“You don’t give anything up, do you, Ms. Bauer?’’ His lips had formed into a half smile. “Maybe you should get a job as a detective.’’ He was standing so close, I could feel heat from his body. I caught the scent of cologne. Exotic, like sandalwood mixed with ginger. He smelled all male, and damn sexy. I took a step sideways along the wall.
“You’ve found out quite a bit in these last couple of days.’’ He stepped with me, staying close and keeping his voice low.
“It helps to know who to ask.’’ Mama always preaches modesty. She says there’s nothing worse than tooting your own horn.
“I’ll definitely follow up on your tip about that man with the cattle ranch. Jeb Ennis, right? And he lives in Woochola?’’
I had a guilty twinge about steering Martinez in Jeb’s direction. “Wauchula. We say, WAH-CHOO-LA.’’ I opened my mouth wide, like a speech therapist coaxing a stroke victim. “Mispronouncing these old Indian words will mark you as an outsider quicker than just about anything.’’
“I’ve had enough trouble with Himmarshee,’’ he said. “What’s it mean anyway?’’
“It’s supposed to mean new water, from an old Seminole legend about how Himmarshee Creek sprung up overnight. And don’t worry about your pronunciation. We’re probably all mangling the original Indian name anyhow. Just wait until you have to question somebody at Lake Istokpoga or Lake Weohyakapka.’’
“Thanks for the warning.’’ He bent in a little bow. “Gracias.’’
“No problem-o. You set me straight on the grammatical difference between prison and jail, remember?’’
He had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Pretty obnoxious, wasn’t I?’’
“You said it, not me.’’ I softened the criticism with a smile. Mama would be proud. “Anyway, the bathroom.’’
I gestured to the open door. The toilet, with its pink tulip seat cover, was perfectly visible through the frame. Even a bad detective could have discerned it. And from what I’d read in the Miami Herald, Carlos Martinez was a good detective.
I returned to the kitchen to find Mama feeding Teensy a doggie treat right at the table.
“Gross.’’
“Just ignore Mace, baby. You are not gross. You’re Mama’s little darlin’ dog, aren’t you?’’
I stood near the trash can, in case I needed to vomit.
Just about then, Teensy’s ears perked up and he leapt off Mama’s lap. The little nails on his paws scrabbled on peach-colored tile as he ran from the kitchen to the living room, barking all the way.
Before we had the chance to follow, we heard the front door jiggling. And then a loud knocking.
“What in the blue blazes? Open up!’’ More door-shaking, and a voice full of impatience. “Mama! Since when do you lock this front door?’’
Maddie’s irritation seeped right through the sheer curtain at the window.
By the time Mama and I made our way to the living room, Martinez had already opened the front door. “She locks it since I told her it was the safe thing to do.’’
Maddie’s mouth gaped open so wide, you could have docked an ocean liner inside. But all those years of dealing with whatever junior high-school kids can dream up had served her well. She recovered quickly.
“Detective Martinez.’’ With that inflection and the look in her eye, she might just as well have said “Detective Dog Poop.’’
“Happy to see you, too, ma’am.’’ Martinez matched Maddie’s insulting tone, syllable for syllable.
“Judging from the absence of handcuffs, may I assume you’re not here to arrest our mother again?’’ she asked.
Mama chimed in, “Now, before you say something you’ll regret, Maddie, we called the detective to come over. We’ve had a little spot of trouble.’’
“I know. I talked to Marty. She was in bed in migraine pain, with the lights out. I could barely hear her voice when I called. We only spoke a minute, but she told me about the dog.’’
“It could be simple vandalism,’’ Martinez said. “But we’re not taking any chances.’’
“Marty didn’t mention he was here.’’ Maddie pointed a long finger at the detective. She looked like the Wizard of Oz’s Wicked Witch, directing the evil monkeys at Dorothy and her pals.
But unlike the movie’s scarecrow, Martinez had a brain.
“I don’t want us to be enemies, ma’am.’’ His voice was warm and polite. “I hope your mother isn’t in any danger. But if she is, I really need your help.’’
Maddie was wearing flip-flops and her post-barbecue fat pants, but she still straightened to her school-principal posture. My sister loves nothing more than being needed.
“Well, of course, Detective. All of us want to do anything we can to help find out who really killed Jim Albert. For some reason, the murderer has involved Mama in this nasty business. Who knows what kind of message he’s sending with that stuffed dog?’’
“I’d like you to take a look at it.’’ Martinez was so respectful, he might have been seeking help from Scotland Yard. “Maybe something will strike you that didn’t strike the rest of us, ma’am.’’
“Lead the way, Detective. And please, call me Maddie.’’
“I’ll do that.’’ As Martinez turned to escort her to the stuffed dog, he threw me a wink. “And Maddie? Call me Carlos, por favor. Please.’’
___
Martinez left Mama’s a half-hour or so later. By that time, the compliments were flowing between my sister and him like floodwaters into Lake Okeechobee during the rainy season. I thought he was going to pin her with a special deputy’s badge at any minute. I actually saw Maddie bat her eyelashes. My sister being swayed like a schoolgirl was a sight to behold. Martinez must have studied with those Eastern mystics who are able to charm cobra snakes.
Maddie and I only stayed a little while after he left. We all were tired. And I had a long drive ahead to get home.
The streets of downtown Himmarshee were just about deserted. The yellow light blinked at Main and First. The sign at Gladys’ Restaurant was dark. A few cars were still parked at the Speckled Perch restaurant, where the bar’s open past midnight. Behind the wheel of Pam’s VW, I replayed in my mind some of the odd events of the evening: Delilah’s cutting remarks before church; my fight with Jeb; the mutilated toy dog.
As I sped past the courthouse on my way to State Road 98, I caught a glimpse of a familiar car from the corner of my eye. I slowed and peered toward the far end of the government lot, where the light is dim. Sal Provenza’s big Cadillac was parked next to a light-colored sedan. The two vehicles sat driver’s-side-to-driver’s-side, like squad cars sometimes do.