Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I kept time with Carrie Underwood’s “Good Girl.’’ We were all alone on the lonesome road. An image came to mind of me fleeing in my Jeep, pursued and under fire.
I thought of the mayor’s wife, talking about shooting skeet. I remembered the receptionist saying the hunting trophies in His Honor’s office had actually been bagged by Mrs. Graf.
“You know,’’ I said, “Beatrice Graf is an excellent markswoman. It could have been her shooting at me, trying to scare me away from looking into the murder. If the mayor was fooling around with Camilla, Beatrice could have killed her because she was jealous. Or, she might have been afraid he’d compromise his political standing. No political standing for him, no high profile for her as the First Lady of Himmarshee. That’d be a reason for her to want Camilla out of the way.’’
“I don’t see that,’’ Mama said.
“Why not?’’
“First of all, she’s fooling around herself, with that fine-looking Jason. Being jealous about the mayor would be like craving hamburger after you’ve filled up on filet mignon. Second, didn’t she say she’d been out of town when we found the body?’’
“That’s what she said; the mayor acted like he didn’t agree. I didn’t confirm the alibi.’’
“Let’s hope Carlos has. Before you broke up, he might have told you that kind of information.’’
I looked at her sideways. “On what planet? Bizarro world? Carlos never shares any information with me. Besides, we are not broken up.’’
I tried to sound more certain about that than I felt.
We were both quiet for a time. The re-tuned engine of Mama’s vintage car purred. The tires thrummed on the highway. The fresh scent of a sudden rain shower blew in through the open windows. The rain passed so quickly, I didn’t bother to close them.
“What was that crazy thing you said, accusing Prudence of killing her sister? That was rude, Mace. Even for you.’’
“Prudence would be even ruder, if she did murder her sister.’’ In my mind, I saw her sitting in Camilla’s home, waiting for the bank to call. “She stands to inherit her sister’s estate. Money has always been a powerful motivator.’’
I slapped the steering wheel. “Dammit! I just remembered another thing that bothered me about her. Remember dinner at your house, when we were talking about her sister? When Prudence mentioned the collar Camilla was wearing when she was killed, she said ‘complete with O ring.’ The police report never described it so specifically. How’d she know?’’
Mama waved a dismissive hand: “A fetish collar is a fetish collar.’’
I wasn’t so sure about that, but I didn’t want to pursue my mother’s familiarity with fetishes. I summed up instead: “How much do we know about Prudence anyway?’’
“We know she was in Atlanta when Camilla was killed.’’
“Right.’’ I rubbed my eyes. “I’m so tired, I’m not thinking straight about anything.’’
Suddenly, I smelled the dump more than I smelled the damp air of dawn. I knew we were getting close to the county line. My little cottage wasn’t far beyond that. Maybe I’d be able to grab a couple of hours of sleep before I had to be at work at ten o’clock.
I flew past a garbage truck, idling on the shoulder of the road.
“That truck’s out early,’’ I said.
Mama yawned.
“Crap! Did I forget to put out my cans? No, wait. This is Saturday.’’
A bigger yawn.
We passed the next couple of miles in silence. In my periphery, I caught Mama nodding and blinking, trying to stay awake. My own eyeballs felt like somebody had scuffed them with sandpaper. Slowing as I neared the turnoff to my house, I maneuvered the convertible onto my oak-lined drive. That brought her back to life.
“I-I-I wi-wi-wish yo-yo-you’d ge-ge-get th-th-this dr-dr-driveway pa-pa-paved.’’
“Stop being such a baby,’’ I said.
Easing Mama’s car into my front yard, I killed the engine. She immediately pulled her smart phone from her pantsuit pocket. “I’ll just be a minute,’’ she said. “My phone’s almost out of juice, but I want to text Sal. I’m going to tell him I’ll be on my way just as soon as I stop at your house to tinkle.’’
“WTMI, Mama. Waaaaay Too Much Information. Why didn’t you go before we left the truck stop?’’
“Did you see those toilets? I decided to hold it. I don’t have to go too bad now, but I sure will by the time I drive home. You live out in the boonies, Mace.’’
“Yes, by design. I’m exactly thirteen miles from you. My lucky number.’’
She stuck out her tongue. I stood there waiting for her, until I realized she was still typing.
“You know, you could have used the bathroom already and been on your way if you didn’t have to tweet your every movement.’’
“I’m not tweeting. I’m texting.’’
“Whatever. I’m going to bed.’’ I tossed the keys I was holding through the window and onto the floorboard.
She waved me off. “Sal’s up. He’s texting me back. You go ahead. I’ll be right in.’’
As I left, she was still in the car. Head buried in her phone, she was texting like mad.
The sun hid below the horizon, but a pink and yellow glow began to color the sky. An early-rising mockingbird sang a welcoming tune. I whistled a few notes in return, letting Florida’s feathered symbol know I appreciated the cheerful greeting.
I was just about to open my front door when a shot blasted out from the woods. Everything that unfolded next happened really fast.
I heard a hiss, and smelled propane gas.
Mama yelled, “Take cover, Mace!’’
My eyes flicked toward her. An instant later, they took in the sight of an above-ground propane tank in the side yard. I barely registered the sound of a second shot, before I saw a flash of light sparking through the air. Mama hit the ground, next to her car. I screamed her name.
I heard nothing in reply except the boom of the propane tank exploding.
fifty-one
Are there rocks in heaven?
I hoped not, because several sharp stones jabbed into my back and butt. The ground beneath me was hard, and damp with morning dew. Smoke billowed in the air. Fire popped and crackled, burning a small outdoor shed next to the propane tank. The tank itself was gone: Blown to bits.
I raised myself to my elbows, checking to see which body parts hurt. They all did. The joints still moved, though. Familiar images began to form in blurry focus. There was my purse on the ground, twenty feet away. Had I tossed it there, or did the explosion send it flying? I saw Mama’s car, seemingly intact. The passenger door stood ajar.
Mama!
She’d dropped to the ground when the shooting started. Was she hit? Where was she now?
I struggled to my knees and blinked, trying to clear my vision. Something warm and wet coursed down from above my eyebrows. I rubbed my hand across my eyes. Even in the dimness of dawn’s light I could see blood coating my palm. A jagged hunk of white metal, now scorched black, lay near where I landed. It looked like a shard from the propane tank. Was that what hit me?
Pulling a bandana from the pocket of my jeans, I pressed it to my scalp. It came away moist, but not soaked. Gingerly, I worked my fingers from one side of my head to the other. Nothing poked back at me. No obvious fragments were embedded there.
I began crawling on all fours toward Mama’s car. Halfway there, I felt strong enough to try to stand. My legs wobbled. A wave of dizziness washed over me. I stood there swaying, as I squinted to see through the smoke and hazy light. Haltingly, I walked to the convertible, where I hung onto the door for support.
Mama was not where I’d seen her last, flat on the ground beside her car.
Wide tire tracks criss-crossed the yard. Whatever had made them was heavy enough to sink deep into wet grass. Black mud oozed up, filling the tread marks. As the smoke from the shed fire began to dispers
e, I noticed another smell. Familiar … stinky … garbage. Several small piles and black plastic bags dotted the ground like odoriferous ant mounds. Images started connecting in my brain: The too-early garbage truck, out-of-place as it idled near my home. The dump, where Mama and I had found Camilla’s body. Beatrice Graf’s family business.
Someone had taken Mama, and I thought I knew where. I prayed I wasn’t too late.
_____
The convertible swallowed the road. I was grateful for all eight cylinders. Mama’s keys had been on the floorboard, right where I dropped them. Her cell phone was under the car, near where she’d hit the ground. Had she consciously hidden it? Or, did the phone land there because she’d been shot?
I pressed my boot against the accelerator, urging an ounce more speed from the old Bonneville. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been unconscious, but I didn’t think it was long. The sun was still low on the horizon; the sky only dimly lit.
I grabbed Mama’s phone: The battery indicator was in the red zone, for almost-out-of-juice. I started to call Carlos … when my mind blanked. I’d phoned him by name on my speed dial for so long, I couldn’t recall the digits. My fingers scrabbled across Mama’s key pad to find the names of her favorite contacts. There was Sal, at the top. I felt a tug at my heart when I saw that I was second on the list. If Mama was safe, I vowed never to avoid her calls again.
I pressed to dial Sal, and the call went straight to voice mail. I fought to keep the panic from my voice. “Listen carefully. The phone’s nearly dead. I’m northbound on State Road 98, on my way to the Himmarshee dump. Whoever killed Camilla ambushed us at my house. They’ve got Mama, probably in a garbage truck. Call nine-one-one. Call Carlos, and tell him to meet me there …
and Sal? Please tell Carlos I’m sorry, and that I love him.’’
I rang off before he could hear the lump in my throat squeezing my words.
Barely slowing, I swung a sharp left onto the road that led to the dump. Everything on Mama’s front seat went flying: cell phone; tissue box; bottled water. Some loose golf clubs in the back clattered to the floorboard. Sal had been trying to teach Mama a few basics of the game.
I saw taillights just ahead. Gears ground. Air brakes hissed. The noisy truck was stopping, silhouetted by a mountain of trash beyond. I cut Mama’s engine and pulled off the road, coasting to a stop behind a stand of cypress trees. It immediately occurred to me I had no weapon and no strategy beyond the element of surprise. I jumped from the car, and my eyes lit on the golf clubs. Choosing the one with the widest, heaviest metal head, I sprinted along a line of trees toward the truck.
_____
Creeping up from behind, I could see a heavy tarp thrown across the open hopper at the truck’s rear. It was a gaping metal bin, where the contents of household cans were tossed in by the garbage guy who normally rode on the back. On this morning, I saw just one person with the truck: the driver, who had opened the door and was about to climb from the cab. The reflection in the truck’s side mirror revealed a dark baseball cap, pulled low over the driver’s face. In sunglasses, baggy slacks, and a loose, long-sleeved shirt, it could have been anyone.
Even when the driver stepped to the ground and shut the door, I still couldn’t tell who it was. The clothes were shapeless, and his—
or her—hair was tucked up under the cap.
At the back of the truck, no movement disturbed the tarp. My heart pounded. Was Mama hurt under there? Worse, was she dead?
As the driver crossed in front of the cab, I raced to the truck’s left side. My breath rasped out in gasps. I hoped they didn’t sound as loud as they did in my own ears. Peering under the truck, I watched booted feet moving on the other side, from front to right rear. I situated myself alongside the huge tires, careful to hide my own legs there in case the driver happened to glance underneath.
The boots stopped at the right rear corner of the truck.
In that instant, I knew my mother’s fate. The controls for the compactor were on the right rear. The driver planned to crush Mama like ninety-eight pounds of household garbage. I placed my hand against the truck’s fender and said a silent prayer. “Hang on,’’ I added, hoping Mama would sense my presence. “I will not let you get trashed.’’
I bolted around the back of the truck. The driver’s hand was within inches of the control lever. Raising the club overhead, I swung with all my might. The sweet spot struck solidly. Howling with pain, the driver staggered backward. The hat fell off, revealing a full head of blonde hair, kissed daily by the sun on the golf course.
Jason.
“The cops are right behind me,’’ I said. “You won’t get away. Don’t make it any worse by hurting someone else.’’
He reached with his left hand to pull the lever. I wound up and swung again. The club slammed his wrist with a sickening thud. Jason squealed like a pig caught under a gate. Keeping one eye on him, I pounded the side of the truck. “Can you hear me, Mama? Give me a sign you’re okay.’’
Only silence came from inside. That bastard Jason managed to smirk at me, even through his pain. I aimed the club straight at his head. “Don’t think I won’t knock you into a coma,’’ I said. “Now, get down on the ground and stay down.’’
With Jason seated on the roadway, and my club within reach, I pulled off the tarp. The hopper brimmed with loose garbage and lumpy plastic bags. I poked my hand in, searching for anything that felt human.
A muffled mmmppfff, mmmppfff issued from the trashy depths. I dug frantically, tossing out trash bags as I went. My hand encountered the familiar shape of a kitten-heeled sandal. Empty. Somewhere in there was its matching persimmon mate, hopefully attached to the intact foot of my unharmed mama.
Casting out pizza boxes, clumped kitty litter, and the spoiled, slimy remains of what seemed like an entire salad bar, I unearthed a rolled-up carpet. A hank of platinum hair stuck out of the top. Panting with effort, I hauled it out. I was thankful for Mama’s petite build and my years of lifting hay bales and feed bags. As gently as I could, I lowered the rug to the ground and unrolled it.
“Mmmppfff! Mmmppfff!”
Duct tape covered her mouth, and bound her hands behind her back. Crushed taco shells and wet clumps of something unnaturally orange clung to her hair. A crab claw hung over one ear.
“This will hurt,’’ I warned, as I ripped the tape from her face.
She gulped in a couple of deep breaths and then shouted, “It was Prudence! She and Jason were in on it together. She’s the one who blew up your propane tank!’’
So it was the evil twin. I knew it.
fifty-two
I poked Jason in the leg with the golf club. When he wouldn’t look at me, I poked him harder. “Where’s your girlfriend, Miss Fragile English Rose, now?’’
He shrugged.
“Guess this means you’re not going steady with Beatrice Graf.”
His face was hard, absent of all traces of the flirtatious, good-time guy. “I want a lawyer.’’
With my pocketknife, I sliced the duct tape from Mama’s wrists and ankles. We found the rest of the roll in the garbage truck. I taped Jason’s feet together to make sure he wouldn’t run. His club-pummeled hands were blowing up like balloons, so I didn’t bother taping them.
I detected sirens, wailing faintly in the distance. Thank God, Sal had gotten the message. The cavalry was on its way. Jason heard the sirens, too. He leaned back against the truck’s tire and dropped his head to his knees.
I turned my attention to Mama. “How’d you end up in the truck?’’
“Right after the explosion, I was still under my car. I saw Prudence come running, carrying a rifle in one hand and a bright red flare gun in the other. About the same time, this big ol’ garbage truck rumbled into your yard. She crouched over you, real calm, and checked you out. Then she shouted to the truck, ‘She’s alive.’ My own heart started beating again once I heard those words.’’
Mama’s gaze focused on the rug on the ground
. She waited a beat, and then continued.
“I heard Jason’s voice call out, ‘What about the old lady? Where is she?’ Prudence looked surprised. She probably thought you’d dropped me off and were coming home alone.’’
“‘Old lady?’’’ I repeated. “I should have let you hit Jason with the golf club, Mama.’’
She gave me a weak smile. “It didn’t take long for them to find me under my car. In that haughty tone, she told Jason to ‘take care of the witness.’ That was me, Mace!’’
Breathing through my mouth, I pulled her close for a hug. I plucked the crab shell from behind her ear, and finger combed a chunk of what looked like rotten pork from her hair.
“When he rolled me up and tossed me in that truck, I saw my whole life flash by. Buried in trash was not the way I’d planned to meet my maker.’’
“It was your mother’s fault for being there, you know.’’
I glared at the newly verbal Jason.
“We only planned on scaring you by making the propane tank go boom. It was supposed to be a warning to keep away from the murder investigation, just like the note on your sister’s door. But I noticed there were two of you in the car when you passed my truck on the highway. We couldn’t leave your mother behind to tell the cops.’’
The sirens sounded closer.
“It won’t be long before Mama and I both get to do that,’’ I said. “I’ve got it all figured out. You and Prudence conspired together to get rid of her sister. She probably had some kind of serious grudge against Camilla, who was better than her at everything. Plus, Prudence stood to inherit. You like women with money, so the two of you were a match made in heaven.’’
“What about the garbage truck?’’ Mama asked.
“Jason had Beatrice Graf wrapped around his finger,’’ I said. “He must have convinced her to pull some strings and let him use the truck.’’ I could hear the certainty in my own voice.
He smirked at me again. “You think you’re so smart, but you don’t know shit.’’
Mama Gets Trashed (A Mace Bauer Mystery) Page 25
