Mama Does Time

by Deborah Sharp

  “Emma Jean told Sal I had a heart attack?’’ Mama lifted a fork load of banana cream pie to her mouth. “I’m healthy as a hog, girls. What was she thinking?’’

  “That’s what we need to find out,’’ Maddie said, handing our mother a napkin to wipe meringue off her chin. “This isn’t the first time Emma Jean’s name has arisen since you found the body in your trunk, Mama. I, for one, would like to know why.’’

  Marty darted in like a sparrow after a crumb, snatching the half-bite of pie crust Mama left on the plate. “You can’t suspect Emma Jean of anything bad, Maddie,’’ she said. “She’s so nice.’’

  Maddie and I looked at each other.

  “Even nice people can have guilty secrets, Marty,’’ I said.

  I repeated what Emma Jean told D’Vora, that she was mad enough to kill over Jim Albert’s cheating.

  “Funny she never told me he was cheating,’’ Mama said. “She was likely embarrassed, planning that big wedding and all. Emma Jean’s life has had some real heartache, girls.’’

  Maddie snorted.

  “Don’t be mean, Maddie. The poor woman lost her little boy; and there’s no heartbreak like that. He ran away when he was just thirteen. They never did find him, neither. It just about tore Emma Jean up. She and the boy’s father divorced. She just couldn’t get over the loss.’’

  “How sad.’’ A tear rolled down Marty’s perfect cheek. “Poor Emma Jean.’’

  “You might have noticed that picture on Emma Jean’s desk at the police department,’’ Mama continued. “That was her son.’’

  All of us were silent, even Maddie. She got up to return the sweet tea pitcher to the refrigerator.

  I finally said, “Emma Jean’s not the only one with a secret, Mama. Your man-of-mystery boyfriend has been at the top of our list of possible murder suspects.’’

  I ticked off on my fingers everything we knew—or suspected—about Sal: his criminal ties to Jim Albert; his evasiveness; the fact he had access to Mama’s car trunk. The only thing I didn’t mention was his possible role in my crash, since we didn’t want to scare her.

  “I don’t know, girls.’’ Mama opened the refrigerator and took out the pitcher Maddie had just put away. “It’s true Sally’s lied to me. But I just can’t believe he’s a killer. I’ve always been a good judge of character.’’

  “That’s true,’’ Marty said, using a napkin to sop some tea Mama spilled on the floor.

  “Please!’’ Maddie said. “The woman has had four husbands. How good a character judge can she be?’’ She wiped Mama’s fingerprints off the door of her stainless-steel fridge.

  “Now, Maddie, you know that’s not fair.’’ Mama took a swallow of sugared tea. “Only that second one was what you’d call a failure as a human being. And I blame that on me still being in shock over your daddy’s dying. The last two were good men, just bad matches.’’

  Mama was right. One of those exes still lives in Himmarshee, and brings carnations and chocolates every year on her birthday.

  Marty changed the subject. “Speaking of men, did Mace tell you she saw Jeb Ennis the other day?’’

  “Talk about a suspect,’’ Maddie muttered.

  I hadn’t told my sisters what the liquor store clerk said about Jeb. For some reason, I felt protective of him. I wanted to talk to him first before I told about his temper and Jim Albert.

  “That boy sure knew how to handle a horse,” Mama said dreamily. “I liked him.’’

  “Proving my point,’’ Maddie said. “Jeb Ennis broke your daughter’s heart. I’d say his character leaves something to be desired.’’

  Mama got up to clear her plate. “Sometimes it’s nobody’s fault when a romance fails, Maddie. Jeb was wild and free; Mace is cautious and careful. She was in college; he was in rodeo. Those buckle bunnies on the circuit wouldn’t leave him be. Maybe it was good man, bad match.’’

  “He sure was good-looking.’’ Marty sipped from Mama’s glass.

  “Still is,’’ I added, and left it at that.

  Mama turned the toaster on the counter so she could check her lipstick in the reflection. “Maddie, I don’t know what possessed you to get this silver finish on all your appliances. You’re forever wiping off prints,’’ she said.

  Maddie bit her tongue, and moved on to the toaster after scouring chicken grease and a ring of Mama’s sweet tea off the counter.

  Hearing Mama say “prints’’ reminded me of fingerprints which reminded me of jail, which reminded me of the man who’d sent Mama there.

  “I can’t believe I forgot to tell y’all something.’’ I slapped my injured forehead, which stung like crazy. “I did some research on the computer about Martinez.’’

  Three sets of eyes turned toward me, as intent as my animals at feeding time.

  “Remember when Emma Jean said something bad happened to him in Miami, Mama? He was a hotshot detective. A real star. Then his wife was murdered.’’

  Marty gasped.

  “It was during what they call a home invasion robbery. The bad guys push their way in, right through the front door, and then kill anyone in the house who might be a witness.’’

  Mama’s eyes widened and her hand covered her mouth.

  “How did it happen, Mace?’’ Only someone who knew Maddie like a sister would hear the quiver in her voice.

  “Well, that’s the thing. Once I read the article, I understood why Martinez was so ready to believe Mama could be a killer.’’

  “That doesn’t make sense,’’ Marty said.

  “It will.’’ I folded my hands on the table. “Patricia Martinez had also been a police officer, until she quit to start a family. Like any good cop, she was suspicious and careful.’’

  “But not this time,’’ Maddie said.

  “Not this time.’’ I shook my head. “The police found out later she’d opened the door because a sweet-looking old woman was on the stoop, crying and appearing confused. When Patricia started out to see if she could help, the old lady’s accomplices pushed her back through the open door. They shot her right there. Martinez found his wife’s body when he got home from work. She was seven months pregnant.’’

  Marty gasped again.

  “They ultimately caught the robbers, because another homeowner they’d shot survived to describe them.’’ I shifted in the chair to ease the pain in my knee. “He told the newspaper the old woman looked so harmless, he never suspected a thing. Want to know why?’’

  All three heads nodded.

  “She reminded him of the sweet old lady who used to teach at his Sunday school.’’

  Mama had one hand on her head and the other holding on to the dashboard of Pam’s old VW convertible. The wind was blowing the yellow pansies flat on her Sunday hat.

  Actually, it was Wednesday evening. But we were on our way to church, which explains the fancy headwear. After what Mama had been through, I figured the least I could do was accompany her to mid-week services at Abundant Hope and Charity Chapel, like she’s always asking me to.

  I was driving my niece’s car. Maddie had owned it a hundred years ago in high school, and she’d kept good maintenance on the engine. Of course. But the top had rusted into the down position. Maddie didn’t see any reason to waste the money to fix a car that Pam only drove when she came home from college two or three times a year. If it rained, Maddie always said, Pam could put on a slicker.

  “How you doin’ over there, Mama?’’ I yelled into the warm night air.

  She nodded she was okay, but that might just have been the pansies trembling on her hat.

  “Just hold on, we’re almost there.’’ I stepped on the gas.

  I learned to drive over rough terrain in orange groves and across fields rooted up by wild hogs. To me, a smooth, paved road seems like an
open invitation to exceed the speed limit.

  Within minutes, we were whipping into a parking space. The church, a converted convenience store, is unfortunately situated right next to a rib joint called the Pork Pit. Whenever I attend church, the scent from the Pit makes me think more about getting barbecue than getting saved. I turned off the key, and the old engine shuddered to a stop.

  “Here we are. Safe and sound.’’

  “Remind me to take a tranquilizer the next time I have to ride with you, Mace.’’ Mama unclenched her hand from the dash and turned the rear view mirror in her direction. “You were driving so fast, gnats were hitting me like buckshot. I think I still have bug parts embedded in my face.’’ She bared her teeth, checking for black dots.

  “You look fine, Mama.’’ If I told her she’d actually lost a clump or two of pansies to the wind, she’d insist on going home to get another hat.

  “Well, you do, too, Mace. But you could look so much better than fine. I don’t know why you put on all those dark colors when I asked you to wear that beautiful pink pantsuit your Aunt Irene gave you. The woman can be a pill, but you can’t fault her taste in clothes.’’

  “I told you I wasn’t gonna wear the pink, Mama. That suit makes me look like an Easter egg on stilts. Marty’s the one that likes pastels, not me.’’

  “But the pink looks so pretty with your dark coloring, Mace. You don’t even try to look nice.’’

  “Evening, Rosalee.’’ I was saved by a middle-aged woman in a blue-flowered skirt and a sleeveless sweater. She dipped her head at Mama as she passed in front of the VW.

  “Hey, Delilah. C’mon over here and say hello to my middle girl, Mace. Honey, this is Delilah Dixon. She’s Pastor Bob Dixon’s wife.’’

  Delilah walked to Mama’s side of the car and extended her hand over the absent top. I took it, grateful for the interruption in Mama’s long-running critique of my fashion sense.

  “Well,’’ Delilah said in a sugary tone, “we haven’t seen you here before, have we, Mace?’’

  No, Ma’am, I’m a sinner. That’s what I felt like saying, but didn’t. “I’m not able to make it to church as much as I’d like.’’

  “Mace is one of those Christmas and Easter Christians, Delilah. You know, the ones who crowd the pews on the holidays? They think the Lord will forget He hasn’t seen them the rest of the year.’’

  “Well, I’m here tonight and I’m looking forward to the service,’’ I said, heading off a tangent on my church-going habits. “What will your husband be preaching on, Ms. Dixon?’’

  “Oh, I never know until the moment Bob starts his sermon.’’ Delilah’s drawl-free accent sounded Midwestern. “I like to enjoy hearing it for the first time, along with the congregation.’’

  I thought I noticed the tiniest smirk on Mama’s mouth.

  “Well, I better get along inside.’’ Delilah started for the church door, then turned at the halfway point. “We’re sure happy to see you tonight, Rosalee,’’ she said in a voice that carried clear to the Pork Pit. “I wasn’t sure you’d have the nerve to show up, considering.’’

  Mama’s back stiffened in the car seat. “Why wouldn’t I ‘show up,’ Delilah? The only thing to consider is I had the bad luck to discover some poor soul’s body in my trunk.’’

  Delilah traced a finger along the spine of the Bible she carried. “Well, we did hear you’d been hauled into the Himmarshee Jail.’’ Her voice was loud enough to wake the crows roosting across the street in a magnolia tree. “All of us were worried you’d never get out.’’

  Heads turned as other congregation members filed past.

  “As you can see, I’m out. I wasn’t charged with a thing,’’ Mama said sharply. “It was a misunderstanding, is all. By the way, Delilah, you might want to reread the Gospel of Matthew in that Good Book you’re carrying. He writes all about the evil nature of false accusations.’’

  I’d planned to jump to Mama’s defense, but she seemed to be doing fine on her own. Sputtering, Delilah flounced into church, her skirt a floral swirl around her sturdy legs.

  “I know it’s not very Christian of me, but I sure don’t like that woman,’’ Mama whispered to me. “And did you see her in a sleeveless sweater? She’s built like a truck driver. With those big arms of hers, a three-quarter length sleeve would be much more flattering.’’

  I aimed a sanctimonious look to the passenger seat. “Doesn’t Proverbs address gossiping, Mama? If I recall, the Bible says guard your mouth and tongue to keep yourself from calamity.’’

  I couldn’t resist the jab. But I was secretly glad Mama was focused on Delilah’s fashion faux pas instead of mine.

  “You’re absolutely right, Mace.’’ She looked contrite. “It isn’t nice to gossip. But I almost busted out laughing when she said how the congregation enjoys her husband’s sermons. The only thing that keeps most of them awake is the promise of the Pork Pit when it’s over.’’

  I patted her on the arm. “Don’t worry, Mama. The people who really know you would never believe you had anything to do with the murder. The Dixons are fairly new, aren’t they?’’

  “Just since this year.’’ She formed an O with her lips in the mirror, and painted them with her favorite shade, Apricot Ice. “Bob Dixon replaced Pastor Gooden, who everybody loved. And that wife of his doesn’t help his case. There’s something a little off about the two of them, Mace.’’ Shaking her head, she tossed the lipstick back in her purse. “At least half-a-dozen members have quit since they arrived.’’

  Making our way inside, we were forced to step around a card table stacked high with homemade DVDs. The covers showed a dark-suited man, looking reflective in a beam of light from a stained glass window. Walking the Path with Pastor Bob, the title said. I turned it over. Fifteen bucks, according to a bright red price sticker on the back. I returned it to the pile.

  Mama’s minister must have found a fancier church than Abundant Hope to stage his DVD photo. This one just had the store window, and not a pane of stained glass in sight.

  Several people waved and smiled. But a few stared with cold eyes as we found two seats halfway down a row of folding chairs. Mama fiddled with a stack of church books under her seat, looking for a hymnal. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to notice the nasty looks before the music minister hit the first chord on a portable organ.

  A young man in the front row lifted a video camera to his eye. The red Record button lit. The choir burst into What a Friend We Have in Jesus. As Mama warbled along, I counted the fake lilies in pots lining a raised wooden altar. I’d gotten to twenty-two, and started in on studying the Ten Commandments on three big panels against the wall, when a commotion broke out behind us.

  “I told you, I WILL NOT sit down.’’ It was a woman, and she sounded on the verge of hysterics. “I have something to say, and I’m going up there to say it.’’

  There was some quiet murmuring and shushing from behind us.

  “People should know. They should know!’’ She let loose a wail, which sounded familiar.

  I turned around to see Emma Jean Valentine being corralled toward the exit by a short man in a dark suit. Pastor Bob? Emma Jean’s green skirt was two inches too short. A kitty-cat pin shone on the lapel of her neon blue jacket.

  Delilah Dixon stepped in, trying to help steer her out the door.

  “Take your hands off of me!’’ Emma Jean’s eyes were wild. She raised her hand, and along with it a threatening-looking tire iron.

  Mama clutched my elbow. “Oh, my stars and garters! Emma Jean is fixin’ to murder Delilah and her husband, the preacher.’’

  Emma Jean backed up, knocking over the card table display. The DVDs clattered to the floor. As the guy with the camera moved in for a closer shot, Pastor Bob swiped his hand across his throat, yelling “Cut! Cut!’’

  Now every head
in the church was turned to the rear. Even the choir had quit singing to stare. Delilah and the reverend backed off a few steps. Emma Jean lowered the tire iron a fraction. She raised her other hand to her head to straighten a straw hat decorated with green-and-white daisies.

  “Most of you know me.’’ Her voice rang out in the pin-drop silent room. “I suffered a terrible loss this week when Jim Albert was murdered. And now I’ve discovered something that hurts almost as bad as losing him. I’ve been looking into a few things. Jim was cheating on me. And the woman he betrayed me with is a member here, supposedly a good Christian.’’

  Shocked gasps rippled through the seats. A loud clap sounded on the floor by the choir. I turned in time to see a pretty blonde soprano stoop to retrieve the hymn book she dropped.

  “I just wanted y’all to think on something, sitting here in this church: People aren’t always what they seem. There’s a woman here who tried to take away someone I loved. She’s here among you, pretending to be pious and holy. But really she’s just a common whore.’’

  Mothers covered their kids’ ears. The Reverend Dixon put out a hand to silence Emma Jean. She shook her tire iron at him, and his hand dropped like he’d touched a hot stove.

  “God gave Moses the commandments.’’ Emma Jean’s voice rose like a preacher’s. “All of you know the one about coveting thy neighbor’s wife. Well, someone here coveted the man who was going to be my husband.’’

  She walked halfway up the aisle and stopped, tire iron raised like a staff. All eyes followed her as she looked slowly around the church, pointing her arm like a weapon toward any woman under seventy. For a long moment, her gaze held on the soprano. The young woman cast her eyes down as she fidgeted with a barrette holding back her hair.

  Finally, Emma Jean broke her stare, speaking again to the full congregation.

  “I’m not going to rest until I find out which one of you is the adulteress who seduced my Jim,’’ she said. “And when I do, I may break one or two of God’s commandments myself.’