Mama stood on the walkway in front of her house, tapping her foot and staring at her watch. The color of the day was yellow, from the chiffon scarf around her neck to the sling-back sandals on her feet. Standing in the bright morning sun, she looked like a four-foot-eleven-inch lemon slush. Her white puff of platinum hair could have been a straw, peeking out over the rim of the slushy cup.
Teensy was barking, spinning like a circus dog, on the other side of her living room window. Mama turned to blow him a final kiss, and rushed to the car. “I thought you’d never get here, Mace.’’
I looked at my watch. “Mama, it’s only twenty-five minutes after eight. I’m early.’’
Settling into the seat, she glanced again at her wrist. “So you are, Mace. I’m sorry. I’m as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I barely know Pastor Bob. I can’t imagine why he’d call me for this meeting about Emma Jean.’’
I told her about my own strange call.
“She never even bothered to show up, Mama, after calling past midnight.’’
“That’s nice, honey.’’ She turned the rearview mirror to apply more lipstick. Fishing a tissue from her purse, she blotted. “Now, what do you suppose Pastor Bob is going to want me to do about Emma Jean?’’
“I have no earthly idea,’’ I said sharply. “And there’s no sense in worrying about it now. Why don’t you wait the five minutes it’ll take us to drive over? Then you can ask him yourself.’’
She aimed a glare at me. “You know, little Missy, you’re not too old to spank. No one likes a girl with a smart mouth.’’
I punched on the radio. They’d just started a news break. We arrived at Abundant Hope before they’d even finished the weather. Temperatures in the nineties. Afternoon thundershowers. Not exactly news in central Florida in September. Still, it was the height of hurricane season, and the northern edge of the county was still recovering from a relatively weak storm in June. So the fact nothing new was gathering strength in the tropics was a hopeful sign.
Someone peered out of the mini-blinds of the storefront church’s window, following our progress into the parking space. All I could see were heavy eyebrows and dark eyes. Within moments, Pastor Bob opened the front door and walked out to greet us. His eyebrows needed a trim, but his smile was as blinding as a Hollywood actor’s. And just about as authentic. The work in his mouth had surely financed a brand-new luxury car for some dentist somewhere.
The pastor raised his hands skyward. “Isn’t this a beautiful morning, ladies? It’s a gift from God.’’
Not to be sacrilegious, but if God had asked me what kind of day to send, I’d have requested a break from the summer swelter. It wasn’t even nine o’clock, and already the sun was baking the VW’s roofless interior. The temperature on the Big Lake Bank sign read 94 degrees. We peeled ourselves off the sticky car seats and joined Pastor Bob on the sidewalk.
He escorted us through the entrance, by the card table of DVDs, and past folding chairs now stacked against scuffed walls. When we came to a small office to the side of the pulpit, he motioned us into two steel-frame chairs, thinly upholstered in a black, scratchy fabric. Then he took his seat behind a tidy desk, his small frame nearly disappearing in a leather chair befitting the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. He leaned toward us, elbows on the desk, and straightened the monogrammed cuffs on his powder blue dress shirt.
“Now,’’ he said, showing us a mouthful of teeth, “what can I do for you this morning?’’
Mama and I looked at each other. Maybe he had us confused with a mother-daughter counseling appointment. Not that we couldn’t use it.
“We’re here about Emma Jean,’’ Mama said. “You called and asked me to come by?’’
“Oh, my goodness gracious! Rosalee! I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting you to bring someone else along.’’
“This is Mace, my middle daughter.’’
I nodded hello as I tried to place his accent. Flat, Midwestern, a bit nasal. Ohio, maybe, or Illinois.
“You’ll have to forgive me, ladies. Last night was such a muddle. And I’m still having a bit of trouble placing everyone in the congregation.’’
Mama smiled sweetly and said, “Perhaps you should ask your lovely wife for help. Delilah seems to know all the lambs in your flock quite well.’’
I pinched her on the leg to stop her from being catty. She pinched me back.
“By the way,’’ Mama continued, “where is Delilah? I was expecting her.’’
Pastor Bob pressed his lips together. He started fidgeting with one of his silver cufflinks. His eyes did a quick scan of his desktop. Then he looked at the ceiling, like maybe his wife was hanging up there behind the fluorescent light. Before he got up and lifted the Persian rug to look, I figured I should say something.
“My mother’s just asking because we spoke to her last night before all the trouble started. And then the two of you seemed to work together as a team, the way y’all got Emma Jean quieted down and hustled out the door. We’re a little surprised Delilah’s not here, too.’’
He leaned back and turned his fingers into a steeple, which he rested against his chest. “Well, it’s always something when you’re a minister’s wife,’’ he said. “She was called away suddenly. A member of the church has taken ill.’’
“Really?’’ Mama asked. “Who?’’
“You’ve got me there, Mrs. Deveraux.’’ He showed his teeth again. I thought of fairy tales and wolves. “I’m just awful with names. But even so, it’s a confidential matter. I’m sure you’d appreciate the same treatment if you came to us about a health issue or for counseling.’’
Mama looped her wrist through the strap of her purse and set it squarely on her lap. “I’m not much for counseling.’’ She held onto the purse with both hands, like she was afraid Pastor Bob might ask her to pony up for psychotherapy.
“Well, people seem to want that kind of thing these days. I’m going to offer another DVD: Ending Emotional Pain with Pastor Bob. What do you think, Mace?’’
I thought he wasn’t setting any sales records with his first DVD. The only time I saw them move was when Emma Jean stumbled into the display table.
“I don’t know much about marketing,’’ I answered.
He flushed. “ ‘Marketing’ sounds so crass. I’m talking about helping people.’’
“In that case, why don’t we see how you can help in this situation?’’ I put my hand on Mama’s shoulder. “You may have heard my mother was briefly detained in connection to the murder of Emma Jean’s boyfriend. We’ve been trying to find out who really killed him. But somebody doesn’t seem to want us to do that. Some strange things have been happening.’’