“Maybe I shouldn’t tell tales,’’ she said, waiting for the go-ahead to do just that.
“Mace and her mama are trying to find out who really killed Emma Jean’s boyfriend. Whoever did it may have kidnapped her, too.’’ Betty’s eyes bored into Delilah’s in the mirror. “You’d only be helping Emma Jean to tell what you know.’’
Delilah paused just long enough to take a deep breath before beginning. “Well, I will say I couldn’t believe that scene she pulled the other night at Abundant Hope. All of that about how the wicked woman who’d been cheating with her boyfriend attends our little church? And the way she tried to stare down the evildoer? Talk about a sinner casting stones!’’
Mama wrinkled her brow. “What are you saying?’’
“I’m saying I know for a fact Emma Jean had a secret lover. And I’m saying the man’s a member of our church.’’
“Are you sure?’’ Betty asked, whipping some of Delilah’s wet hair around a pink roller.
“Absolutely. Every couple of months, I collect all the hymnals and give them a good dusting.’’
I wasn’t at all surprised Delilah was a fastidious housekeeper.
“The last time I did it, I found a love note tucked into one of the books. It wasn’t addressed by name; Emma Jean had written My Dearest Darling Man at the top. She talked about how she could barely stand to see him in church with his wife, knowing she couldn’t have him.’’ She angled her head toward Betty, who was wedging the last roller into an even row. “And then she said things were heating up. You know who was going to ask her to marry him, she wrote.’’
She looked at each of us to make sure we were listening. We were.
“What should I do about it? That’s what she asked her ‘darling man.’ ’’
“How do you know Emma Jean wrote it? I can’t believe anyone would sign their name to a note like that,’’ I said.
“She didn’t sign her full name. The whole thing was printed, on a typewriter or a computer. There were just the initials at the end, EJ. Beside them, there was a red stick-on heart, like the ones little girls put on their notebooks. Get it? The initials stand for Emma Jean, and the heart for Valentine.’’
We were all quiet for a few moments, digesting Delilah’s theory. Betty combed and rolled; rolled and combed.
“Who do you think it was, y’all?’’ D’Vora peeked from the back room, where she’d fled to escape Pastor Bob. “Who was doin’ the dirty thang with Emma Jean?’’
“That’s what we need to find out, honey,’’ Mama said. “Maybe whoever it was loved the ‘dirty thang’ so much he killed poor Jim Albert so he could keep doing it with Emma Jean.’’
With a mountain of meat loaf and mashed potatoes in front of him, my cousin Henry was holding court from a corner table at Gladys’ Restaurant. Making a point, he waved his fork in the air like he was a judge and the fork was his gavel.
I stopped for a minute just inside the front door, feeling the sweat on my neck drying in a blast of cold air. The air conditioner felt so good, I lifted the hair from my collar and let the chill wind blow away the heat that had accumulated from outside.
Charlene, the waitress, ran an obstacle course between chairs and tables. Plates were stacked in a line along her left arm like planes waiting to take off in Atlanta. There was a blizzard of white order slips in the kitchen window, waiting for the cook.
Just about every seat was taken. The courthouse crowd was there, the men in neckties; the women in pantsuits or dresses. Three ranchers in blue jeans tipped back in their chairs, toothpicks in their mouths and pie plates scraped clean on their table. A couple of retirees from the RV park sipped coffee at the counter, their faces sunburned under bass-fishing hats with bands of breathable mesh.
I dropped my hair back onto my neck and started toward Henry’s table. Marty leaned forward, smiling as she listened to whatever our cousin was saying. Maddie’s arms were crossed against her chest, her face scrunched into a disapproving glare. She looked up as I approached.
“You’re just in time, Mace. Henry is entertaining us—and all three adjoining tables, I’m sure—with a story about his neighbor’s pot-bellied pig. Apparently, the poor creature suffers from severe flatulence.’’
“Pfffbt.’’ Henry forced air through his lips. “Pfffbt, pfffbbbttt.’’
“Complete with sound effects.’’ Maddie shook her head in disgust. “Henry, I’ve got middle -school students with better manners and more maturity than you.’’
He poked her gently in the arm with his fork. “Chill out, Maddie. If you wind yourself up any tighter, only dogs will be able to hear you fart.’’
Marty burst out laughing.
“Mace, please sit down and try to get your cousin under control. Marty only eggs him on.’’
While Maddie looked at me, Henry palmed a salt shaker from the table.
“Byuck, buck, buck, buck.’’ Clucking, he lifted his butt off the seat, reached down, and brought up the white shaker in the center of his hand. He offered it to Marty. “I believe this egg is yours, Madam Egger-on.’’
The harder Marty giggled; the madder Maddie got.
“All right, you two. We all know Maddie is fun to tease.’’ I took a seat. “But get serious, now. I’ve got some news you’re not going to believe.’’
I told them about the note Delilah found tucked into a hymn book.
“Maybe Emma Jean was cheating with that choir director,’’ Henry said. “He always looks you in the eye a little too hard. I don’t trust him. It’s like he’s trying to sell you on the notion he’s a better person than you.’’
“That’s not a hard sell in your case,’’ Maddie sniffed. Henry stuck out his tongue in reply. “Besides, I don’t think someone who only shows at church for weddings or funerals is qualified to judge others, Henry.’’
Maddie became a Methodist when she married Kenny. We all agreed it was a better fit for her, as the worship at Mama’s church can get pretty emotional and uninhibited. Those characteristics aren’t in my older sister’s repertoire.
Marty spoke before Henry and Maddie had the chance to start another round. “What about Al Small, from the insurance agency? Doesn’t he go to Mama’s church?’’
Marty dated a vegetarian in college, and both of them embraced Buddhism. The boy’s long gone, but the diet and religion stuck. At first Mama believed Marty would burn in hell for worshipping a false idol. But even she eventually came around. The Buddhist philosophy of never hurting a living thing is a good match for my gentle sister.