She waited, listening. How am I supposed to know? She sounded irritated.
Some more listening, then, Whats your name?
I stared at the Bait & Tackle shop calendar on the wall.
Hey, she raised her voice. I said, whats your name?
When I figured out she was talking to me, I told her.
Have a seat. She hung up the phone. Hes busy, but he knows youre out here. Hell see you as soon as he gets to it.
She picked up
Field & Stream
again, lifting it in front of her face. I missed Emma Jean.
I was the only customer in the lobby. I didnt think Miss Police Congeniality would mind me making a call to work while I waited. Id already phoned in sick, but I owed my supervisor, Rhonda, an explanation. Were close. I figured she should get the straight news from me, instead of the gossipy version from the Himmarshee Hotline.
Hey, there. Its Mace.
Shed heard all about Mamas trouble, of course. Charging Mama as an accessory to murder was bull, I told Rhonda. I said were working hard on getting her out.
I know youve got a lot on your plate right now, Mace, and I hate to pile on. That was Rhondas warning she was about to do just that. Remember that lady who called all hysterical over the possum? You remember, from New Jersey. She thought she had a really big rat. Shes got a new problem for you.
What is it this time? I asked. A king snake in her toilet?
She swears shes seen a Florida panther prowling her property.
Yeah, thats likely. What are there, like eighty of them left? And all down in the Everglades, a hundred and fifty miles south of us. Its probably somebodys pet cat, hittin the Friskies too hard. I once had a friend with a house cat weighed thirty-one pounds. Shed toss Tiger a treat every time she walked past. That cat looked like a bowling ball with paws.
Anyway, Mace, the womans driving us crazy. What should I tell her?
Tell her the truth. Tell her my mamas in prison. Itll reinforce all her stereotypes. Go ahead and add that my man is a-cheatin and my blue eyes are cryin in the rain.
There was a long pause on the other end.
Why would I want to do that, Mace? she said, confused.
Its a joke, Rhonda. Like a country song? Like as long as Mamas in prison, lets add on the rest of the redneck cliches?
Oh.
Rhonda, whos black, doesnt find anything remotely amusing about rednecks.
All righty, then, I said. I better get goin. Tell the New Jersey woman Ill get out there when I can. If a panther eats her first, thatll be one fewer fast-talking, know-it-all Yankee we have to deal with.
Rhonda, a fellow native Himmarsheean, was still laughing when I hung up.
I left the lobby to visit the Ladies, where I tried without success to repair my smooshed hair. I stopped at a water fountain in the hallway, loitering by a closed door to see if I could overhear anything useful about the murder. The only sound that seeped through was the tap-tap of a computer keyboard.
I returned to the lobby, where I exhausted all the details on the calendar, including counting the dots on the large mouth bass. I took my seat again, and ran through in my mind what Id learned about Jim Albert, a.k.a. Jimmy the Weasel. I tried to imagine who in Himmarshee might have wanted a fugitive from the underworld dead.
I moved on to wondering how Id handle the obnoxious Martinez. I wished my sister Marty were here. People fall all over themselves to tell her things. As I weighed the best way to get information, an image of Martinezs black eyes and sculpted features forced its way into my thoughts. I tried so hard to push it aside that my head started to hurt.
I turned my attention to a dusty stack of magazines. Leafing through
Correctional News
, I discovered theres been a downturn in inmate suicides. I thought that was encouraging for Mama.
Then, I opened
Police
magazine, and read about the problem of sudden deaths in custody. I got depressed all over again. Browsing through the advertisements aimed at prison administrators failed to lift my spirits. There were no-shank shaving razors, so inmates cant make knives. There was a restraint bed for the crazy or unruly prisoner, complete with floor anchors and slots for straps. The name of the bed, I swear to God, was the Sleep-Tite.
Glancing at my watch, I realized Id already been waiting for forty minutes. I tried not to get angry. After all, my mothers fate was in Martinezs hands. I didnt want to tick him off. I rehearsed how Id approach him, concentrating on the flies with honey principle, like Mama advised.
Finally, Martinez walked into the empty lobby, frowning. He had a file folder in one hand and a cell phone to his ear.
Fifty-three minutes had crawled by since Id given my name at the desk.
I started to rise from the chair. He caught my eye and motioned me to sit down. Then, he held up a warning finger. Dont speak, it said.
I counted to ten real slow, gripping the arms of my uncomfortable chair. Pretending my hands were around Martinezs throat, I squeezed until my knuckles turned white. Staring at the wall calendar, I pictured his smug face on the body of the large mouth bass. I imagined a hook grabbing hold of the soft flesh inside his cheek. Id just formed an image of Martinez as half-man, half-fish, flopping airless in the bottom of a bass boat, when I realized he was speaking.
I dont know what you have to look so happy about, he said.
He slipped his phone into the front pocket of his blue dress shirt. I cursed myself for noticing how snugly the shirt fit his broad chest, even as he stood glaring next to my chair.
I was just thinking about fishing, I said. But youre right. I have absolutely nothing to smile about. Not with my elderly mother imprisoned in a hell hole.
Jailed, not imprisoned.
I beg your pardon?
Your mothers in jail, not prison. He tucked the folder next to his chest and crossed his arms over it, teacher style. Theres a difference. Jails are locally run, and inmates are generally waiting to be tried. Or, theyve been tried, and theyre serving a sentence of a year or less. Prisons are run by the state or the feds. Prisoners are usually convicted felons, serving sentences of more than a year.
Thanks, Professor, I said. Ill try to keep my references to correctional facilities correct whenever I explain to people how my mother is rotting behind bars.
Actually, the rotting part comes after shes convicted, Martinez said. Accessory to murder is a felony. It can buy you a long, long time in prison.
I could have throttled the arrogance right out of his voice. But then theyd send me to jail, and probably put me in that Sleep-Tite bed.
It must strike you as strange that youre the only one who believes my mother is involved in Jim Alberts murder. I forced a civil tone. What evidence do you have that links her to the killing? Did you know my mother doesnt even own a gun?
Ignoring my questions, Martinez looked down at a paper stapled to the file in his hand. Is your mother acquainted with a man named Salvatore Provenza? He rolled the
Rs
with Latin flair.
You know she knows him, I said, shifting my eyes away from the curve of his lips. Sal was in here last night, raising a ruckus with the rest of us.
I didnt reveal Big Sal was in line to become Husband Number Five. I wasnt sure where Martinez was going with the question.
So, hes her boyfriend. He made a little note on his paper. Were you aware he had long-standing ties to the murder victim?
I knew it! My sisters and I werent just over-imaginative busybodies. Sal was involved in something criminal with Jimmy the Weasel.
So? I tried to sound casual. That doesnt prove anything. Sal and the man in Mamas trunk were both from New York. Maybe they played on the same stickball team as kids.
Martinez looked at me like a teacher forced to flunk a once-promising student. They played together, all right. But their game didnt have anything to do with stickball.
Well, what did it have to do with?
Another condescending look. Im not going to discuss that with you.
I thought of Henry, and the guessing games I hated. The more I wanted to know, the harder my cousin would withhold. I switched tactics.
Whether you discuss it or not, I dont see what any of this has to do with Mama. I faked nonchalance. Even if Sal is involved, why would you assume my mother is, too?
Im not going to share the nature of my information with you, Ms. Bauer. He slipped the folder under his arm and touched the knot of his tie, as officious as a bureaucrat cutting off an unemployment check.
Had I really been thinking this smug jerk was attractive? It had been way too long between boyfriends.
Lets just say that when your dear mother isnt teaching Sunday school, shes consorting with some pretty rough characters, he said. The question is, What did she know about the relationship between the victim and Salvatore Provenza, and what did she do about it?
I remembered what Donnie Bailey had said at the jail. Hardly a woman behind bars doesnt claim some man put her there. I got a mental picture of Mama sobbing in a cell, trying to convince a skeptical guard shed been double-crossed by the man she loved.
If Martinez had his way, that sad scene wouldnt play out in jail. Itd play out in prisonafter hed managed to convict my mama of murder.
The bells on the glass door jangled, announcing my entrance at Hair Today, Dyed Tomorrow.
Not that Betty Taylor, shop owner and news conduit, needed that cue. She probably knew the moment I made up my mind to visit, turning left from the police department instead of right.
Inside the beauty parlor, the harsh smell of permanent solution stung my nose. Hair conditioners, as fragrant as ripe fruit, softened the stronger odor. Flickering in the corner was a carnation-infused candle. That was Mamas influence. In addition to her work with clients color charts, shes also an aromatherapist. Ill admit, the shop smelled girly, but oddly comforting, even to a tomboy like me.
Betty stood behind a chair, a pink foam roller in one hand and a strand of a customers wet hair in the other. Smiling at me in the mirror, she called out to her beautician trainee.
DVora, cmon out from the supply closet, girl. You wont believe whos here!
Betty did a quick twist of her customers hair with one hand, pulling another roller from her pocket with the other. All without breaking eye contact with my reflection in the mirror.
Mace, toss the towels off of that chair and have a seat. Another hair twist and roll. What in the world is going on with our poor Rosalee?
I suppose it had been wishful thinking to imagine word hadnt reached my mothers co-workers. Gossip spreads at the shop like dark roots on a bottle blonde. It was just as well. I hadnt relished the idea of breaking the news that Mamas in the slammer.
DVora peeked out at me from behind the supply closet. Mace, Im so sorry about your mama. I just dont know what to say.
DVora had managed to give her purple uniform some sex appeal. It was a size too small, and the top three buttons were undone. Shed appliqued pink butterflies along the neckline, drawing even more attention to the suntanned valley between her breasts.
Thats okay, DVora, I said. Were getting the whole misunderstanding straightened out. Thats what I came by to tell yall.
Her troubled frown faded. See, Betty? Didnt I say that? When I put that peroxide mixture on Rosalees hair, I didnt understand how strong it was. And then the phone rang. I didnt know leaving it on for just a tiny bit longer than the directions say would cause such a mess. It was just a misunderstanding, like Mace said.
Betty left her customer in the chair, click-clacked across the lilac-and-white floor, and snapped her fingers in front of DVoras face.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
Get with it, girl. That burned-up do you gave Rosalee is yesterdays news. I told you she got tossed in the hoosegow. Try to focus, DVora.
DVora looked like a puppy spanked for peeing on the carpet. I only wanted Mace to know Im sorry about her mamas hair. Of course, Im sorry she murdered that man, too. Knowing Rosalee, she must have had a very good reason.
Betty shrugged an apology at me in the mirror. Youll have to excuse DVora, Mace. She tapped the foam roller in her hand against the young womans forehead. She was behind the door when God gave out brains.
I moved the towels and took a seat. Thats all right. I just wanted to come and tell yall that Mamas a hundred-percent innocent. And were gonna prove it, too. Shell be back here with her aromatherapy and seasonal color swatches before you know it.
Im sure of it, Mace, Betty said reassuringly.
