Within fifteen minutes, I showered, dressed, and was out the door. My second cup of honeyed tea was still steaming when I shook the rain puddles off the VW’s tarp, and headed for Mama’s house.
On the way out, I saw the aftermath of the raccoon fiesta. It was worse than I thought. My yard looked like the picnic grounds at Himmarshee Park after the Fourth of July: beer bottles, paper scraps, and chicken bones gnawed clean. I’d clean up after work.
The VW bounced under a canopy of live oaks. The air smelled clean from the rain. The downpour had revived the resurrection ferns that grow on the trees’ branches, turning them from dull brown to deep green.
No sooner had I pulled onto Highway 98 than my cell phone started to ring. It was in my purse, which was on the floor. Of course. Bracing the steering wheel between my knees, I placed the mug of tea on the dashboard’s least perilous spot and reached for the phone with my free hand. Thank God there was no other traffic on the highway.
“Hey, Mace. I’ve got some interesting news for you.’’
At a bump in the road, the tea started to topple. To rescue it, I had to drop the phone. I played it safe and dumped the rest of the hot chamomile out the window.
“I’m sorry,’’ I said, jamming the phone back to my ear. “Who is this?’’
“Donnie Bailey. From the jail?’’
I flashed on a massive chest and manly mustache.
“Of course, Donnie. How are you?’’
“Pretty good. I hope you don’t mind me calling you on your cell. When your mama stayed with us, she listed you as her emergency contact. She gave us both your home and cell numbers.’’
I dabbed with a napkin from my purse at a small puddle of herbal tea on the dashboard. “Did you say something about news, Donnie?’’ I was an advertisement for dangerous distractions behind the wheel.
“I thought you might want to know you were right.’’
“About?’’
“The other night on the road, when you said there was another car there? You were right and I was wrong. I owe you an apology. I just saw the report.’’
Now Donnie had my full attention. Driving was on automatic pilot. The road to Mama’s rolled past, nearly unnoticed.
“They found a second set of tire imprints where your car went off the road, Mace. Both tracks veered off the pavement onto the shoulder. Yours kept going, on into that ditch. But the other vehicle steered back onto the roadway. The investigator took a bunch of black-and-white pictures and made an impression with casting powder.’’
“What’s that?’’
“It’s kind of like pancake batter, except you’d never want to eat it. You pour it into the track, it gets real hard, and then you can lift it out. You can use the impression to compare to the bad guy’s tire. That’s the good news. The bad news is you have to find the bad guy’s car first, so you can compare.’’
“Can they tell what kind of tire it is?’’
“The impression wasn’t the greatest. They know the tread was worn, and it’s a big tire, like for a pickup.’’
“Great. That means it could have been just about anybody in Himmarshee. Trucks are as common here as taxicabs in New York. Everybody’s got one; or knows someone who does.’’
“Guilty as charged, Mace.’’ Donnie laughed. “I’ve got a brother drives a pickup.’’
“See? That’s my point.’’
“That’s not all, Mace. They couldn’t find any usable paint chip evidence, either. The other driver must have just tapped that spare tire that sticks out where it’s mounted on the back of your Jeep. It would have been better if they’d really hit you hard, painted metal to metal. That would have left behind something to analyze.’’
I remembered my terror on that dark road; the black water swirling around my legs. All that from a tap.
“Yeah, well, a harder impact might have made me flip. And we probably wouldn’t be having this talk right now.’’
“Oh, Mace … I’m … I’m … sorry.’’ Donnie was flustered. “I sure didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Of course it’s better that you’re alive.’’
“That’s all right, Donnie.’’ I thought of babysitting him. Teary eyes on the floor, he’d stammered out an apology for breaking his mama’s vase. “I know what you meant.’’
I was approaching Himmarshee. I’d been so intent on talking to Donnie, I could barely remember getting there. Luckily, it wasn’t an auction day, when the traffic on the highway would be busier.
“Listen, I better get off the phone. You being in law enforcement, I’d hate to tell you how little attention I’ve paid to my driving this morning.’’
Donnie chuckled. “You’re not the only one, Mace. Have you seen all the things people do in their cars these days? I saw a girl yesterday with a hamburger in one hand, putting on her mascara with the other.’’
“Did you bust her?’’
“Nah. She poked herself in the eye and dropped the hamburger in her lap when she saw me in my uniform. Nobody pays attention to the road anymore, Mace.’’
Donnie was right about that. And, on this morning at least, that wasn’t a good thing.
Mama stood on the walkway in front of her house, tapping her foot and staring at her watch. The color of the day was yellow, from the chiffon scarf around her neck to the sling-back sandals on her feet. Standing in the bright morning sun, she looked like a four-foot-eleven-inch lemon slush. Her white puff of platinum hair could have been a straw, peeking out over the rim of the slushy cup.
Teensy was barking, spinning like a circus dog, on the other side of her living room window. Mama turned to blow him a final kiss, and rushed to the car. “I thought you’d never get here, Mace.’’
I looked at my watch. “Mama, it’s only twenty-five minutes after eight. I’m early.’’
Settling into the seat, she glanced again at her wrist. “So you are, Mace. I’m sorry. I’m as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I barely know Pastor Bob. I can’t imagine why he’d call me for this meeting about Emma Jean.’’
I told her about my own strange call.
“She never even bothered to show up, Mama, after calling past midnight.’’
“That’s nice, honey.’’ She turned the rearview mirror to apply more lipstick. Fishing a tissue from her purse, she blotted. “Now, what do you suppose Pastor Bob is going to want me to do about Emma Jean?’’
“I have no earthly idea,’’ I said sharply. “And there’s no sense in worrying about it now. Why don’t you wait the five minutes it’ll take us to drive over? Then you can ask him yourself.’’
She aimed a glare at me. “You know, little Missy, you’re not too old to spank. No one likes a girl with a smart mouth.’’
I punched on the radio. They’d just started a news break. We arrived at Abundant Hope before they’d even finished the weather. Temperatures in the nineties. Afternoon thundershowers. Not exactly news in central Florida in September. Still, it was the height of hurricane season, and the northern edge of the county was still recovering from a relatively weak storm in June. So the fact nothing new was gathering strength in the tropics was a hopeful sign.
Someone peered out of the mini-blinds of the storefront church’s window, following our progress into the parking space. All I could see were heavy eyebrows and dark eyes. Within moments, Pastor Bob opened the front door and walked out to greet us. His eyebrows needed a trim, but his smile was as blinding as a Hollywood actor’s. And just about as authentic. The work in his mouth had surely financed a brand-new luxury car for some dentist somewhere.
The pastor raised his hands skyward. “Isn’t this a beautiful morning, ladies? It’s a gift from God.’’
Not to be sacrilegious, but if God had asked me what kind of day to send, I’d have requested a break f
rom the summer swelter. It wasn’t even nine o’clock, and already the sun was baking the VW’s roofless interior. The temperature on the Big Lake Bank sign read 94 degrees. We peeled ourselves off the sticky car seats and joined Pastor Bob on the sidewalk.
He escorted us through the entrance, by the card table of DVDs, and past folding chairs now stacked against scuffed walls. When we came to a small office to the side of the pulpit, he motioned us into two steel-frame chairs, thinly upholstered in a black, scratchy fabric. Then he took his seat behind a tidy desk, his small frame nearly disappearing in a leather chair befitting the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. He leaned toward us, elbows on the desk, and straightened the monogrammed cuffs on his powder blue dress shirt.
“Now,’’ he said, showing us a mouthful of teeth, “what can I do for you this morning?’’
Mama and I looked at each other. Maybe he had us confused with a mother-daughter counseling appointment. Not that we couldn’t use it.
“We’re here about Emma Jean,’’ Mama said. “You called and asked me to come by?’’
“Oh, my goodness gracious! Rosalee! I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting you to bring someone else along.’’
“This is Mace, my middle daughter.’’
I nodded hello as I tried to place his accent. Flat, Midwestern, a bit nasal. Ohio, maybe, or Illinois.
“You’ll have to forgive me, ladies. Last night was such a muddle. And I’m still having a bit of trouble placing everyone in the congregation.’’
Mama smiled sweetly and said, “Perhaps you should ask your lovely wife for help. Delilah seems to know all the lambs in your flock quite well.’’
I pinched her on the leg to stop her from being catty. She pinched me back.
“By the way,’’ Mama continued, “where is Delilah? I was expecting her.’’
Pastor Bob pressed his lips together. He started fidgeting with one of his silver cufflinks. His eyes did a quick scan of his desktop. Then he looked at the ceiling, like maybe his wife was hanging up there behind the fluorescent light. Before he got up and lifted the Persian rug to look, I figured I should say something.
“My mother’s just asking because we spoke to her last night before all the trouble started. And then the two of you seemed to work together as a team, the way y’all got Emma Jean quieted down and hustled out the door. We’re a little surprised Delilah’s not here, too.’’
He leaned back and turned his fingers into a steeple, which he rested against his chest. “Well, it’s always something when you’re a minister’s wife,’’ he said. “She was called away suddenly. A member of the church has taken ill.’’
“Really?’’ Mama asked. “Who?’’
“You’ve got me there, Mrs. Deveraux.’’ He showed his teeth again. I thought of fairy tales and wolves. “I’m just awful with names. But even so, it’s a confidential matter. I’m sure you’d appreciate the same treatment if you came to us about a health issue or for counseling.’’
Mama looped her wrist through the strap of her purse and set it squarely on her lap. “I’m not much for counseling.’’ She held onto the purse with both hands, like she was afraid Pastor Bob might ask her to pony up for psychotherapy.
“Well, people seem to want that kind of thing these days. I’m going to offer another DVD: Ending Emotional Pain with Pastor Bob. What do you think, Mace?’’
I thought he wasn’t setting any sales records with his first DVD. The only time I saw them move was when Emma Jean stumbled into the display table.
“I don’t know much about marketing,’’ I answered.
He flushed. “ ‘Marketing’ sounds so crass. I’m talking about helping people.’’
“In that case, why don’t we see how you can help in this situation?’’ I put my hand on Mama’s shoulder. “You may have heard my mother was briefly detained in connection to the murder of Emma Jean’s boyfriend. We’ve been trying to find out who really killed him. But somebody doesn’t seem to want us to do that. Some strange things have been happening.’’
I filled him in on the stuffed dog and the warning note. I mentioned there’d been another threat, but kept things vague since we still hadn’t told Mama about my narrow escape on the highway. She thought my Jeep was just in the shop—again. I summed up Emma Jean’s behavior.
“You both know her. Do you think Emma Jean could be behind any of this?’’ I asked.
The minister tapped together his fingers. Mama picked at a piece of lint on her pantsuit.
“Is she violent?’’
Pastor Bob said, “She did look awfully comfortable with that tire iron.’’
Mama scowled at him. “Well, I don’t believe it.’’ She shook her head. “I think what Emma Jean needs right now is some proper Christian charity, not condemnation.’’
“I’m perfectly willing to render that charity, if only I could find her, Rosalee.’’ More teeth. “Delilah and I called several times after services last night, and again this morning. We didn’t reach her. I was hoping you had.’’
That’s when I repeated what I’d said in the car about Emma Jean calling, but not showing up. This time, I had Mama’s complete attention.
___
A half hour later, we’d about exhausted the topic of Emma Jean’s troubles. Sitting on that itchy black chair in the pastor’s office, my mind started to wander to work and the day ahead. I needed to stop at the poultry plant and buy a dozen whole chickens for Ollie. That alligator was about to eat up the annual operating budget for Himmarshee Park.
I shifted my wrist to get a look at my watch. Pastor Bob caught me. He must get a lot of practice at that from the pulpit. Clearing his throat, he stretched his toes to the floor and pushed back the leather chair.
“Ladies, it’s been a pleasure speaking to you both. I only wish the circumstances were better. I’m praying for Emma Jean. I hope you are, too.’’
He seemed to stare extra hard at my lapsed self as he said that. It was my turn to look down at his desk.
He walked around and enfolded Mama’s right hand in both of his. “Don’t worry, Rosalee. When we find Emma Jean, we’re going to take care of her. The Bible tells us to help up a companion who falls.’’ He pulled Mama up from her chair, acting out the verse.
“Woe to him who is alone when he falls and doesn’t have another to lift him up. Ecclesiastes 4:10,’’ he recited.
He turned to me. “You’re certainly a good daughter, a companion for your mother.’’
Placing one of his boy-sized hands on my shoulder, he gazed at me. His green eyes were piercing, especially against those white teeth. His hand lay there so long, I started feeling uncomfortable. His clammy fingers wriggled. I shifted my shoulder, trying to get out from under what felt like a flopping catfish. Then, just before he removed his hand, he kneaded the bare skin on my upper arm like it was dough and he was a baker.
Could I have imagined it? I searched his eyes, and saw the slightest flicker. “C’mon, baby. I’m ready if you are,’’ it said.
Ewww.
Grabbing Mama’s elbow, I moved her as a barrier between Pastor Bob and me. I backed out the door of his office and into the church.
“PleaseCallMamaIfYouHearAnythingAboutEmmaJean,’’ I said, the words squirming out like tadpoles in a creek. “We’veGottaGo.INeedToGetToWork.’’
I rushed Mama past plastic lilies and pulpit, across dark blue carpet and out the door.
“My stars and garters …” she protested as I pushed her onto the sidewalk. “What in the world?’’
“Don’t ask questions, Mama. Just get in the car.’’
Pastor Bob stood in the church’s front window. He pulled open the blinds, watching us go. He looked just like Ollie the alligator— right before I toss a raw chicken into his waiting jaws.
Mama’s head swiveled l
ike a one-eyed dog in a butcher shop.
I was telling her all about Pastor Bob’s stroking and come-hither stare. She’d look at me for a second, then snap her head toward Abundant Hope, disappearing in the distance behind us. Me, the church. The church, me. I think she expected the minister to jump in his car and chase me down for some nookie-nookie.
“Well, I never!’’ Mama’s lips formed a disapproving line. “That is just about the awfulest thing I ever heard, Mace. I knew there was something off about that man. He’s a predator in pastor’s clothing, plain and simple.’’
“Oh, c’mon, Mama.’’ I laughed a little at how naïve she seemed. “It’s not the end of the world. He thought he saw the chance for a little somethin’ on the side, and he decided to go for it. He’s not the first man to do it. He won’t be the last.’’
Once I’d put a few blocks between me and the lecherous Pastor Bob, I eased off the gas. Unclenching the grip she’d had on the window crank, Mama snapped her seat belt shut.
“He’s not just a man, Mace.’’ Her face was as serious as a sermon. “He’s a man of God. There’s supposed to be a difference.’’
“Tell that to Jim Bakker and Jimmy Swaggart. I seem to remember they were famous ministers, and they had a little trouble with the ladies, too.’’
She ran a hand through her hair. I imagined stray strands scattering in the wind. “That’s not fair, Mace. Those scandals happened a long time ago. And the majority of religious men are good, righteous leaders. They’re not out to jump the bones of anything that moves.’’
“Thanks for the compliment, Mama. Maybe my knockout looks and sex appeal tempted that poor pastor, just this once. Did you ever think about that?’’
She took a long look at me: sleeveless collared shirt in park-department green; shapeless matching trousers in olive drab. I wore heavy-soled black boots, laced up past my ankles. No lipstick or blush. No perfume, either. The park’s animals don’t like it, and it draws mosquitoes.
Mama Does Time Page 14
