her fingers in front of D’Vora’s face. Snap. Snap. Snap. “Get with it, girl. That burned-up ’do you gave Rosalee is yesterday’s news. I told you she got tossed in the hoosegow. Try to focus, D’Vora.’’

  D’Vora looked like a puppy spanked for peeing on the carpet. “I only wanted Mace to know I’m sorry about her mama’s hair. Of course, I’m sorry she murdered that man, too. Knowing Rosalee, she must have had a very good reason.’’

  Betty shrugged an apology at me in the mirror. “You’ll have to excuse D’Vora, Mace.’’ She tapped the foam roller in her hand against the young woman’s forehead. “She was behind the door when God gave out brains.’’

  I moved the towels and took a seat. “That’s all right. I just wanted to come and tell y’all that Mama’s a hundred-percent innocent. And we’re gonna prove it, too. She’ll be back here with her aromatherapy and seasonal color swatches before you know it.’’

  “I’m sure of it, Mace,’’ Betty said reassuringly.

  D’Vora didn’t look as convinced, but she kept her mouth shut this time.

  “Honey, why don’t you sit right there and relax?’’ Betty asked me. “You look like a pair of pantyhose been put through the spin cycle.’’

  And the day wasn’t but half over. I leaned back, shut my eyes and took some deep breaths. Usually, I don’t buy the aroma mumbo-jumbo, but the crisp scent was beginning to work its magic. Mama claims the scent of carnation oil reduces stress. I could use a little of that.

  “Thanks, Betty. But just for a little while. I need to find someone else who could have committed the murder. I’m going to show this jerk of a detective from Miami that his case against Mama is a bunch of manure.’’

  I try to watch my mouth around Betty, who worships with Mama at the Abundant Hope and Charity Chapel. She doesn’t cotton to cussing.

  “We’ve heard all about that detective, Mace.’’ Betty spoke from around a purple comb she’d stuck between her lips. “My friend Nadine’s boy Robby manages the Dairy Queen. He told her that detective is as rude as can be. Nadine’s boy made the mistake of asking him how long they’d have the parking lot roped off while they looked at the body in Rosalee’s trunk. He didn’t mean nothing by it. It’s just wasn’t good for business. Who wants to come in for a banana split if a body’s drawing flies in the parking lot?’’

  D’Vora interrupted, “I heard that detective’s easy on the eyes, but he’s downright mean. Nadine told Betty he just about snapped poor Robby’s head off at the Queen.’’

  I knew the feeling. I think Martinez was still picking pieces of my own head out of his incisors.

  “Absolutely snapped it off,’’ Betty agreed. “Just plain rude is what that is. But what do you expect? After all, he is from Miamuh.’’ She gave the word its old-Florida pronunciation. “You know how people are down there, girls. That place is worse than New York City.’’

  I didn’t believe Betty had ever been north of Tallahassee, but that was neither here nor there.

  “Speaking of New York, Betty, what do you know about the man in Mama’s trunk?’’

  She quit rolling her customer’s hair and pulled the comb from her mouth, giving me her complete attention. D’Vora closed the supply closet and eased into a chair.

  “We haven’t heard word one yet,’’ Betty said. “There’s only been a few clients in this morning, and so far nobody who’s known nothing. No offense, Wanda,’’ Betty nodded at the woman in her chair.

  “None taken,’’ Wanda said agreeably.

  Now all three women looked at me expectantly.

  “It was Jim Albert,’’ I said. “Though I’ve since found out that wasn’t his real name.’’

  Betty staggered theatrically, reaching out to steady herself on Wanda’s shoulder. “You don’t mean it, Mace,’’ she said. “I was just talking last week to Emma Jean Valentine about their wedding. She planned a burgundy and silver theme, and a three-tier cake with butter-cream icing. She wanted me to do her hair.’’

  I sprang the rest of the story on them, about how he was really Jimmy “the Weasel,’’ and connected to New York mobsters.

  As I spoke, Betty got animated, nodding and interjecting “You don’t say!’’ But D’Vora got real quiet. She returned to the supply closet, where she began shifting shampoo bottles.

  “Don’t that beat all, D’Vora?’’ Betty called out, shaking her head.

  “Sure does.’’ D’Vora’s tone was subdued, her head still stuck in the shampoos.

  Now it was my turn to exchange a look with Betty in the mirror.

  “Girl, what is up with you? C’mon out of there,’’ Betty said.

  D’Vora closed the door slowly. She held a pair of scissors. A folded purple drape hung from her arm. “I’ve just been thinking about your poor mama, stuck in prison,’’ she said. “I think it’ll perk her spirits if we do something about your hair, Mace. She always says how you’re so pretty, but you won’t do a thing to improve what God gave you.’’

  I was curious about D’Vora’s attitude shift when I mentioned Jim Albert. I could use a haircut; and maybe she’d talk. What the hell? I’d skip lunch.

  Stepping behind my chair, she eyed my bed-flattened ’do. “What’d you cut it with, Mace? Gardening shears?’’ She lifted a thick hank of hair, letting it fall around my face. “See this jet black? It’s gorgeous, like something from the silent movies. With that and your baby blues, you could be a knockout. It’s a shame you go around looking like one of the critters you’ve dragged out from under somebody’s porch.’’

  “D’Vora, I’ve told you about insulting the customers!’’ Betty warned.

  “Mace isn’t a customer, Betty. She’s Rosalee’s kin. And I’m starting to believe she’s right about her Mama being innocent.’’

  I jumped on that. “Do you know something to help me prove that, D’Vora?’’

  Her frown came back. “I can’t say just yet, Mace. I want to get it right.’’

  Betty caught my eye and made a slow-down motion.

  “I’ll think on it while I work on your hair. No more questions ’til then,’’ D’Vora said.

  I sat, and she leaned me back until my head rested on the basin. The shampoo smelled like green apples.

  “What I meant about your mama …’’ She finally spoke again as she dried, rubbing so hard I feared scars on my scalp. “I’m just not sure what to say, Mace. I was taught not to speak ill of the dead. And part of it was told me in strict confidence by a customer. That’s like a patient and a doctor, isn’t it, Betty?’’

  The two of them looked over at Wanda, who’d been moved to a dryer. She sat under a whir of hot air, devouring a National Enquirer.

  “These are special circumstances.’’ I lowered my voice. “Mama needs your help.’’

  She gave a little nod. “Well, first of all, you knew Jim Albert owned the Booze ‘n’ Breeze, right?’’

  “Um-hmm,’’ I urged her along, even though I hadn’t known. I wanted her to get to the part about how someone else might have killed him.

  “He had a secret business, too. Loaning money. He didn’t ask questions, and there was no paperwork, like at a bank. I’m embarrassed to say my husband, Leland, went to him once. He needed to borrow three hundred dollars. Le
land was a week late paying it back.’’

  D’Vora looked down, blotting at a shampoo splotch on her smock. “Jim Albert sent a man out to the house to break all the windows in our truck. He told us the next time it wouldn’t just be the truck. Leland came up with the cash, and we never saw him again.’’

  She raised her eyes to me. “That Jim Albert was a man to be feared, Mace. What if someone else couldn’t pay what they owed? That would be a reason for murder, wouldn’t it?’’

  “It sure would, D’Vora.’’ I felt like kissing her.

  “And there’s more; about Emma Jean and the wedding.’’ Her eyes darted around the shop, as if she expected Emma Jean to jump out from behind a chair. “She came in a few days ago while Betty was out to lunch. She sat right in that chair and told me she was having second thoughts about going through with it.’’

  I jumped at that. “Did she say why? What else did she say?’’

  D’Vora turned her head toward Wanda. Still drying.

  She leaned in close, cupping a hand around her mouth as she broke Emma Jean’s confidence. “She’d found out Jim was cheating,’’ D’Vora whispered. “She was so mad, she said she didn’t know whether she wanted to marry him or murder him.’’

  Maddie was pacing outside her Volvo by the dumpster at the Booze ‘n’ Breeze when I arrived.

  It was the first time in history my teetotaler sister and the drive-thru liquor store had been forced into such close proximity. When I called Maddie to tell her I found out some things that could help cut Mama loose from jail, she insisted upon meeting me at the Booze ‘n’ Breeze. It was her maiden trip to Jim Albert’s store, a den of sin in my sister’s mind.

  The store’s about two miles east of the courthouse square in downtown Himmarshee. That’s far enough not to offend the good citizens who gather in the square for lunch, eating out of paper bags on benches under oaks strung with Spanish moss. But it’s also close enough so those same citizens can swing by for a nip on their way home from work.

  In her black pantsuit, serious pumps, and reading glasses on a silver chain, Maddie looked every inch the school principal. Frown-ing, she glanced at her watch as she saw me drive up.

  I parked on the weedy shoulder along Highway 98, and waited as a truck loaded with Brangus and Charolais cattle roared past. Then a battered pickup, its gate held shut with a length of rusty chain, clattered by. Six Latino farm workers in the back clamped their hands over their baseball caps, guarding them from the wind.

  When I crossed the road and met Maddie by the dumpster, she stared at me so long I started to get nervous.

  “What?’’ I asked her. “Do I still have sleep crud in my eyes? I know there’s nothing stuck in my teeth, because I haven’t had a bite to eat all day.’’

  “What’d you do to your hair, Mace?’’

  I put up a hand self-consciously, and felt nothing but smooth where there had been snarls that morning. Maddie grabbed my chin and turned my head this way and that.

  “It looks good,’’ she finally said. “It really does.’’ She sounded shocked.

  “D’Vora cut it,’’ I mumbled.

  “My sister at a beauty parlor?’’ Maddie took a step back. “So that explains this awful foreboding I’ve had ever since Mama was arrested. The world really is coming to an end.’’

  “Very funny, Maddie.’’ I snapped at her, but secretly I was pleased. A compliment from Maddie is rarer than a three-legged cat.

  I told her all about Jim Albert, including his mob ties and the fact that Emma Jean had been furious after she’d found out he was running around with another woman.

  “Jimmy the Weasel, huh? That cheating lowlife was an insult to the weasel,’’ Maddie said.

  “Let’s go on in,’’ I told her, “and see what else we can learn about him.’’

  There was no wall in front, since the whole idea of the Booze ‘n’ Breeze is to let shoppers motor past and get a good look at the libations. The business’s motto is, you never have to leave the driver’s seat to tank up.

  The clerk looked at us in alarm as we stepped into the store from the drive-thru lane. She’d probably never seen a customer before from the waist down.

  I smiled, harmless-like.

  Maddie ratcheted up her customary frown. “Linda-Ann, tell me that’s not you underneath those stupid dreadlocks! And selling liquor, too?’’

  So much for building rapport.

  “I’m nine years out of middle school, Ms. Wilson,’’ the clerk said to my sister. “I’m old enough to work here, you know.’’

  I could have told Linda-Ann not to sound so apologetic. The only defense against Maddie is a strong offense.

  “I happen to like your hair, Linda-Ann.’’ I aimed a pointed look at my sister. “It’s a perfect style for you, especially with those cargo pants and that peace-sign T-shirt. So few young people these days show any individuality at all when it comes to fashion.’’

  I was afraid I’d poured it on too thick, but Linda-Ann beamed beneath her blonde dreadlocks. “Thanks,’’ she said, smiling at me. “I like your hair, too.’’

  “I thought you were going to college, Linda-Ann.’’ Maddie was judgmental.

  “College isn’t for everyone.’’ I was understanding.

  It was becoming clear who was the good cop and who was the bad in our interrogation tag team.

  We waited while a car pulled in. The driver wanted a six-pack of Old Milwaukee and five Slim Jims. Dinner. It took Linda-Ann two tries to count out the change from his twenty.

  Bad cop: “Didn’t you pay any attention at all in Mrs. Dutton’s math class?’’

  Good cop: “You must be creative, Linda-Ann. Arty types are never good at arithmetic.’’

  Maddie lost interest in creating rapport and asked Linda-Ann flat out what she knew about her late boss, Jim Albert. The clerk clammed up.

  “Nothing really.’’ She twirled a dreadlock. “My manager told me the owner got killed, but I barely knew him. I’ve only worked here a few months.’’

  Linda-Ann got busy rearranging a rack of pork rinds on the counter, even though they looked fine the way they were. Appetizing, actually. She straightened a hand-lettered sign that said Boiled P’nuts/Cappuccino, which I took as clear evidence that the yuppies were colonizing Himmarshee. She was doing everything she could in such close quarters to avoid us.

  I knew we wouldn’t get anything from her—not with Maddie standing there radiating disapproval like musk during mating season. Linda-Ann was out to show my sister she wasn’t a little girl anymore, quaking on a hard bench outside the principal’s office at the middle school.

  I dug into my purse, piling stuff onto the counter, until I found a pen and some paper. “Listen, our mother was tossed in jail because she can’t explain how come your boss’s body was found in her trunk.’’

  Linda-Ann’s eyes widened.

  “She didn’t kill him,’’ I said. “We’re trying to find out who did. We’d really appreciate anything you could tell us about Jim Albert that might help us do that, okay?’’ I jotted down my phone numbers and handed the paper over the counter.

  “Let’s go, Maddie. Let’s let Linda-Ann get back to work.’’

  Once we were out on the street again, I turned on my sister. “You have to learn to lighten up, Maddie. Not everybody responds to intimidation.’’

  “Thanks for the tip, Mace. Seeing as how I’ve worked with young people all my life and you work mostly with raccoons, I appreciate the lesson in human psychology.’’

  “Don’t get mad. I’m just saying sometimes you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.’’

  “Now you sound like Mama.’’

  I was beginning to realize there are worse things I could sound like.

  Maddie and I put our argu
ment on hold, stepping off the street as a pickup truck with mud on the flaps made its way from the drive-thru lane. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I caught a glimpse of the driver—black Stetson on his head, left arm in a cowboy shirt propped on the sill of his open window. My heart started pounding and my tongue went dry. I never imagined seeing him would send me for a loop; not after all these years.

  “Jeb Ennis!’’ I yelled, before I even realized I’d opened my mouth.

  “Oh, no,’’ Maddie said.

  When Jeb spotted me, he lit up in a smile. Maddie’s face darkened. He parked his truck and waited to cross the road to where my sister and I stood. There was a steady stream of traffic—trucks carrying livestock feed and fertilizer, and the occasional tourist in a rental car who’d ventured far from the resorts on the coasts in search of the real Florida.

  As Jeb waited for the road to clear, I had plenty of time to check him out: Blonde hair, blinding white smile, the tanned face of a man who works outdoors in the Florida sun. Tight, faded jeans fit his legs like blue denim paint. He was still long and lean; the years had added only a pound or two to his six-foot frame. First, I’d had inappropriate thoughts about Martinez. Now, seeing Jeb, my knees were as weak as a schoolgirl’s. I really need to get out more.

  Reaching our side of the street, he spent a long moment staring at me.

  “You look great, Mace.’’

  And he looked good enough to eat. The attraction had outlasted anger, and the passage of a decade, at least. I shoved my shaking hands into the pockets of my jeans.

  Jeb removed his cowboy hat and pushed a hand through his hair, flattened and slightly sweaty where the band had rested. “You’re sure a sight for sore eyes, Mace. How long has it been?’’

  “Not long enough,’’ Maddie muttered.

  “I think it was my first year of college,’’ I said, surprised when my voice came out sounding normal.

  Maddie stepped in front of me, getting right in his face. “That’s when some horrible cowboy broke her heart. Tell me, Jeb, are you still riding rodeo?’’ She tossed him a smile like she’d rather it was a rattlesnake.