Mama Does Time

by Deborah Sharp

  “Well, I could do that.’’ I pretended to mull it over. “But what I really want to do is sound out some theories. Some might be useful; others might be useless. I thought it might be nice to sit somewhere cool and relax while we talk. I can hear the bugs buzzing out there through the phone. Wait … was that a big ol’ drop of sweat I just heard, splashing on the mouthpiece?’’

  He laughed. I had him.

  “Could be,’’ he said. “Dios mío! How do you stand it up here? Miami’s hot; but at least we get a break when the sun goes down. We almost always have a little breeze from the sea. It’s like a furnace here. And it runs on swelter, 24/7.’’

  “I’ve got the perfect place,’’ I said. “How ’bout we meet at the Dairy Queen?’’

  There was a long silence. A night heron squawked on Martinez’s end. The bird was probably hunting for bream in Taylor Creek.

  “I’d think you might be uncomfortable at the Dairy Queen,’’ he finally said. “Since your mother was carted off in a police car from there less than a week ago.’’

  More flies with honey, I reminded myself. “Oh, that’s water under the bridge,’’ I said generously. “Besides, I’d be no more uncomfortable than you might be, considering you falsely arrested one of their most loyal customers for murder.’’

  “Accessory to murder.’’ I heard a slap and what sounded like a curse in Spanish. “Coño!’’ I hoped it was directed at the mosquito, and not at me. “I thought you said that spray was strong?’’ Martinez said. “They’re eating me alive out here.’’ Another slap.

  “The Queen is nice and cool.’’ I was taunting him. “No bugs, either. Plus, you get ice cream. Who doesn’t like ice cream?’’

  “I haven’t had any dinner yet,’’ Martinez grumbled.

  “There’s no bad time for ice cream. You can pretend it’s an appetizer. I’m pretty close by. I’ll head over, grab a booth, and wait for you.’’

  “It’s going to take me awhile to get there,’’ he said.

  “No problem. I’ll grab a Himmarshee Times to read. That should kill six or seven minutes. Then maybe I’ll ask around. See if anyone saw anything strange the night Mama found Jim Albert’s body in her convertible.’’

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that.’’

  “Why not? I’m good at it. How else would I have found out tonight that Emma Jean was cheating on that fiancé she cried so hard over losing?’’

  I interrupted his sputtering on the other end. “Wow. My phone battery’s just about to die. See you at the Queen.’’ I immediately turned off my fully charged phone. Mama always says it’s best to leave men wanting more.

  The sound of my voice brought Emma Jean’s cat out of hiding to investigate. It jumped onto the VW’s front trunk, staring at me through the windshield.

  “Go on, kitty. Get off.’’ I didn’t want to scare the poor critter by starting the car. I tapped on the glass with the keys. The cat batted at the shiny silver on the other side of the windshield. Hitting nothing but glass, it looked at me accusingly—like I’d dangled fish jerky and snatched it back at the last minute. Sitting back on its haunches, it blinked luminous blue eyes.

  “Don’t worry. Emma Jean will be coming home soon.’’ Did I believe the reassuring words? “We’ll take good care of you, one way or another.’’

  I wondered how Mama’s Pomeranian would adjust to a feline presence. The confident way this cat acted, it wouldn’t give an inch of ground to Teensy.

  “Shoo.’’ I hissed, waving my arm out the window. The cat just stared. I finally got out and lifted it from the car. “I promise, you won’t go hungry.’’ A sweat droplet rolled off the tip of my nose and plopped onto the cat’s neck. “And you definitely won’t go cold.’’

  I ruffled the sweat-dampened spot on its fur. A bright red collar with rhinestones encircled the cat’s neck. No surprise, considering Emma Jean’s flashy fashion sense. Looking closer, I saw a name engraved on a silver charm shaped like a heart.

  “Wila. Pretty name. Well, I may see you tomorrow.’’

  I set her gently on the ground. “Take care of yourself. There are wild creatures in these parts.’’ I flashed on the feeling of being stalked by who knows what near Ollie’s pond. Just thinking about it raised the hair at the back of my neck. I slid back into the car. The cat still sat and stared.

  If Wila could speak, what would she say? Would she echo my warning to her?

  Be careful out there.

  More than a few women turned their heads to follow Martinez’s progress through the Dairy Queen. After a pit stop to wash up in the men’s room, he was wending his way to my table. One girl even put down her plastic spoon and turned around backwards in her booth. She was drooling over the view from the rear, much to her boyfriend’s displeasure.

  Martinez might have been a brooding model off the pages of GQ magazine. His filthy loafers and muck-splattered slacks detracted a bit from the effect, though.

  “I see that smirk. What’s so funny?’’ He slid across from me onto a seat made of orange molded plastic. Not waiting for an answer, he launched in. “What did you mean about Emma Jean? And why the hell did you turn off your cell phone?’’

  “That phone’s been giving me trouble. It died just as we were talking.’’ I was glad the phone was in Pam’s glove box, where he couldn’t check the full battery indicator. “According to Donnie Bailey’s mom, Emma Jean was running around on her fiancé. We don’t know yet who the other man was. Ice cream now; more details after.’’

  He waved his hand like he was dismissing the idea of ice cream.

  “C’mon, my treat.’’ I stood up. “What can I get you?’’

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been to a Dairy Queen.’’

  I grabbed hold of the top of the booth for balance, staggering in the face of the incomprehensible. “Never? Not even once?’’

  He shook his head, taking a small pad from his top pocket. He extracted a pen, and lined it up on the table, perfectly parallel to the pad’s right side.

  “Are you going to take my confession? I’ll admit it: I eat too much ice cream.’’

  There was a tiny shift in his frown. It might have been the start of a smile. Hard to tell.

  I returned with two small hot fudge sundaes—no sense in spoiling dinner with large ones—and plenty of napkins. He was studying framed posters of frozen treats on the wall above our booth. Meanwhile, his real-life sundae was starting to melt.

  “You need to get started on that.’’ I spoke around a mouthful of sundae. “The hot fudge will moosh up the ice cream and make a mess.’’

  He looked at the towering creation like he didn’t know where to start. “Did you intentionally ask them to empty the whole can of whipped cream onto the top?’’

  “Worried about your figure?’’

  He ran a hand over his flat stomach. My fingers tingled as I imagined my own hand resting there. I clutched the sundae spoon tighter.

  “Actually, I’ve lost weight since I came here,’’ Martinez said. “I miss Abuela’s cooking.’’

  “Was Abuela your girlfriend?’’

  He laughed and settled for plucking the cherry off the top of the sundae. “It means ‘Grandmother’ in Spanish. She’s eighty-nine and still going strong; stands at the stove for hours every day.’’ He got a dreamy look on his face as he chewed on the cherry. “Picadillo to die for. Arroz con pollo. Plátanos.’’

  “Say what?’’

  “Some of my abuela’s specialties: Ground-up beef; rice with chicken; plantains, which look like bananas.’’ He put his fingers to his lips and kissed them. “You’ve never had Cuban food? You’ve really led a sheltered life, haven’t you?’’

  “No more so than you. How could you have missed all this?’’ I spread my arms, encompassing the brown tiled floor, the
plastic trays, and the tinny voices of customers in the drive-thru microphone as they tried to decide what they wanted.

  “Right. I’ve been deprived,’’ he said. “On Calle Ocho, there are a lot more Cuban coffee stands than Dairy Queens. That’s something else I miss: Eighth Street in Little Havana and café Cubano, Cuban coffee.’’

  “You mean sweet tea isn’t cutting it?’’

  “Caffeine is meant to be consumed hot, in tiny sips of a syrupy sweet, super-concentrated concoction. Watered down in weak tea with a bunch of ice cubes? No, gracias.’’

  I used my red plastic spoon to scrape the dregs from my bowl. He’d had only a few bites.

  “Cuban coffee is just as sweet and almost as thick as that hot fudge sauce you just scarfed down.’’ Without making a big deal, he leaned over with his napkin and wiped at a dab of chocolate on my lip. He flashed a real smile this time. I returned it, hoping chocolate wasn’t coating my teeth.

  “Maybe I’ll make you a cup sometime,’’ he said. “I have to warn you though, café Cubano is addictive. We call it Cuban crack.’’

  He was more animated than I’d ever seen him.

  “It sounds like there’s a lot you miss about Miami. Why’d you move here?’’

  Headlights from a car in the drive-thru flashed through the plate glass window, illuminating his eyes. I saw real pain, and immediately regretted putting it there.

  “I didn’t mean to pry,’’ I said quickly. “I never know when to quit with the questions.’’

  “So I’ve noticed.’’ A half-smile returned to his lips. “No, it’s all right. I need to be able to talk about it.’’

  He pushed his half-eaten sundae to the side, folded his hands, and rested them at the edge of the table. And then he told me about Patricia, the pregnant wife who was murdered.

  “I’ve heard a little about it,’’ I said, not wanting to reveal I’d already read the details of his personal tragedy on the Internet, from the archives of the Miami Herald. “Something awful happened in Miami, that’s about as much as people here say.’’

  “Do they say I failed to protect my own wife?’’ His voice was raw.

  I put my hand over his folded ones. I figured that was what my sister Marty would do. “No, they do not. And I don’t think anyone would ever say such a thing. You lost your wife in a horrible crime. How could you possibly have prevented that?’’

  His hands felt warm beneath mine. I was new at this, comforting someone. But it felt right. When he still hadn’t answered, I patted twice and then put my own hands in my lap.

  Leaning in, I lowered my voice so only he could hear. “I don’t think your wife would want you to keep punishing yourself. Imagine if the situation were reversed. You were at home; Patricia had to go to work. A sweet-looking old woman comes to your door, needing help. Imagine it had been you who tried to help her, only to be shot and killed for your kindness. Would you want your wife blaming herself; carrying all that guilt on top of such awful grief?’’

  He shook his head, staring silently at his hands on the table. I had no idea what I’d do if he lost control and started sobbing. Maybe I’d start crying, too, causing a scene at the Dairy Queen.

  I needn’t have worried. He covered his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. When he dropped his hand, he blinked a few times and looked up at me. Grief still clouded his eyes. But they were dry.

  Just as I was feeling close enough to him to suggest we move on to dinner at the Speckled Perch, Martinez’s cell phone rang. He growled out his name, which apparently is also the Spanish word for “Why the hell are you bothering me?’’ I was relieved to see he didn’t reserve the snarling tone just for me.

  He listened for a moment, then grinned. “Hola, amigo.’’ Even I understood that was the equivalent of Howdy, pal. “Give me just a second, will you?’’ he said to the caller.

  He lifted his head to look at me. “Listen, I have to take this. Thanks a lot for the ice cream. I think I’m going to head on home, grab that much-needed shower.’’

  I waved my hand at him, shooing him out of the booth. So much for dinner, and for … whatever.

  “Go on, we’ll catch up later,’’ I said. “The fact that Emma Jean had another man was the biggest news I had. I’m going to work on finding out who it was.’’

  He waggled a no-no finger at me, but started to scoot out of the booth anyway. “Okay, I’m back,’’ he said into the phone.

  As he leaned across me to retrieve his pad and pencil off the table, I overheard a few words from the caller. Not enough to understand. But enough to tell the voice on the phone was familiar. It was a loud honk, unmistakable evidence of a boyhood spent in the Bronx.

  I had to squeeze Pam’s VW past Sal Provenza’s big Cadillac in Mama’s driveway. So I wasn’t completely surprised when he opened the door at her house at seven thirty in the morning.

  We all still had our doubts about Sal. But, for some reason, Mama had warmed up to him again. Obviously, since here he was. At least he was fully dressed, in a pale pink golf shirt and burgundy polyester slacks. They were short enough to show off his ankles, resplendent in beige-and-burgundy checked socks. A braided gold chain nestled in the furry pelt of his chest. A Pomeranian snuggled in the crook of Sal’s left elbow, shedding on his expandable-waist pants.

  “Your mother’s in the bedroom, getting ready.’’

  I cringed to hear the words “your mudder’’ and “bedroom’’ coming out of Sal’s mouth.

  I know Mama had sex at least three times, since there are the three of us girls. But I didn’t want to think about it, and particularly not in the context of Big Sal.

  “We’ve got something to tell you, Mace. But I’ll let Rosalee be the one to break the good news.’’ Sal was smiling like the cat that swallowed the canary. I’ve seen the man eat. He might have downed both the bird and the cat before he realized what he’d shoveled into his mouth.

  “I made some coffee.’’

  I softened a bit. Sal makes great coffee, adding a dash of cinnamon to the pot.

  “I got out that mug with the blue flowers that you like. It’s on the kitchen counter.’’

  He led the way into the kitchen, engulfing both of us in an aftershave fog. As he tromped across the floor, gingham knick-knacks trembled on their shelves. He filled my mug with coffee and handed it to me.

  “I was just going to make myself some bacon and pancakes. Wanna join me?’’

  My mouth watered as I looked at the butter softening on the kitchen table next to a bottle of maple syrup. But first things first.

  “I was with Detective Martinez last night when you called him on his cell phone.’’ I added a spoonful of sugar and a splash of cream to my coffee. “What’s the story between you two?’’

  “Why don’t you ask Martinez?’’

  I noticed he didn’t try to deny that he’d called.

  “Oh, yeah. Well he did mention that thing about before.’’ I was bluffing, trying to convince Sal I knew something—anything.

  He measured pancake mix into a glass bowl. “Which thing?’’ he asked, watching the bowl and not me. “And what happened before?’’ He poured in some milk.

  “You know,’’ I said lamely.

  He replaced the milk carton in the refrigerator and shut the door. Turning around, he leaned against the sink, folded his arms and plopped them where his belly met his chest. “No, I don’t know, Mace. And, it’s obvious, neither do you.’’

  I studied my coffee.

  “I’ve told you before.’’ He patted his pompadour. Was it gel, or just naturally stiff? “Certain things I can’t say, no matter how much you might want me to.’’

  “Want you to what, Sally?’’ Mama came into the kitchen, tying a silk scarf around her neck. It was the same sh
ade of boysenberry as everything else, from her earrings to her heels.

  “Don’t you think you’re a little over-dressed for the livestock auction, Mama?’’

  I wanted to see what I could find out from Jeb Ennis’ ranching buddies at the weekly auction. I’d convinced Mama and Marty to join me. I didn’t even ask Maddie. As Martinez’s new best friend, she wouldn’t approve of me ignoring his warning about investigating.

  Mama checked her reflection in the glass window of the microwave. “You can never be too well-dressed, Mace.’’ She aimed a pointed look at my own scuffed boots, frayed jeans, and T-shirt. “Besides, I have to go to work after our mission. The girls at Hair Today would fall off their chairs if I showed up in boots and jeans.’’

  So, instead, she’d go to the livestock market looking like Queen Elizabeth on a royal visit. Go figure.

  Mama lifted the head off a dog-in-a-gingham-baseball-cap cookie jar. Teensy started cutting circles around her legs, nails scrabbling on the tile floor. The dog jumped onto a chair, leaped into midair, and snatched the bone-shaped biscuit from her outstretched hand.

  “Lookit Mama’s little baby! Just like in the circus,’’ she cooed. Still smiling at the dog, she lifted onto her tiptoes so Sal could stoop and give her a kiss. Better him than the dog, I guess.

  “Your boyfriend and I were just discussing how he’s cooked up something secret with Detective Martinez.’’

  “Oh, honey, Sally’s not my boyfriend.’’

  Finally! Mama had come to her senses.

  “He’s my fiancé,’’ she squealed, shoving her left hand under my nose. The sun coming through the gingham kitchen curtains glinted off the diamond weighing down her ring finger.

  ___

  “Marty, help me out here. Mama can’t marry Sal. What do we really know about him?’’

  The three of us were sitting in the air-conditioned interior of Marty’s Saturn in the parking lot at the livestock auction, planning our investigative strategy. Of course, the topic of Mama’s betrothal had been well-covered first:

  How Sal had cooked her veal piccata (“I almost swallowed the ring, girls. He hid it in a lemon slice!”). How he’d gotten on one knee (“I had to help him up!”). And how he hoped to make her forget Husbands Two, Three, and Four (“He knows I could never forget your daddy!’’).