Mama called much earlier to ask us to hold off on dessert. But she’d been delayed. It was almost two-thirty now. I stuck around to wait for her, since my new schedule has Fridays off. Rhonda, my supervisor, decided I needed a day before the weekends to recharge my friendliness.
“You need to work on your attitude, Mace,’’ she’d told me.
Rhonda was referring to the credo I have for park visitors: There are no stupid questions; only stupid people.
While I waited, I paged through our newspaper’s slim pickings. The mayor and the bank manager of a First Florida branch squinted in a picture, their feet in dress shoes resting on shiny shovels. In construction hardhats, they looked like big-headed ants in business suits. I checked out the listings for births and deaths, making sure I didn’t owe anyone a card. I read about the chances this season for the Brahmans, Himmarshee High’s football team. Reflecting the town’s cattle-raising roots, the team’s mascot is a two-thousand-pound Brahman bull. His name’s Bubba, and he’s got his own e-mail address on the Internet.
And then I spotted a small item next to the police blotter, usually a repository for vandalism reports and drunken driving incidents. I scanned the story:
Storm Funds Missing
Hurricane Janet took a terrible toll on Jack and Donna Warner of Basinger. Their three-year-old daughter, Ashley, died when the storm destroyed their house in June. The child was struck on the head by a roof beam torn off in the hurricane’s 100-mph winds.
Now, Himmarshee police are looking into whether the Warners and other families struck by the June storm have been victimized again.
Almost $5,000 is missing from a fund designated to help hurricane victims rebuild, according to sources at First Florida Bank. Himmarshee Police Chief Ben Johnson confirmed that money is gone, but would not specify a sum.
“There are some discrepancies in the bank account,’’ Johnson said. “We’re investigating the matter. We’re still hoping there’s a reasonable explanation. I hate to think anyone in Himmarshee would steal from people who’ve already been hurt so much.’’
The fund was begun by members of the Abundant Hope and Charity Chapel. Phone messages left on the church’s answering machine were not returned. The Rev. Bob Dixon, pastor at the church, could not be reached for comment.
Johnson declined to say whether any arrests are imminent.
I was staring at the newspaper, picking my lower jaw off the table, when Mama walked up. “Mace, you won’t believe what happened at Hair Today.’’ She pulled out a chair and collapsed with a dramatic sigh.
I slid the Times onto her map-of-Florida placemat, right over our red star above Lake Okeechobee. “Before you say a word, read that.’’ I tapped the headline with my index finger.
“Well, it’s about Delilah,’’ Mama started in, ignoring me as usual.
“Not another peep.’’ I grabbed her glasses from her purse and slapped them in her hand. “Go ahead. Read.’’
Mama clucked her tongue at the part about the Warners’ little girl. Her eyebrows shot up when she came to the missing money. At the end, her hand flew to her throat.
“Jesus H. Christ on a crutch!”
Charlene, clearing plates off an adjacent table, shot a surprised look over her shoulder.
“Sorry, darlin’.’’ Mama slapped a hand over her mouth. Then she leaned in and whispered through her fingers. “This is bad, Mace.’’
“I know it, Mama.’’
“It’s real, real bad. I was going to tell you that Pastor Bob never did come back for poor Delilah today. That’s why I’m so late. I stayed there with her. First, she was embarrassed. Then she got irritated at him for keeping her waiting. Finally, she got plain worried. The woman was in tears, Mace. She kept calling and calling him on his cell phone.’’
“No answer?’’
“Straight to voice mail. She phoned the church office, thinking he might be there. The beep on the answering machine went on forever. Delilah said that meant there were lots of messages. She couldn’t figure out why.’’
I tapped the paper again. “I’ve got a pretty good idea, after reading that.’’
“Finally, D’Vora offered to run her home. They dropped me off here on the way.’’
We both looked down at the Times.
“What do you think it means, Mace?’’
“I’m not sure. But I aim to find out. A lot of little strands have been unraveling all around Jim Albert’s murder. Money seems like a common thread. Now, here comes another string, leading straight to Pastor Bob Dixon.’’
___
“Delilah?’’ Mama pounded for the fourth time on the Dixons’ front door. “Let us in, honey. We just want to help.’’
We called D’Vora to find out where she’d dropped Delilah. I was proud of Mama. She hadn’t given away a word, just said she had something for Delilah she’d forgotten to give her.
The house was modest, a one-story white stucco on a quiet street, only a couple of miles from the church. There was no car in the driveway. A wooden welcome sign with a clump of silk flowers in yellow and white decorated a front door painted robin’s-egg blue. A plaster cross hung beside the door, with a passage from the book of Joshua engraved in fancy letters: As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.
I doubt the Lord would consider it in His service to rip off hurricane victims.
Mama kept pounding. Finally, heavy steps sounded behind the door. Pale blue curtains rustled at the window.
“Honey, we don’t mean you a bit of harm. We figured you’d need someone to talk to. Now, open up,’’ Mama ordered through the door.
The door cracked. A thick pair of eyeglasses and one red-rimmed eye peeked out. Delilah opened up a fraction wider and looked both ways. Her face was a mess, but her hair looked terrific. Betty had done a remarkable job.
“No reporters?’’
“Not a one,’’ Mama said.
“That man from the Himmarshee Times has been calling ever since I got home. I finally answered and told him I have no idea what he’s talking about. Bob handled all the money for the church and the house.’’