“Let me see! Is there anything on that murdered girl?’’
“Don’t know, Mama. I didn’t even have a moment to glance at it before someone ripped it forcibly from me.’’
Marty had been the reliably sweet sister since the three of us were girls, but she was speaking her mind more and more these days. It was partly because she had more responsibility at her library job, but I thought it was mainly Maddie rubbing off on her. Mama seemed not to notice Marty’s snarky tone. Picking up on subtle criticism wasn’t her strong suit.
She took her seat again, and spread the purloined paper on the table. “Yes! Here it is: ‘Murdered Woman was New Resident.’’’
Maddie and I angled closer, each reading over one of Mama’s shoulders. Marty moved behind her, peering over the top of her head. “Ohmigod.’’ She barely breathed the words as she gripped the back of Mama’s chair.
“What?’’ Maddie and I asked at once. Our sister’s fair skin had paled to alabaster. She clutched a hand to her throat.
“Th … tha … that picture,’’ Marty stammered, pointing at the article’s photo of a serious-looking young woman with long dark hair and intelligent eyes. It appeared to be a reproduction of a picture on a driver’s license or employee badge.
“Did you know her?’’ Mama turned in her chair to look at Marty.
“She works with me at the library. I mean, worked.’’
“Oh, honey!’’ Mama patted gently at Marty’s arm. “Were you close?’’
Marty lowered herself into a seat at the table. “Not really. She’s only been with us for a few months. But we just sat together at lunch last week. It’s so weird to think she’s dead.’’
“What did you have?’’ Maddie asked.
Mama, Marty, and I looked at her like she’d stepped off a spaceship from Planet Clueless.
“Is that relevant?’’ I said.
“Probably not.’’ Maddie shrugged. “I just wondered.’’
“Veggie pizza,’’ Marty said.
“This says her name was Camilla Law. She was originally from England, but she’s been in the United States for several years,’’ Mama read from the paper.
“That explains her accent,’’ Marty said. “A lot of people just thought she was snobby.’’
“Maybe she came from money. That would fit with the diamond bracelet,’’ I said.
“What diamond bracelet?’’ Marty asked.
“She was wearing one when we found her,’’ I said. “You’d never seen her wear it at work?’’
Marty shook her head. “I’d have remembered that.’’
Mama tapped the article to get our attention. “It doesn’t mention the bracelet. It goes into a few details about the black leather and fishnets, but nothing about that strange dog collar.’’ She continued scanning the story. “Your fiancé is quoted, Mace.’’
“Let me guess,’’ I said. “He told the reporter the murder is under investigation, and the authorities will pursue all possible leads.’’
Mama grinned. “Very close. He didn’t say the word ‘murder.’ He called it ‘the circumstances of the victim’s death.’”
“Oh, it’s murder,’’ I said, taking a sip of my coffee. “People don’t die of natural causes while they’re out walking in the city dump wearing leather sex clothes.’’
Mama tapped at the paper again. “Oh, y’all … listen to what our brand new mayor, Big Bill Graf, had to say. ‘The risqué clothing this young woman was wearing in no way reflects community morals in Himmarshee. We’re all about family values here.’’’
“What a tool.” Maddie stuck a teaspoon into my coffee and stole a swallow. “Needs more sugar, Mace.’’
I moved the cup out of her reach.
“Sounds like he’s blaming the victim,’’ Marty said.
Maddie said, “So a leather … what was it called again?’’
“Bustier,’’ Mama provided.
“Right. A leather bustier is a sin, but murder is okay?’’ Maddie clucked her tongue. “A total tool.’’
“Shh,’’ I said, nodding toward a semi-private alcove at the back of the room. “Our illustrious mayor happens to be right over there, holding court.’’
A towering man, hence the nickname, Big Bill Graf had a barrel chest and a bright red face. He seemed to come from nowhere, pumping money unheard of in Himmarshee into radio advertising and yard signs. He’d won the mayoral race just a few months before.
We all quieted down, to see if we could listen in. Big Bill’s booming voice carried across the crowded restaurant.
“Like I told the Himmarshee Times …” His voice swelled with importance, as if he were recounting a personal conversation with the Washington Post. “Sexual deviance isn’t on our civic agenda. And I told that reporter his article better not infer that it is.’’
“I think he means ‘imply,’’’ said Maddie, the school principal.
Marty shushed her.
“We must look at how that young woman’s behavior implicated her murder,’’ the mayor continued.
“Does he mean ‘was implicated in her murder?’’’ Marty whispered.
I shrugged. “Maybe he means ‘precipitated her murder.’’’
“Why do people try to use big words when small ones will do just as well?’’ Mama asked.
“Especially when they use them wrong.’’ Maddie dipped a clean teaspoon into Mama’s coffee for a taste. “Too much cream.’’
“Why don’t you just order a cup?’’ Marty asked.
“My stomach’s upset,’’ Maddie answered.
“Well don’t send your germs my way,’’ Marty said.
I still watched His Honor, even though a loud table in between us had drowned out his words. Several rapt hangers-on crowded around his table, devouring every sentence. A poodle-permed woman who looked familiar gazed at him with adoring eyes.
“Who’s the big gal with the golf course tan and the red poodle pouf?’’ I asked. “She could use an emergency visit to Hair Today Dyed Tomorrow.’’
“My goodness, Mace, you’ve got to get out of the woods and start paying attention to civic news. That’s Mrs. Mayor, Beatrice Graf,’’ Mama whispered behind her hand. “She’s already become a Newcomers’ Club muckety-muck. I know it’s not very Christian of me, but I think she’s as big a blowhard as her husband.’’
“Then she’s a pretty big blowhard,’’ I said. “He’s got a lot of nerve lecturing on how and why that girl came to be tossed in the dump. It’s pure character assassination. Nobody knows anything for sure yet.’’
Just then, Beatrice Graf dropped a hand on her husband’s shoulder. He stopped talking so fast, it was like she’d hit a switch. She smiled at his audience, the ingratiating smile of a political wife. Suddenly, the chatterboxes at the loud table in between us grew quiet as Charlene stopped to take their order. The cultured voice of the mayor’s wife carried across the room.
“I think at the end of the day, we’ll find that young woman was engaged in something sinful, and every one of you knows what the Bible says: the wages of sin is death.’’
Our table was hushed as each of us digested Mrs. Mayor’s words.
“My stars and garters,’’ Mama finally said. “That was certainly harsh.’’
four
The cowbells clanged. Henry Bauer, Esq., paused at the door to Gladys’ Diner. Eyes searching the Saturday morning crowd, he acknowledged Mayor Graf with a tight smile and dutiful wave. Then he made a beeline to our table, probably because he smelled our second plate of biscuits.
“Mornin’, cousin.’’ Maddie gave Henry a cloying smile. “Keep your thieving paws off our food.’’
Henry, belly straining the waistband of his weekend-casual khakis, returned her greeting. “No smart food thief would choose a table where you’re sitting, Maddie. All the food is usually gone.’’
Mama looked up from her smart phone for a moment to pass him the platter of biscuits. “Ignore your cousin, honey. Y
ou’re still a growing boy.’’ She went back to typing.
“Growing and growing,’’ Maddie mumbled under her breath.
“Sticks and stones, Maddie.’’ Henry slathered butter and honey on the biscuit, polishing off the first half in one bite. “That’s good enough to make your tongue slap your eyeballs.’’
“Want me to call Charlene over to take your order?’’ I asked.
“Nah. I’ve already eaten. I just like to tick Maddie off.’’ Henry popped the second half in his mouth, chewed, and then opened up to reveal to Maddie the gloppy mess inside.
She leaned over to punch him in the shoulder; he balled up a napkin and tossed it at her.
“Very mature, you two!’’ Marty said. “Henry, is that the way you conduct yourself in the courtroom?’’
“I would if I ever got a judge like Maddie.”
Henry was actually a successful attorney, the best in Himmarshee. Of course, there were only four lawyers in town, and one of them was in his mid-nineties and lived at the adult-care facility, so our cousin didn’t have a lot of competition.
I heard the whoosh of Mama’s phone sending her message, probably an inspirational story she was forwarding to unsuspecting recipients in cyberspace. She left her virtual world to rejoin real life. “Be nice, sweetheart.’’ She patted Henry’s hand. “Maddie’s not feeling well this morning.’’
He cocked his head, eyes showing authentic concern. Maddie, with a stomach like a steel-hulled freighter, was hardly ever sick. “Everything okay, cousin?’’
She waved away his worry. “It’s that blasted forty-fifth birthday party for Kenny. He’s getting on my last nerve, y’all. I’m going to a lot of trouble, and he’s fighting me every step of the way. He acts like he doesn’t even want a party.’’
“Forty-five?’’ Henry said. “That explains it. I know y’all won’t believe me, but women aren’t the only ones who get sensitive about their age. Maybe Kenny doesn’t want to be reminded he’s getting older.’’
“That’s just plain stupid.’’ Maddie made an X in a spot of water left by her glass. “Getting older is a fact of life. It happens to everybody.’’
Marty’s hand shook a bit as she put down her coffee cup. In a quiet voice, she said, “It won’t happen for Camilla. She was murdered, and dumped like yesterday’s trash. She was only twenty-nine.’’
The table went quiet: no chewing, even. Petty bickering and Kenny’s party seemed too silly as subjects when a young woman had lost her life. Mama turned off her phone, sliding it off the table and into her purse.
“What’s the courthouse crowd saying, Henry?’’ My question broke the silence.
“Nobody knows much yet. She’d been strangled. The dump likely wasn’t the murder scene. She was dropped there.’’
Mama tsk-tsked. “What’s happening to little Himmarshee?’’
“We’re all going to have to move to escape our spiraling crime rate. Maybe we should relocate to Miamuh.’’ Henry used the “Old Florida’’ pronunciation for the wicked city four hours south.
Marty traced the picture of Camilla in the newspaper on the table. “I wonder if she knew her killer?’’
“Well, she was all dolled up for something,’’ Henry said.
“Maybe the killer dressed her that way,’’ Maddie said.
“It’d be a challenge to dress someone else in an outfit that tight. I think she dressed herself, like for a special date,’’ Mama said.
We all stared at her. “What kind of dates have you been on?’’ I asked.
A blush reached clear to the dyed roots of her platinum hair. “Oh, not me, y’all! I don’t have any personal knowledge. I do watch TV, though.’’
I leaned in close and lowered my voice to a whisper. “Mama did seem to know a lot about the details of that leather top Camilla was wearing.’’
“It’s called a bustier. Everybody knows that, Mace.’’
Before we could correct her on that assumption, Mama closed the newspaper, creasing the fold with finality. “I am certain about one thing: I’d prefer it if that poor girl knew her killer.’’
“Why?’’ Marty asked. “It makes the whole thing even sadder if it was someone she thought she could trust.’’
“Well, if it was a stranger, then we’ve got us a big problem here in little Himmarshee,’’ Mama said. “If the killer didn’t even know the librarian, and had no particular reason to murder her, there’s no telling who in town could be next.’’
five
“Son of a beehive!’’ Mama dug her fingers into my Jeep’s dashboard, her Apricot-Iced nails leaving small scrapes. “You nearly ran into the back of that stock trailer, Mace. You came so close, I could see the fear of death in a couple of those heifers’ eyes.’’
I passed the trailer, giving a wave to the cowboy-hatted driver. Once I pulled back in my lane, I eased off a bit on the gas.
“I suppose you’d rather we poked along behind it, enjoying the aroma of two dozen head of cattle and untold pounds of manure. Besides, I missed the trailer by a mile.’’
“You better get your eyes checked, honey. You’re not as young as you used to be.’’
I glanced into the rear-view mirror at my sister Marty. “Are you hearing this abuse? Doesn’t Mama have a lot of nerve criticizing my driving, seeing as how I’m her default chauffeur every time that turquoise bomber of hers is in the shop?’’
Marty lowered her eyes and pressed her lips together. No answer.
“What? Now, you’re piling on, too?’’
“You could slow down a little, Mace.’’ My sister’s tone was measured. “You also made a right without even stopping as we were coming out of the parking lot at the diner.’’
“Et tu, Marty? Anyways, that’s a stupid place for a stop sign.’’ I turned on my blinker and pulled toward the shoulder. “I suppose
I could stop and let both of you out here. I mean if my driving is so terrifying, and all. It’s just three or four miles to the library.’’
Mama smoothed her hair. Marty cleared her throat. “We appreciate the ride. We’re not criticizing, Mace.’’
“I am,’’ Mama said. “Even so, Marty and I are not walking anywhere. Have you had a look at my shoes?’’
She propped a foot up on the dash. It was clad in a yellow sling-back sandal with a three-inch heel. The shoes matched the rest of her outfit, from the chiffon scarf tied jauntily at her neck, to the daffodils embroidered on the lapels and cuffs of her lemon-sherbet-colored pantsuit. Mama won the point. No way was I going to let her out to traipse along the roadside looking like a walking slice of banana cream pie. Everyone knew I was her daughter.
Defeated, I pulled back onto State Road 98. Marty had asked for a ride to the library, where she was going to fill in for the murdered woman’s shift. Mama was tagging along.
She tried to make up with small talk as we passed the various business establishments in Himmarshee. At Juan’s Auto Repair and Taco Shop, she said, “Juan thinks he can have my Bonneville done by the middle of next week.’’
I sat in stony silence.
Undeterred, Mama pointed out the window. “Looks like they’re having a sale at Fran’s Fancy Frocks and Duds. Do you have something to wear for Kenny’s party yet, Mace?’’
I grunted a yes.
“In that case, maybe you should start thinking about a wedding dress.’’
I rolled my eyes.
The sign for Pete’s Pawn Shop loomed into view, showing a road-kill armadillo with a word balloon over its head: Don’t Wait Too Late to Visit Pete’s.
“D’Vora from Hair Today Dyed Tomorrow said her loser husband went to Pete’s and tried to pawn her mama’s good china. Pete’s wife told him to take a hike.’’
I shrugged an I don’t care. Marty chimed in from the back seat, “I like D’Vora. What is it about good women who stay with bad men?’’
Finally, something I was interested in talking about: “Mama, you want to tackle that question? H
aving had five husbands certainly qualifies you as an expert.’’
She waved a hand. “Only a couple of them were bad, and only No. 2 was really bad. I’d say I wasn’t in my right mind after your daddy died. I should have given myself time to grieve, but I thought it would be good for you young girls to have a man in the house.’’
Mama was silent a moment, her eyes taking on a faraway look. She gave her head a little shake. “Number 2 was an awful mistake on my part; and an awful time, for all of us.’’
I felt a bit guilty about poking a painful place out of pure spite.
“How were you supposed to know he was a drunk and a con man who’d steal from all the relatives?’’ I said.
“There’s the library.’’ Marty’s voice rescued me just before I said I was sorry.
“Now,’’ Mama said, “be sure you don’t turn in front of that red truck up ahead and give that poor driver a heart attack. And try not to kill any pedestrians once you get in the parking lot.’’ Her advice had such a snide ring, I was glad I hadn’t apologized.
_____
We walked through the library doors, air conditioning enfolding us like wintry arms. Marty’s boss, Kresta King, hurried out from a glass-enclosed office behind the circulation desk. The welcoming smile she usually wore was gone. Up close, I could see her face was drawn and tense under her cap of curly brown hair.
“Thanks for coming in. Isn’t it awful about Camilla?’’ She put a hand on Marty’s shoulder, her voice funeral-home quiet. “We found a sister in Atlanta listed as an emergency contact in her personnel file. The police have already contacted her, and she’s on her way south.’’
“Thank goodness you didn’t have to make that call,’’ Marty said.
Kresta’s eyes widened. “Oh, that would have been horrible. I’m not sure I could have done it.’’
As much a community center as library, Marty’s workplace was usually a swirl of activity. Today, it seemed hushed. Staffers moved about slowly, cautiously, as if a thick fog blanketed the banks of computers and shelves of books. The workers, and a few customers, looked shell-shocked. I turned to Kresta. “Was Camilla popular? Did she have lots of friends here?’’
Mama Gets Trashed (A Mace Bauer Mystery) Page 2
