Mama Gets Trashed (A Mace Bauer Mystery)

by Sharp, Deborah

  His cheeks reddened, his lips compressed to a thin line. But he didn’t stand up to Beatrice. She leaned in, so close I noted booze on her breath, along with a familiar lemony smell. Now I remembered the scent. I’d smelled it at the golf course locker room, and at Kenny’s cabin, too.

  “Toodle-loo, ladies.’’ She shoved Mama into me, pushed us both into the hall, and then slammed the office door behind us.

  We caught the receptionist returning, carrying two cups of coffee. I wondered if she spit in the one for Mrs. Mayor. I jerked my head toward the closed door. “She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?’’

  “You have no idea,’’ the receptionist said. “Did she brag about her kills?’’

  I raised my eyebrows at her.

  “Mayor Graf lets visitors assume he’s the Great White Hunter, but his wife is responsible for animal death row in there.’’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Some days I picture her head up there on the wall.’’

  The outer door opened. Diamond stepped into the hall—pad in hand, blank look in place. Sighing, the receptionist went back inside.

  “Mace,’’ Diamond said, painstakingly putting pen to yellow pad. “Now, do I spell that with a big letter M?’’

  thirty-four

  Carlos spooned up some picadillo from a pan on the stove for me to taste. Flecked with olives, chopped green pepper, and raisins, the ground beef dish was a favorite Cuban recipe.

  “How is it?’’

  “Mmmmmm … perfect,’’ I said, licking the spoon.

  “Does it need anything?’’

  “Just a plate, so I can start eating it.’’

  “Rice?’’

  “That will take too long.’’

  Carlos and I had met at his place near downtown for a late lunch. Just in time, too, because I was starving. The Coke and a package of peanut butter and cheese crackers I’d had between my visit with Prudence and the appointment at the mayor’s office was hardly enough to hold me. When he’d called to invite me over for some home-cooking, Cuban-style, I dumped Mama back at Hair Today, and jumped at the opportunity.

  I tried not to think about the fact I was withholding important information from the caring man who was about to satiate my growling stomach.

  “Okay, no rice. But a piece of Cuban bread, at least?’’ He peeled the white paper from a loaf of the crusty bread, and quickly sliced it into rounds.

  Before he could get the bread off the cutting board and into a basket, I grabbed a slice, slathered it with butter, and popped the whole thing in my mouth.

  “Nice manners. I’m going to tell your mother.’’

  “Amfythimg butf thatf!’’ I said, my mouth busy with the bread.

  He gave me one of his sexy smiles, and bent down to brush his lips against my forehead. “This kiss to be continued, when you aren’t chewing a mouthful of food. I have to pick my moments with you.’’

  Once we started eating, conversation was kept to a minimum:

  “Would you like some mojo?’’ he asked.

  I shook my head. “Doesn’t need any sauce. It’s great just like it is.’’

  “Were you planning to share the bread?’’

  I offered him the basket, he took a piece.

  I pointed at about a half-cup of picadillo left in the pan. “Okay if I finish it off?’’

  He nodded.

  Finally, I quit eating, and collapsed back against the chair. Carlos grinned at me.

  “I don’t know where you put it.’’ He dabbed at my chin with a napkin. “I do see one little piece of an olive that got away, right there.’’

  I ran a hand over my face, checking for any more errant morsels.

  “Man, that was good.’’ I gave a satisfied sigh. “You’re going to make some lucky girl a very fine husband one day.’’

  He lifted my hand to his mouth and kissed my palm. “That’s just what I intend to do. Soon, I hope.’’

  Our eyes locked. His were like deep, dark pools drawing me in. I basked in this molten warmth that washed over me. It was a feeling of contentment; of safety; of love.

  “Yes, soon,’’ I said. “But first … ” I threaded my fingers through the hair at the back of his head, pulling his face close to mine. “How about us enjoying some dessert?’’

  He kissed me, nipping gently at my lower lip. “I couldn’t eat another bite of food,’’ he said.

  “Who’s talking about food?’’ I asked.

  _____

  Later, as we showered together, I rubbed Carlos’s back. “How’s that?’’

  “Little higher, to the right.’’

  With the hot spray of water and a soapy washcloth, I worked the familiar spot at the base of his neck. All the stress of his job often parked itself right there.

  “Ahhhh,’’ he said. “Gracias, niña.’’

  Hearing him thank me stirred my guilty feelings again. I was so tempted to say something about Kenny, but I didn’t. First, I had to find out more about the relationship between my brother-in-law and the dead librarian. D’Vora was pretty specific about Kenny’s truck, but she could have been wrong about seeing them together. Even if she wasn’t, there could be a reasonable explanation.

  Couldn’t there?

  I had to talk to someone who could help me sort out what I knew. But who?

  “… about the case.’’

  “Sorry, what?’’ I said. “I zoned out there for a minute.’’

  “I said I appreciate the fact you haven’t grilled me about the case.’’

  “Camilla,’’ I murmured.

  “Yes, the murder of Camilla Law.’’

  “Well, it’s really none of my business.’’

  “Since when has that ever stopped you?’’

  I didn’t want to tell him my real reason for not trying to pick his brain. I was afraid if I did, he’d work his detective magic and end up discovering my secrets instead. I needed to create a distraction before I spilled everything I knew. I spotted a bottle on the window ledge in the shower.

  “Shampoo?’’

  “That depends,’’ he said. “Do I have to tip the shampoo girl?’’

  “I’m sure we can think of an appropriate reward.’’

  The smolder in his smile told me he’d already conjured up a fitting idea. I put away the bottle as he wrapped his strong arms around me. I was willing and eager to collect my pre-shampoo tip.

  thirty-five

  Henry closed the door between his office and the reception area. He opened it again a moment later, and stuck his head out to speak to Amy, the college student who helped him run his legal practice. “No phone calls, okay? My cousin and I need some uninterrupted time.’’

  I’d settled on Henry as the most likely person to help me sort out what I’d come to think of as The Kenny Crisis. He knew the law, and he wouldn’t reveal anything that would harm Maddie. It wasn’t simply a question of attorney-client—or attorney-cousin—privilege. He truly cared about my sister, despite the fact that he poked fun at her like a kid with a stick every chance he got.

  “You said on the phone Kenny and Maddie are in trouble. Please don’t tell me somebody’s sick.’’ He touched a golden gavel on his desk, like a talisman.

  “Kenny’s running around. He’s cheating on Maddie.’’

  Henry stared at me, and then gave his head a forceful shake. “I don’t believe it.’’

  I outlined the evidence. As I spoke, Henry’s face betrayed his emotions: Sorrow when I told him how devastated Maddie had been when she found out. Anger when I said Kenny had left their home, simply disappeared. Finally, shock when I revealed his apparent involvement with Camilla, and how Kenny may have been among the last people to see her alive.

  I’d rarely known Henry to be speechless. But there he sat, uttering nary a word. Eventually he closed his eyes, as if to clear away images of Kenny’s actions. He rubbed his hands over his face. “Well, this is one heck of a shit-storm, Mace.’’

  “Tell me something I don’t
know. What are we going to do about it?’’

  Henry’s face turned thoughtful. He lifted the gavel from his desk, and pounded it into the center of his palm: Smack. Smack. Smack.

  Before he could injure himself, I asked if he had any water. “I had picadillo for lunch,’’ I said. “Good, but the olives were salty.’’

  He took a water pitcher from a small table beside his desk, turned two glasses right side up, and poured one for each of us. I wondered if he’d reach into his bottom drawer for a shot of something stronger, but he didn’t. Just as well. Clear minds would help us decide our next step.

  “There’s something else, Henry.’’

  His grip on the glass tightened. “It gets worse?’’

  I nodded. “It’s Carlos. I haven’t told him what I found out about Kenny and Camilla, even though it’s relevant to his murder investigation.’’

  “Great. One cousin’s husband might be a murderer, the other cousin could be brought up on obstructing justice charges.’’ He put down his glass and started massaging his face again.

  “Can he arrest me?’’

  Henry peeked at me through his fingers. “Realistically? Probably not. Technically, yes. We all remember how Carlos once tossed your mama in the slammer without a second thought.’’

  He dropped his hands from his eyes, took another minute to think about it. “He’s going to raise holy hell and prop it up on a block when he finds out you’ve withheld information.’’

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.’’ I looked out the window; wondered what Carlos was doing at this moment. Maybe he was fondly remembering his loving interlude with his lying fiancée.

  “I don’t want to hinder his investigation,’’ I continued, “but I do want to protect Maddie. If all Kenny’s guilty of is cheating, maybe they can save their marriage. That becomes a lot less likely once her husband’s name has been dragged through the mud as a murder suspect.’’

  He pointed at me with the golden gavel. “If Carlos asks you a specific question about Kenny, and you lie or mislead him, you’re on shaky ground, legally.’’

  “I’m going to be on shaky ground emotionally if I don’t tell him what I know. We’re engaged, Henry. It’s a trust issue.’’

  We both sipped at our water. A soft knock sounded at the door. Amy looked in. Conservatively dressed and serious seeming in dark-framed glasses, she was the antithesis of the “administrative assistants’’ at the mayor’s office.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but it’s after five o’clock,’’ she said. “I just wondered if you need me for anything before I go.’’

  Henry thanked her, told her he’d see her in the morning. I heard the outer door close, the lock slip into place.

  “There’s only one thing I can do, Henry. I have to find Kenny and prove he had nothing to do with Camilla’s death.’’

  “And how are you going to do that?’’

  Thinking about that question, I gazed around the room. A blue blazer hung on the back of an office chair. Law volumes crowded the bookcases. My eyes lingered on an antique radio displayed on a shelf.

  Suddenly, I knew what to do. “I have an idea how we can flush Kenny out from whatever rock he’s been hiding under.’’

  Henry cocked his head at me.

  “You and the morning show DJ from the country music station are good buddies, right?’’

  He nodded.

  “You think he’d do us a favor?’’

  thirty-six

  Henry eased his Lawyer Lexus into a spot in the empty lot at Kenny’s insurance office.

  He’d phoned his radio friend, to set my plan in motion. Then we’d left Henry’s place, intent on doing what we could to find Kenny in the remaining hours of daylight.

  The one-man insurance shop was closed, the door locked up tight. I looked in through the streaky windows. A small pile of unopened letters had collected on the floor inside, by the mail slot. The only thing in the trash basket by Kenny’s desk was an empty can of diet Mountain Dew, crushed.

  “Maddie and I have tried calling him here,’’ I told Henry. “It rings, but the voice mail is full.’’

  Henry put his face against the window. “Looks like he hasn’t picked up his regular mail for a few days, either.’’

  I brushed a dirt smudge from the tip of my cousin’s nose. Kenny’s office is right on Main Street. The big stock trailers and sod trucks rumble by and stir up road dust. A fine gray powder coats all the store fronts.

  I wrote a message with my finger across the dusty door: Call me, ASAP. Mace

  _____

  Henry worked the happy hour crowd at the 19th Hole like a politician at a pancake breakfast. With his gift of gab and easy charm, he moved a lot more easily than I did between the old and new factions of our hometown. We hadn’t found Kenny, but it wasn’t for want of my cousin trying.

  Henry had slapped backs, bought drinks, and told jokes in pursuit of information. So far, the most valuable tidbit we’d uncovered was that Kenny had trouble with his bunker play and needed to work on his short game, whatever that meant. Fortunately, Henry spoke golf, so I could ask him later to translate. According to reports from the other golfers, Kenny had played a few rounds with the mayor, and he liked to talk to Angel at the bar, both things I already knew.

  My ears perked up when a big-bellied retiree in plaid pants mentioned Jason.

  “Sure,’’ Plaid Pants told Henry. “I know Kenny. He handles my storm insurance. Boy, hurricane coverage costs an arm and a leg in Florida. It’s more than quadruple the price of a homeowner’s policy back home. In Ohio … .”

  “About Kenny?’’ I interrupted.

  “Right, the pro’s been spending a lot of time with him, working on his putt. It’s all in the grip.’’

  Plaid Pants got off his barstool and demonstrated, holding an imaginary putter.

  “You’re talking about Jason, right?’’ I asked.

  “Sure, he’s the only pro here. It can’t be cheap, as many lessons as Kenny’s had.’’

  Funny, Jason hadn’t mentioned he’d given Kenny lessons. I leaned over to whisper in Henry’s ear. “We need to talk to the pro.’’

  We found him closing up the pro shop, alone thankfully. I asked Jason why he hadn’t told me he tutored Kenny. “Somebody said he’d probably paid a lot for all the lessons you gave him.’’

  He shrugged. “Not everything is about money, Mace.’’

  “It is when you have a daughter at an expensive college, like Kenny does, and your wife has no idea you’re throwing away tons of green learning to nudge a ball into a little cup.’’

  “Maybe I didn’t charge him.’’

  Henry and I exchanged skeptical looks.

  “At least not in cash,’’ Jason clarified.

  Henry put a hand on Jason’s shoulder. I could tell he was squeezing, because the younger man’s teeth were gritted. “Look here,’’ he used his most intimidating courtroom voice, “maybe you should just tell us the nature of your relationship with Kenny.’’

  Ohmigod, I thought to myself. What if Jason revealed he and Kenny were gay lovers? That’d end Maddie’s marriage for sure.

  “Kenny has this hunting cabin, way out in the middle of nowhere,’’ Jason said. “It comes in handy for certain … activities … our club members are interested in pursuing.’’

  “Activities?’’ Henry asked.

  Having seen Kenny’s hunting camp, I had a pretty good idea what that meant, but I wanted to hear how the pro would describe it.

  Jason glanced at his watch. “It’s past my quitting time, and I need to close the shop. A man can get awful thirsty when people are asking him to reveal secrets.’’

  Henry took the hint. “Drinks in the bar, on me.’’

  We waited as Jason locked up the cash register, shut off the lights, and grabbed the keys to that fancy BMW off a peg on the wall. Henry tried again as we walked across the parking lot to the bar. “Could you elaborate on the kind of ‘activities’
you were referring to?’’

  Jason coughed a few times, pointed to his throat. “I can barely speak, I’m so parched.’’

  A few moments later, we’d slid into a booth in a quiet corner of the 19th Hole. Revelers stood two and three deep at the bar for happy hour. Angel was a blur of motion, mixing drinks. A server helping out from the dining room took care of our orders.

  After our drinks arrived, Jason took a few swallows of his Long Island Iced Tea. Henry then slid the drink to the side of the table. “Less parched now, I presume?’’

  “Whatever, dude.’’

  “Why don’t you tell us what kind of activities the members enjoy?’’ I said.

  “Fine. A lot of people here like to swing,’’ Jason said.

  “I think Mace meant activities aside from golf,’’ Henry said.

  “I’m not talking about golf swings.’’

  I saw comprehension dawn in my cousin’s eyes. “Sexual swinging?’’ he asked.

  “Bingo,’’ Jason said.

  Henry shifted into courtroom mode. “Who’s been a party to this activity?’’

  Jason’s forehead wrinkled. He looked at me to translate. “Is he asking about parties? Because we have lots of swingers’ parties.’’

  “He means who all’s involved in the sex.’’

  A sly smile spread across the pro’s face. “Well, you’d be, if Angel had her way.” He explained to Henry: “Our barmaid thinks Mace is hot.’’

  I felt my face flush. “I’m straight.’’

  “That’s all right, so is Angel, for the most part. But she knows a few swingers who would think the two of you together are just their type.’’ He leaned across the table to caress my arm.

  “Mace is engaged,’’ Henry said.

  “I sure am.’’

  “Well, you’re not married yet.’’ Jason winked at me.

  I tried to ignore the fact my arm tingled a bit where he’d stroked it. What was wrong with me? How could I even think about some sleazy country-club Romeo when I had a good man who wanted to marry me? Maybe Maddie’s current crisis combined with Mama’s checkered history really had spoiled me for true love.