Mama Gets Trashed (A Mace Bauer Mystery)

by Sharp, Deborah

  I grabbed a seat next to Carlos on Mama’s peach-colored sofa. When I offered him one of the beers, he winced as he grabbed the bottle.

  “Let me look.’’ I lifted his right hand, and examined the thumb. “The skin’s barely broken.’’

  “It still hurts.’’

  “Give me a minute,’’ I said.

  In the bathroom, I rustled up some cotton balls and alcohol. I stepped over the doggie gate to get ice and a clean dishtowel from the kitchen. Teensy, scarfing his supper, barely noticed.

  When I returned bearing my Nancy Nurse supplies, Carlos looked embarrassed and pleased at the same time. There is not a man alive who doesn’t like being fussed over—no matter how muy macho he is, or how hardened from a career of chasing scary criminals. If I’d learned nothing else from Mama’s lessons about womanly wiles, I had at least learned that.

  Plus, I liked to be in charge in a medical emergency, so it was win-win for me.

  I swabbed the wound—more of a scratch, really. “Does that sting?’’

  “Not too bad.’’

  I put my mouth close and blew on his thumb, just like Mama used to do for us when we were children.

  “That tickles,’’ Carlos said.

  “If you’re a good boy, maybe Mace will give you a lick off her lollipop.’’ Sal leered at us from his recliner.

  “That sounds pretty good.’’ Carlos smiled suggestively. “There’s nothing like a sweet, juicy lollipop. I like the cherry ones best.’’

  Marty laughed. I’m pretty sure I blushed.

  “Has every couple in this family regressed to acting like hormonal teenagers?’’ Maddie said. “Get a room, you two.’’

  “Don’t be such a sourpuss, Maddie,’’ Mama said. “You’re really off your oats, girl. Your ‘monthly visitor’ still giving you trouble?’’

  Sal cleared his throat. Carlos got interested in reading the label of his Budweiser bottle. “Have you gone crazy?’’ Maddie stared at Mama.

  Before Maddie inadvertently revealed I’d lied with that cover story about menstrual troubles, I said, “Nope, Mama’s not crazy. Just a little inappropriate, due to all that pink wine she’s consumed. Let’s talk about something else, why don’t we?’’

  “Fine with me,’’ Mama said. “Let’s see if we can figure out what Maddie should wear to Kenny’s party. I’m still opposed to that yellow dress, honey.’’ She took a magazine off the coffee table and started leafing through the sticky-noted pages. “Now, I’ve marked pictures of dresses in shades that would be much more flattering with your complexion.’’

  Sal heaved himself to his feet. “Fashion? That’s my cue to go to the den and catch some sports on TV.’’ Carlos wasted no time following the big man’s lead.

  As soon as they were gone, Maddie exploded: “The yellow dress is fine. I have no damned intention of changing it, Mama. And I’ll thank you to keep your big nose out of my business.’’

  I’m not sure which shocked Mama most. Was it pious Maddie using a curse word? Or was it her inaccurate characterization of Mama’s cute-as-a-button nose?

  In a teasing tone, Marty said, “C’mon, Maddie. Mama’s nose isn’t that big.’’

  Maddie turned her wrath on our little sister: “I am not in the mood for your appeasements. Not every insult can be forgiven, Marty. Not every slight can be patched over with a lame joke.’’

  Marty looked like she’d been slapped. I tried to step in. “Okay, everybody, tempers are a little short tonight.’’

  “There’s nothing wrong with my temper.’’ Mama glared at Maddie. “She’s the one who’s not acting like herself. You better shape up, girl. You don’t want to ruin your husband’s birthday party.’’

  “This is not about Kenny! Can’t there ever be a single thing that’s about me?’’

  If I didn’t know about the current problems between Maddie and her husband, I’d have laughed out loud. In their marriage, Maddie had always had the upper hand. Kenny was worshipful, always trying extra hard to please her. Their relationship was always 80 percent about Maddie; 20 percent about Kenny. Until now.

  “Mama’s right,’’ Marty said. “There’s nothing festive about this mood of yours. You better get yourself into that yellow dress and a celebrating mood by Saturday.’’

  Maddie was quiet; staring at her hands in her lap. I prayed she wasn’t going to cry. That would change things in an instant. If the other two ever witnessed Maddie in the state I’d seen, they would not rest until they knew what was wrong. And then they’d try to fix it.

  “Lay off her, would you?’’ I said. “Can’t a gal have a bad night without her family jumping all over her?’’

  Marty gave me a suspicious glance. “Why are you sticking up for Maddie? Seeing you two as allies is as likely as seeing the snake lie down with the pig.’’

  Before Mama could pile on, Maddie got up and collected her purse from the table by the front door. Without a parting word, she walked out. The slam of the door shattered the stunned silence in the living room.

  Of course, that started up Teensy again. If he hadn’t been causing such a ruckus, yapping and trying to breach the doggie barrier, I’d have asked Marty whether she pictured me as the serpent or the hog. Either way, I wasn’t flattered.

  _____

  Carlos and I sat on Mama’s front porch swing. It was just us, holding hands. Our silence was comfortable; companionable. Jasmine scented the warm air. A half-moon glowed above, outlining the clouds in silver. Crickets chirped. A barely-there breeze rustled through a magnolia tree. In the distance, a car with squeaky brakes stopped at the traffic light on State Road 70.

  Mercifully, Teensy had settled down. Either he’d fallen back to sleep in the kitchen, or he’d choked to death on a second helping of his canine cuisine. Whatever, the quiet time alone with Carlos was a welcome change.

  Mama and Marty tried unsuccessfully to get me to speculate on Maddie’s wordless departure. Marty left shortly after, saying she had to wake up early for work. Sal and Mama had decided to turn in, too.

  Suddenly, a low moan sounded in the night. Both Carlos and I straightened on the swing, instantly alert. Was someone in pain? Did they need help? I stood and went to the railing. Leaning over, I peered into the yard. Bushes and trees cast dark, shadowy shapes. I couldn’t tell if anything out there was moving.

  There was the moan again. And then a sigh. And then a high-pitched, feminine giggle.

  Ohmigod, how embarrassing. “We can hear you, Mama!’’

  The commotion was coming from the open window of the master bedroom, on the far side of the house.

  Mama’s voice floated onto the perfumed air: “Shhhh! I think I heard something, Sally.’’

  “You heard me! I’m trying to tell you to keep it down. Carlos and I can hear everything out here.’’

  “Mace?’’

  “Yes!’’ I rolled my eyes at Carlos.

  “I thought all y’all went home.’’

  “Well, Carlos and I didn’t. And we know what you’re up to inside. You should stop. Now.’’

  The sound of muffled laughter and snickering made its way from the side of the house. Then came frantic whispering, and more giggling.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,’’ I said. “Stop acting like adolescents. Get a room!’’

  “We have one,’’ Sal called out. “If youse two would give us some privacy, maybe we could get around to using it.’’

  “Yeah,’’ Mama added. “Why don’t you take your own advice, Mace?”

  Great. Hearing the two of them wasn’t bad enough? Now, my own mother was advising me to spirit away my fiancé and get some sex on?

  Carlos grinned at me; a sly, sultry smile that made me want to melt into a puddle on the porch. He fished his keys from his pocket.

  “Did you hear me, Mace?’’ Mama called. “Why don’t you and Carlos ‘Get a room?’”

  He dangled the car keys in front of my eyes.

  I didn’t bother to answer Mama. I pu
lled Carlos off the porch and steered him onto the path that led to his car. His car with that nice, roomy back seat.

  seventeen

  The road home was dark, but I was still aglow. Nothing lifts your spirits like some back seat love-making while parked in a cow pasture. Climbing out of Carlos’s car and stepping on a cow patty didn’t even dampen my mood. Smooshing a second one, though, was a bit of a bummer. But more for Carlos than me.

  “¡Dios mío, you stink!’’ he said, with typical male sensitivity. “Good thing you followed me in your Jeep. There’s no way I’d let you back into my car.’’

  I high-kicked my leg outside, bringing one of the crap-clodded boots close to his face. He started the car and rolled up the window, leaving a tiny slit at the top to talk to me. “No kidding; that’s disgusting. I’ll wait here in my manure-free zone to make sure your engine starts.’’

  “Oh, that’s nice: I show you a good time, and you toss me out like used kitty litter.’’

  He blew me a couple of kisses through the window. That was probably less an authentic gesture of love and affection than a chance to cover his nose with his hand.

  Now, I was tooling home with the windows rolled down in my Jeep, trying to air out my stinky boots. It wasn’t working.

  I looked at the ring on my hand, and grinned. I never thought I’d be engaged to such a city boy. Carlos’s family may have kept cattle a couple of generations back in Cuba, but he was much more Miami these days than Camaguey. Imagine being so put off by the smell of a little manure. Then again, it was pretty fresh manure. I leaned my face out the window, grateful to the local grower who had decided to plant orange groves. The fragrant blossoms on several hundred acres of trees in the distance were sending out some much-needed aroma assistance.

  When my sisters and I were kids, we used to complain about the biological byproduct of the cattle on our ranch. Daddy would always laugh and say, That’s the smell of money, girls.

  That was before his cow-calf operation started hemorrhaging cash; before the stress of losing our ranch led to his fatal heart attack. By then, the manure didn’t smell like money anymore. It just smelled like shit.

  I shook my head to clear away sad memories. Mama’s always big on handing out advice, most of which I never take. But there’s one bit of her counsel that’s always stuck with me: Don’t look back, Mace. What’s passed is past, and you can’t change it. Focus on making the best of what lies ahead.

  I was pretty happy about what seemed to lie ahead for Carlos and me. Come to think of it, I wasn’t exactly unhappy about what had just passed between us. Given the potential for embarrassment if caught, we’d decided against doing anything X-rated in his parked car in front of Mama’s house. I’d shuddered at the thought of her coming out to rap at the window while Carlos and I were … occupied. Getting it on in a deserted pasture was as much revisiting my misspent youth as I was willing to do.

  The highway home cut right through the center of Florida’s interior—citrus and cattle country. Agriculture was still managing to hold on in the region, despite encroaching development—like the new golf course community on Himmarshee’s southern edge. Under the light of the moon, I took in the shapes and sounds that defined my slice of Florida. Sabal palms, tall and thin with a top like a Q-tip, dotted a flat landscape. Bushier cypress trees were silhouetted in the distance, like dark sentries guarding the watery perimeter of Starvation Slough. A cow lowed. A night heron squawked as he hunted in the wetlands nearby. The eyes of a small critter, maybe a raccoon or opossum, reflected my headlights from the undergrowth along the shoulder. I slowed, just in time to avoid hitting the possum that ambled onto the road.

  As I drove out of the orange grove, the citrus scent began to give way to the smell of garbage. The turnoff to the city dump was just ahead. An image of Camilla’s lifeless body popped into my mind. Silently, I repeated a prayer for her soul. Mostly, I hoped she hadn’t suffered too much before she died.

  The glare of bright lights in my rear-view mirror startled me from thoughts about the murdered woman. It was unusual to see another car on this stretch of road, this late at night. It looked like the vehicle was tearing up the pavement, too. Within moments, it was right on my rear. Before I knew it, a powerful, American-sounding engine was revving behind me. The car drew closer. High beams flashed. A horn honked. Big and black, with tinted windows, the vehicle came closer still.

  I murmured into my mirror, “What do you want me to do, asshole? Levitate out of the way to spare you the monumental effort of passing me?’’

  I stuck my left arm out the Jeep’s window, waving at Mr. Hurry Up to go around me. He could easily pass. There was nothing in the oncoming lane between here and Wachula. Finally, he got tired of riding my bumper. Gunning it, he blew by me in a blur, and I saw it was a sedan. Between the dark windows and high speed, I didn’t get a good look at the driver. It could have been Mrs. Hurry Up, for all I saw.

  My headlights caught a Florida plate and a red-white-and-blue bumper sticker. But the sedan pulled ahead and disappeared before I could read what it said. I repressed the urge to honk my horn and flip him the bird. Florida’s drivers are notoriously prone to road rage. You never know what might set off somebody’s crazy fuse, even in little Himmarshee.

  As the big car’s taillights became miniature red dots, I wondered where he was headed in such a rush. My mind wasn’t completely on my driving, or what happened next would never have happened. An alligator—eight or nine feet, at least—had heaved itself out of the reedy wetlands and onto the pavement. Making its way across the highway to a canal, it stretched clear across the center line: Snout in the oncoming lane, tail oscillating across my lane. In an instant, I swerved. I missed the gator, but my right front tire hit the concrete abutment of a small bridge over the slough. The car bucked. The steering wheel jerked.

  And just like that, I lost control.

  eighteen

  The Jeep’s right side veered off the road, spitting sand and weeds every which way. I’d taken my foot off the accelerator, but I was fighting forward momentum. Over-correcting could flip me into the canal where the gator now lurked.

  Suddenly, I heard a voice, low and calm, in my head: Mama’s third husband, who’d taught me to drive. Take a deep breath. You know what to do.

  Once, when No. 3 was giving me a lesson, an oncoming car strayed into my lane. I went off the road, and he guided me back: Ease off the gas. No brake. If the drop-off’s sharp, turn back sharply. If it’s smooth, nice and easy.’’

  Holding my breath, I executed a turn between sharp and smooth. The Jeep leveled out; tires gripped pavement. Number 3 may have been a bad match for Mama, but he was a good man—and a great driver. I let out my breath, until the Jeep traveled a few more yards.

  Bumpedty-bump, bumpedty-bump, bumpedty-bump.

  Uh-oh. The right front tire must have blown hitting the concrete curb of the bridge. I punched the button for my emergency flashers and slowed to a stop. Before I got out of the vehicle, I listened for the deep bellow of a big gator. I hoped he’d moved on. A tire iron was no match for a riled-up, nine-foot reptile with seventy-five or eighty sharp teeth.

  _____

  Sweaty, grease-stained, and mosquito bitten, I got back in my Jeep. Still, I was grateful—first, that things hadn’t ended worse; and second, that Husband No. 3 also taught me to change a tire.

  As soon as I settled into the driver’s seat, I noticed my cell phone was lit. Between swearing at the balky lug nuts and swatting at swarms of bugs, I must have missed it ringing. The caller ID said Maddie. She’d left a voice mail.

  The first thing I heard was a sob, and then a couple of sniffles. “It’s me, Mace. I tried you at home, but no answer.’’

  There was a long pause. She took a deep breath. “Kenny never came home from work, and he still hasn’t called. He’s not answering my text messages, either.’’

  She blew her nose.

  “I’m so angry … but I’m also wuh-wuh-worried.’�
�� Breaking on the last word, her voice became a sob.

  After a moment, she seemed to collect herself. “I don’t mean to pile all this on you. There’s no need to come over here. I’m fine. Fine.’’ She repeated herself for emphasis.

  “It’s such a long way, and it’s already so late.’’

  I started my Jeep.

  “I’m going to try to get some sleep. Everything will look better in the muh-muh-morning.’’

  That last, choked-out word pierced my heart. I made a U-turn, heading back to Himmarshee and my hurting sister.

  nineteen

  Maddie’s front windows were dark; the spot where Kenny always parked his truck conspicuously empty. The place looked sad and lonely. Or, maybe I was just projecting my sister’s abandonment onto the inanimate house.

  When I pulled around to the side of the house, I saw the dim blue glow of a TV coming from Maddie and Kenny’s bedroom. So she was still up. I hurried to the front door and retrieved the key from its hiding spot under her pot of dying geraniums.

  I called out as soon as I opened the door so as not to startle her …

  or raise her hopes it was Kenny coming home. No answer came from her room, but I heard the rustle of bed linens being thrown aside. She was up and waiting for me by the time I walked down the hallway.

  “I told you not to come. I’m fine.’’

  That was a lie. Maddie’s eyes were swollen nearly shut from crying. She wore a ratty bathrobe and just one sock, all stretched out with no elastic at the top. The other was probably lost somewhere in her bed. Used tissues spilled from the pocket of the robe. Beyond her, I saw more tissues all over the bed, a snowdrift of crumpled white.

  “I know you’re fine. When I got your message, I was in the neighborhood anyway.’’