Mama Gets Trashed (A Mace Bauer Mystery)

by Sharp, Deborah

  “Did you notice if he seemed particularly close to anyone out there?’’

  Jason stroked the handsome cleft in his chin; appeared to give my question some thought.

  He finally said, “He spends a lot of time at the bar, talking to Angel.’’

  I hoped the surprise didn’t show on my face. She had told me she barely knew Kenny. It also seemed she was more into girls than guys. I decided to take the plunge; ask the question right out.

  “Isn’t Angel gay?’’ I said.

  He took a drag. “That’s complicated. I think her sexual leanings depend on what’s in it for Angel.’’

  “Do you think there’s something in it for her to have some kind of sexual relationship with my brother-in-law?’’

  “Nah. He’s not her type. Not enough money or power. I think it’s more a bartender-as-confessor thing for him. Lots of people pour out their problems to bartenders.’’

  An image formed in my mind of Prudence’s jacket on the locker room bench; the tender look on the barmaid’s face. “Well, who is Angel’s type?’’ I said. “Is she serious about anyone?’’

  He cocked his head. “Why? Are you interested in girls? Didn’t you say you were engaged? I assumed to a guy.’’

  He grabbed my left wrist, holding up my hand to examine my ring. His grip was a little rough.

  “That hurts.’’

  He squeezed—hard—before releasing me. “Sorry. I can be a little dominant at times. Guess I don’t know my own strength.’’

  I rubbed my wrist; decided to let it pass. In my mind, golf was kind of a girly sport. Maybe he was trying to show what a man he was with a crushing grip. I said, “What about the mayor?’’

  “And Angel?’’ he asked.

  “Well, I meant the mayor and Kenny, but yeah. What’s the deal with Angel and Mr. and Mrs. Mayor? It seems like they walk on eggshells around her.’’

  He laughed. “Probably afraid if they offend her she’ll pour a stingy shot.’’ He put thumb to mouth in the sign for drinking. “Both of them like their booze. A lot.’’

  “Kenny, too?’’

  He crushed his cigarette underfoot, and then glanced at his watch.

  “Nah, Kenny seems like he’s strictly a beer man. Doesn’t over-indulge, like a lot of folks do out there.’’ A strange smiled played across his lips. “Oh, yeah. There are all kinds of over-indulgences at Himmarshee Links.’’

  “What’s that supposed to mean?’’

  He put up his hands, signaling he’d say no more. “I really have to get going. Like I told you before, it’s complicated.’’

  “You can’t say that and just leave me wondering. That’s not fair. Is there something shady going on out there? Is my brother-in-law involved?’’

  That would be all Maddie would need: a husband walking the criminal path.

  Jason gazed around the parking lot. The after-lunch crowd was starting to stream out. He lowered his voice. “I don’t think so. But you wouldn’t believe the stories I could tell about what goes on at the club.’’

  “Like what?’’

  He hit the key fob to unlock the BMW; eased himself into the front seat.

  “I really do have to go. I’ve got a lesson scheduled. Honest, I’ll fill you in on everything, just not right now.’’ He turned on the engine. It purred. “Meet me at the club for a drink.’’

  I narrowed my eyes at him. Was he playing me?

  He returned my look with a guileless grin. His cheeks dimpled, and the skin around his eyes crinkled with sincerity. “I swear I’m not coming on to you, Mace. It’s just a friendly meeting. Maybe I can give you some information that might help you find out who borrowed Kenny’s money.’’

  If I was going to help Maddie, I did need information. It was just a drink. What could it hurt?

  twenty-five

  A loud laugh echoed through the cypress trees, shattering the quiet sanctuary of Himmarshee Park. Startled, a great blue heron took flight from the creek bank near the nature path. Another laugh sounded, even louder than the first. A group of men in business dress rounded a curve in the path near the park office. I was outside the office, in a vending machine alcove, battling a recalcitrant package of Corn Nuts.

  The noisy crowd of suits and ties came to a halt on the boardwalk over Himmarshee Creek. The mayor, at the center of the group, nodded toward the water: “You know what they say about waterfront property in Florida, don’t you?’’ His voice boomed, and he slapped one of the suits on the back. “Get it while you can. They’re not making any more!’’

  The man chuckled, a bit too heartily I thought. A second suit, much taller, stepped forward to peer over the railing. He pointed to the dark water below. An expensive-looking gold watch peeked out from the monogrammed cuff at his wrist: “So this stream also fronts the parcel we’ve been talking about?’’

  Parcel? What parcel? These guys looked like developers. No telling what kind of proposal they’d cooked up.

  I stepped out of the vending area and onto the wooden boardwalk, my indestructible snack bag in hand. My boss’s lectures about being more friendly and welcoming to park visitors ran through my mind. Well, here were some park visitors. I injected a smile into my voice.

  “Can I help y’all?’’

  Except for the mayor, the men looked like they’d all selected their outfits from the Timeless Fashions for Business Guys Shoppe: white shirts, dark suits, black dress shoes, red ties—with a couple of striped-blues thrown in to mix things up. It had to be 95 degrees outside. They stood in the full sun, and not a one of them had thought to take off his jacket. It was clear they weren’t from around here.

  The mayor gave me a campaign-poster smile. I was surprised to see a diamond stud winking from his earlobe. Pretty hip for a guy sporting polyester beltless slacks, white loafers, and a T-shirt that screamed BILL GRAF FOR MAYOR in red block letters.

  “I know you, don’t I?’’

  “We’ve met at the country club.’’ I didn’t add that when we met, Mama had informed him she’d voted for his opponent, and then tried to browbeat him and his wife into attending her church. “I think you also play golf with my brother-in-law. Kenny Wilson?’’

  He pursed his lips like he was thinking. “Nope. The name doesn’t ring a bell.’’

  “The staff out there said you two played together. Big guy? Drives a pickup truck with silver mud flaps?’’

  He grinned. “Oh, yes. The flaps with the naked girl silhouettes. You don’t see too many of those at the club.’’

  “Naked girls or mud flaps?’’ said the tall man with the watch. A couple of the other suits smirked.

  “I think I might have played a round or two with your brother-in-law, when one of my threesome didn’t show.’’

  The tall suit leered. “Threesome? I’ve heard you like to play with a foursome.’’

  The mayor ignored the comment. “Your brother-in-law’s a lousy golfer, by the way.’’

  I didn’t reveal I’d heard the same assessment of the mayor’s game.

  “Have you seen Kenny lately?’’

  “Can’t say that I have. Look, we’re kind of busy here.’’ His tone was impatient. “We’re looking for the park supervisor. We need to have a cornfab about business.’’

  Opening the office door, I pointed inside to my boss, Rhonda.

  “ ‘Cornfab’ away.’’

  A familiar wave of relief that I wasn’t management material washed over me. When the mayor and the four suits had filed into the office, I slipped in behind them and took a seat at my desk. I’d been working on an exhibit about the mating habits of the Sandhill crane. I arranged it so I could disappear behind it.

  Rhonda, trapped in a dull phone conversation about budgets and such, quit talking in mid-sentence when she spotted the mayor. “Anyway, those are the salient points about personnel.’’ She quickly wrapped up the call. “I’ll have to get back to you. Something’s just come up.’’

  As soon as she placed the
receiver on its cradle, she unfolded her lithe body from her chair, and stretched her hand out toward Graf. “Mr. Mayor, what a pleasant surprise.’’

  A smile spread across her lovely face. Only I recognized it as one the former fashion model reserved for people she didn’t really want to see. It reached her angled cheek bones, but stopped short of warming her hazel-flecked eyes.

  A couple of the suits seemed awestruck to find such a beauty wearing park department khakis. The mayor, though, barely gave her a second look. “Where’s your boss, doll?’’

  Her smile was cool. “I am the boss.’’

  Which of Rhonda’s characteristics confused him, I wondered: The fact she was black, or that she was a woman?

  “So, you’re in charge?’’

  She extended a long graceful finger, tapping the supervisor title on her desk nameplate. “That’s what it says.’’

  “Well, screw me like a rabbit, I’m surprised.’’ It didn’t seem to register with the mayor he was pissing off a possible ally in whatever plan he was hatching. “We’re trying to find out anything we can about the owners of the properties next to the park.’’

  “All you have to do is go to the county courthouse.’’ Rhonda took her seat again, started shuffling papers. “Property ownership is public record.’’

  The mayor glanced furtively around the office. He didn’t seem to notice me slumping down behind a stuffed Sandhill crane—a tall, regal bird with a red cap of feathers.

  He lowered his voice. “We’re more interested in off-the-record kind of information. Are any of the property owners having financial problems? Anyone contemplating divorce? Or, maybe one of the families is struggling with a tragic—and costly—illness?’’

  I came out from behind my bird.

  “In other words,’’ I said, “is there anybody in a bad way so a bunch of developers can take advantage and buy their land cheap?’’

  “That’s rude,’’ one of the suits said.

  “What’s rude is outsiders coming in here and buying up property to build ugly crap that nobody wants.’’

  Rhonda lifted her palms in the air in the traffic cop position. “That’s enough, Mace.’’

  “You know it’s true,’’ I said. “Why don’t you ask them what they have planned? No doubt it’s something that will compromise every living tree and critter, not to mention the water supply, in this end of the county.’’

  “It’s a subdivision,’’ the mayor said. “Country Haven. New homes for five-hundred residents. The park will become a very important amenity. Everyone wants a house conjoining a park.’’

  “Adjoining,’’ I said. “But nobody wants to live next to a shoddily built subdivision with cookie-cutter houses and too many cars and people.’’

  The face on one of the suits turned thoughtful. “What’s the possibility of getting a zoning change for the park itself?’’ He looked out the window to acres of pristine woods and water. “That’s prime real estate, just going to waste!’’

  The mayor glared pointedly at him, and then cut his eyes to Rhonda and me as if to make sure we noticed. “We’d never do anything to compromise this beloved park, or Himmarshee’s precious eco-system, for that matter. It’s what makes this part of Florida very unique.’’

  I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t correct him again. Lord knows, Maddie drilled it into my head enough: Unique is unique. Something can’t be “very’’ unique. Even beyond his grammar, though, I wasn’t buying his words.

  A frown creased the face of one of the suits, the gold watch guy who’d first gazed over the railing at the creek. “I’m still troubled about the image of the community itself. Marketing Country Haven as ‘How Things Were Back When’ is difficult with headlines screaming about a sexually tinged murder.’’

  The mayor tugged at his collar. Swallowed a couple of times. He looked nervous. Stalling for time, maybe? The suit had a point.

  “Mrs. Graf and myself were just discussing this at breakfast.’’

  I could stand the mayor’s misspeaks no longer. “That’s ‘Mrs. Graf and I.’”

  He looked confused. “You and her have talked?’’

  Rhonda caught my eye; shook her head. “Never mind,’’ I said.

  “Big city sin can touch even the most innocent of towns. Satan likes nothing more than to wreak havoc where he’s not wanted. He loves it when he can get his hooks into the weak and the idle.’’ His voice rose like a hell-fire preacher. “The point is, all this about the murder will be forgotten by the time we break ground.’’

  “It won’t be forgotten by the victim’s friends and family,’’ Rhonda said.

  I nodded in agreement. “I’ll bet that’s exactly what’s troubling everyone who knew that poor girl: How will her brutal murder affect Himmarshee’s image?”

  At least one of the suits had the good grace to look embarrassed. But the mayor blustered on. “It was a horrible thing, but it’s over. Once we get this project off the ground, people are just going to be happy we’re bringing jobs and a boom to the tax base.’’

  I think he meant boon. I said, “That’s assuming you do get it off the ground. Don’t underestimate how much people are tired of runaway growth. Maybe they don’t want yet another fake community to replace what’s real and natural about Florida.’’

  One of the suits smirked. “Natural? Swamps and snakes? Bugs and humidity?’’ The others laughed.

  He was hunting bear without a rifle, attacking my native state. Rhonda caught my eye again, though, and gave me the cease-and-desist glare. She’d heard me rant before about people who can’t appreciate Florida’s original beauty.

  She said, “I think we can all agree we want what’s best for Himmarshee, and for justice. That’s where Mace comes in. Give her a few days, and she’ll be on her way to solving Camilla’s murder. She’s done it before.’’

  A couple of the suits aimed curious looks at me. I wanted to hide again behind my bird. Sputtering, the mayor waved away Rhonda’s comment. “That’s preposterous! I’m confident the police have it in hand. They hardly need a redneck Agatha Christie sticking her nose in.’’

  “Mace isn’t a redneck,’’ Rhonda said.

  “That’s all right, boss. If the boot fits …’’ I lifted my foot, showing off my size-ten clodhopper. Some dried manure flaked off the heel and onto the floor.

  “Well, she’s not the dumb kind of redneck, anyway,’’ Rhonda said. “She’s super-smart, even if she isn’t great with people. She keeps her mouth shut and her eyes open. I’ll tell you right now, Mace might know who killed Camilla before the police do.’’

  The mayor pulled at his collar again, wiped some sweat from his forehead. He gave me a suspicious look. “Irregardless,’’ he said, as I winced at the extra ir, “surely the police don’t encourage amateurs to help solve crimes?’’

  “I don’t have a bull in this rodeo, Mr. Mayor. I didn’t even know the victim. Besides, the Himmarshee police hardly need my help,’’ I said. “Carlos Martinez is the head of the homicide division, and he’s quite capable.’’

  I didn’t elaborate that Carlos IS the homicide division.

  “He earned his stripes solving murders in Miami,’’ Rhonda added.

  “He’ll have this one wrapped up in no time,’’ I said.

  The suit with the posh gold watch glanced at it. “I hope so. The sooner people forget about this murder, the more houses we can sell.’’

  “I’m sure that will help Camilla’s soul rest in peace,’’ I said.

  _____

  It was quitting time. The mayor and his cronies had taken a couple of maps, and left to survey the park’s outlying areas. Along with the Corn Nuts and a Coke, one thing sustained me over the afternoon: The image of all those shiny black dress shoes and the mayor’s white loafers slogging through dank muck and soggy marshes. I only wished we’d had a drenching rain to make things worse.

  In the parking lot, a huge Hummer commanded two spaces. I was sure it was the developers
’ vehicle—a fitting symbol for an invading army. It sat in the full sun, soaking up heat. I hoped they all burned their legs on the Hummer’s black seats when they climbed in.

  At the far end of the lot, the driver of a small school bus had wisely parked under the shade canopy of a live oak. She read a paperback in the front seat while a field trip group finished up. The kids were getting close. Childish laughter and piping voices filled the woods.

  I heard a car engine start as I was putting some research files about birds in the back of my Jeep. The first children were just beginning to lope into the parking lot from the nature path. They were hot on the trail of a squirrel, which was making for the safety of the oak tree.

  “Slow down!’’ a teacher’s voice called out.

  A cluster of kids raced after the leaders, trying to close the gap on the squirrel. Only a few children heeded the teacher’s command.

  The car engine revved. With a squeal of tires, a dark sedan rocketed out of a blind parking space, hidden by the big Hummer. The car’s tinted windows were rolled up. I saw the faint outline of a man in a white T-shirt behind the wheel, talking on a cell phone. He wasn’t paying attention.

  The children skipped excitedly across the lot. The squirrel scampered up the tree. Gaining speed, the car came closer. The kids were directly in its path.

  “Watch out!’’ I shouted.

  twenty-six

  The attention of the first boy in the line of children snapped from the squirrel to the speeding car. His eyes widened in fear. He seemed rooted to the pavement. The car came closer. Inside the parked bus, the driver pounded frantically on the horn: Beep! Beep! Beeeeep!

  Kids scattered. The teacher screamed. Just in time, the black car swerved.

  Safe, but scared, some of the kids began to cry. As the teacher hustled toward them from the woods, she tripped and fell to the parking lot pavement.

  When the car zoomed past, it was close enough that I could see through the dark windows. The mayor was behind the wheel. He yakked away on his phone as if nothing had happened. As he sped for the exit, I saw a red-white-and-blue campaign sticker on his bumper: “A Mayor Should Care. Vote Graf.’’