Now, my pleas to Marty were falling on uncharacteristically deaf ears.
“Mace, Mama’s a grown woman. Your suspicions aside, Sal has been nothing but loving to her. I’m sorry to say it, but you need to butt out.’’
Mama shot me a triumphant look. “Close your mouth, honey. No telling what might land in there with all this livestock around.’’
She was unswayable with Marty on her side. But I knew my argument would win once I got Maddie involved.
Navigating the rickety wooden stairway to the Himmarshee Livestock Market can be tricky, but Mama was managing—despite the purple footwear. Marty climbed ahead of her; I stayed close behind. That way, one of us could catch her if her heel hooked on a splintery plank.
The market, the largest in Florida, dated to the 1930s. And it looked it: a ramshackle wooden building, white with barn-red trim, perched on top of a sprawling maze of livestock pens. As we made our way up, calves bawled from below. The ammonia stink of urine filled the air. Whistles and shouts came from the “alley rats,’’ the workers who move cattle down the long, dark rows that branch off into holding pens.
Upstairs, cattle buyers were just beginning to make their way to seats that surround the sunken sales pit below. We opened the door to Miss Ruth’s Restaurant, a little nook in the corner above the ring. A sign overhead said, Cows May Come and Go, But the BULL in This Place Goes On Forever.
Ruth Harris favored patriotic colors. Flags decorated the napkin holders. The curtains were stars-and-stripes. A cowgirl hat in cherry red topped Ruth’s towering white beehive. She wore a red-and-white checked shirt, tucked snugly into a blue denim skirt. A white belt with a buckle the size of Texas cinched her still-trim waist. The only thing missing was a six-shooter on a holster around her hips.
“That’s the cutest outfit you’ve got on, Ruth.’’ Mama hugged the café’s well-preserved namesake like a long-lost cousin. “You’ve sure got a theme going here.’’
We did greetings all around.
“You look awful pretty too, Rosalee. That shade is sure becoming to your coloring. It must be nice to dress up again after being in prison.’’
“Oh, honey, that was nothing but a misunderstanding.’’ Mama waved her ring hand airily.
Ruth hadn’t noticed the diamond. I figured her cataracts must be bad, as big as that stone was. Mama picked up a cow-shaped creamer from the table, turning it this way and that. She pretended to be admiring it, but really she was just trying to catch the light with her ring.
Grabbing the dappled cow from Mama, I glared at her to quit showing off. “Miss Ruth, we dropped by because we’ve been looking into who really might have killed Jim Albert,” I said.
“Of course,’’ Marty chimed in, “we knew all along Mama wasn’t the guilty party.’’
Ruth nodded, still looking sideways at Mama. She didn’t seem convinced. Or maybe she was thinking that a woman who’d murdered a man and stuffed his body in her trunk wouldn’t think twice about stealing the cow creamer she’d picked up and was playing with again.
“Did the man who got killed ever come in here?’’
“No, he sure didn’t, Mace. Although …’’
“What?’’ Marty and I both said at once.
“Well, I get my hair done at Hair Today. Rosalee, you know that.’’
Mama nodded, her chin cupped in her left hand with her ring finger splayed across her cheek.
“That sweet girl D’Vora and me were talking about how Jim Albert loaned people money. Some of the ranchers up here have been having a hard go of it. I’ve heard certain people were in the habit of visiting him before he got killed.’’
“Who, Miss Ruth? We need names,’’ I said.
She pursed her lips. The café’s owner for thirty years, her customers were her family.
“Please,’’ Marty said. “It’s important.’’
Still no answer.
“You know Jeb Ennis?’’ I asked.
She shook her head unconvincingly and moved across the restaurant to wipe down an already-spotless table. “I need to get back to work,’’ she said over her shoulder.
Every seat in the place was empty.
“If y’all can find Old Jake, you might ask him.’’ Head lowered, she continued swabbing the table. “He’s been here longer than I have. He used to work downstairs in the pens. Now, he mostly hangs around. He knows everything about everybody. And he don’t have a problem telling what he knows.’’
Mama touched Ruth’s wrist, her fingers stretched all the way up her arm. “Thanks so much, doll.’’
“You’re welcome.’’ Ruth tried to pull away. Mama held tight. Ruth finally looked down. “My, oh my.’’ Her eyes widened. “Would you look at that ring!’’
“Oh, this?’’ Mama lifted the ring to the light. “Well, honey, my boyfriend just proposed. I’m gettin’ married.’’
“Again?’’ Ruth said.
I grabbed Mama’s elbow and steered her out the door.
“Congratulations,’’ Ruth called after us as we started down the stairs.
We found Old Jake under the building, sitting on an upside-down milk crate in the shade of the pens. He looked up as we approached, his grin spreading across his white stubble beard. A few teeth were missing. Those remaining were stained brown from a chaw of tobacco, and thousands more before it, bulging in his jaw.
“Well, lookit you, Ma’am,’’ He took off his hat and beamed. “You’re as purty in that purple as a speckled pup in a red wagon.’’
Mama fluttered her lashes. “It’s boysenberry. And thank you kindly, suh.’’
Had we wandered onto the set of an old cowboy movie?
“You must be Jake,’’ Marty said.
“Old Jake, that’s what they call me.’’ He ran a hand over his head. It was mostly bald, with brown age spots and a fringe of gray. “I’m so old now, some days I’m not sure I even remember my name.’’
“Why, you don’t look a day over …’’ Mama hesitated, trying to find a number that would flatter without sounding ridiculous. “Seventy,’’ she finished.
Jake, who’d probably passed that landmark fifteen years before, smiled so broadly we got a peek of his spit-softened chaw.
“Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?’’ I said.
“Depends.’’
He put his hat back on and spit. A brown stream hit the ground, sending up a puff of dust. Mama took a careful step sideways in her boysenberry heels.
“Do them questions have anything to do with unpaid taxes or immoral women?’’
Marty blushed.
“No,’’ I said, laughing. “Nothing like that. You remember hearing about the owner of the Booze ‘n’ Breeze, the man who was murdered?’’
Jake knew all about it, even down to the fact that the body was discovered in the trunk of “some lady’s convertible.’’ We didn’t mention the “purty’’ gal in front of him was that same notorious lady. He also knew about Albert’s loans to strapped ranchers.
“Yep.’’ A stream just missed my boot. “Some of these boys ’round here bit off more than they can chew. Ranching’s a tough bidness. Only the strong survive.’’
“Who was borrowing?’’ I asked.
Jake opened his lips just enough to spit. Not a word escaped.
“Clarke Simmons?’’ I named one of Florida’s best-known cattle men. Jake’s thin shoulders shook with laughter. When he started wheezing, Marty patted his back until he quit.
“Simmons has got more gold than Midas,’’ he said with a final cough. “That fellow from the drive-thru could have borrowed money from him.’’
“Jeb Ennis and I go way back,’’ I said. “I know he’s been having some cash-flow problems.’’
Jake narrowed his eyes at me. “Y
ep.’’
“It’s a shame. Jeb sure did work hard to build that ranch,’’ I said.
“Now, that might be true. But Jeb’d do better to keep his mind on his bidness. You can’t serve two masters.’’
I waited for the wizened old man to go on. He straightened the hat on his head.
“He borrowed money from just about ever’body here, even a few bucks from me. But he always had one excuse or t’other about why he couldn’t repay. Don’t piss on my back and tell me it’s rainin’, that’s what I always say.’’
Marty leaned down so she could look under the hat brim, directly into Jake’s rheumy green eyes. “What do you mean? Was Jeb in trouble? Who were his masters?’’
“The cattle, that’s one. They’ll keep a man up nights, always needing something. You feed, you breed, you sell for what you can, and then you start all over again. Year in, year out. Raising cattle is gamble enough for most men. But not for Jeb.’’
“Jake, honey, just tell us what you got to tell us,’’ Mama said. “Who was Jeb’s other master?’’
“More like ‘what was,’ Ma’am.’’ He spit. “Gambling got t’hold of Jeb Ennis. He’s lost near all that he owned. That boy never took to heart that old advice about not betting the ranch.’’
“I don’t believe my eyes, Mace.’’ Mama gripped my arm so tight I was afraid the skin was going to pop like an overcooked sausage. “It’s that awful man.’’
I followed Mama’s gaze through the front window of Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow, where I’d brought her after the livestock market. Pastor Bob Dixon stood in the salon behind his wife, hands resting on Delilah’s shoulders. Seated in a mauve chair, she was covered from the neck down with a drape in deep purple. She looked like a large grape with a stem of wet hair.
“I won’t blame you if you don’t come in, Mace.’’ Mama turned her back to the window, just in case the minister and his wife could read lips. “You do not need to subject yourself to that man-wolf for another minute.’’
She clearly thought I was unpracticed at fending off unwanted advances from men.
“Don’t worry about it, Mama. I’m an adult. Besides, I don’t think he’s going to attack with his wife sitting right there. She looks big enough to take him if he got her mad.’’
Mama’s gaze returned with mine to the scene on the other side of the window. Pastor Bob smiled into the mirror at Delilah, the morning sun glinting off his teeth. It lit a silver cross on the lapel of his brown-checkered sport coat. His small hands looked as fragile as baby birds against his wife’s sturdy shoulders. Seeing the two of them together, I realized Delilah wasn’t just bigger; she was a good fifteen years older than her husband.
“He is a puny one,’’ Mama finally agreed. “Even so, I can give D’Vora your money.’’
With everything I’d had on my mind, I left the shop without tipping D’Vora for cutting my hair. I’d wanted to get back to apologize ever since.
“I’m used to tusslin’ with gators and snakes, Mama. How bad could one pint-sized pastor be?’’ I pushed open the door to a jingle of bells. “Hang onto my arm … a little looser, please. We’ll present a united front,’’ I whispered as we stepped inside.
“Good morning, Rosalee.’’ The minister and Delilah spoke in unison.
“Y’all remember my middle girl, Mace.’’ Mama’s tone was cool. Not as icy as Maddie’s, but heading for winter. The two of them nodded politely. I gave them a tight smile back.
Betty, the shop’s owner, bustled out of the back, greeting us as she wiped her hands on a lilac-colored towel. I’d never realized purple came in so many shades.
I smelled the usual mix of shampoos, conditioners and permanent solution. Another scent fought for dominance—fruity, like overripe watermelon and bananas that have started to blacken. As we got closer, I realized it was Delilah’s perfume. I backed away, putting my hand over my face as if I was scratching my nose.
Betty stopped at the counter in front of Delilah’s chair and rustled through the drawer for a comb and a handful of hair rollers. She looked up at me in the mirror. “Mace, you’re not blowing out that haircut like D’Vora told you to, are you? She’s going to get on you when she gets back from the bank, which should be any minute now.’’
My hand went to my hair, made wild by the humidity and Pam’s convertible. “No, Ma’am, I guess I’m not. I usually just open the windows in my Jeep and hang my head out to let it dry. It saves a lot of time.’’
Betty looked horrified.
“Well, guess I’d better let you ladies get to your womanly ways.’’ Pastor Bob patted his wife’s shoulders as he spoke.
He seemed oddly comfortable in the salon. I couldn’t imagine Carlos Martinez or Jeb Ennis hanging around a beauty parlor. But Pastor Bob, with his bleached teeth and buffed fingernails, seemed to feel right at home.
“Every time I bring Delilah in, I think she can’t get any more beautiful than she already is.’’ He beamed a whitening-strip smile to the mirror. “But then I come back to pick her up, and darned if I’m not wrong.’’
He leaned toward Delilah, who offered up her plump cheek for a kiss. “I’ll be back for you in a couple of hours, Mother.’’
“I’ll be right here, Father. Betty’s going to make me into a new woman, so I do hope you recognize me.’’
He put his hand on her face and gazed into her eyes. “Mother, I’d know you in a crowd of thousands. That’s how it is with soul mates, isn’t that right, ladies?’’
He glanced at us for approval. Mama smiled reflexively, but I was busy choking back vomit. I hate when married couples call each other “Mother’’ and “Father.’’ It’s creepy.
Through the front window, I saw D’Vora hurrying along the sidewalk, breasts jiggling in her tight smock. Pastor Bob saw her, too. He dropped his hand from his wife’s cheek like it was a burning coal, and rushed to open the shop’s door. He stepped aside just enough so D’Vora would have to rub up against him as she brushed past. His eyes got a familiar gleam.
“It’s D’Vora, isn’t it?’’
She raised the bank deposit bag in her hand to cover her chest, and gave him a “My, what big teeth you have’’ look.
“I don’t believe you’ve taken us up on our invitation to come worship at Abundant Hope and Charity Chapel. Mother, have you seen this pretty young lady at church?” His eyes never left D’Vora’s cleavage.
I glanced at Delilah. Her own eyes were full of hurt and resignation.
“No, Father, I haven’t.’’ Her lips barely moved as she studied her hands, folded on top of the drape. If she hadn’t been so mean to Mama at church, I might have felt sorry for her.
“Thank you anyway, sir. Ma’am.’’ D’vora nodded at Delilah as she sidestepped around the minister. “But I’m happy at my own church. I’ve been going ever since I was baptized. Thanks for thinking of me, though.’’
Everyone in the shop knew exactly what the minister had been thinking about D’Vora.
“Well, maybe you’d like one of my DVDs, then. Half-price, for you.’’
Delilah didn’t give her time to answer. “Hadn’t you better get to your errands, Father?’’
Pastor Bob put a hand to his chin, thoughtful like. He was probably just wiping off drool. “You betcha,’’ he finally said, as D’Vora disappeared into the back room. “I’ve got a long list to tackle. See you soon, Mother.’’
Delilah followed her husband with her eyes until he was out the door, down the sidewalk, and out of sight of the window. She continued staring until, finally, she let out a little sigh and a tiny shake of her head. What would run through your mind if you had a husband who would come on to another woman like that, right in front of you? Delilah looked like she was trying to convince herself of something. I wondered what it was.
“Okay, let the
girl talk begin.’’ Betty shook her magenta comb like a conductor’s baton. It broke the shameful feeling we’d shared at seeing Delilah humiliated. “Who’s got news about Emma Jean Valentine?’’
We spent the next fifteen minutes dissecting Emma Jean’s disappearance. I filled them in on finding the abandoned car and visiting her house. Mama revealed the fact that she might have been cheating on Jim Albert. Delilah perked up at that gossipy morsel.
“Maybe I shouldn’t tell tales,’’ she said, waiting for the go-ahead to do just that.
“Mace and her mama are trying to find out who really killed Emma Jean’s boyfriend. Whoever did it may have kidnapped her, too.’’ Betty’s eyes bored into Delilah’s in the mirror. “You’d only be helping Emma Jean to tell what you know.’’
Delilah paused just long enough to take a deep breath before beginning. “Well, I will say I couldn’t believe that scene she pulled the other night at Abundant Hope. All of that about how the wicked woman who’d been cheating with her boyfriend attends our little church? And the way she tried to stare down the evildoer? Talk about a sinner casting stones!’’
Mama wrinkled her brow. “What are you saying?’’
“I’m saying I know for a fact Emma Jean had a secret lover. And I’m saying the man’s a member of our church.’’
“Are you sure?’’ Betty asked, whipping some of Delilah’s wet hair around a pink roller.
“Absolutely. Every couple of months, I collect all the hymnals and give them a good dusting.’’
I wasn’t at all surprised Delilah was a fastidious housekeeper.
“The last time I did it, I found a love note tucked into one of the books. It wasn’t addressed by name; Emma Jean had written My Dearest Darling Man at the top. She talked about how she could barely stand to see him in church with his wife, knowing she couldn’t have him.’’ She angled her head toward Betty, who was wedging the last roller into an even row. “And then she said things were heating up. You know who was going to ask her to marry him, she wrote.’’
Mama Does Time Page 20
