“Not really.’’ She shook her head. “Some of our patrons had even complained that she was short with them. I just think it’s sinking in how she died, and where she was found. She sat right at that desk.’’ Pointing to the reference section, she gave a little shudder. “It makes the world seem a very dangerous place. I’ve never known anyone who was murdered.’’
“We have.’’ Mama linked elbows with Marty and me, pulling each of us close. “But you still don’t get used to it.’’
An image of Camilla, garbage-strewn, diamond bracelet on her wrist, flashed through my mind. “No,’’ I said. “You don’t get used to it.’’
“That must have been hard, finding the body.’’ Kresta leaned toward us, perhaps anticipating what Mama and I would say. I didn’t want to go there.
“I was wondering, did you ever notice Camilla wearing a bracelet at work?’’ I asked.
She cocked her head; bit a thumbnail as she thought. “You know, I really couldn’t say.’’
Mama added, “It was a diamond bracelet.’’
Her mouth formed an O. “Well, that’s different. I definitely would have noticed a diamond bracelet. Not too many of those in Himmarshee.’’
I heard the doors sweep open behind us, letting in a blast of furnace-like heat from outside. Towering over two women from the Chamber of Commerce, Beatrice Graf marched in. She carried a basket with a black ribbon, and her jaws flapped a mile a minute. “It’s the right thing to do,’’ she said, as the women on each side nodded like bobble-headed dolls. “We want to make sure the family knows Himmarshee is a caring community. Mr. Mayor and I always say you’ll find your heart in Himmarshee.’’
Mama curled her lip. “She didn’t sound so big-hearted when she was carving up that poor girl’s reputation at Gladys’ Diner.’’
Marty gave Mama a quick pinch as Mrs. Mayor approached. Her face under that red perm was as tanned as a leather saddle bag. She was dressed in a white pencil skirt that would have been too short on a woman two sizes smaller. Her red-and-white polka dot blouse showed an alarming expanse of sun-freckled cleavage.
“Excuse me,’’ she flashed a chemically bleached smile at Kresta, ignoring the rest of us completely. “Aren’t you one of the help here?’’
Kresta’s smile was unenthusiastic. “I’m the branch manager. What can I do for you, Mrs. Graf?’’
“The mayor and I were out of town when that young librarian was murdered. Such a scandal to return to! I want you to make sure her family receives this token of our sympathy.’’
She held out the basket. I peered inside. There was an offer for a tanning session, some coupons from the Pork Pit, and a discount booklet for the Dairy Queen. I also saw a bass fishing lure and a couple of purple combs from Hair Today Dyed Tomorrow. Stamped on a coffee mug was Himmarshee’s civic motto, shockingly inappropriate under the circumstances: Your Journey Ends Here.
“How, er … nice,’’ Kresta said.
“It’s the least we can do,’’ said Mrs. Mayor.
“It sure is,’’ Mama agreed, side-stepping to escape Marty’s pinch.
As she handed off the basket, the threesome turned as if one, and headed toward the door. Beatrice wiggled her fingers over her shoulder at us. “Toodle-loo, ladies.’’
The doors opened with a whoosh of hot air, and they were gone.
Kresta held up the basket. “What am I supposed to do with this?’’
“Throw it in the trash?’’ Mama suggested.
“I doubt the first thing the grieving sister will want to do is drop a line in Lake Okeechobee or rush to the Queen for a butterscotch-dipped cone,’’ I said.
“Be nice, you two. She’s making an effort.’’ Marty’s gaze followed Beatrice outside. She hiked up her painted-on skirt and climbed into a black SUV. It was in a handicapped spot.
“She just wants to be liked, as do most people,’’ Marty said.
“Most people except you know who.’’ Mama pointed at me with her chin.
“That doesn’t make her a bad person, Mace.’’
We’d see about that, I thought.
six
Frowning, Maddie wrinkled her nose as soon as she walked in the door. “What is that awful smell?’’
I sniffed. Hair Today Dyed Tomorrow smelled just like it always smelled, like a fruit roll-up dipped in ammonia. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sister. It smells normal. But why don’t you raise your voice a bit? I don’t think the customers under the hair dryers were able to hear you.’’
Maddie waggled her fingers at Betty Taylor, the salon owner. “Sorry. I woke up with the queasies this morning. My stomach’s not right.’’
“Did you tie one on last night, Maddie?’’ Betty grinned.
Everyone in Himmarshee knew my sister was a teetotaler. Mama never poked fun at Maddie’s abstemious nature, figuring it left more sweet pink wine for her.
“Maybe she was worried about coming here today to see what kind of hair torture you have in mind for her for the big birthday party,’’ I said.
Betty shook her purple comb at me. “We should be thinking about how to do your hair if you ever commit to a wedding date. When is hell going to freeze over, by the way?’’
“Marriage is a sore subject with Mace,’’ Maddie said. “She feels like everybody’s rushing her. We’ve told her Carlos won’t wait forever, like some old man in the mall holding her purse.’’
“Carlos has never held my purse,’’ I said.
“You know what I mean.’’
“I don’t understand you, Mace.’’ Betty handed Maddie a stack of hairstyle books. “Most women would jump like a duck on a June bug on a proposal from that good-looking man. Then again, most women enjoy a trip to the beauty parlor, too.’’ She waved her comb, taking in the shop’s walls, sinks, and chairs, all in a vivid purple. “You’re a little unusual in hating to have your hair done. Course, anyone with eyes could tell that by that snarl-fest you call hair. God gave you a gift, honey. Why treat it like a curse?’’
She advanced on me, holding her comb like a bayonet. I ducked out of reach.
“Mace is a little unusual in a lot of ways,’’ Maddie said. “But I have to be nice. I talked her into coming to give me hairdo advice. I’m sure she’d rather be out communing with the bugs and the trees in the heat at Himmarshee Park.’’
I looked at my watch. “Speaking of the park, I have to be there in an hour to take care of my animals. Could we lay off me and get started on all those fascinating styles for your hair?’’
Betty took another long look at my hair. Thick and black, it was filled with knots because I was pretty sure I’d forgotten to brush it that morning. Shaking her head, she went to ring up a customer, leaving us with the style books at a small table where Mama does her color-by-season charts. A little sign on the tabletop said Color Me Gorgeous.
“She’s right, you know. I’d kill for hair like yours.’’ Maddie lifted a handful of her own locks. With the humidity, her hair hung in tight coils, like a bright-red scouring pad. “You’d only have to make a minimal effort, Mace, and you could have a glossy, sophisticated look.’’
“I’m sure the critters in our wildlife rehab at Himmarshee Park would be wowed.’’
I plopped the first book on the table. “Now,’’ I said, “let’s find you something that’ll knock Kenny’s socks off.’’
Maddie, head bent, stared intently at the book. “That might take some doing,’’ she said softly.
“What do you mean?’’
She raised her gaze to mine. “It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen. Normally, my husband loves a party. And cake and ice cream? He’s in heaven. But Kenny’s lost weight recently, and he’s distracted all the time. I feel like I barely know him anymore.’’
“Midlife crisis.’’ Betty, returning from the register, leaned in to add her opinion. She had the heard-it-all tone of a woman who’d spent her life in a beauty parlor. “It’s Kenny’s time. He’ll pr
obably be buying a go-fast sports car next.’’
I snorted. “Not Kenny. No way, no how. That man’s had his feet solidly on the ground since he was in short pants. He’s so straight, he sells insurance.’’
D’Vora, once Betty’s trainee, now a licensed stylist, pursed her lips as she clipped the bangs of a teenager next to us. Was that look due to her concentrating on the cut? Or, was she making a nonverbal comment on male midlife crises?
“What’s your take, D’Vora?’’
She stopped snipping and started fidgeting. She brushed back a lock of her own hair; fingered the purple appliqué butterflies on her uniform top. Finally, she spoke. “Maybe Kenny is tired of being a grown-up all the time.’’
“D’Vora, honey, look people in the eye when you’re talking to them. You look shifty if you don’t,’’ Betty said.
The young stylist’s eyes darted toward me, but she carefully avoided looking at Maddie. I wondered for a moment if D’Vora had ever been sent to the principal’s office at Himmarshee Middle School. Maybe Maddie’s scary principal routine had given her post-traumatic stress.
“Maybe that midlife thing hits especially hard for a man who’s always been mature and responsible,’’ D’Vora said.
Betty fogged her customer’s ’do with hairspray. The woman let out a strangled cough. “Well, then, we won’t have to worry about that no-account skunk you live with having a midlife crisis.’’ She looked into the mirror at D’Vora, who ignored the jab.
“I’m just sayin,’ maybe there’s a reason when men go off the rails.’’ She lifted the scissors again, and resumed cutting the teenager’s hair.
I looked at Maddie. My sister was uncharacteristically quiet, perhaps weighing D’Vora words. “What?’’ I asked. “You cannot possibly doubt Kenny after all these years. He’s the perfect husband.’’
The shop’s front door slammed shut, bells jangling cheerily. “Who’s the perfect husband?’’ Mama asked as she walked in.
“Nobody!’’ D’Vora’s customary shyness was replaced with uncommon authority. “There’s absolutely nobody who’s perfect.’’
As if her boldness surprised even her, the young stylist shifted her gaze back to the floor. Mama, meanwhile, launched into a story about the inappropriateness of the mourner’s basket the mayor’s wife delivered to the library.
“We should have offered a complimentary shampoo, Betty. Now, that’s something that would be useful. Nobody needs a bassbug fishing fly from Gotcha Bait & Tackle when they’ve just lost a loved one.’’
As Mama went on, describing the rest of the contents, my eyes were on D’Vora. No one else seemed to notice her scissors had gone still. She still focused her eyes on the floor, the teenager in the chair seemingly forgotten. She sneaked a look at Maddie, who by now was leafing through the picture book.
I was just about to ask D’Vora what was the matter, when Mama’s sharp tone snapped me back to attention. “Did you hear me, Mace?’’
“Yes, you said the basket was extremely tacky and not at all right for the occasion. Who wants a coffee cup that says Himmarshee: Your Journey Ends Here when their sister has just been murdered? And, you added, the mayor’s wife needs to do something about those painted-on eyebrows. Plus, her skirt was far too tight for a woman of her age.’’
“I’m not even talking about the mayor’s wife anymore, Mace. I just said Sal texted me.’’
“Sal texts you all the time. You two are worse than a couple of silly teenagers.’’ I nodded to the young girl in D’Vora’s chair. “No offense.’’
“None taken,’’ she said.
D’Vora stood still, wringing her hands.
“You and Maddie need to take a look at what he sent. It’s really cute.’’
As Mama thrust the phone at us, I noticed D’Vora place her scissors on the counter and head for the front of the shop. Mama poked me in the wrist with the phone, trying to get me to take it. I glanced down, noting some LOLs, a heart symbol, and an OMG.
“Like I said, teenagers.’’
By the time I looked up, D’Vora had yanked open the front door, bells clanging. Then she walked out of the shop, leaving her abandoned customer in the chair, staring after her.
Now what, I wondered, was that all about?
seven
I inhaled the smell of the swamp. Black muck, tannic water, and the woodsy scent of cypress trees. A gator lolled on the bank of Himmarshee Creek, his body half-hidden in fire flag and duck potato plants. A squirrel sat high on a branch in a laurel oak tree, scolding me as I traversed the path below. With a wild flapping of black-tipped wings, two wood storks rose from a still pool of dark water beside the boardwalk that led to the office of Himmarshee Park.
It felt like home.
Through the office’s large glass windows, I saw my boss, Rhonda, on the telephone. It was a familiar sight. As park supervisor, she handled most of the managerial tasks. That suited me fine. I wasn’t cut out to be anybody’s boss. And I’d wither up and die if I had to spend as much time in the office as Rhonda did, even with the nice view from our big windows.
Inside, I caught her eye and waved as I dropped my purse onto my desk, next to the dried-out shell of a gopher tortoise. Rhonda made the yak-yak sign at the phone, and mimed a big yawn. My boss was a stunner, even with her mouth gaping open. A former New York model who returned home to take care of her ailing mother, she looked like she could step back onto the runway at any moment. She was the only parks employee I knew who rocked the ugly, olive drab uniforms we had to wear.
“Right, that sounds like a perfect action plan.’’ She was wrapping up on the phone. “Send me a memo with the talking points. I’ll take it up at the budget meeting.’’
There were any number of phrases in that sentence I hoped never to have to utter. Not for the first time, I gave silent thanks for Rhonda’s efficiency and people skills. She handled schedules, budgets, and meetings with our higher-ups; I did nature discussions and cared for the critters that wound up in our makeshift zoo and rehab center.
The coffee machine in the corner gurgled. The freshly brewed scent of Colombian roast told me Rhonda had just made a pot. I helped myself. Returning with my cup, I cleared a spot on my desk between a stuffed swallow-tailed kite and a package of brochures on Florida’s poisonous snakes.
The moment she hung up, Rhonda turned to me. Compassion warmed her brown eyes. “I heard about the librarian. How horrible!’’
“Yeah, it’s going to be tough for her sister. She’s been notified to come down as Camilla’s next-of-kin.’’
Her eyes searched my face. “How are you?’’
“Me? I’m fine. I’m not the one somebody strangled and left at the dump.’’
“But, Mace, it has to take a toll. This is the fifth body you’ve found.’’
“Fourth. Mama was on her own when she discovered that first murder victim in the trunk of her convertible at the Dairy Queen.’’
“I remember. That was when Carlos tossed your mama in the slammer.’’
“Occasionally I wonder why we worked so hard to get her out.’’
Rhonda tsked me.
“Seriously, though, that seemed like the start of a string of bad things happening in little Himmarshee,’’ I said.
“Well, at least one good thing happened.’’ Rhonda’s face, the color of rich mahogany, glowed with a smile. “How is your hunky detective anyway? Still as steamy hot as a cup of café Cubano? You better grab that man while the grabbing is good. He’s asked you to marry him; he’s not going to wait forever, you know.’’
Just as I was about to gripe about how oddly obsessed everyone was with my love life, my desk phone rang. Saved by the bell.
“Speak of the devil,’’ I said, when I heard Carlos on the line.
“Speaking well of me, I hope,’’ he said. “Tell Rhonda hello.’’
When I did, she made a noisy smack-smack sound and blew a big kiss toward the phone. Carlos chuckled. “I love that girl!�
��’
“Hey!’’
“Not like I love you, niña.’’
“Uh-huh,’’ I said, stealing a glance at Rhonda. “Anything new on the murder?’’
“Can’t a guy call his girl without being grilled about work?’’
“Just curious,’’ I said.
“We’re looking into her background. Nothing I’m prepared to talk about.’’ His end of the phone was quiet for a moment. “I do, you know. Love you.’’
Rhonda was busy re-stacking the stacks of paperwork on her desk, but I could see her head cocked my way, her right ear tuned in to my conversation.
“Uh-huh,’’ I finally answered. “Back at ya.’’
He laughed. “I pour out my heart. I get ‘back at ya.’ You can do better than that.’’
I swiveled my desk chair so my back was to my boss, ducked my head into my chest and mumbled into the phone, “Love you, too. I’ll see you tonight.’’
As I put the phone down, I could feel Rhonda’s eyes on the back of my head. I turned, and she didn’t even try to pretend she hadn’t been eavesdropping. A big, silly smile was pasted on her lips. The more she grinned, the more I felt a blush spreading up my neck and onto my cheeks.
“What?’’ I demanded.
“Nothing,’’ she said.
“Have your say, boss. Everyone else has.’’
To my surprise she started humming. Then she started singing. “Mace and Carlos sitting in a tree, K I S S—I N G … ’
I flashed on third-grade and the jungle gym. I’d climbed past all the boys to the top. Danny Blue screwed up his courage to follow me and steal a kiss. The other little girls watched from the ground, chiming in to sing that same song.
“Seriously? How old are you again, boss?’’
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist. You’re so close-mouthed and private about everything. You make an easy target. Didn’t your mama teach you that people who hate to be teased are the people everybody loves to tease?’’
I relented, and returned Rhonda’s grin. If the bulls-eye fits, may as well wear it.
Mama Gets Trashed (A Mace Bauer Mystery) Page 3
