“I would have warned you of my presence, but I didn’t think you could hear me over the squealing tires.’’ Martinez pulled a pen from his top pocket. He dug out his wallet and extracted a business card.
“I have a favor to ask of you.’’ He rested the card on his billfold and scribbled on the back. “Please take my advice and stop trying to solve this murder.’’
He slipped the card into the pocket of my T-shirt, and his fingers lightly brushed against my breast. Inadvertent or intentional? I searched his eyes. Of course, they revealed no clues. I hoped my own eyes didn’t show that I wanted him to touch me again.
He continued, “If you ignore my advice, as you’ve done so far, you’ll likely find yourself in trouble. You can call me at any of those numbers. I’ll do my best to rescue you, unless it’s too late.’’
Rescue me? Smug bastard. The desire I’d felt for him fled.
“I can take care of myself. I don’t need some man riding to my rescue …’’
He held up a hand to interrupt. I hate that.
“Excuse me. I’m running late, and I’m not in the mood for an argument. Just use the card, por favor. Please.’’ He pulled his car keys from his pocket. “Maddie, could you talk some sense into your sister?’’
“I’ll do my best, Detective,’’ Maddie called after him, the teacher’s pet left in charge of a difficult student. “Take care, now.’’
As he left, I read the card. “What a jerk.’’
Maddie leaned over my shoulder. I held it up so she could see what Martinez had written:
More beaus who are murder suspects? If so, pls. call.
I thought of Jeb standing in the breezeway, looking hurt when he discovered I’d ratted him out to Martinez. I pondered on that for a while, feeling guilty, until a different mental picture came into view. It was Jeb, gunning his truck out of the park. Remembering now, I realized his windows had been rolled up tight.
And wasn’t that odd, after how he’d complained his pickup was a hot box with no air conditioning?
Heading home from work, I was thinking about a hot shower and a cold beer.
The day had been a scorcher, the kind of heat that makes you wonder what those early Florida pioneers had been drinking. I could just picture it: They struck out in energy-sucking temperatures, through swamps with sawgrass so sharp it’ll draw blood. They continued on, through clouds of ravenous mosquitoes. They suffered heatstroke. They endured hurricanes. And through it all they said, “Hey, why don’t we settle here? This looks like a nice spot.’’
It had to be something stronger than beer.
It was almost six-thirty, but the sun still blazed. It burned against my bare shoulders as I downshifted Pam’s VW around a truck hauling hogs. That’s a stench you don’t want to trail too long, especially in a convertible with no top.
The old car shimmied a bit as I punched it, but it rose to the occasion.
I passed the sign for the Big Lake Dairy, and then the grand entranceway on Highway 98 for the Flying J ranch. Skeet Johnson, who owned the Flying J, had the delusion that he was J. R. Ewing and his place was like Southfork on old reruns of Dallas. In reality, he never got much past sinking the concrete pillars and attaching some fancy wrought-iron gates. Inside, he only had a hundred acres, a few mud holes, and about sixteen crossbred head. All hat and no cattle, as they say in Texas.
Cattle started me thinking about Jeb Ennis’ visit to the park. A little sweet talk, a few soulful looks, and I’d been willing to take up almost where we’d left off all those years ago. Of course, that was before I watched him speed away from Himmarshee Park, looking cool as an ice cube in his supposedly sweltering truck.
I came to the little bridge over Taylor Creek, which meant home was only a mile or so away. I always look to the right for the sign that says Turkey Buzzards on Bridge. Is it a warning, or a notice to the tourists taking the back roads to Disney to get out their cameras?
As I looked today, my eye caught a glimmer of sun on metal in the high weeds that lead to Taylor Slough. I was nearly over the bridge before it registered that something didn’t look right about that silvery shine.
I slowed on the other side, pulling off onto the shoulder. Back-tracking on foot, I peered over the bridge’s railing. From this angle, a dark-colored compact car was visible. Clambering down the incline I waded into the brush.
The car was a Toyota. There was no one inside, though the driver’s door stood wide open. I pushed through mucky soil and fetterbush, grateful for my slacks and boots. With brush pricking at my arms, I wished I’d slipped into long sleeves before striking out into the swamp.
I looked around the car for someone who was hurt or lost. But the only sign was a long trail of flattened grass, corresponding to the path the car made off the road. At the rear, there was a Florida tag and a bumper sticker. Beef: It’s What’s for Dinner. Probably a local. You don’t see many pro-vegan messages on bumpers in the state’s cattle belt.
Back at the driver’s side, the headlight button was pulled out. But if the lights had been on, the battery was now dead. Not even a gleam came from the headlights or the interior light. The keys were in the ignition, which was turned to the off position. I leaned in, careful not to touch anything. Something dangled from the keys in the shadow of the steering wheel.
It was a small plastic doll with pink fluorescent hair, just like the Troll family I’d seen on Emma Jean’s desk.
___
Martinez answered on the first ring.
“It’s Mace Bauer.’’
“That was fast.’’ He spoke before I got out more than my name. “Don’t tell me you’re already dating someone else who might have killed Jim Albert.’’
I ignored that. “I’m out here along Highway 98. I think I’ve just found Emma Jean Valentine’s car, abandoned in the swamp.’’
His voice was instantly serious. “Where are you?’’
I filled him in, and agreed to wait until he arrived.
Sunset was still a good hour away, but you couldn’t tell it by the bugs. Waving one hand around my ears, I searched with the other through the VW’s front trunk. My fingers clasped a metal canister. Success! Bug spray is something no native Himmarsheean should ever be caught without. And my can was still in my waterlogged Jeep.
I sprayed my palms with repellent, then rubbed my neck, my ears and across my face. I donned a long-sleeved shirt from the trunk, smelling of spare tire and mildew. The mosquitoes marshaled their forces, seeking entry to an unprotected spot. I thought I heard a whine of frustration as they flew off in search of a less experienced opponent.