We all fell silent, each with our thoughts. Then, Maddie got up to rummage around in the refrigerator. She returned with three-fourths of a butterscotch pie in one hand and two take-out containers from the Pork Pit in the other. I rose to get out some plates and silverware, while Marty slipped the take-out into the microwave.
“I couldn’t eat a thing,” Mama said. “I’m too upset.”
Maddie cut her a small slice of the pie anyway. Mama pushed the plate way off to the side of her placemat, even though butterscotch was her favorite.
Once my sisters and I had filled our plates, Maddie announced: “Well, I like Sal. I’m not going to believe the worst about him until I hear what he has to say.”
Last summer, Maddie’s attitude toward Sal had been the last to change. But once he won her over, she was in his corner for life. Even if he was a New Yorker.
Marty defended him, too. “Can’t you give Sal the benefit of the doubt, Mama? Remember there were a lot of things he wouldn’t—couldn’t—tell us last summer. But everything turned out all right in the end, didn’t it?”
Mama didn’t answer. Marty’s question hung in the air, which was rich with the tangy smell of barbecue sauce, the aroma of macaroni and cheese, and the sweet scent of that pie, topped with a mountain of whipped cream.
Mama’s fork darted over her placemat for a tiny bite of her pie.
Encouraged, I said, “Your wedding shower’s tomorrow night at Betty’s, isn’t it, Mama? Be a shame to let all Betty’s preparations and those nice gifts go to waste.”
She regarded her left hand under the kitchen light. “I suppose I’d have to give Sal back his ring, too.”
Maddie added, “Not to mention, the deposits you’ll lose, canceling at this point.”
I heard Marty’s sigh of relief when Mama slipped the plate to the center of her placemat and really started in on the pie. She had it about half-gone when Teensy gave a yelp and skittered out from under the kitchen table toward the front door.
“Is that barbecue I smell?” a man’s deep voice boomed over Teensy’s barking. “Y’all better have saved me a plate.”
Our cousin Henry made his way into the kitchen, Mama’s Pomeranian yapping at his heels. Teensy did a few revolutions around Henry’s ankles, the pitch of his barking climbing higher each time he went airborne.
“Aunt Rosalee, I love you to death, but if you don’t silence that little varmint, I’m going to marinate him in sauce and stick him on a barbecue spit.”
Mama gasped, snatching Teensy off the floor and clutching him to her chest.
“You wouldn’t!” she said.
“Oh, I would,” Henry answered, but his grin belied the threat.
As Henry took a seat, I put a quarter-rack of ribs on a plate, and then doused the meat in warmed barbecue sauce. When I handed it to him, he licked his lips. “You got any cornbread? And how ’bout some baked beans?”
Maddie harrumphed. “You’d think an uninvited guest would be grateful for what he’s served.”
“Hush, Maddie.” Mama slapped her on the wrist. “You know Henry’s never a guest in this home. Henry’s family.”
As Mama got up to fetch his favorite sweet tea from the refrigerator, Henry leaned around her back and stuck out his tongue at Maddie. She balled up a paper towel and tossed it at him. It bounced off Henry’s forehead and hit Teensy, asleep on the floor.
“I saw that!” Mama’s tone was serious, but I noticed the trace of a smile on her lips.
Say what you will about Henry, and we three sisters have said plenty. We always could count on him, though, to make Mama smile. And that was just what we needed tonight.
Henry tore through his food, as focused as if he were presenting a case to keep a client off Death Row. Mama helped herself to another little sliver of butterscotch pie. Marty made coffee, and Maddie and I cleared the table.
When Henry stopped for a breath before his dessert course, he slapped himself on the forehead. “I almost forget to tell you my news!”
“Yes, even you might have trouble talking while you’re choking down half a pig.” Maddie handed him a length of paper towel.
“I noticed you weren’t exactly dainty either, Maddie, shoveling in that pie.” Henry mopped the lower half of his face.
“Your news?” I prodded.
He took his time wiping barbecue sauce off each finger, extending the dramatic moment like the grandstanding attorney he is: “Word is down at the courthouse that C’ndee Ciancio is being sought for questioning in the investigation into Ronnie’s murder.”
Marty’s hand flew to her throat, just like Mama’s. And it must have been a comfort to Henry to see my older sister’s mouth drop open in surprise. “You’re not serious?”
“Maddie, I’m as serious as the bride’s daddy at a shotgun wedding,” Henry answered. He looked at me, waiting for my reaction.
All the little questions I’d been juggling about C’ndee ran through my mind. Her links to Tony’s family, with their shady restaurant dealings up North. The fact she ran around with Darryl Dietz, and then, apparently, with Ronnie, too. Her odd behavior the day I discovered Ronnie’s body; and how she’d made herself mighty scarce ever since.
I knew it would disappoint Henry, but I wasn’t surprised.
“C’ndee’s the perfect suspect,” I said.
“Well, this is just horrible, Henry.” A frown wrinkled Mama’s brow. “If C’ndee gets tossed into the slammer, what am I supposed to do about food? We can’t order supper in a sack from the Burger King for a hundred-and-fifty wedding guests.”
“Good Lord, no!” Henry said.
“By the way, Henry, that’s the same wedding Mama was all set to cancel a half-hour before you got here,” I said.
He raised his brows. “You were calling off the wedding?”
Mama waved her hand dismissively. “Not really.”
Maddie snorted. Marty’s eyes went wide. I shrugged at my sisters.
“Well, I was upset. But I’ve given it a little thought.” She held out her hand, examining her engagement rock. “I’m not getting any younger, girls. This may be my last chance for happiness.”
We waited.
“Now,” Mama continued, “all we have to do is make sure my fiancé’s not a cheater and my caterer’s not a killer.”
A coffee vending machine in the breezeway gulped my quarters. Choosing the buttons for cream and sugar, I waited impatiently for my order to be processed.
I’d just returned from a quick circuit of the park and a morning check on the animals. I was desperate for caffeine, and our office coffeemaker was still on the fritz.
Maybe I’d go small appliance shopping on Saturday now that the wedding was off. No, wait. It was on again. I wondered how many times that would change in the two days remaining before Mama’s Special Day.
Whir. Clunk. No cup; no coffee; no coins returned.
Despite a bad feeling about my odds, I fed more money into the slot. Beep. Whir. Splash. The machine spit out a soupy brown liquid, minus the cup. There went my second seventy-five cents, dribbling down a silver drain that seemed to grin at me.
Before I returned to the office, I aimed my work boot and added a kick to the smack I’d just given the coffee machine. It resisted my persuasive efforts.
“We’ve got to call for service on that stupid machine again …” I had a foot through the door when a tantalizing aroma stopped me where I stood.
Rhonda saluted me with a take-out cup. “Look what Carlos brought!” Her eyes rolled up in ecstasy as she sipped.
My hand flew to smooth my hair. I always claim I didn’t inherit an ounce of Mama’s vanity, but that’s not strictly true.
Rhonda swallowed and whispered, “You look fine. Pinch your cheeks for some color. And straighten your shirt.”
Tucking in my T-shirt, I whispered back, “Where is he?”
“Men’s room. Café con leche is on your desk.”
I nearly spilled the coffee with milk when I spott
ed what was sitting right next to the cup. A perfect red rose in a glass vase. I raised my eyebrows at Rhonda.
“He didn’t say. I didn’t ask.”
Carlos had never struck me as the red rose type. My mind returned to last summer when Jeb Ennis had carried daisies to me here at the park. I hoped this day ended better than that one had.
I was staring at the rose, lost in my memories, when I heard Carlos’ voice beside me. “Do you like it?”
I jumped, snatched back to the present. To Carlos. I leaned to sniff the flower. “I love it. It’s beautiful.”
From her desk across the room, Rhonda nodded happily.
“What’s your angle?” I asked him, and watched as my boss’s encouraging smile turned into a frown.
Carlos’s face darkened, too. “I don’t have an angle, Mace. I just thought it might cheer the place up.”
My gaze followed his around our workspace, with its walls painted institutional tan. A mountain of files towered in a corner. A jumble of feathers, bones, and animal skulls I was cataloguing for a wildlife exhibit covered the top of a long folding table. An oversized events calendar hung crookedly from the back wall. Large windows were a sole saving grace, allowing us to see out to the trees and sky beyond.
I gave him a smile: “I apologize. The rose is exactly the thing for this mess. Thanks.”
No words slipped from the locked vault behind his lips.
I saluted him with the cup. “This couldn’t have come at a better time, either. Gracias.”
His stiff posture relaxed, just a bit. He waved his hand. “De nada.”
Behind his back, Rhonda mimed wiping sweat off her brow.
“Do you think we could take a few minutes outside?” he asked.
Rhonda waggled her eyebrows suggestively. I turned my head so I wouldn’t laugh. I was already treading on slippery ground with Carlos.
“Sure,” I said, and led the way to the door.
“Don’t forget to feed Ollie ’til he’s stuffed. I don’t want another near miss with a furry creature when the kids come to visit today,” Rhonda called after us.
“Ollie’s never full, Rhonda. He’s an opportunistic eater, like my sister, Maddie.”
Rhonda said, “You should stick around to watch Mace feed the alligator, Carlos. He chomps whole raw chickens like canapés. He has one forbidding set of jaws.”
“So the bite on Mace’s gator is pretty nasty, huh?” Carlos smirked.
“Fearsome.” She returned his grin.
“Kind of like someone else at the park, someone with a big mouth and a mean bite?”
I resented his implication. My bite wasn’t that mean.
“Absolutely!” Rhonda said. “Just remember, when that other someone snaps at you, she doesn’t mean you any harm. Unlike Ollie, she won’t kill you if you get too close.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
As the two of them high-fived, I held the door. “After you, Mr. Comedy Central.”
He bowed and stepped through. I shot Rhonda an “I’ll deal with you later” look over my shoulder. She shook a long, elegant finger at me.
As we settled ourselves onto the wooden bench in the breezeway, my mind returned again to the day that Jeb had brought me the daisies. We’d sat together right here. I could almost feel the hot patch of skin where our thighs had touched. At least they’d touched until Carlos arrived, and I jumped away from Jeb like I’d gotten an electrical shock.
Was I playing the same game again? Carrying on and flirting, this time with Tony Ciancio, to avoid taking the relationship with Carlos to the next level? I stared into the trees, as if I could find my answer written on the branches and leaves.
“Peso for your thoughts, Mace.”
Carlos was staring at me. My face burned. Could he tell how confused I was? When I didn’t answer, he asked, “How’s the wedding planning coming? Everybody’s dresses fit?”
I looked at him sideways. The last time he referred to the wedding, he’d called it stupid. And now he wanted dress details? That plus the rose added up to strange.
“What?” he asked.
“You know Mama would love to have you at the wedding. But you’ve shown zero interest before now. Even Sal runs the other way when wedding talk comes up, and he’s the groom.”
He looked into my eyes. “I’m coming to the wedding. I care about you, Mace. So of course I care about your mother, too.”
Uh-oh. I hoped we weren’t going to talk about “us.” I wasn’t sure what “we” were.
He put a finger under my chin to lift my face to his. “You know that’s true, right?”
I pulled away, ducking my chin into a nod. I traced the outside seam on my workpants.
“Your enthusiasm is inspiring,” Carlos said dryly.
“I’m sorry.” I raised my eyes to his. “I feel like my emotions are on hold. I’m distracted, and nervous about Saturday. I’ve been trying to imagine who might have murdered Ronnie, and why. And I’m worried the killer’s next move might end up derailing Mama’s wedding, or worse.”
Saying my fears aloud made me think about what Henry had reported. “We heard C’ndee is a suspect.”
His brows shot up. “Who told you that?”
“Himmarshee is a small town, Carlos. People gossip.”
“What else are people saying?”
“Well,” I ran a thumb along the slat of the bench, thinking. “They’re saying she was running around with Ronnie. And that her boyfriend before Ronnie has a violent temper. And that she’s made herself mighty scarce in these last couple of days.”
“I see you’ve been busy.”
“Is she a suspect, or not?”
His features hardened into his cop look. “You know I can’t talk about that. This is an active investigation.”
“I’m not the enemy, Carlos.”
He was quiet for a moment. He finally said, “Then what are you, Mace? I thought we were the opposite of enemies, but now I just don’t know. What are we to one another?”
I stared out into the park again. A blue jay scolded me from a cypress branch. I could feel Carlos’ gaze on me, waiting. But I didn’t know what to tell him.
“Okay, I guess that’s my answer.”
He rose from the bench. I put a hand on his arm. He shook it off.
“Just give me some time,” I said.
“You’ve already had time.” His face was a wall. “But as long as I’m here, there is something else I need to ask you.”
I hoped at least I’d get an easier question this time. “Go ahead.” I was eager to change the subject.
“I went out to that fish camp you told me about. No sign of Darryl, and nobody knew anything about him, or at least that’s what they told me.” He crossed his arms over his chest, like an interrogator. “You said you talked to the son, right?”
“Stepson. Name’s Rabe.”
“Well, Rabe is supposed to be there this afternoon. I told the rest of them I’d be coming back. I think I’d have more luck talking to people out there if you were along. Would you mind?”
I thought of Darryl with his knife at that fish-cleaning station. He’d be singing a different tune with The Law standing beside me. And I couldn’t wait to see that redneck bastard squirm.
“Of course I’ll come,” I said. “And Carlos?”
He cocked his head.
“I knew you had an angle.”
It was a long ride to Darryl’s Fish Camp. Tension hung in the front seat like a heavy curtain between Carlos and me.
My Jeep was back in service with a new battery, thanks to Sal. Carlos and I decided to take it, since his unmarked car, a white Ford Crown Victoria, screamed plainclothes cop. I drove. Carlos rode shotgun.
He’d spent most of our forty-minute trip to the south end of Lake O ignoring me, making calls on his cell phone in rapid-fire Spanish. It was rude on several levels, but I cut him a break. I hadn’t exactly been Emily Post when he came to visit at Himmarshee Park.
; I’m sure he thought I was jerking him around. He was entitled to cop an attitude.
The way he was machine-gunning Spanish words into the phone, I didn’t have a prayer of understanding him. I can puzzle out simple words and a few sentences, as long as the verbs are present tense, the speaker goes really S—L—O—W—L—Y, and there are hand gestures and facial expressions to help me along.
Carlos, however, seemed in no mood to help me along.
I did catch a tender tone to his voice in the first call, and the word abuela, which I remembered meant grandmother. My mind went back to the first time he told me about his granny, and the way she spent hours in the kitchen cooking his favorite Cuban dishes, even though she was well into her eighties. That was when we were getting to know each other. What had happened to the bond between us? Sometimes I wanted to make it stronger; other times it seemed I was taking it apart, piece by painful piece.
His present conversation sounded like business, though I couldn’t be sure. For all I knew, he might be placing an order for tomorrow from the new Cuban lunch counter outside of town. If so, I wondered if he remembered how much I liked those sweet fried bananas. I thought of the first time he made Cuban food for me. His face had been joyful as he fed me a forkful of delicious plátanos. We’d gone directly from the kitchen to his bedroom. No one can tell me food isn’t an aphrodisiac.
Now, I stole a glance at him in profile. His jaw was set in a hard line; his face closed and cold. No joy. He stared impassively at the scenery—sugarcane fields that seemed to stretch forever; a flat road shimmering in the June sun; the occasional agricultural truck lumbering by on the opposite side of US Highway 441.
“So you talked to your grandmother?” I finally asked, when he made no move to speak.
“About her.” His brow furrowed. “She’s sick.”
“I’m sorry.” I remembered how I felt when Maw-Maw started failing. I resisted the urge to reach over and stroke his cheek. “I hope it’s not serious.”
Mama Gets Hitched Page 14
