Mama Does Time

by Deborah Sharp

  We could hear Mama moving toward her bedroom, probably going in to change to something more comfortable than her pansy hat and pantyhose. Teensy followed, tags jingling on his collar.

  “Marty, why didn’t you tell us about your promotion?’’

  She blushed. “I didn’t want to make a big deal of it, Mace. Not with everyone so worried about Mama and the murder.’’

  “Well, it is a big deal.’’ I clinked my glass against hers. “I’ve always known you had it in you. You’ve proved you don’t have to be bossy to be boss.’’

  I’d made a small pile of macaroon crumbs on the counter. I was just about to get another wine glass from the cabinet for Mama when Teensy shot out of the bedroom like a rocket. The dog was going nuts, barking and scaling the couch by the window like it was the Pomeranian version of Everest.

  Mama called out, “Mace, see what in the world is wrong with that dog. He hasn’t been the same since I went to prison.’’

  “Jail, Mama.’’

  A loud thump sounded from the wooden porch outside the front door. I grabbed Mama’s grandma’s heavy, carved cane from the hallway umbrella stand.

  “Marty,’’ I whispered. “There’s someone out there.’’

  Within seconds, my sister was right behind me, clutching a cast-iron pan.

  Teensy was yelping and jumping, a Pomeranian pogo stick.

  As I crept toward the window, I heard a car door slam in the distance. Outside, I saw nothing but dark, empty, street in front of Mama’s house. From down the block, an engine raced. Tires squealed. Whoever had been out there was now roaring away. Or, maybe that’s what they wanted us to think.

  Mama, her face a white mask of Ponds cold cream against a red satin robe, joined us in the hallway. “What in heaven’s name is all the fuss, girls?’’

  I shushed her, and motioned for her to grab hold of her crazy dog.

  Cracking the front door, I peeked out. What looked like a bundle of rags tied to a heavy brick sat on the porch, next to a potted Boston fern. Mama held a wriggling Teensy. Marty sidled up beside me, frying pan shaking in her hand. We stepped onto the porch.

  The rag bundle was the only thing out of the ordinary. I stooped to pick it up. It was a white toy dog. Deep slashes crisscrossed synthetic plush, spilling stuffing from the head and sides. A collar dangled from the nearly decapitated stuffed animal.

  I held the collar to the light spilling out the front door. Marty and Mama each crowded in over a shoulder. Together, we read the name in crude letters on the mutilated dog tag.

  Teensy.

  I heard a sharp gasp and then another thump on the wooden porch, much louder this time. I whirled around to find Marty collapsed in an unconscious heap. The frying pan had missed my foot by about an inch and a-half.

  “Oh, my stars! Would you look at my poor baby?”

  I glanced at Mama, and was relieved to see she was referring to Marty, not Teensy. She’d put down the stupid dog and was focused on her youngest daughter.

  “Mace, let’s get her up and onto the couch. You know Marty can’t take shock of any sort. Then run get a cold cloth for her forehead. We’ll lift her feet up on two pillows to get the blood flowing. Better bring that bottle of wine, too.’’

  Mama’s tone had turned all-business. She might flirt and fuss and swan about like a Southern belle, but if the crisis involves one of her girls, there’s no one better than Mama to have in your corner.

  Marty didn’t weigh much more than the sacks of puppy chow I lift to feed the abandoned wildlife babies at the park. If it’d been Maddie who fainted, we’d have been in real trouble. Mama and I easily carried Marty off the porch and into the house. We settled her on the living room couch, printed with salmon-colored roses.

  “Get down off of there, Teensy!’’

  The dog, ignoring Mama, was busy climbing across couch cushions and onto Marty’s chest. He’d moved up to her head where he was sniffing at her ear. He looked shocked when, none too gently, Mama swept him off her youngest human child and onto the floor.

  By the time I returned with the items Mama had ordered, Marty was coming around.

  “How’ya doin’, darling?’’ Mama murmured softly, stroking Marty’s baby-fine hair.

  “Uhmmmm … uhmmm,’’ Marty answered.

  “That’s all right, honey. You just rest right there. Mace and I have got things covered, don’t we Mace?’’

  Not exactly, I thought, considering that someone had just tossed a brick and a decapitated stuffed dog at the house.

  “What … what? That … the porch …’’

  “Hush, Marty.’’ Mama put a finger to my sister’s perfect lips. “Everything’s going to be all right.’’

  I moved a crystal candy dish full of butterscotch toffee so I could sit on the coffee table. Mama perched on the couch, next to Marty. I watched closely as her eyes focused. Then they clouded, worry taking the place of the confusion evident a moment before.

  “That dog, Mace,’’ Marty said.

  “It’s just a stuffed animal, a toy. It was someone’s idea of a joke.’’

  “Teensy’s always getting into things, honey,’’ Mama said. “That little dickens probably chased a cat up a tree or tore up a neighbor’s flower bed. It’s just a message to keep my dog inside.’’

  Even Mama didn’t look like she believed that.

  I headed outside to the porch. Now that Marty was safely prone, I wanted to bring that stuffed dog inside for a better look.

  I slipped my hand into one of the plastic grocery bags that Mama keeps by the door to remove Teensy’s messes from her lawn. Using the bag, I picked up the white dog. I wasn’t sure if the police could get fingerprints off a fluffy fake dog or a brick, but I was taking no chances.

  Once I had the hallway light on and the stuffed dog displayed on Mama’s salmon-colored carpet, I noticed a slip of paper taped under the brick. I turned it over with the toe of my boot. The misspelled message was in the same crude letters as the dog’s name on the collar.

  Stop questons on the murder or the real dog gets it. Then your next.

  I raised my voice to carry to Mama and Marty in the living room. “I think we’d better call Detective Martinez.’’

  ___

  Mama’s house smelled like a field of lavender flowers in Provence. Not that I’ve ever been to France, but it’s how I imagine it, anyway.

  After she changed out of her robe, Mama had gotten busy with her candles and essential oils, intent upon easing our anxiety through the miracle of aromatherapy. She dabbed lavender oil on the warm bulbs in her lamps. She lit two candles for the coffee table. Dried lavender and ylang-ylang petals simmered in a pan of water on the stove.

  We might have a stuffed-animal-tossing psycho stalking us, but at least we smelled good.

  “How long before he’ll get here, Mace?’’

  That was Marty, sitting up now, crumpling and smoothing the hem of her beige-and-brown floral blouse in nervous hands. Her leather loafers were tucked neatly under the couch.

  “He said he’d be here as soon as he can,’’ I answered.

  We sat quietly, listening to the hips on Mama’s Elvis clock swinging back and forth. Tick-tock. Jailhouse Rock.

  Only fifteen minutes had passed since I phoned the police department to find Martinez. He called back quickly. But it seemed like the wait was going on hours. We stared at each other, trying not to let our eyes roam to the mutilated toy dog on the carpet.

  Mama finally got up from the couch and rubbed her hands together. “Well, I don’t know about you girls, but all this activity has made me hungry. I think I’m gonna have me a bowl of vanilla ice cream with butterscotch topping. Anybody care to join me?’’

  Marty turned green. But, nerves or not, I’ve never been one to turn down ice c
ream. Teensy and I followed Mama into the kitchen. She was spooning out the dessert when the dog did a double take, its little head twisting from the ice cream carton to the door and the outside beyond. Finally, Teensy’s territorial nature beat out his sweet tooth. He ran to the living room, barking like he believed he was a Doberman. I followed.

  “Hush,’’ Mama yelled at the dog, to no discernible effect.

  Headlights reflected through the windows out front, as a late-model white sedan swung into the driveway. Marty jumped up from the couch and flew into our old bedroom. I heard her lock the door from the inside.

  Looking out the curtains, I yelled at my sister: “You can come out, Marty. It’s Detective Martinez.’’

  The bedroom door opened slowly. I saw Marty’s pert nose and a curve of lip peek out. “Carlos Martinez?’’

  “One and the same.’’

  I watched from the window as he walked to the door, dressed in a white button-down shirt and gray slacks. Open collar. No tie. His hair was wet, like he’d just had a shower. I slammed shut the mental door on an image of him stepping out of the bathtub, water droplets clinging to his bare chest. The fact that he was frowning, as usual, helped end my inappropriate fantasy.

  The doorbell rang, the dog started doing flips, and Mama came into the living room juggling three bowls of vanilla ice cream.

  “Evenin’, Detective,’’ she said, as I opened the door for him. “You may as well have some ice cream before you have a look at the victim.’’ She held out the biggest serving, swimming in butterscotch.

  Stepping inside, Martinez looked at the bowl like he suspected strychnine.

  “Go ahead,’’ I said. “She’s already forgiven you for throwing her in jail. I can’t say the same for the rest of us.’’

  Mama pushed the ice cream toward him.

  “She’s not going to quit until you eat some,’’ I told him. I dipped my spoon into his bowl and took a bite. “See? Nothing but a frozen dairy treat.’’

  He took it, mumbled a thank-you, and stood with his bowl over the stuffed dog.

  “So it was just this toy and the note?’’ He carefully placed one of Mama’s Guideposts magazines on the hall table so he could set down the ice cream. I liked the fact that he was worried about leaving a ring on the polished wood.

  He stooped down for a closer look. “Any idea who might’ve thrown it?”

  All of a sudden, I felt cranky over everything he’d put us through by arresting Mama.

  “Oh, gee, I don’t know,’’ I said. “Could it have been the real murderer? The one you didn’t catch while our mama was sitting in jail?’’

  “Listen, Ms. Bauer.’’ His eyes darkened ominously. “I did what I felt was necessary with the situation and information I had at the time. I’m not going to apologize, or explain myself to you.’’

  “Well, of course not. You’re arrogant. God forbid you should apologize.’’

  “Mace, that’s enough. Please ignore my sister, Carlos.’’ Out from her bedroom fortress, Marty carried the quiet authority of someone who rarely spoke out. If she was moved to criticize, I knew I’d gone over the line.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, chastened. “We appreciate you coming over here to check this out.’’

  Martinez looked at me, raised eyebrows registering his surprise.

  “We were all just so upset about Mama.’’ I tried to excuse my bad manners. “And now, this stuffed dog. We don’t know who tossed it. But I can tell you we have some suspicions about who might have killed Jim Albert.’’

  He shifted, sitting cross-legged on the carpet to listen. I filled him in on Emma Jean’s threat in church. I told him about Jeb Ennis owing money to the murder victim. And I mentioned the mysterious Sal Provenza, again.

  “That’s outrageous, Mace! Sally would never threaten Teensy. He loves him like his own.’’ Mama stroked the flesh-and-blood Pomeranian.

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, the stabbed dog is a replica.’’ I crooked a thumb at Teensy.

  The dog was splitting his attention between wary regard of the detective, an alpha-male threat in this female household, and pitiful begging for a bite of ice cream.

  “I’d just die if anything bad happened.’’ Mama shoveled ice cream onto Teensy’s pink tongue. “Don’t worry,’’ she said, when she saw our disgusted looks. “He has his own spoon.’’

  Martinez pulled a pair of gloves and a zip-top plastic bag from his pocket, slipped on the gloves, and picked up the stuffed dog. “I’m not sure how much we can get from this.’’ He dropped it with the note and brick into the bag.

  “I hope I don’t need to tell you to keep your doors locked,’’ he said as he stood. “It may be a prank. But maybe it isn’t. And that’s a chance you don’t want to take.’’

  Marty begged off, heading home with the beginnings of a migraine.

  Mama managed to convince Martinez to sit for a spell at the kitchen table to finish his ice cream. I caught him checking out a family of porcelain mice in gingham bonnets cavorting across a display shelf. He dabbed with a gingham napkin at a tiny drop of ice cream on his white shirt. If that’d been my spill, vanilla on white cotton, it wouldn’t even merit action. When you go crawling around in the dirt after nuisance animals, you can’t be too fussy about stains.

  “Mace, honey, why don’t you show Detective Martinez where the bathroom is, so he can get some soap and water on that spot?’’

  Like a trained investigator would get lost traversing two rooms and a hallway to the toilet. Mama’s ploy was transparent. But I was too tired to point out he could find soap and water right there at the kitchen sink.

  We pushed back our chairs, leaving Mama to place our bowls on the floor for Teensy to lap up the leftovers. Thank God her dishwasher water is good and hot.

  Martinez stopped in the hallway on the way to the bathroom. Pictures of my sisters and me in various stages of development decorated the walls. I saw him grin as he looked at a circa-nineties shot of me in a starchy white dress, leaning against a tree. What had I been thinking with that ’do? I looked like Billy Ray Cyrus, with his mullet cut, in drag.

  Martinez gently grasped my elbow, pulling me near. “Listen, I didn’t mean what I said before.’’ He lowered his voice so Mama wouldn’t overhear. “I do feel bad about putting your mother in jail. I wasn’t sure about the extent of her involvement. I’m new here. I’ve never had a whole family show up for what seemed like a party in the police lobby. And then no one would shut up. I could barely get in a word edgewise.’’

  “We do tend to get a little rambunctious,’’ I allowed.

  “It’s just that the police do things more formally in Miami.’’

  I shook off his hand, crossed my arms, and leaned against the opposite wall. I wasn’t quite ready to forgive him. “Um-hum.’’

  “You don’t give anything up, do you, Ms. Bauer?’’ His lips had formed into a half smile. “Maybe you should get a job as a detective.’’ He was standing so close, I could feel heat from his body. I caught the scent of cologne. Exotic, like sandalwood mixed with ginger. He smelled all male, and damn sexy. I took a step sideways along the wall.

  “You’ve found out quite a bit in these last couple of days.’’ He stepped with me, staying close and keeping his voice low.

  “It helps to know who to ask.’’ Mama always preaches modesty. She says there’s nothing worse than tooting your own horn.

  “I’ll definitely follow up on your tip about that man with the cattle ranch. Jeb Ennis, right? And he lives in Woochola?’’

  I had a guilty twinge about steering Martinez in Jeb’s direction. “Wauchula. We say, WAH-CHOO-LA.’’ I opened my mouth wide, like a speech therapist coaxing a stroke victim. “Mispronouncing these old Indian words will mark you as an outsider quicker than just about anything.’’

>   “I’ve had enough trouble with Himmarshee,’’ he said. “What’s it mean anyway?’’

  “It’s supposed to mean new water, from an old Seminole legend about how Himmarshee Creek sprung up overnight. And don’t worry about your pronunciation. We’re probably all mangling the original Indian name anyhow. Just wait until you have to question somebody at Lake Istokpoga or Lake Weohyakapka.’’

  “Thanks for the warning.’’ He bent in a little bow. “Gracias.’’

  “No problem-o. You set me straight on the grammatical difference between prison and jail, remember?’’

  He had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Pretty obnoxious, wasn’t I?’’

  “You said it, not me.’’ I softened the criticism with a smile. Mama would be proud. “Anyway, the bathroom.’’

  I gestured to the open door. The toilet, with its pink tulip seat cover, was perfectly visible through the frame. Even a bad detective could have discerned it. And from what I’d read in the Miami Herald, Carlos Martinez was a good detective.

  I returned to the kitchen to find Mama feeding Teensy a doggie treat right at the table.

  “Gross.’’

  “Just ignore Mace, baby. You are not gross. You’re Mama’s little darlin’ dog, aren’t you?’’

  I stood near the trash can, in case I needed to vomit.

  Just about then, Teensy’s ears perked up and he leapt off Mama’s lap. The little nails on his paws scrabbled on peach-colored tile as he ran from the kitchen to the living room, barking all the way.

  Before we had the chance to follow, we heard the front door jiggling. And then a loud knocking.

  “What in the blue blazes? Open up!’’ More door-shaking, and a voice full of impatience. “Mama! Since when do you lock this front door?’’

  Maddie’s irritation seeped right through the sheer curtain at the window.

  By the time Mama and I made our way to the living room, Martinez had already opened the front door. “She locks it since I told her it was the safe thing to do.’’

  Maddie’s mouth gaped open so wide, you could have docked an ocean liner inside. But all those years of dealing with whatever junior high-school kids can dream up had served her well. She recovered quickly.